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Blood & Bones: Whip
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Synopsis
You never know where the road may lead you. Or who you'll find along the way...
When Whip comes across a disabled motorcycle at the foot of the mountain—the one that's nothing but bad news—he hopes the stranded rider is nothing more than just that. Someone who needs help.
And not a trap. Or an undercover fed.
When her motorcycle breaks down on a deserted road, Fallon Murphy's caught off guard by the mechanic with the sexy smirk who comes to her rescue.
After shedding her restrictive corporate chains, she's now living life on her own terms. She no longer answers to anyone for anything.
Like most bikers, her motto is “live free, ride free.”
But that's where her and Whip's similarities end.
The saying is “opposites attract,” but Whip tried that once before. It didn't work out.
Fallon's not only far out of his league, they couldn't be more opposite. Even so, he isn't easily deterred.
However, to his surprise, Fallon has her own plans and isn't shy about going after what she wants.
Meanwhile, trouble on that mountain is brewing, and no one is safe.
His MC stands at a crossroads, and it's time for the Fury to take action once and for all.
No more excuses.
No more quarter.
No mercy given.
Especially from the one who goes by that name.
Note: Blood & Bones: Whip is the eleventh book in the Blood Fury MC series. This older woman/ younger man romance (seven-year difference) has no cheating, no cliffhanger, and has an HEA. It's highly recommended to read this series in order.
Release date: January 1, 2022
Publisher: Double-J Romance, Inc.
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Blood & Bones: Whip
Jeanne St. James
Prologue
Losing Forever
“P-pap! Pap!” Whip inhaled another big breath as he sprinted across the yard and up the porch steps. “P-pap!”
Just as he reached for the screen door, it swung open and his grandfather stood blocking his way. “Why are you out here wailing like a Tom cat who’s following the scent of a cat in heat?”
“H-he’s b-back!”
His grandfather’s wrinkled brow pulled low. “Who?”
“H-him.”
“Use your damn words, Whip. Just saying ‘him’ doesn’t work, remember? Form your words and say them clearly.”
He was trying. He’d been better about it. Until now. “D-dad.”
The old man’s spine snapped straight and his cloudy eyes narrowed. “The hell he is.”
“Y-yes. He’s…” Whip gulped another mouthful of air. “He’s h-here.”
His pap stepped out onto the wood porch that needed a fresh coat of paint and let the wooden screen door slam behind him, making Whip jump and glance over his shoulder.
The screen door also needed a paint job, but Pap said he was getting too old to do that kind of “shit” and that Whip’s mom needed to find herself a worthwhile man to do work around the house and help raise Whip. Instead of the one that she was currently married to, who also happened to be Pap’s youngest son.
Blood or not, Pap said both his sons were useless pieces of shit. That was how he actually said it, too. He stated loudly and often that he wished he never had either one.
He also said the only good thing that came out of having those wastes of skin were his grandkids and his daughters-in-law. Whip, Whip’s mom, his Aunt Jennie and his two cousins were the only ones left on Earth who made his life worth living.
Whip loved his pap.
Much more than his father. Or his uncle.
Pap called them low-life losers. A lot. Especially when stuff needed to be done around the house or bills needed to be paid and neither of them were anywhere to be found.
Pap said his Uncle Scott, who always insisted on being called Spider instead, was too busy running around on his motorcycle and getting into trouble with the law. While Whip’s father was too busy getting himself in trouble with other women.
Whip didn’t know why since his dad had a perfectly good one here at home. Maybe if he was a little nicer to Whip’s mom, Pap would actually let him stay.
But his dad was never nice.
Not ever.
Not to his mom, not to Pap and not to Whip, either.
Whip actually hated his father. He was mean. Especially when he was drinking.
He had no idea why his mother married him. Once Whip asked her that and she said he wasn’t like this when she met him. Pap said Whip’s dad wasn’t a “mean son-of-a-bitch” until his drinking got out of control.
“B-bet he’s… h-he’s here for m-money again, P-pap.”
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” Pap grumbled. He turned and pulled open the screen door. “Get inside and go find your mother. Warn her that your daddy’s here and tell her to bring me my shotgun. The one that’s loaded near my bed. I’m going to handle this.”
Whip didn’t like Pap’s tone. It was the one he got when he was annoyed, like when the Steelers lost and he shouted that he was “done” with that “damn team.” Sometimes he even threw things at the TV.
“P-pap…”
His grandfather shot him a frown and pointed inside. “Go do what I told you. And don’t come back out ’til I tell you, neither. You understand, boy?”
Whip nodded.
“Go!” Pap barked.
Whip went.
“M-mom!” he screamed while running through the house.
“Why are you running?” she asked as she peered around the door from the laundry room. “You sound like a stampeding herd of buffalo.” She must be folding clothes again. She was always folding clothes.
“D-dad’s b-back.”
He wasn’t sure if she was frowning at that news or because of his stutter. It had been a while since he’d done it. The doctor said he had finally outgrown it.
Now it was back.
Just like his dad.
“P-pap said g-get his shotgun.”
She blinked in confusion. “What?”
“Sh-shotgun.”
She rushed out of the laundry room, her eyes wide. “No! I’m not getting his shotgun! Where is he?”
“Out… s-side.”
“Where’s your father?”
“Outside, t-too.”
“Where?” She asked rushing down the hallway with Whip on her heels.
“P-pap wants his sh-sh-shotgun.”
“I’m not giving him his damn shotgun!” she yelled, sounding irritated.
Whip slammed on the brakes and stared at his mother’s retreating back as she continued toward the front door. A second later, he heard the screen door slam hard.
Whip turned, ran back to his pap’s room and spotted the shotgun leaning against the wall near the head of his bed.
He wasn’t allowed to touch it. Not unless Pap was teaching him how to shoot it. Sometimes they did that out in the woods using targets. If he touched it now, he might get in trouble.
But Pap wanted it.
Pap was the man of the house.
Pap would protect them. He promised he always would. He said he would make up for his useless nut seeds. Whatever that meant.
The long gun was awkward but not too heavy for him to run down the hallway with it.
When he got to the front door, he heard raised voices outside.
Pap was arguing with Whip’s dad.
His dad sounded drunk. Again.
He shoved the screen door open with his shoulder and hurried out onto the porch.
“Let me pass, old man. I live here, too.” Bobby Byrne was slurring his words and stunk like beer, even from where Whip stood.
“Get the hell out of here. You’re no longer welcome here. Told you that last time,” his pap yelled. “Tonya, you were supposed to bring me my damn shotgun!”
His pap liked to curse. A lot.
He also said he was ornery.
Whip agreed once he learned what ornery meant.
“What are you going to do, old man? Shoot your own flesh and blood?” Whip’s father shouted, his words slurred, his face red and his bloodshot eyes narrowed.
Whip didn’t like when his face got red like that. It always meant trouble. And not “good trouble” like his pap called Whip.
“If I have to,” Pap answered, his face now red, too. He glanced at Whip and held out his hand. “Bring that here, Whip.”
“Don’t you fucking dare, boy,” his father yelled.
“Tyler, take that back inside,” his mother ordered, also yelling.
Why was she standing so close to his father? She was within fist range. Didn’t she realize that?
“M-Mom!” he warned.
Pap turned on his heels and climbed the steps up to the porch, the hitch in his step worse than normal. Probably because of the arthritis his grandfather complained about often.
He rubbed his hip with one hand and held out his other, the knuckles also knobby from arthritis. “Give it here, Whip, and go back inside.”
Whip shook his head.
“Get inside. Now!” his pap shouted at him, grabbing the shotgun out of Whip’s hands and pointing toward the door.
His grandfather rarely yelled at him like that. Whip pressed his lips together and rushed inside. He stood just to the side of the door so he could see and hear what was going on, but not be spotted.
He didn’t want to get grounded. He hated when he was grounded because he wasn’t allowed to stay up late or play with his friends.
He watched as Pap worked his way slowly down the steps, putting the shotgun up to his shoulder and pointing the double-barrels at Whip’s father. “Get out of the way, Tonya. If he doesn’t want to leave on his own, I’m going to help him decide otherwise.”
Whip’s mom stepped in front of her husband, her palms out in front of her. “No, Daniel, he’s not worth going to jail for.”
“Didn’t think you were smart, woman, guess I was wrong,” Bobby Byrne said. “He isn’t going to shoot me. The old man’s nothing but hot air.”
“Don’t try me, son,” Pap warned, taking a step closer with the shotgun still raised. “Tonya, get the hell out of the way. Doing this to protect you and Whip.”
“This isn’t how to go about it, Daniel.”
“Yeah, listen to my wife,” his dad sneered, then shoved her out of the way. Whip almost rushed back outside when she stumbled.
A noise bubbled up from the back of Whip’s throat when his dad rushed his grandfather. Before the old man could pull the trigger, he got knocked to the ground. Bobby Byrne kicked the shotgun out of reach, hauled Pap up by the collar of his flannel shirt, then hauled off and punched Whip’s grandfather right in the face.
His pap fell back to the ground in a heap.
“P-pap!” Whip screamed.
“That’s what you get for trying to keep me away from my wife and kid, old man. They’re not yours, they’re mine.”
Whip pushed the screen door open, ran out and down the steps. He sprinted up to his father as he was leaning over to grab Pap again. Whip launched himself onto his father’s back and hooked an arm around his neck, choking him as hard as he could. “L-leave him a-a-alone!”
At eight, he wasn’t nearly as strong as his father, not even when the man was drunk.
“Get the fuck off me, boy!”
“L-leave us a-alone!” he screamed as he pounded his father on the back.
A hand clamped painfully around his arm and suddenly he was flying through the air. He hit the ground hard enough to lose his breath and see stars.
“Tyler!” His mom’s panicked scream filled his ringing ears.
Whip shook it off, pushed to his feet, growled and rushed his father again. When he got there, his father backhanded him so hard across the face, he fell backwards and landed on his ass.
He sat there, one hand on his throbbing cheek, waiting for the darkness closing in to pass.
“You said he stopped s-s-s-tuttering!”
Whip tried to blink away the pain in his head.
“He did. Now he only does it when you’re around, Bobby.”
“You’re blaming me for the kid being s-s-stupid?”
“It’s all your fault,” she screamed, getting in his face. “And stop making fun of him!”
She shouldn’t be that close to him. He would hurt her next. “M-mom!”
His father grabbed his mother by the neck and flung her sideways. As soon as she landed on the concrete sidewalk with a cry, he grabbed her hair, yanked her up and backhanded her, too.
“Don’t blame me for your fuck-up!” Whip’s father shouted.
“M-mom!” Whip cried out, unable to pull his eyes from his parents to see where his grandfather was or if he was hurt.
“You’re his damn mother, you caused this.” He slapped her again. It was so loud, even Whip could feel the sting.
When she fell to the ground crying, Whip was able to get to his feet again and rush him. “G-get off of her!”
It was like hitting a wall. Two large hands shoved him and he fell backwards, landing next to his mother, scraping his palms on the concrete when he tried to break his fall this time.
“Goddamn defective kid. Starting to doubt whether you came from my loins.”
“You want to talk about defective? Have you looked in the damn mirror, jackass?” his pap yelled.
Whip glanced in the direction of where the voice came from and saw his grandfather now standing and wiping away the blood trickling from his mouth.
He also saw his grandfather had the shotgun in his hand again. But it was pointed to the ground since Whip and his mother were too close to Bobby Byrne.
They might end up full of buckshot if his grandfather pulled the trigger now.
“He stutters for attention. He does it on purpose. Haven’t figured that out yet, old man? He needs it beaten out of him, not babied.”
“I know more than you about your own damn son. I take care of them, not you, you useless piece of shit. Wish we never had you.”
Whip’s father snarled, “Too late, old man.”
“I brought you into this damn world and I can take you out, Bobby.”
“Do it, old man. Fucking do it. It’s nothing but an empty threat.”
Pap raised the shotgun.
Whip curled into a ball on the ground, making himself as small of a target as possible.
As soon as he heard his father begin to move, Whip peeked from between his fingers.
Pap had his finger on the trigger. Whip had been taught never to put his finger on the trigger until he was ready to pull it. He ducked his head again, covered his ears and squeezed his eyes shut.
Then his chest exploded as the shotgun went off.
Warm drops splattered his face, his hands, his arms…
None of what his mother was screaming made any sense to Whip. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to understand it or maybe it was because his ears were ringing and he could only hear his own thumping heartbeat.
He didn’t know and it didn’t matter. None of that mattered right now.
Whip forced his eyes open. His father was somehow still on his feet, still moving toward Pap, but now with an arm held across his stomach where the buckshot had hit him and where he was bleeding. His eyes were wide but still held determination. Still remained focused on Pap.
How was he alive or even upright? His shirt was shredded, and so was the now exposed flesh underneath.
He glanced at his pap, who looked like he was in shock himself.
“P-pap!” he screamed in warning as his father closed in on his grandfather.
Did Pap hear him? Or were his ears ringing, too?
Why wasn’t he moving? Why was he staring at the shotgun instead of his approaching son?
“P-pap!”
When his grandfather finally lifted his head, his face was so pale and drawn, his eyes empty, but by then, it was too late.
Whip’s father yanked the shotgun out of Pap’s hand.
“Pap!” Whip screamed as his father lifted the long gun high into the air and slammed the butt right into Pap’s forehead.
It was almost like one of those action movies when things moved in slow motion. Whip watched his grandfather crumble where he stood and land into a motionless heap.
A gaping hole, gushing blood, was dead center in his forehead.
That was when Whip’s father fell over, landing on top of his own father.
Whip knew right then that his pap was dead. So was his father.
And during it all, his mother continued to scream.
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