The Switch (Avery Falls Motorcycle Club #1) - Debra Kayn Page 0,1

something more important to do.

Stepping to the door of the ranch-style house, he knocked on the door and let himself in. Doors and privacy meant nothing between the members.

"Leave me alone," screamed Trina from the back of the house.

Sidestepping around the couch, Trip plunked down and picked up the television remote, flipping through channels.

Ever since the state-licensed car pulled into Avery Falls two weeks ago and announced to Speeder he was a father to a fifteen-year-old girl from a woman he couldn't even remember, his friend's home life had gone from quiet to hostile.

"Two hours a day. That's all you'll have to work," said Speeder.

"If you can't afford to have me living here, send me away. I rather live in foster care than with you." A door slammed deeper in the house.

Several minutes later, Speeder walked into the living room, rubbing his hand over his whiskered face, and spotted him.

He tossed the remote beside him and latched his hands behind his head, glad it wasn't him who'd had an offspring thrust onto him.

"How the hell am I supposed to get any work done when every minute of my fucking day is tied up watching Trina?" Speeder walked into the kitchen and returned with two beer cans.

Trip took the offered drink and popped the top. "There's no reason you need to watch her all the time. Other kids her age run wild around here."

"That's exactly why I want her to work over at the store, stocking shelves, while I handle club business. It'll eat up some of her time this summer and she won't cause trouble."

Speeder would have to deal with the changes in his life on his own. "I came by to see if you want me to take your place tonight."

"Fuck," muttered Speeder, plopping onto the other end of the couch. "Yeah, if you can. I need to get a handle on my home life before I give her any freedom."

Standing, Trip stepped toward the door. "Not a problem."

"Thanks, man."

He looked over his shoulder. Speeder rubbed his face.

"You okay?" he asked.

"I don't know." Speeder met his gaze. "I don't know what to do."

"Sort your shit. Your girl will survive."

Speeder huffed as if he refused to believe his life would straighten out, given some time. Trip walked outside and inhaled deeply. He'd anticipated staying home and kicking back tonight.

Knowing he'd need to head out now to cover Speeder's ass, he strode toward the clubhouse to get his Harley.

He pulled out his cell phone—halfway useless in a mountain town, except for seeing what time it was. Five minutes after seven. Everything closed at seven o'clock until May twentieth when some of the accommodations stayed open until nine o'clock. Until then, he enjoyed the quieter lifestyle without all the tourists.

Starting his bike, he pulled away from the clubhouse and headed toward the main road. Following the river, where each business lined the other side of the road, he began the route.

He'd finish in a half hour if people left him alone to do the job.

Between the MC members, they made sure all profits from every business were collected at the end of the day and brought back to the clubhouse. Keenan, the treasurer of Avery Falls Motorcycle Club, would then do his job and have cash bags ready for pick up tomorrow morning.

He pulled in front of the gas station and parked. Looking around, he lifted his chin at Hank across the street, pulling the chain across the entrance to the RV park. There were only three rigs lined up against the river.

After the spring melt, the snowmobilers had left the area. The main rush of tourists wouldn't get here for two more weeks. He gazed over at the motorhomes. The visitors were probably travelers who would head out in the morning and go on to their next destination.

He opened the front door, setting off the bell hanging from the inside handle.

"How'd I get lucky enough to have you swing by tonight?" Sharon eyed him. "I thought Speeder was picking up the pouch."

"He's busy at home." He leaned over the counter, reached below the surface, and snatched the pouch off the shelf. By the weight of the bag, the gas station had a good day.

"How's he doing with his daughter?"

Sharon liked to talk. If he stayed around and answered all her questions, it'd take him longer to get done with business. Then, tomorrow, he'd hear three different versions of the conversation—all wrong.

As far as he was concerned, Speeder's business was his own.