Page 20 of Trip (Sons of Hell MC #11)
“Look, I don’t need your pity, Crane. And I sure as hell don’t need you lookin’ out for me. I can take care of myself, and I don’t give a damn what Trip thinks or does.” I glared at him, the beer doing little to ease the anger I felt.
Crane held up his hands in a defensive gesture and took a long swig of his beer. “Alright, alright, keep your damn pants on. I’m just sayin’, you don’t have to take this lyin’ down. We both know Trip’s got it comin’.”
I ran a hand through my hair, my frustration building. “What are you gettin’ at, Crane? Spit it out; I ain’t got time for your games.” I signaled for another beer, my mind racing with the possibilities of what Crane could be insinuating.
“We both know Trip’s been steppin’ on toes and takin’ what he wants from the beginning. Hell, girl, he killed his parents. All he had to do was walk away, but he couldn’t leave it alone.” Crane’s eyes narrowed, his voice low and dangerous.
“You’re talkin’ crazy, Crane.” I set my beer down, a sick feeling settling in my stomach. “Trip didn’t kill anyone. His parents’ accident had nothin’ to do with him.”
Crane leaned in, his eyes cold and hard. “You know damn well it was no accident.”
I shook my head, trying to clear the fog of alcohol and denial. “Where is your proof?”
Crane leaned back, a smirk played at the corners of his mouth.
“Proof? You know I worked on that car. I know engines, C.C., and that engine was sound. There’s no way it should’ve blown like that unless someone tampered with it.
” His eyes bored into mine, daring me to disagree.
“Trip wanted that win, and he got it, no matter the cost. Ansel knew it too; had some big-time investor lined up to buy the schematics. Was gonna make bank and make us all rich. That’s why he told Trip to leave it alone. ”
“Go away, Crane. You’re drunk. You’re not making any sense.”
Sliding from his seat, he sneered, “Knew you wouldn’t understand. You’re just like him. Gotta have that checkered flag. Funny thing about racing, C.C., there is always another driver waiting in the wings to take your place.”
“Is that a threat?”
Crane shrugged, his grin widening in a way that made my skin crawl. “Just a fact, sweetheart.” He grabbed his jacket and threw a few bills on the counter, the sound of crinkling paper loud in the tense silence. “But you go on pretendin’ you don’t see the truth. It’s what you’re best at, after all.”
I watched him leave, his boots thudding against the wooden floor, each step echoing like a warning bell in my head. My heart pounded as I stared at the drink in front of me, my mind swirling with his words.
Could he be right?
No. Trip wasn’t capable of something so cold, so calculated.
The bartender slid the fresh beer across the counter, and I caught it without looking up. “You all right there, C.C.?” she asked, her tone laced with concern.
I forced a smile, but it felt more like a grimace. “Yeah, just fine. People love stirrin’ the pot, that’s all.”
She gave me a skeptical glance but left it alone, moving on to another customer.
I was grateful for her silence. My hands trembled as I wrapped them around the bottle, the cool glass grounding me for a moment.
Taking a long sip of the beer, I hoped the cool liquid would ease the burn in my chest. Through the dim hum of the bar’s chatter, my mind reeled, replaying Crane’s accusations like a broken record.
I knew there was no way Trip sabotaged the very engine he designed.
He was like me. Focused and driven. He wanted that checkered flag as much as I did, and I knew he wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize that.
No. Trip had nothing to do with his parents’ accident.
I saw his face when he told me what had happened that night.
That night still haunted him.
Yet something Crane said bugged me.
It was right there, just out of reach in my head.
But Crane’s words lingered like stubborn smoke in a room with no windows.
I clenched my fists around the bottle, the glass biting into my palms as I tried to ignore the seed of doubt he’d planted.
I didn’t trust him—not with his sharp grin and sharper tongue—but his insinuations had a way of wriggling under my skin, feeding on my own fears.
Trip would never. I repeated it like a mantra, steadying myself against the storm raging in my chest. Yet, there was a part of me, a small, shameful part, that couldn’t help but wonder if I’d been blind. People always say you never really know someone, not entirely.
I pushed the thought away, disgusted with myself for even entertaining it.
Instead, I pulled out my phone, scrolling mindlessly through messages until I landed on Trip’s name.
My thumb hovered over the call button. What would I even say?
“Hey, remember the guy you fired? Yeah, he thinks you’re a backstabber. Thoughts?”
Not exactly a conversation starter.
The bar’s door swung open, letting in a gust of cold air that cut through the smoky warmth of the room.
I glanced up instinctively, my stomach twisting when I caught a glimpse of the newcomer.
It wasn’t Trip, but the way they moved—calculated, deliberate—set me on edge.
The figure scanned the bar before settling their gaze on me.
I pretended not to notice, lifting the beer to my lips and taking another swig. But my pulse quickened, and an uneasy chill crept up my spine. This wasn’t just a random passerby. They were here for a reason, and I had a sinking feeling that reason was me.
“You are one hard bitch to track down.”
“What can I do for you, Bailey?”
“I’m trying something new.”
“And what’s that?”
“I’m going to listen to you explain that stick up your ass, before I kick it so fucking deep you’re gonna have splinters in your fucking throat.”