Trip was slouched in another chair on the opposite side of the desk in a cluttered hole of an office. He had a can of generic piss water hanging from between his fingers and held between his spread knees. Because men with big balls like him needed to give his sac some room. Or at least Dutch had told him he had big balls by resurrecting the MC. Trip took it as a compliment. Dutch probably didn’t mean it as one.
“Where you gettin’ the scratch to do all this, boy? Clyde’s life insurance couldn’t have been that much.”
Trip took a long drag on his hand-rolled, then let the smoke roll out of his mouth toward the ceiling in rings. “It wasn’t. Only twenty grand. But it gave me a down payment for The Grove Inn.”
Dutch choked on his mouthful of beer. He coughed a few more times before asking, “You bought that fuckin’ dump?”
“Yeah. Gonna fix it up when I get more scratch and use it for a steady stream of income.”
The old man shook his head and made a noise that Trip could interpret as “stupid fuck.” But the actual words that came out of Dutch’s mouth were, “Good luck with that.”
“Also sold all the farm equipment in the barn and shed. Got a nice chunk of change for all that. Turned around and used what I got from the sale of the warehouse to restore the barn and add on to it.”
“You sold that rusty ol’ tin can? What are you gonna do for a chapel?”
“Just said I invested it in the barn. Makin’ that the Fury’s new church.”
Dutch didn’t say anything for the longest time, he just studied Trip. But he could see Dutch was taking a short trip down memory lane. And probably not a good one.
“Prolly for the best. That warehouse don’t have any good memories left.”
“And it’s at the edge of town near the pig pen.”
“Yeah, twenty years ago the pigs were in the old township buildin’ on the other side of town. They weren’t clear up our asses. Good call on that.” His rheumy brown eyes hit Trip’s. “Still don’t know why you wanna unbury what’s dead.”
“Got nothing else. Only got what Granddaddy left me. That’s it.”
“You’ve been gone twenty years, boy. Gotta have more than that.”
Trip shook his head. “Everything I had, what I worked for was taken away from me.”
“Why?”
“Fucked up. It cost me. Still payin’.”
Dutch pursed his lips making the wiry hair on his upper lip and chin stand out like a black and white porcupine. Then he dragged his hand over his beard. “Not my business,” he finally grumbled.
“Needed a place to land, needed a place to start fresh, and my grandfather handed me that opportunity.” At the right fucking time, too. Not that he wanted his grandfather to die. He’d been the only family he’d had left beside Sig.
Dutch squinted one eye at him. “Ain’t startin’ fresh. Startin’ with rotten ground beef and tryin’ to make it a strip steak.”
Just like Stella, Dutch thought what Trip was trying to do was a fucking joke.
Well, he wasn’t laughing. “Got a motel that needs a little work to start helpin’ fill the coffers, got the barn restored, gettin’ a bunkhouse set up for prospects or members who need a place to crash. The farm’s got plenty of space for the club to grow. Also gonna build a big-ass pavilion and have plenty of parkin’. And best part is the fuckin’ farm is outta town so it’s private. Pigs won’t be breathin’ down our fuckin’ necks. Townsfolk won’t be nosey, either. It’s perfect. Want the chance to fix what my father fucked up.”
“He wasn’t the only one who fucked up, boy.”
Maybe so.
Dutch jerked his chin up. “Who you got?”
“You.” And Trip hoped like fuck he did.
Dutch shook his head, ripped off his cap and threw it on the desk. He scratched the sweaty mess of gray hair that had been hidden underneath it. “Don’t fit in my cut no more. Put that away twenty years ago and haven’t looked at it since.”
“Time to dust it off, Dutch. You’re one of the Originals. Need you.”
“Need to leave all that shit to the younger generation. The men who still got piss and vinegar in their blood.”
“No, Dutch, need you.”
“Without me, who else you got?”
“Just me.”
“Fuck,” Dutch dropped his head and shook it. After a few moments he lifted it and looked out of the open office door toward one of the men who was leaning against a fender of a car, not even bothering to pretend not to eavesdrop. “That boy’s got a sled.”
“Yeah?”
“He’d fit in my cut.”
“You’d still need your cut, Dutch.”
“Damn, if you ain’t a persistent fuck. Just like your pop.”
Trip smiled. “Tell you what, when you get a chance, stop out at the farm, look at what I’m doin’. Decide then.” He tilted his head toward Dutch’s mechanic. “Bring him. And whoever else is still around. Spread the word.”
“None of the Originals are around. Even Pete’s gone.”
“Know it. Went to Crazy Pete’s yesterday lookin’ for him.”
“Yeah. Real fuckin’ shame. The cancer got ‘im about a year ago. His daughter’s runnin’ the joint. Or tryin’ to. In the last few years, Pete let it go to shit, he was so sick.”
“Saw that. Ran into her, too. She’s a piece of fuckin’ work.”
Dutch grinned and took another swig of beer. “Just like Crazy Pete.”
Right. “Gonna be recruitin’, too, so if you think of anyone...”
“Yeah, ‘bout that...” With a groan, he dropped his feet to the floor and pushed himself out of his office chair. “Gettin’ old sucks.” He jerked his head toward the door. “Let’s get you a couple bodies.” Dutch lumbered out to the garage bays with Trip on his boot heels. “Heard all that?” he asked the guy, who looked about in his late twenties.
“Heard it.” He was studying Trip.
“Whadya think?” Dutch asked the guy.
Even with his tattooed arms crossed across his chest, the man shrugged. “Maybe. I gotta prospect?”
Trip spoke up. “Been thinkin’ about that.”
Dutch turned toward him. “What you been thinkin’?”
Trip had given this a lot of thought. Especially since he was tired of being a club of one already. “Any Originals are welcome as long as they don’t hold any grudges. Long as they’re willin’ to start fresh. For now, any blood of Originals will be patched in, too. Anyone without any ties, gotta prospect first. Maybe do six months. Once the coffers are full and we got enough members, they gotta prospect for a year. But for now? Gonna be a little lenient.”
“There you go, then. Got your first member. Prolly don’t remember this one,” Dutch said pointing to the guy. “Younger than you. Ol’ lady kept my boys away from the warehouse as much as possible.”
Trip’s eyes slid from the guy to Dutch. “He’s your son?”
“Yeah.”
Trip turned to the guy who still hadn’t straightened away from the car. He had his ankles crossed, too, like he was comfy right where he was at. He was also wearing a smirk Trip wasn’t sure he liked.