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Sig held the joint out and one of the girls took a hit and shotgunned the other one, then added a whole bunch of tongue to it.
Fuck. Trip hoped they weren’t really sisters.
Sig put his arm around both of them and pulled them into his lap. “Times up, big brother. You stayin’ and watchin’?”
“You got my card. Think about it, Sig.” With that, Trip turned around and got the fuck out of there before he changed his mind about offering Sig a place to land.
Chapter Eight
It had been three days since her meltdown, and though she hadn’t wanted to see Trip, she was surprised he hadn’t stopped in at the bar.
In one way she was relieved, in another, not so much.
But now she needed answers and to set some rules.
She also needed to collect what he took so she could take care of business.
During those three days, as she cleaned glasses, the bar top, straightened chairs, wiped down tables and took inventory, she had gone back and forth about staying and trying to make a go of the bar with Trip’s—or the club’s—help or simply writing the whole thing off, handing it over and trying to find somewhere else to once again plant some roots.
Because right now, without those roots, she felt about to topple.
Like the other night.
When she fell to the floor, everything inside her had shattered like a glass hitting concrete. And it took her over a day to sweep up those pieces and try to glue herself back together.
What happened between her and Trip...
She wished it hadn’t and she hoped he’d let it go. She doubted he would, but she could still hope.
Even so, here she was, standing on his porch in front of that beautiful rustic door of his farmhouse.
The property was quiet; no construction could be heard. Most likely because it was Sunday and that was the Amish’s day of worship. To them, it was a day dedicated to rest and God.
For Stella, it was one day she gave herself off since the bar was closed. One day she tried to get more than four hours of sleep.
The only problem with having the bar closed was her hands became idle and her mind began to wander, and memories she worked so hard to keep at bay tended to swallow her whole.
So, in the end, every Sunday, instead of relaxing and recharging, she found something to do with the bar. Especially since something always needed to be done.
To the far left, through the antique etched glass panels on the door, she caught some movement inside. She lifted her hand to knock and hoped he was alone, and she wasn’t interrupting anything.
Before she could put her fist to the panel to announce her arrival, she heard, “Door’s open,” loud and clear.
Door’s open.
Did he know it was her standing out there?
“Stella, door’s open.”
Yep, he knew it was her. How? She had no idea.
She opened the door and stood there, unsure whether going inside was a good idea. But she had come out to the farm for a reason and she needed to show strength instead of the weakness she showed the other night.
She refused to be the wounded doe and let Trip, who she considered the predator, take her down. She would fight to the very end.
Or, at least, that’s what she told herself. In reality, she was afraid she was too tired to fight anymore.
“Lettin’ the skeeters in, Stel.”
Stel. He’d never called her that before.
She took a deep inhale and stepped over the threshold, closing the door behind her.
He had to have every damn window in the house open, which let the spring breeze sweep through. That was probably why he knew she was there. There was nothing quiet about her Jeep coming up his rutted dirt and stone driveway.
Like typical old farmhouses, the main entrance to the house was the back door, the one she had entered through and also faced the barn. It had taken her directly into a country kitchen.
The large, rustic room needed some fresh paint, but that was all it needed. Other than that, it was gorgeous. Just like the man standing in bare feet and only wearing jeans at the old six-burner white porcelain gas stove that had to be from the fifties. The only new appliance seemed to be the fridge, but it was in a fifties style. It blended in perfectly with the cabinets, the handmade farm table and the more than century old wide-planked knotty wood floors.
Stella would kill for a kitchen like this.
And a family to sit around that table, while she stood where Trip did, making them pancakes.
Trip wasn’t making pancakes, but she could smell bacon and heard what might be eggs sizzling in a cast iron skillet.
Without turning around, he asked, “Hungry?”
She considered him, his bare back and the Blood Fury colors taking up that whole, muscular landscape. He’d had the colors permanently inked into his skin even before he knew whether the club would rise again.
