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No matter what, it would get paid, because he was not letting the tax collector put that property up for a sheriff’s sale. Thank fuck the club had paid cash for the building back in the day, so there was no threat of foreclosure. He couldn’t find any mortgage payments due in those torn-open pile of envelopes which would indicate she or Pete financed the property to pull out some cash.
While normally it might have been smart to do—to pull out some equity and invest it back into the bar—the way the finances were currently sitting, it might have been the last nail in the bar-sized coffin.
His stomach had been tied in knots as he tried to pay some of the bills with what he had left in his own accounts. The one he opened for the club, the business accounts he opened for both the motel and the repo business, and even his own personal account.
A mountain still remained.
Sometime in the early morning hours, he’d switched from beer to coffee. And as he drank what was probably his fifth cup, his cell phone had rung, causing a whole new knot in his gut.
He wasn’t sure how this afternoon would go. He’d figured it was best to think the worst and if it ended up being better than that, then great. If it ended up being a complete shit show, then...
Yeah, it would be a complete fucking shit show.
He currently straddled his sled, the engine’s vibrations soothing his nerves because if he didn’t admit he was anxious as all fuck, then he was stupid, too.
His asshole was slightly puckered but less than the day he walked into SCI Camp Hill, where he was housed for a couple of months before being transferred to a unit at the prison in Huntingdon.
Now he was free. And planned to keep it that way.
Now Sig was free. Trip wanted to keep it that way, too.
What Sig wanted was a whole other story and Trip had no fucking clue what it was.
It only took Deacon a little over a week to locate his brother. But as soon as he got the call earlier this morning and heard the address, Trip knew he couldn’t put off this reunion, since his brother could hit the road and disappear again at any time.
Trip didn’t think a shittier motel existed than The Grove Inn, but he was clearly wrong. The one before him looked like it should be condemned. In fact, a couple of the rooms had plywood instead of windows.
How Deacon found Sig here, Trip didn’t ask. But he was definitely impressed with the man’s skill and it cemented the fact the new Fury member would be an asset for both the MC and his repo business.
It also impressed Trip that Deacon had convinced Judge to wear a Fury cut and sit at the table in his father’s old spot. So that right there got him Trip’s utmost respect.
Unfortunately, Judge still had a burr up his ass, but hopefully the big man would pull it out sometime soon.
Trip eyed the rusty, beat-up Ford truck, the one parked directly in front of room number twelve. In the bed of that truck sat a Harley that was definitely in worse shape than the pickup.
He and Sig were three years apart and had grown up as best friends, not having any clue they were brothers until...
Until... Sig found out the hard way they were.
They both did.
Nothing in life had been easy for either of them, but Trip was determined to change that, too.
So here he was, hoping he could convince Sig to join him on that ride.
Trip just hoped to fuck he didn’t get plugged in the chest with a .45 while he tried to do so.
He’d been sitting in the parking lot for over fifteen minutes, kind of hoping Sig would walk out and Trip could call him over. But the curtains remained closed, the motel quiet and he couldn’t sit there forever.
He kept going over in his head what he needed to say and how quickly he needed to say it before Sig slammed the door in his face. Not before plugging Trip in the chest with that .45.
Yeah, Trip wasn’t sure knocking on the door of a room in a sketchy motel was a smart idea. But he didn’t have Sig’s number, if the man even had a fucking phone.
From what Deacon said, Sig had been sprung from a prison in upstate New York not even a week ago. Trip imagined his brother was getting some sleep in which he could finally close both eyes safely.
Trip had slept with one eye open himself during his six years of confinement.
While he only had one long unplanned vacation without a view, from what he’d heard and what Deacon confirmed, Sig had taken multiple. Too many to count on both hands and at too many windowless concrete and razor-wired resorts to list.
