Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 96121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
“It’s not makin’ you any money, Stella. Dutch said Pete ran it into the ground, unable to keep up with it.”
“His cancer—”
“If it was too much, he shoulda fuckin’ sold it or asked for help.”
“He was stubborn.”
“Aren’t we all?” he muttered.
“Get a private club license and deal directly with PLCB yourself.”
Trip shook his head. “We can help each other, Stella.”
She wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that. “How? By getting me thrown in jail? Or losing a liquor license which is just about impossible to get?”
“You just said it. They’re hard to get. No fuckin’ way are they givin’ me a license for this place.”
“You can buy your booze retail.”
“Or we can make a deal that’ll benefit us both.”
She definitely didn’t like the sound of that. “I’m not liking this deal, Trip. In fact, you can go fuck yourself.” As she spun on her heels, ready to get the hell out of there, he grabbed her wrist and jerked her toward him.
He pulled her so close they were only a few inches apart. His eyes were intense as he dropped his head to stare into hers. “Stella. You fuckin’ need help.”
“Not the kind of help that fucks me. And not in a good way.” She’d had too much of that already.
“It doesn’t have to be that way,” he growled.
Oh, was he getting pissed? Well, she was already there. “No? Then tell me how it would be.”
“Thinkin’ the Blood Fury invested some money in the bar back in the day. Pete probably wouldn’t have had his bar if it wasn’t for our club.”
Her blood ran cold at his words. “Our? You mean your.”
“Wanna make a deal. This way it’s legal. You need help and so do I.”
“I don’t need that kind of help. And what your proposing might not be legal.”
“Make me a partner, then you won’t be sellin’ me shit. I’ll be buyin’ the booze all legal like.”
What? He wanted to be a partner? Was he fucking crazy? “And taking that booze off the premises.”
“For special events.”
“Special events,” Stella spit out, air-quoting those words. “Right. And what the hell do I get out of all this? The bar isn’t even making a fucking profit.”
“It will. If you let me help.”
“Oh, yeah, because you can run the bar so much better than me, right? Like you don’t have enough shit on your plate.”
“Can get you cheap labor. Help pay for upgrades. Afford to buy better booze. It’s the only bar in town, Stella. You fix it up right, there’s nowhere else the townsfolk should wanna get drunk.”
She couldn’t deny he was right about the last part, but the rest? She was not going to be indebted to him. No fucking way. She was not selling her soul to the devil. “You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours?”
“Babe, you can scratch my back any fuckin’ time.”
Babe. “You’re not talking about an itch, are you, babe?” This was a bad, bad, very bad idea to come out here. To meet with Trip. She could’ve mailed Pete’s cut. She should’ve stayed away. Far, far away.
“I’ve got an itch.”
“They carry rash cream for that at the Old Towne Pharmacy.”
He ignored that. “How far you in the hole?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yeah, it does. In my eyes, the club owns a part of that bar.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. “Maybe you need glasses, then. The club’s name isn’t on that fucking deed. Yours isn’t, either.”
“But mine could be.”
Her heart pounded in her throat. She had no doubt that the club helped fund her father’s bar. It helped fund Dutch’s garage. It helped fund all the rest of the businesses, too, legal and illegal. And in turn, those business paid a percentage of the profits to the club.
She knew all of that because of Dutch. She knew most of the BFMC history because of him. He liked to talk when he was drinking, which meant he talked a lot.
Normally MC members didn’t talk club business with anyone outside of the club. It was strictly forbidden. But because Pete had been an Original and Stella was his daughter, Dutch felt it was okay. Plus, the club was gone so there was no one left to answer to.
She was not telling Trip any of that. No fucking way.
However, if he insisted she pay a percentage of the profits to the club, then that could very well be the last nail in the coffin. And he would be holding the hammer.
She would have to walk away, and he could buy the bar from under her, pennies on the dollar. And, once again, she’d be left with nothing but lint in her pockets.
“I gotta go,” she mumbled, giving her wrist a yank.
Instead of releasing her, he pulled her even closer and dropped his head until their lips were inches apart.
If he kissed her, she was kneeing him in the nuts. She could not let that happen; she would not let him break her.