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.
But he hadn’t seen Pete in over twenty years, which was one reason he was wearing his cut. So the man would take him seriously.
“Yo! You can’t wear colors in here.”
His eyes scanned the mostly empty bar until he found the woman who had yelled at him.
It wasn’t just any woman. It was a woman. One hard to miss.
And now seen, he had a feeling would be hard to forget.
She was standing by one of the pool tables, putting away cue sticks and organizing worn-down cubes of blue chalk.
That reminded him. He needed to find some used pool tables and all the shit that went with them.
Fuck. One more thing to add to the never-ending list.
He needed prospects, and soon, to do some of the dirty work on that list.
He focused his attention back on the woman now moving between the seen-their-better-days pool tables. “Says who?”
“Says me.”
Trip pursed his lips and tilted his head as he watched her leave the area sectioned off by a half wall from the rest of the bar where the tables, chairs and ancient jukebox were set up.
“And who the fuck are you?”
She shot him a smile—a nowhere near friendly one—as she passed him and made her way behind the bar.
So, she was a server. Or a bartender.
Or just a plain ol’ bitch.
But bitch or not, she had caught his dick’s interest, which surprised him.
Couldn’t be the long, shiny black hair with the dark blue streaks that fell in soft waves around her slender shoulders.
Probably not.
Couldn’t be the eyes that had narrowed on him like ice blue laser beams trying to burn a hole between his eyes.
Nope.
Couldn’t be the full sleeve of colorful tattoos that covered her left arm or the small gold hoop in her right nostril. Or even the wide black leather cuff that circled her right wrist.
Fuck no.
Maybe it was the worn black jeans which fit her long, slender legs. Or the heeled black leather boots that climbed up her calves.
Or the loose white tank top advertising Crazy Pete’s, that she had a portion tucked into the front waistband of those jeans. A thick black leather belt also cinched her waist snugly, emphasizing just how narrow it was.
Also couldn’t be the black bra straps that played peek-a-boo from the back of her tank, along with a portion of another tattoo that spanned her upper back. A tree of some sort.
No. It wasn’t one of those things at all.
It was all of them combined.
It also could have something to do with the attitude that rolled off her in thick waves. Just like her hair.
Thick, silky waves he could lose his fingers in, rip her head back and take her fucking bossy mouth.
Yeah.
Fuck.
Now he needed to fuck someone, and he doubted she would voluntarily be that someone.
Though, if she did volunteer, he’d make an exception to his normal taste of thick women with thighs and tits which could smother him to death while he busted a nut.
Yeah, that’s what he normally liked. Not chicks who looked like they should be standing on a stage as the coked-up and wired lead singer of an all-female rock band.
While she looked like a badass, it was probably just an act. A way to piss off mommy and daddy.
He could see it now. Her parents set up a really fat college fund, and when she turned eighteen, she probably gave them the finger, threw all of her belongings into a black Hefty bag over her shoulder and hauled ass out of her upper-class two-story home to make her “own way in the world.”
She was thumbing her nose at society.
“Take off the cut and order a drink, or get the fuck out.”
Normally he’d choose the “get the fuck out” option but he was there to talk to Crazy Pete and that was what he was determined to do. Whether he had to deal with the black-haired ballbuster first or not.