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Pretty fucking fitting.
The dust needed to be blown off and the dirt scrubbed away, and it would be as good as new, just like the MC. Or at least, he hoped.
He moved down to the far end to the chair with the highest seat back and traced the initials that had been crudely carved into the armrest. Probably with a knife similar to what Trip carried.
B.F.D.
Yeah, his old man thought he was a big fucking deal. Probably a lot of Buck’s club brothers didn’t know what those letters actually stood for. Burchell Fletcher Davis.
He pulled the heavy chair away from the table and settled himself in it, putting his elbows on the armrests and trying it on for size.
He flatted his palms out on the tabletop, spread his fingers wide and closed his eyes, imaging what it was like back then to sit at the head of the table. To hold that power. To be the one with the final word on all the decisions.
To hold the fucking gavel. The one that sat inches from his fingertips. The one which had BFMC engraved in the dull metal band circling it.
His goal was to build an empire. Just like the Jamisons and the Doughertys did with the Dirty Angels MC.
The memory of Zak Jamison jerking his chin toward the diamond-shaped 1% patch on Buck’s cut, along with the man’s words, were fresh in his mind. “Sure you wanna deal with that fuckin’ headache? That right there’ll cause you to fail in your attempt to build somethin’ strong. Havin’ fuckin’ brothers constantly fightin’ the law, livin’ in a concrete box, or dyin’ for no good reason, won’t help you build shit. It’ll just tear everythin’ down.”
Those words had him ripping that patch off his cut right then and there in the DAMC’s courtyard and tossing it into the roaring bonfire.
It was one of the times he’d headed down to In the Shadows Ink. And on every trip, he had Crow add more ink, not just to the Fury’s colors on his back—to make sure they were dark and deep and wouldn’t fade—but to the full sleeve he’d always wanted and refused to let a prison hack start.
He wasn’t anywhere near done yet, either. Those tats were just the beginning. Part of this journey.
And now, after spending all that time down there and with his Marine brother, Slade, a DAMC member, he had cemented their club as an ally. And, thank fuck, since they were the strongest MC in the state, maybe even the region. So, it would be good to have the DAMC at their backs, if needed.
But Trip hoped the Fury could rise without them by building a solid foundation and growing it from there.
Now all he needed was some members and a committee to sit around that table.
He picked up the gavel, the very one his father held, tested the weight of its handle in his palm, and then sharply pounded the table once before tossing it with a clatter into the center.
“Meeting fuckin’ adjourned.”
Trip tucked his sunglasses into the collar of his T-shirt and squinted until his eyes adjusted after entering the dark and dingy interior of Crazy Pete’s bar in town.
He jerked his ball cap lower on his head in an attempt to be somewhat anonymous even though he was wearing his cut, which clearly stated what and who he was. And he had ridden through town on his loud as fuck sled, which wasn’t very subtle.
He’d caught a few folks’ heads turning but hadn’t seen any sign of the brothers in blue. Though, he was pretty fucking sure if he was seen around town enough, someone would run to the pigs and rat him out.
Maybe he should rethink wearing his colors while in town until the club had more than one fucking member.
That might be good.
Trip remembered the bar since he’d been in there several times with his pop when he was a kid. Crazy Pete was one of the original members and one of the few who survived the MC’s fall-out.
And was one of the members, who was not only left breathing, but who decided to stay in town.
Pete would probably be in his mid-to-late sixties now, but that didn’t mean Trip wouldn’t want him on board. The man would have knowledge and, from what Trip could remember, wasn’t a complete motherfucking asshole. At least when he wasn’t pissed.
Back in the day, the bar had been under the club’s thumb, which meant a constant flow of cash into the coffers by taking a healthy cut. Especially since it was the only actual bar in town. The other liquor licenses were held, and still were, by the hotel in the town square, which had a lobby bar, and one of the fancier restaurants, The Carriage House.
That was it. Anyone who wanted to drink cheap, drank at Crazy Pete’s.
