“Can’t smoke in here.”
“It’s a fuckin’ bar.”
“Yeah and you can’t smoke in here. It’s the law. I don’t have an exemption.”
“You mean Pete don’t.” He reluctantly tucked the cigarette away.
She stared at him for a minute, then leaned back against the back counter, crossing her bare arms over her chest. That pushed what little cleavage she had higher and gave him a taste of what she had hidden behind the loose top.
She wasn’t top heavy, but her tits were just right for how trim she was. Trim and lots of fucking leg, bringing her up to about his shoulder. But at least she wasn’t overly skinny with arms and legs like sticks. Where he didn’t have to worry about breaking bones when he pounded pussy.
When he raised his empty shot glass, she pushed off the counter and grabbed the Jack, once again giving him a long pour. This time it was almost to the very top.
“Not gonna make money over pourin’ like that.”
“Who said I’m not charging you double?”
Fuck. She could sear the hair right off his nut sac. Trip grinned.
He quickly lost that grin when she touched his cut. She flipped it inside out until the colors were showing and put it back on the bar, spreading it out in full display. Her long, delicate fingers, circled with a few silver rings, traced the top rocker that said “BLOOD FURY” and then the bottom rocker that said “PENNSYLVANIA” before hesitating on the part of the leather that was darker and cleaner because it had been hidden behind the 1% patch.
Her nostrils flared slightly, and one finger slowly traced the outline where the diamond used to be.
“Why are you wearing this? Colors for a club that has been dead and buried for the last twenty years?”
Trip’s back snapped straight and his chest tightened. He grabbed the shot glass and downed the whiskey, wiping a hand over his mouth before allowing himself to breathe.
“What do you know about it? Pete talk about it?” Was Pete getting senile in his old age and rambling about the past to his employees?
Those light blue, almost gray, eyes studied him behind thick, black lashes. “Why are you here?”
“Why do you care?”
She shrugged. “It’s my bar.”
“How is it your bar?”
“Pete was my father.”
Trip frowned.
Before he could say anything, she cut him off, pointing to the large center patch on his leather cut. “Out of the ashes of ruin rises the Phoenix?”
What the fuck was going on? “What?”
“You heard me. There’s a reason you came in wearing that cut. There’s a reason you’re in this bar. And I can figure out why. But I don’t think it’s smart. Let the club lie where it landed, which is six feet under. Too many families were ruined in the process of that painful, violent death. Including mine.”
“It’s not gonna be like that anymore.” And he hoped to fuck he was right.
“So you say. How are you going to make it, besides doing illegal shit?”
“Build up club run businesses. Recruit fresh blood and collect dues.”
“Fresh blood.” She snorted softly and shook her head. “But you’re in here looking for old blood hoping to build a new, more progressive club? You know MC’s aren’t the Boy Scouts, right? Bikers don’t want to sit around and work on earning their damn badges.”
Trip set his jaw. Why the fuck did he care what she thought? “Think it’s a joke.” He stood and pulled out his wallet.
“Maybe I do.”
Right. He didn’t need this shit. He pulled out a twenty and threw it on the bar. “Anyway, lookin’ for your pop.”
She snagged the twenty, lifted it to the light and inspected it. “You’re not going to find him here.”
He tucked his chained wallet into his back pocket. “Then where can I find him?”
She folded the twenty neatly and tucked it into her front pocket instead of the register. “In the cemetery, because he’s dead.”
He sat back down, yanked his hat off his head and raked his fingers through his hair. Her eyes followed every one of his movements. He purposely scrubbed at his beard to see if she’d focus on that, too.
She did.
Trip found that interesting. He tugged his hat back on and tucked his hair back under it again. He needed to get a new skull cap to keep his hair from being knotted while he rode. Only pussies who rode crotch rockets wore baseball caps backwards.
He certainly wasn’t a pussy. But he was interested in the one in front of him. The one with the translucent eyes that held a few deep secrets. “What’s your name?”
“What’s yours?”
He jerked his chin toward his cut. “Already know it.”
As she brushed her finger over his name patch, his dick twitched in his jeans. There was something too goddamn intimate about her touching it like that. It was like the patch was attached directly to his cock.