Prologue
Turn the key
“Sometimes you have to burn yourself to the ground
before you can rise like a phoenix from the ashes.”
~ Jens Lekman
Trip stood in the middle of the deserted building, shaking his head, wondering if it was worth the fucking hassle to start the club back up. To reclaim its territory.
But what other fucking choice did he have?
He’d already had it set in his mind, not only to do it, but to do it right this time.
He wouldn’t let his father’s club, which died a violent death, just remain a memory. And a bad one at that.
But now that he had done his time in the Marines, done his time in prison, he needed something.
Because he had nothing.
Except his granddaddy’s run-down farm, a barn full of farm equipment he had no clue how to use and didn’t want to, and the abandoned warehouse he was currently standing in on the outskirts of town.
While he was in prison, his lawyer had shown up and read him his granddaddy’s will.
Yeah. He got everything.
Sig got nothing.
Trip was sure his brother wasn’t happy about that, if he even knew.
But most likely Granddaddy had made up the will when Trip was still doing time in the service and not doing it behind bars. Unlike Sig who had been in and out of county jail, or the state pen, off and on since he turned eighteen.
But now here he stood. In an empty building, feeling fucking overwhelmed. But still, it was something.
And something was better than nothing.
He also had new ink on his back and an old cut in his hand.
The leather was worn, the rockers and patches on it dirty. All except one.
One rectangular patch on the front had been torn off by his own fingers after using the point of his buck knife to loosen the threads. The patch that used to say “Buck” was now replaced with one that said “Trip.” But above it, the patch that had deemed Buck as president remained. That now belonged to Trip.
He’d also used that same knife to remove the 1% diamond patch off the back. He wouldn’t need that one anymore.
The club used to be outlaw. But Trip was determined to keep it above board. For the most part.
He’d spent many a night down in Shadow Valley talking with the members of the Dirty Angels MC, soaking up everything their prez named Z told him. Learning how to rebuild Blood Fury stronger than ever. How to keep the money flowing into the club’s coffers.
One way to do that was to keep the members out of prison and, even better, keep them breathing.
Dead or incarcerated members weren’t any good to a club.
And there had been too many of those in the Blood Fury MC in the past. It had been its downfall.
Trip didn’t want that mistake to happen again.
So, they had to play the game. Keep shit on the up and up as best as they could. Become a powerful force, strong enough to withstand the occasional bump in the road.
He had no fucking clue how he was going to pull it off, but he would take the advice he was given and do his fucking best.
He scrubbed a hand through his long hair before tucking it up under his baseball cap, blowing out a loud breath and shrugging on his cut.
His cut.
It wasn’t his father’s any longer.
This club was no longer his father’s, either.
This world, even as broken as it was, now belonged to Trip.
It was his and he wouldn’t let anyone destroy it again.
The Fury was about to rise once more. This time stronger and smarter.
Chapter One
6 Months Later
The rumble of his straight pipes died as he turned the key and shut off his sled.
Instead of the roar of his exhaust, he now heard the drilling and hammering of a whole crew of local Amish folk.
The “Plain People” knew how to get shit done fast, get it done right and get it done cheap. Thank fuck they were available. Luckily, they were hungry for the work, since the economy had been slow in the area lately. Which meant they’d cut him an extra sweet deal, which he appreciated since with all the construction he was getting done, his money was starting to run low.
They also appreciated the extra work Trip had been throwing their way, too. Because they all had a bunch of mouths to feed and families to raise.
Hell, they even had the women and children out here on Trip’s farm working, too. The kids were scurrying around getting whatever was asked for. Nails, tools, water, whatever. The women would show up at lunchtime in black vans driven by Mennonites, feed their men and boys, socialize for a bit and then disappear.
Most of the younger women eyeballed Trip when he was around. He’d tipped his head to a couple of them and they’d run off giggling and whispering.
But none of them were for him since he was one of the “English.” And if they knew he’d spent six years in prison, they’d run away and never come back.
Or maybe if they knew, they’d lift their dresses, bend over and let him give it to them good. They probably fantasized about a man like him. One that smelled like exhaust and cigarettes instead of cow pies and horse shit. Maybe some of those women had a fantasy bucket list of doing it with an ex-con with tattoos.
Trip snorted. His own imagination was getting the fuck out of control. He needed to get laid. It had been a few months since he’d sank himself balls deep in some hot tail. Not since he came back to Manning Grove permanently and began to work on restoring the farm. Not since that last trip to Shadow Valley when he went to pick up his father’s Harley, now restored and customized by Jag Jamison at Shadow Valley Body Works.
But since he’d been back, he’d been keeping on the DL around town. Not looking for pussy. Not recruiting. Not asking around for some of the old BFMC members. Keeping low mostly because he didn’t want to raise any flags to Manning Grove PD. Didn’t want them trying to put out the fire before Trip could get it burning.
Back in the day, the police and the original Blood Fury members constantly clashed. So, he needed to handle everything carefully. The club needed to be a force to be reckoned with before the pigs came along trying to squash it.
He also needed to show them they could be good neighbors and not terrify the local folk. That when they rolled through town on their sleds wearing their cuts, the women and children wouldn’t have a reason to run screaming.
One corner of his mouth tipped up as he dismounted and left his sled parked at the house. As he strode down the rutted stone and dirt lane toward the barn—something else that needed repaired on that long list of his—he pulled a tin out of the inner pocket of his cut. He’d had one of the Amish teens hand roll a shitload of cigarettes from the tobacco they grew. He tucked one between his lips, dug his pop’s Harley Zippo lighter from his front pocket and lit the tip. He paused as he sucked the smoke deep into his lungs, held it, then slowly released it.
Now that shit was good. Not like the shit he’d been paying a left nut for at the store. He might have to make a deal with the Amish to buy rolled cigs in bulk, then turn around and sell them...
No. Fuck no.
No more prison time for him.
Selling illegal smokes would catch him a federal charge and he was done with that shit. He’d already spent too much time playing prison politics and trying not to take a shank between his ribs. Or a dick up his ass.