by Layla Wolfe
It had even occurred to Lytton that it might be a secure, brotherly feeling being a member of a club like The Bare Bones. Despite Kino’s best efforts at bringing him into the tribal fold, Lytton had grown up not feeling a part of something greater than himself. Lytton had an atheistic, every-man for-himself outlook on life that he pretended to enjoy. But often, when he got bitterly honest with himself after a bondage scene or other, he had to admit that it would be good to feel a sense of belonging, a sense of place. No wonder I never felt I belonged. The whole time I had no idea I was a half-breed.
He had even gone inside The Bum Steer once under the guise of wanting a burger. To be brutally honest, he was curious how those bikers interacted. The bartender was like Tom Cruise on meth, flipping bottles underneath his legs until he smashed a fifth of rum on the tiles. But he was having a good time doing it. It was a rowdy, loud place, as could be expected, carpeted with discarded peanut shells, resonating with shouts, camaraderie, and the Allman Brothers.
Lytton liked the Allman Brothers. Now he came to find out he actually had been a part of this brotherhood the entire fucking time.
The Bare Bones lifestyle seemed so flamboyant, colorful, and dangerous. Lytton knew they also owned the Triple Exposure, the live sex streaming soundstage in the industrial part of P & E, as well as at least two brothels. Then, most interestingly, when Proposition 203 had made it legal to get baked, The Bare Bones had opened up their own dispensary, A Joint Effort, probably as a front for money laundering. Lytton had stopped on in a few times out of professional curiosity, talking to a soft-spoken guy about his growth cycles and color coding. Still, The Bare Bones farms weren’t as organic as the Leaves of Grass.
But by the time Lytton arrived on Mescal Mesa, he was steaming again. Cropper, long may he live, and his motherfucking golden boy son Ford had cut him out of all this glory and splendor. Ford’s mother was another Apache woman, also of the White Mountain tribe—apparently Cropper liked the squaws. How did that equate to Ford being handed the keys to the limo while Lytton grew up thinking that fortified wine meant it was infused with vitamins? Thunderbird bum wine had been on so many tables in Whiteriver, Lytton had thought it was a locally-sourced drink.
No, once Ford Illuminati admitted that he knew Lytton was his brother, Lytton was going to demand an active share in some of the family business. He didn’t know much about construction, so he’d demand to run the weed dispensary. That made sense. He didn’t need the income—it was more about demanding his rightful place in the family hierarchy.
But now Ford the Golden Boy, hiding behind two stunningly model-like sweetbutts, was refusing to even acknowledge Lytton’s existence.
One of the chicks tried to calm him down. “And who the fuck are you?” Lytton railed. True, her presence, her touch on his arm, had something of an angelic influence on him. It did calm him to look down on this seemingly innocent sweetbutt with the giant button eyes, like those paintings of those mournful, large-eyed kids. Bangs framed her brows as though someone had put a bowl over her head, giving her an even more innocent, childish look. Something in her reached out to Lytton, and he didn’t tear her head off. Plus, she had amazing, bouncy knockers.
Instead, he just yelled, “Who the fuck are you?”
She splayed her hands on her chest and said earnestly, “I’m June Shellmound, Ford’s sister-in-law.”
Aha. It was making more sense now. The other sweetbutt, Maddy, must be Ford’s old lady. Lytton’s sharp eye caught that both were wearing wedding rings. Asshole had actually manned up and at least attempted to make someone an honest woman. He saw June was not wearing a ring, and for some reason, this comforted him. He focused his anger back onto Ford, pointing at him.
“None of this changes the fucking fact that all these years you let me rot on the res while you reaped the benefits of being an Illuminati. Well, the buck stops here, motherfucker. You might be a fucking Navy SEAL and one of the ‘Filthy Few,’ but Cropper is my father just as much as he’s your father and I want a piece of the action.”
Ford held up his hands. “Wait just one second, motherfucker.” The menacing thugs who had tried to keep him out of the hallway now loomed over his shoulder. He could feel their menace as they practically breathed down his neck. The giant craggy beaner, Tuzigoot, looked like he could pop your eyeballs with one squeeze of his fist around your neck. Another guy with a high-and-tight haircut seemed to have every inch of his body inked with the most bloody, tragic scenes from the Bible. “How do I even know you’re Cropper’s son? What suddenly made you come jamming over here thirty years after your first birthday, sobbing that you want a piece of some pie?”
Lytton didn’t particularly want to admit that it was some fucked-up condom breath of a sergeant-at-arms who had told him this during an attempted robbery. He mitigated it and gave it an air of authority by saying, “Doug Zelov told me.”
Ford exploded, hands in the air. “Well, that fucking explains a lot, doesn’t it? Do you fucking believe a single word that shitbird says? Of course he’s going to try and stir up trouble—he’s been our mortal enemy since the short pants days!”
Men behind Lytton murmured in agreement about the short pants days, mortal enemies, and shitbirds.
However, the girl who stood next to Lytton said, “He does look a lot like you, Ford.”
This opinion was greeted with furious glares from both Ford and Maddy.
“No. No. No,” said Ford. “I’m sorry, Lincoln or whatever your name is. But the day Doug Zelov speaks the straight dope about anything is the day I lean right and join the Chamber of Commerce.”
Maddy said, “We actually did just join the Pure and Easy Chamber of Commerce.”
“Whatever. I’m sorry you’re laboring under such delusional grandeur, Lincoln—”
“Lytton,” June Shellmound corrected her brother-in-law.
“Lincoln, but the word of Doug Zelov is hardly good for a used condom around here.”
Everyone behind Lytton chuckled. The French guy said, “The word of Doug Zelov is a piece of toilet paper stuck to your shoe.”
That was when Lytton noticed the soft-spoken proprietor of A Joint Effort in the crowd behind him. This good-looking guy laughed, too, and said, “Worthless as a bucket of warm piss.”
Of course this enraged Lytton further. He realized it must sound asinine, taking the word of a rival as gold, so he added in a lower voice, “I asked my stepfather. He admitted that Cropper Illuminati is my father.”
Now that gave this fucker Ford pause for thought. He looked into Lytton’s eyes, unblinking. Maddy narrowed her eyes and leaned closer to Lytton, examining him.
It was Maddy who finally said, “We could easily order a DNA test. It would take about three working days for results.”
That was right—June had said Maddy was a nurse. DNA testing was an excellent idea. Lytton leaped right on top of it. “Swab away!” he declared, and even posed submissively with his mouth wide open.
This made Maddy giggle. “Well, I’d have to get the kit from work,” she explained.
Lytton could tell he was making headway, at least with the ladies. Relaxing again, he told Ford, “I’m saying I’m a hundred percent convinced of this, Illuminati. I mean, look at us. Your wife is right. Who was your mother? My mother is Sadie Driving Hawk.”
Ford said quietly, “Rebekah Quail.”
Lytton had never heard of Rebekah. He just knew Ford’s mother had died a couple of years ago from organ failure brought on by drug abuse, so she was probably very similar to his mother. “Well, I look forward to getting to know our father through hearing you talk about him. I know he passed last year, and I can’t make up for lost time thanks to a lot of factors that all conspired to keep me in the dark, but I look forward to hearing about Cropper, how he lived his life.”
Lytton looked around. Apparently that was the wrong thing to say. All three people stared at him as though stunned by Tasers.
Well, they were probably still in shoc
k about meeting a family member they hadn’t known they had. In retrospect, he should have been more aware of and sensitive to the feelings of his newfound family. But sensitivity had never been Lytton’s strong suit. That was why he never bothered giving any of his slaves orgasms. He was a dominant, alpha master of edge play, uninterested in power exchanges of any kind.
Lytton continued on obliviously. “I was thinking, I could run your marijuana dispensary for you. I know you don’t know me from Adam, but I happen to run the most organic and tightest farming operation up by Mormon Lake. You may have heard of the Leaves of Grass Ranch. That’s my operation. World-famous for my Eminence Front and Young Man Blue.”
“Wait one fucking second,” said the proprietor of A Joint Effort, stepping farther into the office, suddenly not so soft-spoken anymore. “What the fuck makes you think you can just sashay into the Citadel demanding to take over a business that’s been running perfectly fine up until now, fuck you very much? Ford, I’m officially registering my disapproval of this asshole until further notice.”
Several other Bare Boners registered their disapproval, too, prompting Lytton to add, “I could actually improve the business. I’ve been down there. Things are a fucking mess.”
“Excuse the fuck out of me!” huffed the cannabusiness owner. “A Joint Effort is a well-oiled machine!”
“Yeah, oiled is a good description,” fumed Lytton. “You treat people like stoners, not patients. Your display floor is in complete disarray.”
“I know exactly where everything is.”
But Lytton was on a roll. He enjoyed displaying his superiority to others even when not asked to. “Sativa is medicine and needs to be treated as such, not as some fucking accompaniment to a Grateful Dead jam session. It’s a dispensary, not a head shop. You’ve got your indicas mixed up with your sativas. Your edibles aren’t even under glass. You probably barter weed for work on your bike.”
He must’ve hit a nerve, because the proprietor reddened. In retrospect, it probably wasn’t the best move to barge into a clubhouse full of bikers, insist you were related, and demand part of their business. But Lytton wasn’t one for calm level-headedness. And he hadn’t been having the best day either.
Leaping out from behind his desk, Ford strode right for Lytton, practically knocking his own wife out of his way. Lytton wasn’t prepared when the guy—his brother—took a handful of his shirtfront and rattled him ruthlessly. He backed Lytton up against a bookshelf so violently that a giant federal manual of OSHA laws or some such shit bonked Lytton on the head. “Listen here, you twatwaffle. You can spit in a fucking cup or whatever my wife needs from you, but until you’ve proven you’re honestly my fucking half-brother, I’ve got nothing to say to you.”
“Here.” Maddy had gotten one of those tiny, flimsy cups that come with the water cooler and was trying to shove it between the men. “This’ll be fine, just literally spit in the cup, Lytton. I’ll have results by Thursday.”
Lytton grabbed the cup, smashing it flat. He needed to show this fucktard that he would not be an easy target for his biker’s style of crass thuggery. Also, crass thuggery was sort of in the blood of a pot farmer who had to defend his crops against constant marauders.
Wrenching the guy’s fingers to unhand him from his shirtfront, Lytton stood tall and proud. It was literally in his Apache character to sneer and look down on people. Lifting one corner of his upper lip in disdain, Lytton seethed, “And until you’ve proven you’re worthy to be my brother, I have nothing to say to you.”
With great importance, he hocked a big old loogie into the crushed cup. Not taking his eyes from Ford, he smashed the spit cup into his brother’s hand, not the nurse’s. Placing his fingertips on Ford’s chest, he shoved hard. Ford just fell back several steps, probably relieved Lytton was leaving.
He squeaked the hell out of there in his tennis shoes. He was experienced in holding his head high and tolerating the derision of others. He ran the gauntlet through the crowd that had now grown to about fifteen bikers. Smelly, oily, leathery and seasoned, this crew of men may have lived harder lives than Lytton himself. He knew he hadn’t cornered the market on bitter life experiences. Hell, there was a Prospect in the hallway who leaned against a long gnarled cane thrust under his armpit like a greasy Tiny Tim.
No one said a word as Lytton departed. He couldn’t properly slam the heavy door, but the shaky metal stairs outside thundered with the appropriate volume to display his scorn for The Bare Bones. He knew they had all stampeded into Ford’s office to watch him out of the large bank of windows. He was embarrassed that not long ago he’d traded in his old Dyna Street Bob for a classic Softail, a Heritage Springer nearly identical to the one he knew Ford rode. Of course it hadn’t been intentional, but now he felt like a moronic goon knowing all eyes were upon him.
And that sister, June something, was jogging down the steps, waving an arm at him before he’d even started his engine.
“Lytton! Lytton!” she called, as though she knew him well.
It wasn’t unpleasant watching her trot across the parking lot. Her light brown hair looked incredibly soft, like a cloud around her shoulders as she ran. For the first time Lytton really looked at her.
He liked what he saw. June Shellmound seemed naïve about life, or maybe about the interactions of men. He enjoyed innocent submissives, and it occurred to him she might come in handy in his fight against Ford Illuminati.
He smiled his most charming grin. “June, right?”
She seemed gratified he’d remembered. “Yes. June.”
Ford liked the kind of girl who would be grateful to have her name remembered. He instantly knew that June would be a part of his future. In what way, he didn’t know, so he assumed it would be as a pawn in his fight against his brother.
CHAPTER FIVE
JUNE
I’ve always been a sucker for the downtrodden. That’s why I spent so long in Africa, railing against various gods, fighting nature to help the thirsty.
I always knew I was only one grain of sand in the desert of fate. Just building one well, one cassava irrigation scheme, one water treatment plant, this raised my spirits. Now that I was back in America where people weren’t keeling over from dehydration, my brain automatically locked onto the first needy person who crossed my path. I just couldn’t stop helping. And I saw that Lytton needed my help.
He was a poor disenfranchised Native American who had just discovered who his true father was. I didn’t understand why Ford was being so skeptical. Lytton was a carbon copy of him, a Mini Ford, a scarred and hardened biker in a plaid work shirt instead of a leather cut. It was thrilling and stimulating to watch them spar with each other. Their instant hatred of each other was Shakespearean to watch, sibling rivalry at its finest.
At the time, all I could see was Ford defending his empire against the intruder. He didn’t want to share his fond memories of Cropper with the newcomer, that’s what I saw. I felt awful for Lytton, being ganged up on by this crowd of rough-hewn men. Of course they were going to side with their President. That was their credo, their philosophy. “Love the man, love the club,” I used to hear Cropper say.
“Hey, Lytton.” I tried to sound casual, as though I hadn’t just tear-assed down the clanging metal hangar steps. I could feel fifteen pairs of eyes boring into my back. I didn’t owe those fucktards anything! I barely knew them. I recalled Turk of course from the old days, and Tuzigoot, and Faux Pas, the French Canadian with a love of zombie gore. I had briefly recognized Duji, the Al Pacino lookalike from New York, as I’d run by. Ziggy and Gollywow were there, too, although of course I didn’t recognize the Prospects. My brother Speed, the wrench, was probably still down in the hangar fixing equipment.
“I hope you don’t get the wrong impression of the club. Not that I’m an expert—this is the first time I’ve been to the Citadel, too. But I hung out with these guys growing up.” I made it sound a lot more intense than it really was, of course. They’d held meetings at our
suburban Cottonwood house several times, and that was it. I served them beer and potato chips. I was rarely ever home.
It was eerie to see Ford’s twin just feet from me, straddling that bike. He wore a white wifebeater under the plaid shirt, and the vulnerable beauty of his collarbone just killed me. The neckline revealed a hint of smooth, well-developed pectoral with just a sprinkling of chest hair, and I went weak at the knees. It must have been way too long since I’d been laid. That was it.
He gave me the once-over boldly. He didn’t seem to care who saw him eyeballing me. His nostrils flared, as though he liked what he saw. Suddenly, his opinion meant the world to me. “You know them pretty well, then.”
“Oh, yeah. Ford and Cropper lived with us when I was a teenager. Cropper was my mother’s boyfriend. They say he was a great businessman. I mean, obviously. He created this entire empire.” To be honest, Cropper had always given me the creeps. He looked at Maddy in a way that definitely didn’t seem proper. I was a few years younger and had probably dodged that particular bullet. Maddy had never complained about him, although we hardly shared pillow talk as kids. Our mother had pitted us against each other, and instead of banding together, we’d been enemies.
“So you’re Ford’s sister-in-law, yet you’re talking to me. You don’t think I’m some outcast, some Tomahonky you wish would disappear.”
I felt myself blush. “Ford’s just in shock, that’s all. Last year when he tracked down his mother in Flagstaff, he also discovered she’d had another son after him who had died.”
“With Cropper?”
“With Cropper. Oh, God. Why did I tell you that? Sometimes I talk before I think. I basically just told you that you had a brother who died.”
Lytton sighed deeply. “From what little I know of this family, that’s starting to sound like a typical day in hell.”