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There was room for four vehicles, hers and three employees, if she had them, which she didn’t. But even if she did, on a Sunday night only her Jeep would fill one spot since the bar was closed.
Something that, if she got help, she might be able to change.
Next to her vehicle, a very old wrecker took up two of those spots.
She couldn’t see the rear door to see who was pounding on it unless she stuck her head out of the window.
But she knew.
She remembered that tow truck since Buck had run a repo business when he was still alive. And she also recognized the painted but faded name on the side: Buck You Recovery.
A teenage Trip had always vowed when he turned eighteen, he would wear a prospect cut for the MC and help his pop with the repo business.
He thought that was his future.
Instead, his father ended up shot in the back, Trip got dragged to Wisconsin and then he joined the Marines at eighteen. At least that was what Pete had told her on one of their rare father-daughter conversations and she was curious enough to ask.
Judge’s father, Ox, also helped Buck with the “recovery” business, by doing “collections,” just not of the legal type. The club offered so-called “protection” to the town’s business owners for a monthly fee. It wasn’t optional, even though there was nothing to protect them from. It wasn’t like the townsfolk were getting shaken down by the mafia or gangs running the streets wreaking havoc. The only shakedowns and havoc created were from the BFMC itself, arguably a gang in its own rite.
She heard more pounding and “Stella” being yelled just like in A Streetcar Named Desire. Her mother’s favorite movie.
“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath as Trip stepped back far enough to where she could see him. He jabbed a finger toward the door, not looking any kind of pleased.
Well, she wasn’t happy about this interruption, either.
She winced when the window sash complained loudly as she struggled to lift it. It got stuck open halfway, but it was enough for her to yell down, “Go away, Trip.”
He plugged his hands on his hips under his cut and tilted his head, his hair not restrained by any kind of hat or skull cap since he hadn’t ridden his bike.
The fact that he looked hot as fuck annoyed her even more.
“Not goin’ anywhere. Save some time for both of us and open the fuckin’ door.”
“That’s not smart.”
“As part owner of this fuckin’ place, I demand access.”
I demand access.
Stella rolled her eyes. Well, that just made her want to run right down and let him in. “I’ll get you a key made next week.”
“Want a key today. Come down and open the fuckin’ door. Can’t afford to replace it if I kick it the fuck in.”
“You won’t.”
“Try me.”
“Goddamn it,” she whispered as she jimmied the window sash free enough to close it.
She slipped on her flip flops since there was no way she was heading into the bar barefooted. She hurried down the steps, through the storage room and toward the rear of the bar where Trip was waiting. Most likely impatiently.
With her hand on the door’s panic bar, she paused, dropped her head and sucked in a breath. Then as she pushed the bar, she lifted her chin to show a confidence she did not feel, unlatching the door.
Her mouth dropped open and she fell back as he barreled past her, practically shoving her out of the way with what looked like a half dozen plastic grocery bags draped over each arm.
He didn’t slow his roll and kept heading down the short hallway.
She quickly secured the door and followed, the slap of her flip flops on her feet the only sound as he disappeared into the storage room.
“Hey!” she yelled as she scrambled to catch up and barely saw him disappear up the steps. “Hey!”
Holy fuck, this man was trying her patience.
She ripped off her flip flops and ran up the steps, shoved open the door to her apartment and then whipped her shoes at him as he stood with his back to her at the tiny counter of her galley kitchen.
Her cheap foam flip flops fell to the floor two feet from him in an unsatisfying flutter.
He finished sliding the bags off his arm and onto the counter. Twelve bags of groceries barely fit in her limited space, so he had to pile some on top of others.
“What the fuck, Trip!” she yelled at him as she stomped over to where he was pulling things out of the bags. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Told you we weren’t done. You left knowin’ that.” With that he continued to pull out items, shoving them into her chest, where she automatically grabbed them.
“Again, Trip. You don’t own me. I’m not your property.”
