Page 3 of Trip (Sons of Hell MC #11)

Trip

One week before Christmas...

“Everyone, find a seat,” King grumbled before taking his place at the head of the table, glancing at me, getting right to the point. “I received a call last night from Ansel Edwards.”

Stiffening in my seat, I shook my head. “No.”

“Trip. He just wants to talk to you.”

“No,” I said more firmly as I stood. “Got love for you, King, but this is one fucking order I will fucking ignore. You want my cut, say so now, but I’m not changing my mind.”

“Someone wanna tell me who in the hell is Ansel Edwards?” George asked, looking around the table.

“He’s the owner of the car Trip used to drive for when he ran the NASCAR circuit,” King muttered, leaning forward and placing his elbows on the table.

“Trip and Ansel came up in the circuit together until a crash took Ansel’s leg.

Ansel’s family came from money and to stay in the game, he and Trip designed the current engine Ansel’s cars use today. ”

Gunner nodded and added, “But when Trip got in that accident some years back, Ansel walked away, throwing Trip to the wolves. Even though NASCAR absolved Trip of all wrongdoing, Ansel burned that bridge, and Trip’s never been in a car since.”

“So what does Ansel want, King?” Frank asked.

“Right now, just to sit down and talk with Trip. He wouldn’t give me specifics, but I had Scribe do some digging as to why he reached out.”

Scribe nodded and flipped open a folder.

“Ansel’s got a problem. A big one. Either his driver has a death wish, or someone on his team is fucking with the engines because the last two practice runs have ended in disaster, with the last one almost taking his driver’s life.

It was a bad one, King. Car was a total loss and the driver just got out of the hospital a week ago. ”

“Who’s the driver?” Banks asked, looking up at me.

Scribe looked at the folder. “C.C. DuBois. Hails from New Orleans. Some up-and-coming hot shot with the need for speed.”

I scoffed, shaking my head.

King raised a brow at my reaction but didn’t comment. Scribe, however, looked intrigued. “What’s your problem with DuBois?” he asked.

I sat back down and leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms. “No problem with the driver specifically. It’s Ansel I don’t trust. He’s got a knack for picking talent, sure, but he’s also got a talent for throwing people under the bus when things go south.

If there’s trouble brewing, you can bet he’s looking for someone to take the fall. ”

Frank rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “So you think he’s setting his driver up?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” I admitted. “But if he’s reaching out to me, that means he’s desperate. And desperate men make dangerous decisions.”

King tapped his fingers on the table, his expression darkening. “Desperate or not, if someone’s tampering with those engines, it’s more than just Ansel’s reputation on the line. It’s lives.”

The room fell into a tense silence, and for a moment, no one spoke.

Finally, King stood, his towering presence commanding attention.

“Trip, you’re not doing this one alone. Gunner, I’m gonna need to bring Sarah in on this.

She’s the best damn mechanic around besides Trip.

If there’s foul play, she will get to the bottom of it.

But make no mistake, I want eyes on Ansel’s team and everything they’re doing.

No one steps near those cars without us knowing. ”

Gunner shook his head. “Sorry, King, but Sarah’s out.”

“Why?”

Gunner grinned, looking over at Priest. “Sarah wanted to wait and tell you and Phoebe at Christmas, but in light of everything, I guess now is the time. Sarah’s pregnant.”

Priest gasped. “Are you sure?”

“It’s the truth, Priest.” George smirked. “I did the test myself. In eight months, you and Phoebe will be parents.”

“I’m gonna be a dad,” he whispered as the room congratulated him. “Don’t tell Phoebe. Let it be a surprise.”

“She probably already knows. Woman’s been reading the cards as if her life depends on it.” Gunner laughed.

“Nope.” Scribe smirked. “I hid them from her.”

“Is that why she’s been on a tear for the last few days?” Enigma asked. “She ripped into me yesterday, accusing me of throwing them away.”

Sitting there, I looked at King, only to find him staring back at me.

I knew he hated asking me, but I understood.

I was the only one who could do this. Hell, I could take that engine apart blindfolded and put it back together again.

There was no one else with the knowledge or expertise.

Add in my past relationship with Ansel, and I was the only one who could get the fucker talking.

I just didn’t know if I could do it.

It had been years since I’d been around the circuit, let alone behind the wheel of a car. There was a reason I only rode motorcycles now.

Getting up from my seat, I ignored the happy chatter of my brothers and left church, needing some air. I barely made it outside when I felt King walk up behind me.

“You can say no.”

“I already did.”

King stepped in front of me and said, “If you can look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t care about the cars, the adrenaline, or the life of this driver, I will call Ansel back and tell him to fuck off.”

“King, I haven’t been behind the wheel of a car in years.”

He reached into his cut and threw a set of car keys at me.

Staring at the keys in my hand, King added, “Been holding on to those for a long time, brother. I know you told me to trash it, but I couldn’t. Damn thing is a work of art.”

I dared not move as my hand shook.

“I know the past haunts you, brother, but it’s time to let go.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Only way to find out is to get behind the wheel and drive,” King said, walking away, and I couldn’t help but wonder if digging into this mess was worth the risk.

I had been out of the game for years, and Ansel’s shadow haunted me.

But if there was one thing I knew, it was that the truth had a way of coming out, no matter how deep someone tried to bury it.

Walking over to the garage storage, I opened the bay door and watched as the lights flickered on.

There, parked in the middle of the bay with a cover protecting it, was my car.

Stepping forward, I reached for the cover and removed it, letting it fall to the ground as I stared at the mint condition, fully restored, metallic midnight blue 1962 Shelby Cobra.

The sight of the Cobra unleashed a flood of memories, both exhilarating and tormenting.

I ran my fingers along the sleek curve of the hood, the metallic midnight blue catching the dim garage light and shimmering like a ghost of my former self.

This car wasn’t just a machine; it was a chapter of my life I had buried deep, a symbol of glory and guilt intertwined.

As I slid into the driver’s seat, the familiar leather felt like a second skin.

My hands gripped the wheel, trembling at first, but then steadying as if the muscle memory had waited patiently all these years for this reunion.

The key hovered near the ignition, hesitating like a diver on the edge of a cliff.

With a deep breath, I turned it.

The engine roared to life, a deep, throaty growl that reverberated through the garage and sent shivers down my spine. It wasn’t just the sound of a car; it was a declaration, a call to arms. It dared me to confront the shadows of my past and the specter of Ansel that lingered on the horizon.

Before I could second-guess myself, I eased the Cobra out of the garage, catching sight of all my brothers running out of the clubhouse just as I maneuvered my car onto the deserted road.

The night air was cool, the stars scattered across the sky like bystanders waiting for the show.

Pressing down on the gas, I felt a rush of adrenaline as the car responded obediently, effortlessly.

But as the miles blurred beneath the tires and the wind whipped through the open cockpit, one thought kept gnawing at me: Could this machine, this piece of my history, really carry me back into a world I had tried so hard to leave behind?

Or should I return her to the garage and walk away, leaving the past dead and buried?