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Sig snorted again. “Like you did.” He followed up that insult by spitting a hocker onto the dirty motel room carpet.
“Bustin’ my ass to get shit rollin’, Sig. If you think I’m just bein’ handed everything, you’d be fuckin’ wrong. Got a place for you. At the table as VP. At the barn. Place to start fresh. Also, need help runnin’ one of my businesses.”
“Your businesses,” Sig echoed.
“The repo business.”
“Well, damn. Good ol’ Dad’s business. So again, half mine.”
“Sure, if you got half the money for the fuckin’ license, the bond, the repairs for the wrecker. Plus, half the money so I can buy a rollback, too. Got that money to spare?”
Sig’s nostrils flared and his mouth got tight as he looked away. “Everything I got’s in that pickup truck out there.”
“Right. So, my business. Got a motel and half a bar, too.”
Sig’s bloodshot brown eyes slid back to him. “Half a bar?”
“Crazy Pete’s.”
His brother chewed on that for a few seconds before asking, “How’s Pete?”
“Dead.”
“Fuck,” Sig muttered, raking fingers through the longer hair on top of his head. “Never forget the day he and Buck kicked your fuckin’ ass. Thought you were dead for a while there. Mighta shed a tear for you, too, if I remember correctly. All because of that pain in the ass Stella—”
“Yeah,” Trip cut him off. “Didn’t die. Here I am. Own half of Pete’s bar.”
“The club owned half.”
Trip nodded. “I’m claimin’ that half.”
Sig cocked a brow. “Who’s claiming the other half since Pete’s dead?”
“Stella.”
“Fuck. She back?”
“She’s back.” Damn, he needed a cigarette. Or something stronger. “Claimin’ her, too.”
Sig’s eyes met his and he didn’t bother to hide the surprise in them. “How long have you been tappin’ that?”
Trip ignored that question. “So, you in?”
“Got pussy and booze?”
“Not yet. But workin’ on it.”
Sig lifted his hand and lifted a finger. “No pussy.” He lifted a second one. “No booze.” Then a third. “Gotta work to get what’s mine. Not likin’ the sound of all that. And anyway, why the fuck would I wanna live in that fuckin’ backward-assed town? Couldn’t get outta there fast enough.”
“Roof over your head.”
“Got one of those.”
“No rent. No roaches. No bed bugs.”
“Yeah. That could be a plus,” he said, scratching at his beard.
“Tellin’ you now, though. No hard shit. No jailbait. Nothing that’s gonna get our asses thrown back in the pen.”
“Not sure I’m likin’ the sound of that, either.”
“What part? The part where your ass remains free?”
“When there’s rules, you ain’t free.”
“When you’re free, there’s always fuckin’ rules to remain that way,” he reminded his brother, who should know that only so well. “Can you leave New York?”
The motel room they were standing in was just over the border of Pennsylvania into New York. He might not be able to leave the state depending on the condition of his parole.
“Didn’t say I was takin’ you up on your offer.”
“Didn’t say you weren’t, either.”
“Not sure why you feel the need to make that offer.”
“You’re blood,” Trip answered.
“So? If you think blood was important back then, then you weren’t payin’ the fuck attention.”
“Was important, just ignored.” Trip wasn’t sure how true that was, since blood wasn’t always family and family wasn’t always blood. A solid MC was family. The BFMC Originals should have been family. Turned out they weren’t. Once again, he was using what he witnessed with the Dirty Angels MC as his goal. They were all tight. They were all family. They would die for each other, not plug a hole into each other’s backs.
“Dutch in?”
Sig’s question pulled him out of his thoughts. “Yeah.”
“You talk to Rook?”
“Not yet. Dutch said he’s in Lycoming County.”
“You gonna talk to him?”
That was at the top of his mile-long to-do list. Along with trying to find a way to make some quick scratch to fill not only the club’s coffers but his own. “That’s my plan. Dutch said he gets out soon.”
“Judge?”
“Judge is in.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Who else?”
“Judge’s cousin, Deacon. A couple prospects. Cage.”
“Cage?”
“Dutch’s youngest boy. Remember him?”
“That kid was a pain in the ass, too. Just like that gash you’re now bangin’.”
Trip’s blood began to simmer. “Seems he still is. And Stella ain’t gash. Fuckin’ call her that again, we’re gonna have a problem.”
“Whatever you say, big brother.” Sig pulled a joint out of the pack of Marlboros and lit it. He offered it to Trip.
Trip stared at it for a second, tempted, then shook his head. He needed to get back. If he got stoned, he’d have no motivation to do shit later. And he had a hell of a lot of work to do.
With Sig or without him.
Sig took another hit, jerked his head at one of the girls and she crawled over to him and pressed her lips to his. Sig shotgunned the smoke into her mouth.
Paula, Pam or whatever the sister’s name was—if they were sisters—came over and pinned her naked self to his other side and Sig repeated the gesture.
