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Kind of like Crazy Pete’s, where there wasn’t a window downstairs, but the apartment upstairs had a few in the back, luckily. Mostly because people wanted to drink in peace and not have people gawking in the windows and also because windows were a lot less likely to get broken by drunks if they didn’t exist in the first place.
Maybe Trip had the same idea.
She stepped inside and let her eyes adjust from the bright natural light of the April morning to the artificial one.
Tilting her head, she heard music and decided to follow it. She walked down a very short, narrow hall from the back door into what looked like a bunch of rooms. Or at least, from what she could see, a wide corridor with a bunch of doors.
She peeked into the first one on her left. The room itself was pretty large and included the metal frames of three double bunkbeds and a wall of closets. That was it. No one was in there and certainly no one was living there yet. The first room to her right looked like a locker room. Showers, toilets, sinks. Sparse and utilitarian, reminding her of a dorm. As she moved through the center area, she peeked into each room as she passed. Small bedrooms with what looked like tiny bathrooms attached. No furniture. The walls hadn’t even been painted yet. The drywall had been taped and spackled, the concrete floors painted with some kind of brown-colored sealer. Most likely for easy clean-up.
She counted as she went. Seven bedrooms with bathrooms, plus the larger room with the bunkbeds. Eight bedrooms in total.
Which proved that Trip was pretty confident that the Fury would rise once more. Otherwise, he’d have to use that space to house farmhands and get his grandfather’s farm working again.
Or open a winery.
Stella snorted softly. If Trip were smart, he’d abandon the idea of restarting the club and do just that. Grow grapes and make wine. He might be more successful at it since wineries were really popular.
Hell, maybe she should take her own advice. But at least he had the land, the buildings and the money to do it.
At the end of the hall and right before the entrance to the original barn, in which the door was also propped open, was another room. It had a single gray swinging door like you’d see in a diner, only those were usually double doors to avoid head-on collisions with busy staff rushing in and out.
She paused to listen as the song coming from that room changed to Carry On Wayward Son by Kansas. The volume was cranked up and someone was singing along.
She dropped her head, closed her eyes and listened for a few more bars.
Oh yeah, he knew the words.
She slowly pushed the door open, the music now hitting her full force. She held the door open as she scanned the room.
A kitchen. Not like one found in a home, but more like a commercial kitchen on a smaller scale. The counters, the microwave, the large gas stove, the built-in oven, the oversized commercial refrigerator and what looked like a large chest freezer were all stainless steel so they would be easy to clean. Nothing was fancy, but everything was basic. They weren’t going to be serving food to the public, but definitely feeding themselves. Again, like the rest of the rooms, very utilitarian.
Trip thought of everything. The old warehouse had been nothing like this. It had been a shithole of epic proportions. And, if she remembered correctly, at the time no one cared.
For the Originals it had been all about partying, fucking and raising hell. No one gave a shit if you went hungry, were cold, had a bed to sleep in or a toilet to shit in. Or even if you’d showered.
Stella placed what she was carrying on top of a stack of boxes—which she assumed were full of kitchen supplies—and stepped around them, trying to find exactly where the deep voice was coming from. That rough masculine voice singing a song that fit him more than he might be aware of. Or maybe he was.
She took a few more steps and spotted black boots planted on the floor, knees encased in dirty denim cocked, all attached to a man whose shirtless body disappeared under a cabinet. Or part of him, at least. Trip was so muscular and his chest so broad, he was jammed—what looked like uncomfortably—through one side of the cabinet doors.
His distinct abs, covered in a fine sheen of sweat, lifted and fell with each line of the song he belted out.
She leaned back against the center island counter, crossed her arms and enjoyed the show.
Kansas faded away and Deep Purple’s Smoke on the Water began to fill the room. Unfortunately, the singing stopped, but one boot began to tap with the beat, as well as what sounded like a drum solo was heard on a metal pipe from under the sink.
