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She wondered if that was done for safety reasons. She’d have to ask Cage.
The bunkhouse was as quiet as expected since it was the middle of the day and even though the occupants were bikers, they had to do their part by working.
Trip had said the other night at Crazy Pete’s that everyone had to pull their weight. He didn’t want any “lazy motherfuckers” as part of the club. He also quoted a saying about idle hands being the devil’s workshop. Jemma took that as Trip doing his best to keep his brothers out of trouble and out of prison by keeping them focused.
The fucking man was smart. And driven. He also wasn’t going to take any shit from anyone inside or outside the MC, or let his brothers get caught up in shit which would take themselves or the club down.
He had his work cut out for him since Jemma learned most of the guys had done more than their share of time behind bars. They weren’t strangers to making or getting into trouble.
But something the club president said the other night stuck with her. A club didn’t exist without members. And if those members spent more time in jail than out, it could weaken the club and effectively destroy it.
He certainly learned from the Originals’ mistakes. Jemma also wondered if Trip had been part of a more solid and grounded club in the past and got his cues from it.
It didn’t matter because the club wasn’t Jemma’s reason for coming home. The tiny human in the stroller was. And Cage’s daughter would never wear a Fury cut.
Thank fuck.
Jemma took her time wandering through the bunkhouse, peeking into rooms as she went. The large shared bathroom, the room with bunkbeds, the single rooms with private bathrooms, then another bathroom right outside the door leading into church.
That one was smaller than the one just inside the back door and it didn’t have a shower. It was probably used when there were parties or pig roasts. Or by guests.
She imagined any guests to the farm had to be invited. As much as Trip kept a tight grip on the club, she couldn’t see parties being a wild free-for-all.
Many parties at the old warehouse had been total clusterfucks. There were many times Jemma didn’t recognize most of the people inside and outside the building. She knew now that some of the females had to be underage. Some of the guys, too. It wasn’t like the Originals cared that a sixteen-year-old would be doing drugs or drinking with them. Or that a sixteen-year-old girl brought along her fourteen-year-old friend.
They probably thought bikers were cool or badass and would be fun to party with.
Sure they were.
Those girls probably didn’t leave with the same attitude about bikers that they showed up with.
Hearing Trip, and knowing Judge and Deacon, she knew that kind of shit wouldn’t be tolerated here. Teenaged girls weren’t going to wake up the next morning bloodied and bruised and full of cum from a few different men.
Jemma stopped dead when her pulse began to race. She squeezed her eyes shut until she could get her heart back into her chest. When she did, she glanced down at Dyna. She would grow up in a club and she didn’t want Cage’s daughter to think that shit was normal.
Or okay.
It was far from it.
At the end of the hall across from the smaller bathroom was a grey swinging door on the left. This had to be where Cage pilfered all the farm fresh food. She swung the stroller around and backed through the door. Once she had Dyna safely through it, she parked the sleeping baby to the side and out of the way so she could take a good look around.
Impressive couldn’t even begin to describe what the kitchen was like. She’d never worked in a restaurant but she figured this kitchen—with all the commercial appliances and stainless steel—had to rival one. It had a walk-in cooler and also what looked like a huge freezer. Loads of storage shelves and cabinets full of all kinds of food lined a couple walls
Was it sparkling clean?
Hell no.
Take a whole bunch of bachelor bikers, let them eat, drink and cook and it was going to be a mess. The double sinks at the far end of the kitchen were overflowing with dishes, mugs, cups, pots and pans. So was the counter next to it. Of course, not one of those plates had been scraped clean.
She wondered whose responsibility it was to keep the kitchen clean. Whoever it was hadn’t done their job. But even so, it wasn’t worse than what a restaurant kitchen would look like at the end of a busy night.
Since Cage didn’t have money for groceries, she planned on doing some “shopping” and grab stuff she could make for the next few days for both breakfast and dinner. Plus, grab some mid-day snacks.
