Blood & Bones: Sig (Blood Fury MC 2)

“If there are more women up there, Sig, we’re givin’ that info to the pigs. We are not goin’ up there guns a-blazin’ like some fuckin’ special ops shit or somethin’.”

“You Marines can’t handle that kind of badass hero shit?” Sig teased Trip.

“Yeah, we can but we’d rather let those cocky-mouthed SEALS get their asses shot at first. We ain’t fuckin’ stupid.”

“All right,” Stella interrupted sharply. “Hey, did Carly say how far along Autumn is? I want to know how much bigger she’s going to get when I go shopping for her.”

“She wasn’t a hundred percent certain yet since the baby’s so small right now, but her best guess with the way things looked was thirty-one weeks.”

Stella gasped. “Holy fuck. She doesn’t look that far along at all. I was guessing maybe four, five months at the most.”

“Yeah, Stel, that’s why she said it’s important she get healthy and soon. The doc also wants to see her every week to make sure there ain’t any complications and that they’re both progressin’ as good as possible. Maybe even do more bloodwork. Doc’s really worried ‘bout both of ‘em survivin’ the birth.”

“I’m sure. Damn,” Stella whispered. “I’ll pick up some shit for her after I take care of some obligations at the bar and I know Dodge won’t need help with anything. I’ll also bring her back some food from Dino’s. A big piece of that Death by Chocolate cake, too. No one can resist that.”

“Yeah, Stel. Thanks.”

Trip released his ol’ lady and she approached Sig. “You don’t have to thank me, Sig. I’m doin’ it for her.”

“Thankin’ you, anyway.”

Stella nodded, smiled softly, and reached out to squeeze his arm. Sig dropped his gaze to where her hand touched him and then he lifted it to his brother, who was watching their every move.

He trusted Stella. He just didn’t trust Sig.

As their eyes met, Trip clapped his hands sharply together once. “’Kay, then. We need a meetin’ and I’m callin’ it. Tonight. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” both Sig and Judge answered at once.

With a nod, Trip grabbed Stella and guided her down the steps.

Chapter Eight

Sig studied the Fury’s insignia of a bloody skull and crossbones carved into the thick wood of the table top. He remembered this table—which the executive committee had used during their meetings—being in a back room at the warehouse. It was where all the important decisions had been made.

Also during weekend-long parties, a lot of DNA was left behind on that fucking table.

Blood, cum, spit. All of it.

He remembered one time when Judge, Trip and him had hidden under the table and waited.

They learned a lot that night. Including how to stay quiet as fuck so they didn’t get caught and get their asses beat.

They also learned how deep of a pounding a woman’s throat could take while face-fucking her before she puked all over herself.

It had been both fascinating and horrifying at the same time for all three of them. Especially when the brother made her use her own shirt to wipe the shit off her face and continue taking that pounding until he came down her throat. Then without a word, he left her there on her knees in her own filth, crying.

Judge and Trip were barely old enough for their dicks to get hard while watching, but they did. Unfortunately, Sig had been too young, so they had both shoved him and laughed, calling him a baby.

That memory had him shaking himself mentally as his gaze slid around the meeting table, wondering if the man sitting next to him and the other one sitting at the end of the table as the current club president remembered that night.

Now was not the fucking time to ask.

Actually, the time was never.

“Goddamn it, Jury, get your fuckin’ nose outta my dick,” Ozzy griped. “Your fuckin’ dog’s a perv, Judge.”

“Maybe you should wash it after you stick it in Lizzy. Probably smells like roadkill,” Judge said, then patted his thigh. “Jury, heel.”

Ozzy hooked a thumb at the other white and brindle American Bulldog in the room. “How come Justice don’t molest us like that?”

“’Cause he don’t like dick. My dog ain’t gay,” Deacon answered.

“He ain’t gay, then why’s he lickin’ his fuckin’ balls?” Ozzy asked.

“You’d lick your own balls if you could.”

Ozzy pursed his lips, then shrugged. “Yeah, true.”

“Can we bring this fuckin’ meetin’ to order?” Trip barked, smacking the gavel on the table.

“’Stead of disorder?” Cage asked.

“Okay, you first, Road Captain,” Trip said to him. “Set up another run. This Sunday.”

Cage gave him a sloppy two-finger salute. “That it, Prez?”

“No. Dutch hear from any of the elders?”

Ah fuck. Sig was not looking forward to rehashing the Amish bullshit again.

“Nope. All’s quiet on the Sig-fuckin-the-virgin-Amish-girls-up-the-ass front.”

Sig leaned forward and planted both hands on the table. “Don’t be a hater, asshole. Just jealous your fist don’t even want you.”