The Bare Bones (The Bare Bones MC)

by Wolfe, Layla

  Slushy shrugged. “The old man died and Mrs. Jonas wouldn’t renew the contract. She was against it until her circumstances recently made it necessary for her to renew. She didn’t want to renew it with this Mr. Fucking Sansing guy. Probably for the same reasons you gave him a beatdown.”

  Ford got riled again, throwing up his hands. “Great, just fucking great! That’s abso-fucking-lutely great, Slushy, do you know that? So you don’t think that Baal’s Minions are lurking around just waiting to use the tunnel again?”

  Slushy protested, “But they don’t have the contract with Mrs. Jonas. You do! Listen, you think I want to be in on this crappy deal? I didn’t want to see that tunnel again as long as I lived! I just wanted to be a regular sweater-wearing, Trader-Joe-buying, short-story-writing kinda guy! I support the troops but not the war, you know.”

  Turk said, “Slushy’s right. As long as we stay off the Minion’s radar, there’s no reason we can’t operate the tunnel. We haven’t even sold them any AKs in a coon’s age.”

  “Language!” warned Slushy.

  Turk was confused. “What? I was talking about a raccoon.”

  Slushy shuddered. “You weren’t just in the joint. It’s a highly PC place. So listen, Ford. Turk here’s going to install cameras tomorrow on the only access road to the tunnel. Unless the Minions are planning on piggybacking the suministros out of there one by one, unlikely seeing as how in a couple months Nogales will be hot enough to burn a polar bear’s butt, my professional opinion is that you’re perfectly fine. The Minions are over it now. Losing their contract was just collateral damage to Mr. Jonas’ death. What would they’ve done if Mrs. Jonas had sold the property? Force the new owners to do business with them?”

  Ford said, “Or carry on the business without the new owner’s knowledge. Turk, you got everything you need to get those eyes on the access road?”

  Turk nodded. “I’ve got the credit card. I’ll just go to Radio Shack tomorrow morning.”

  “I’d like to head back to P&E tonight,” said Ford.

  Slushy said, “Okay if I head back in the truck with Wild Man? There’s nothing in there but beer now, right? I mean, as a guy on probation from a federal money laundering stint, I can’t be seen riding with any serious iron.”

  Ford sighed. “Let’s go get a Krispy Kreme. Sure, you can go in the truck. It’s empty. But you bring up a good point. You’re on probation. You’ve got fed eyes on you. Do we really want you staying at the Citadel?”

  “Listen. I don’t think I want to stay at the Citadel, from the sounds of things. You mentioned an archery range? That sounds about my speed. I mean, I was up the river for six months. I’m out of the loop. I don’t even know what the big brouhaha is about kale.”

  “Yeah,” laughed Turk. “Last I checked, it was some leafy green everyone was intent on avoiding. Suddenly it’s trendy.”

  “Am I right? I just want to kick back and drink my single malt scotch and complain about the death of print media.”

  “Listen, don’t worry, Slushy,” said Ford, holding the Krispy Kreme’s door open for the lawyer. “We’ve got you covered. We didn’t trade all that iron for you for nothing. Laser tag doesn’t sound like a bad idea. Were you planning on riding a Vespa, too? We’ve got some scooters lying around you could have.”

  “I’m more of a Prius man. Hey, you told Mr. Bloodgood to stay vertical. What does that mean?”

  “It’s a biker thing,” Ford explained, perusing the donut menu on the wall. “You’ll get used to it. You’ll get used to all of it.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  MADISON

  “Well, I can’t say as I’m surprised.” Dominique stalked back and forth across the tiles of the little cell I’d been designated for a room. She did wear a “property of” patch on the back of her white leather jacket, of course hers saying “Duji.” She sported the leather halter top and low-slung jeans of the stereotypical old lady, but Dominique accented her outfit with a string of pearls and rings that must have been family heirlooms. So she didn’t come from trash. She’d been with Duji forever.

  She lit a cigarette and went on. “They did a similar thing to me when I was about your age.”

  “Cropper?”

  “Cropper and Riker. This was before he went to Riker’s Island, by the way, so he wasn’t even as hardened.”

  “I can’t imagine that.”

  “Yeah, right?” Dominique squinted against her cig smoke as she gazed out the window at the red buttes. “Anyway, right when Duji started showing interest in me as an old lady, that’s when it started. It’s like they can’t stand seeing someone else nail a woman, claim her, make her his. The sweetbutts, the pass-arounds, of course they don’t matter. But once a woman becomes elevated beyond that station, suddenly Cropper’s got a bee up his ass. I’ll wager a guess that it’s even more intense because it’s his son. He and Torino have got a massively oedipal competition thing going on.”

  “Is that so?” I sat on my knees, enraptured with her words. Plus, I’d never heard anyone actually use “oedipal” in a sentence before. Dominique seemed educated.

  “Oh, yeah. It’s always just been the two of them since Cropper gave the boot to Torino’s mother. And since Torino grew into such a stunning and foxy little colt, Cropper’s been green with envy. I’m sure you don’t want to hear how Torino landed all the girls that Cropper wished he could bed.”

  “I don’t mind. I know he’s been around the block. So what did they do to you?”

  Dominique shrugged, emitting a thin stream of smoke out the window. “They sent Duji off on some dangerous run, just to keep him away. They basically did the same thing to me as what they’re doing to you. Basically a rite of passage to see what I’d tell Duji when he got back. They cut the tits out of my T-shirt, made me wear a miniskirt with no panties on, and any member could play grab-ass with me.”

  “But nothing was…forced on you?”

  She narrowed her eyes at me. “What exactly do you mean? Rape? No, nothing that bad. It went on for about three days before Duji got back. I think the worst thing was Cropper forced me to give him a blowjob.”

  “Ugh.” My stomach actually clenched at the fleeting thought, so I banished it from my mind. “So me making it through this has something to do with them accepting me into the club?”

  “Well, you’re never ‘in’ the club. Only male members are. But yes, I think if you fail they would somehow let the member know their displeasure and you probably wouldn’t be an old lady for long.”

  “So the others went through it? Julie? Sapphire? Brunhilda?”

  Again, Dominique shrugged and spit smoke out the window. “I don’t think all did. Maybe just you and me. You know what I think? I think it creates an even bigger challenge to wear your ‘property of’ patch with pride. Because you have to have self-esteem to wear the patch. You had a collar, am I right?”

  “Yes. Ford gave me a collar, but Cropper took it. Temporarily only, I hope.”

  “Right. Same basic thing as a ‘property of’ patch.”

  “Only a bit more BDSM-y.”

  Dominique smiled. “Right. But you can’t feel bad about yourself and defend the patch, or the collar. Hell, I feel worse about what I weigh than about this patch that seems to irk so many women. This is why you have to think highly of yourself to ward off all the bad press you’re going to get, all the shocked finger-pointing. Think how much tougher you’ll be once you go through this trial by fire. Then you’ll really deserve to wear Property. You’ll never put your back against a wall when you’re wearing Property.”

  I stuck out my lower lip. “Because I’ll be property of Ford, that’s why. I’m never getting in the same building as his creepy father again.”

  “You’ll have to, honey. Think of all the fish fries, the rallies, the charity runs. We’re all going to do the Laughlin River Run next year. You can’t really avoid him, realistically. He’s going to be your father-in-law. He’s going to visit your house, have dinner wit
h you.”

  I held my stomach. “And every time I see him, I’ll remember this awful week.”

  Dominique flicked her cig out the window. “No, you won’t, honey. It’ll fade in time. And think, you’ll be more respected because once men see your patch they won’t try to hit on you. They won’t try to push up on you. You’ll have no worries, you’ll be carefree like I am, because the patch gives you freedom. Then you’ll be part of a larger tribe who all take care of each other.”

  I snorted. “Do you think Cropper will really give Speed his cut once I pass this test?”

  Dominique nodded soberly. “Oh, shit yeah. Shit yeah he will. He doesn’t and a whole lot of stink’ll be raised. That would be a new low even for Cropper. Listen. Next week come and talk to other properties. I’ll have a little tea for you at my house. You don’t need to mention what went on here with Cropper and Riker, just ‘cause, you know…”

  “It’s tacky?”

  “Tacky, exactly. We’ve all been through our trials, we all carry our burdens. No one’s going to agree on everything, but we all support our club so you need to get to know them. I’m glad you came to me, honey. Now you’ll get the real deal, straight from the horse’s mouth.”

  “Yes, Ford told me to call you. I had no phone. That’s why I had to steal Riker’s.”

  Dominique smiled affectionately. “Listen. I’ll do you a solid. I’ll call Ford for you.”

  You wouldn’t believe how my heart leapt at that! Just knowing that I was talking to a person who would soon talk to Ford meant the world to me. Was I already falling prey to Stockholm Syndrome? “Yes, yes! And let me know what he says! Find out when he’s coming back.”

  “I’ll do that. Tomorrow, you think? Are you on The Pill?”

  “Yes, but I thought you said that…wouldn’t happen. That I won’t need it.”

  “Oh, I have no doubt of that, but you really never know. My recommendation? Just lie back and let them do what they want. Speed will get his cut, Ford will come back, no one will be the wiser, and you never have to deal with Cropper again face to face.”

  I nodded sullenly. In fact, someone’s stupid boots were sounding authoritatively down the inner hallway now. No matter how free and independent Dominique claimed to be, she stiffened visibly at the sound, and stood erect to face the door when Cropper came bursting in.

  The sight of Dominique seemed to startle him, thank God. “Oh. Hey. Listen, sweetbutt.” He still liked to call me that, though he knew a thousand times over that I’d been claimed by Ford. “We need you in the billiards room, but not until Clara’s brought you your dinner.”

  “Fine,” I said apathetically.

  Dominique made a strained face while jerking her head in Cropper’s direction. He looked at her as though she were having a grand mal seizure. I think she was trying to tell me to be more polite to him.

  I sighed deeply. “Sure. I’ll be there soon.”

  “Good.” He stormed out, his stupid boots clomping down the hall.

  “You need to do better!”

  “Oh, Dominique. I don’t feel well, can you blame me? That motherfucking asshole kicked me in the stomach today. I’m bleeding.”

  “Bleeding…from your gash?”

  That was an interesting word choice. “Yes. My period’s overdue, that must be it.”

  “Are you cramping?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’ll bring you some tampons later on tonight, how does that sound? And a boatload of Ibuprofen. You can’t rely on that shitty, slutty Clara for anything.”

  Clara came in then with some Campbell’s soup she’d heated up, but only barely. She was extremely interested in me drinking the entire cup of 7-up. Of course, it’s only in hindsight that I became suspicious. She poured me a giant glass of Jack which I gladly drank, eager to blot out whatever might happen.

  In trying to come to terms with what happened next, I’m really hampered because I was in such a foggy haze. I had felt like that only once before—when I’d been under sedation for an abortion in my early twenties.

  I was already groggy when Clara walked me down to the billiards room. My head felt so light it floated near the ceiling, and I immediately suspected the use of Rohypnol, or roofies. In a way, I was glad. It would mean I might even forget some of the events later on, after the fact. That would be nice.

  “How many forget-me-now pills did you give me?” I was heavily slurring already, but could still detect Clara’s smirk under the bare fluorescent overhead bulbs.

  “What are forget-me-now pills?”

  “Roofies.”

  She didn’t answer immediately. “I don’t know nothing about any roofies.” She pulled open the door to the billiard room.

  “How much booze did I drink?” I asked as Clara shoved me in and shut the door behind me.

  “Here she is!” cried Cropper happily, as though I were a contestant who had just “come on down” from the audience. He took me by the wrist and displayed me to maybe three unknown men who wore cuts of a different club. I tried to laser their club’s name onto my brain in case I needed the information later. That’s how I know the club was Baal’s Minions. I kept thinking of “onion.”

  Onion. The Onion. That hilarious online newspaper. Onion. Minion.

  “Here’s my little slut.” Cropper twirled me around like a ballerina, which made me even dizzier. He slapped my boobs that protruded from the shelf of my underwire bra, stiffening the nipples, much to the delight of the onlookers, who fondled their own hard-ons. One “up” side was that Riker was absent. It was a sad day in hell when I was glad for that omission. People in desperate straits do desperate things.

  “Like the boobies? Nice and plump, just full of fat. Fat in all the right places!”

  “Take off the dress,” said one Minion. He squeezed his hose so tightly I imagined I could see the outline of the corona through his jeans, and I laughed. I laughed! This seemed to confuse him, for he dropped his knob and looked around defensively.

  In that second I realized it was the one and only Gregg Allman, the sunburned negative raccoon biker who had accosted me in this very hangar during the rally. The one that Ford had beaten the shit out of.

  This guy had every reason to be pissed, to want payback. Abruptly I stopped laughing, and leaned back on the pool table for support, all melty like a boneless chicken. By now, though, both the other men were chanting “Take it off, take it off,” and Cropper was making a big show out of taking each sleeve down over my shoulder while smearing some kind of oil all over my boobs, focusing on twiddling with my nipples, a hobby Cropper especially liked.

  I knew by now he had some dysfunction in that area. I felt confident he wouldn’t try to violate me vaginally. I wasn’t so sure about the Minions.

  Mack, the negative raccoon, stepped up to fill in for Cropper’s hands, smearing them all over my boobs as though admiring bowling balls. “Oo. Big giant knockers, my favorite kind.”

  “Mack tried to hit that during the rally,” said Slit. “Then that son of yours whooped his ass.”

  “Hey!” yelled Mack, taking one hand off one boob. “Fuck you!”

  It was odd how I could view all of this, detached. I’m sure the roofies helped. Dominique’s words kept circling around my head. Think of how much tougher you’ll be once you go through this trial by fire. I liked that she’d called it a “trial by fire.” It made it nobler, somehow, that I was submitting myself selflessly for the improvement of my brother’s life—of my own. It almost made me feel like a maiden, sacrificing herself for her fair knight.

  Once I went through this, Cropper would leave me alone. I would emerge tougher, stronger, and steelier than other old ladies. Viewing it this way was the only way to make it palatable to me, to make me endure.

  I was feeling so groggy now my head lolled on my neck, and I prayed for sleep. Then I really wouldn’t know what was happening. But Cropper kept slapping my tits, my ass, encouraging the others to do the same. I’d twitch a little at
each slap. Soon they were slapping me so often I was jumping like a frog in a sock.

  My laughter seemed to piss them off. There was a lot of growling and shouting. A metallic flash, and I thought I saw handcuffs materialize out of nowhere. I laughed even as Cropper yanked my hands behind my back. They liked how this made my tits jut out, and someone upended a bottle of oil over my chest. Soon they were smearing their hands around like kids finger painting, and I couldn’t tell the difference between the ceiling and the floor.

  Was I upside down? My head banged against something, but I couldn’t feel any pain. The phrase cross-eyed and painless kept going through my head. Men were fighting. I saw upside down items on the walls, like one of those beer signs where the waterfall moves. A six-foot leather sign, RED ROCKS ORIGINAL, was tacked to the wall like a saddle. Someone grabbed one of my feet—I think they were trying to tie my ankle to one of the corner pockets of the pool table.

  “You’re a perv, Cropper,” said someone, Slit I think. “You get off on fucking your daughter-in-law.”

  “No fucking allowed, I told you that,” said Cropper. I wondered why not. He had done everything else. It must’ve been his sexual dysfunction. He couldn’t stand watching anyone else do what he couldn’t.

  “I’m doing her anyway, Cropper,” said Mack, and that’s when I vomited.

  The Jack mixed with the soup must’ve just not sat well in my stomach. I took about as much notice of it as a fly on the wall, but these prissy clean freaks were sure grossed out by it.

  “Eyew,” cried Slit. “I’m not gonna hit that.”

  “Good,” said Cropper. “More for us. Fatboi, there’s a roll of paper towels over there.”

  “Why do I always have to clean up the mess?” whined Fatboi. “Toreador always makes me do it at home, and I haven’t been a prospect for years.”

  The last things I remembered were someone wiping vomit off my face and hair—not doing a very good job, as expected—then a whole blurry array of disgusting naked noodles being jacked off over me. An upside down Cropper gripping his own johnson brought the bile back up in my throat. I remember thinking how unsafe it was to vomit while lying on your back. That’s the way Jimi Hendrix died.