Page 5 of Trip (Sons of Hell MC #11)

Trip

Rosewood, Virginia...

Sitting at a table in the Rosewood Country Club, I twirled the brandy snifter in my hand as I waited for Ansel to arrive. I didn’t want to be here, and I sure as hell didn’t want to see my former friend.

The clinking of glasses and the low murmur of conversation filled the room as I adjusted the cuffs of my jacket, a vain attempt to keep my restlessness at bay.

Rosewood was a far cry from the grit and grind of the racetrack, but it carried its own kind of tension—a polished, suffocating weight that settled over me like a too-tight collar.

When Ansel finally appeared, his stride was as confident and calculating as I remembered.

He was dressed to the nines, his bespoke suit a stark contrast to the grease-stained denim of our glory days.

He slid into the chair opposite me with the ease of someone who’d never once felt out of place here.

“Calvin,” he greeted smoothly, his voice carrying a hint of amusement as he leaned back, surveying me with that same unreadable smirk. “You look... well.”

I didn’t bother returning the compliment. “Let’s get to it, Ansel. What do you want?”

He chuckled, swirling his own glass of amber liquid before lifting it in a mock toast. “Always straight to business. Some things never change.”

“No,” I said, my gaze steady. “Some things don’t.”

The air between us thickened, heavy with the weight of unspoken grievances and years of silence. Ansel’s smirk faltered, just for a moment, and I caught a glimpse of the man I used to trust—the one who used to have my back before ambition got in the way.

“Alright,” he said, setting his glass down with a soft thud. “I need you back on my team.”

The words hung there, sharp and unexpected, cutting through the layers of polished civility like a knife. I stared at him, a dozen retorts flashing through my mind, each angrier than the last. But all I managed was a disbelieving laugh, low and bitter.

“Your team?” I repeated, leaning forward as the edge in my voice mirrored the tight grip I had on the snifter. “You mean the team you stole from my dad?”

Ansel held up a hand, his expression morphing into something almost pleading. “Calvin, hear me out. This isn’t about the past. It’s about what we can do now. Together. There’s too much history between us to just throw it all away.”

“History doesn’t erase betrayal,” I shot back, my pulse pounding in my ears. “And it sure as hell doesn’t justify this.”

“I know,” he said quietly, the confidence draining from him as he met my eyes. “But there’s something bigger at stake here. Something only you can help me with.”

For a moment, I hesitated, torn between the instinct to walk away and the nagging curiosity about what could possibly have driven Ansel to seek me out after all this time. The room seemed to close in around me, the weight of his words pressing against my chest.

“What are you playing at, Ansel?” I asked finally, my voice low but steady.

He leaned in, the flicker of determination returning to his gaze. “I’ve got a talented but reckless driver who’s wrecking cars faster than I can replace them. Kind of reminds me of you back in the day.”

I refused to take the bait.

“Maybe your driver’s just tired of your bullshit.”

Ansel’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait.

Instead, he pressed on, his voice quieter, steadier.

“You’re right, Calvin. I run a tight ship.

I always have, but I’m not going to let some adrenaline-seeking fuckup destroy what I’ve built.

If I have to, I will replace my driver, but I can’t ignore talent. That’s where you come in.”

I leaned back, arms crossing defensively. “So now I’m supposed to play mentor to some reckless hotshot? You think that’s going to fix anything?”

“It’s more than that,” Ansel said, leaning forward like he was trying to close the chasm between us. “It’s not just my driver. The crew is worried. I took a risk on a wildcard when no one else would, and now it’s biting me in the ass.”

His words hit a nerve, and I felt the familiar sting of old wounds reopening. Ansel knew exactly what he was doing, dragging up the ghosts of the past, twisting the knife just enough to make me listen.

Too bad for him, I knew how to twist the knife, too.

“So this has nothing to do with the fact that during the last two races the engine seized and your driver lost control?”

Ansel’s lips pressed into a thin line, the flicker of vulnerability in his expression gone as quickly as it had appeared. “I’m not here to make excuses,” he said. “I’m here because I know I have a damn good car and my driver has raw talent. I don’t want a repeat of the past.”

I shook my head, a bitter laugh escaping before I could stop it.

“You’ve got some nerve, you know that? Coming here, digging up old scars, pretending like this is all about some jacked-up driver.

What is really going on, Ansel? What’s in it for you?

Because I know you never ask for help unless it benefits you in some way. ”

His silence stretched between us, heavy and impenetrable.

For a moment, I thought he might actually walk away.

But then he spoke, his voice taut and deliberate.

“What’s in it for me? Survival. Plain and simple.

You think the world of racing is kind to mistakes?

To risks that don’t pay off? If my driver crashes and burns, it’s not just my reputation on the line—it’s everything I’ve built. Everything we once dreamed of.”

That last part hung in the air, unspoken yet deafening. He wasn’t just talking about the driver anymore. He was talking about us, about the partnership we’d once had, back before ambition and betrayal had driven a wedge between us.

“And you think I’m the one to fix this mess?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.

“I think you’re the only one who can,” Ansel said, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made it impossible to look away.

I hated how much his words stirred something in me—something I thought I’d buried a long time ago.

Shaking my head, I slowly stood.

“I need time to think about it.”

With that, I walked out of the Rosewood Country Club.

Walking into the clubhouse, I headed straight for King’s office and didn’t bother knocking, only to find the man between Bailey’s legs. Quickly shutting the door, I heard Banks chuckle.

“Ooh, someone’s gonna get an ass chewin’.”

I smirked, seeing my best friend chilling out as he sat at one of the tables, playing solitaire. “Why aren’t you at the comic bookstore with Laurel?”

“’Cause I’m here playing cards.”

“Why?”

Banks leaned back in his chair, a knowing grin spreading across his face. “Laurel’s got her hands full with some new shipment of vintage comics. I figured I’d let her have her moment of glory without me in the way before I invaded the place and took up residence.”

I raised an eyebrow. “So what, you decided to come here and stir up trouble instead?”

“Trouble’s already brewing, ain’t it?” Banks shrugged lazily, kicking his boots up on the table. “Figured I’d just sit back and watch it boil over.”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help the smirk tugging at my lips. “And what makes you think I won’t drag you into whatever mess is coming?”

Banks laughed, the sound surprisingly light in the otherwise heavy atmosphere. “Oh, I don’t doubt you will. But you might want to deal with King first. Sounds like he’s got his... hands full.”

I ignored the jab and turned toward the bar. Pouring myself a drink, I tried to shake off the tension gripping my shoulders. Banks watched me in silence, his usual easygoing demeanor replaced by something sharper, something more observant.

“You’re wound tight,” he finally said. “What’s got your head in a twist?”

I took a slow sip of the amber liquid, savoring the burn before meeting his gaze. “Ansel.”

Banks let out a low whistle. “That dickhead has always been good at raising hell. What’s he done now?”

“It’s not what he’s done,” I said, setting the glass down. “It’s what he’s asking me to do.”

“Let me guess,” Banks said. “He wants you to clean up his mess.”

Taking a swig of my beer, I touched my nose.

Banks shook his head and stood. “Gotta say, brother, I don’t trust the fucker. Hated him from the moment you mentioned him. Whatever he’s sellin’, my advice. Don’t buy.”

“Wasn’t going to, but I can’t let him destroy another driver’s career.”

“That driver ain’t your responsibility, Trip.”

“I know.”

“TRIP!” King roared as Bailey adjusted her shirt, walking out of King’s office and winking at me. Grabbing my beer, I headed for his office, only to find the man glaring at me as I walked in.

“Know you’ve been in a coma for ten months, but a closed door still means stay the fuck out!”

“Sorry about that.” I smirked, taking a seat.

“How did the date go?”

“He’s hiding something. I think his company might be in trouble.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Something he said about risks not paying off, crashing and burning, and his career on the line.”

“And the driver?”

“If I don’t agree, my bet is he will use his driver as a scapegoat like he used me. Ansel has no problem throwing an innocent under the bus as long as it protects his bottom line.”

“So what are you going to do?” King asked.

Looking at my president, I shrugged. “Looks like I’m going to New Orleans.”

“Well, you’re not going alone. Talked with everyone after you left. This is too big for one brother. My gut’s telling me shit’s about to get real, fast. Already called Gator. He’s expecting us.”

“So, Christmas in the Big Easy?”

King shook his head. “No. Christmas in the mountains, New Year in New Orleans.”