by Layla Wolfe
As a woman, I could not be a member of The Bare Bones. But in the most important way, I was a Boner. They were my family, and that’s when the awareness first kicked in.
Roman had blathered how the Bones was an extremely select brotherhood of men who would fight and die for each other. Once he told me, “Members have come and gone, lived and died, and lots of them are still with us, like Birdseye, Tuzigoot, Duji, kicking ass and taking names. Some guys are so strange you wouldn’t believe they’re real, like Russ Gollywow. Do you know on the weekends he puts on a pastel sequined suit and sings backup in a Philly Soul group? These are the guys you need next to you when the shit hits the fan, because you know they’ll go to the mat for you, not even questioning the whys or the wherefores.”
I used to sort of roll my eyes and scoff when he’d start spouting this brotherhood shit. Now, for the first time, I felt the thrill shoot through my very bones. I relied on these men to protect me. Even the women, the old ladies, somehow I knew they’d kick ass too, if some Bamboo Boys popped out of the woodwork. Women like Madison and June Illuminati, the tough mechanic Bellamy Hammett, and other old ladies whose names I was just learning. I think Sapphire was one. There were Tess, and Julie Fulton, the widow of Ziggy, who rode her own scoot.
The very ground seemed to rumble as we roared in a leisurely manner down from the plateau where the airfield was situated. We swerved right and left through the valleys that were ringed with spires, red pinnacles and steeples of sandstone that gave the area the “Red Rocks” label. Now I knew what Roman meant when he said he’d been out “canyon carving.” We zigzagged around monumental towers that loomed like skyscrapers above us. The platoon of men in black leather were like a swarm of shiny beetles moving in synchronicity under the ancient rock formations, eroded over eons by wind.
I finally understood the appeal, the draw of the nomadic life on the road. As long as you were surrounded by your brothers who were closer to you than any blood relatives you’d known, you were safe. Safe in your daring, safe within your courage to explore. You could be daring and bold, and never feel vulnerable or open to attack.
At least, that’s how it felt that day, moving north toward Flagstaff where we’d meet up with another Bones chapter, and the Assassins of Youth out of Bullhead City.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ROMAN
It was frustrating, having to ride in a second pack without Gudrun. Roman understood the logic—he was to keep a sharp eye out for Riker and any suspicious-looking Bamboo Boys. Asian fellows were rare enough in this part of the world, especially the farther you got from towns. It shouldn’t be too hard to spot them, especially if they drove rice burners or Caddys.
They stopped in Flagstaff to join up with their chapter there and with a brother club, The Assassins of Youth. They had an impromptu church meeting in the Flagstaff clubhouse where there weren’t enough seats for everyone. Roman, as a recently patched Prospect, tried to stand against one of the walls, but Ford Illuminati pulled him into a chair. This didn’t bode well. He was used to being the center of attention in Little Accident, and he was sick and tired of it all. He’d like to fade into the woodwork for once.
“As you’ve no doubt heard, we had a mishap at the Tucson clubhouse,” Ford started out. “Roman here was just trying to save the life of Slushy McGill’s daughter when he ran into the one and only Riker.”
Murmurs of disgust and shock rolled through the chapel. Was it possible some hadn’t heard of Riker’s reappearance? Roman looked around, and sure enough, some men were frowning at each other, almost scratching their heads in confusion. It mostly seemed to be members of The Assassins out of Bullhead City. There had been a slight beef recently between the Boners and the Assassins. The Prez, Papa Ewey and his right-hand man Tim Breakiron had not stood up for one of their members, pretty much thrown Lock Singer under the bus. It resulted in Lock and Turk starting a new MC, breaking away and grabbing their own turf in western Arizona along the Colorado River, but there was probably still bad blood. No wonder they hadn’t heard about the clubhouse explosion.
Ford went on. “Riker got away, as he’s famous for doing. Luckily Roman here got the girl, but Riker got away with a friend of hers. He’s involved in some white trafficking ring with The Bamboo Boys and Tony Tormenta. The girl’s car was found a few days ago near the meteor crater, near Butch’s ranch.”
“Tony Tormenta,” snorted a Flagstaff brother named Dayton Navarro. “I heard about one time he threw a runner into a fireplace just because he was a hundred dollars short.”
Roman had heard that story too. He knew the real amount the courier was short was a thousand, not a hundred green. Roman knew this because his father Dante had worked for Tormenta. He had way worse stories, too, but he didn’t want to draw attention to himself.
Someone else said, “Until recently, Tormenta had his own Facebook page. Every single selfie was him all pouty, like he had collagen injections in his lips, posing with guns, drugs, and money. A real asshat. Facebook shut it down.”
Someone said, “They drive around in military garb with fucking gold-plated bumpers and wheels.”
Roman slammed the table with his fist. Before he could even censor himself, he was growling, “Tormenta kidnapped a sicario from Sonora. His chopped-up corpse was found a week later but his face had been skinned off and stitched onto a fucking soccer ball.” No one else knew it had been his father’s face on the soccer ball. He hadn’t even told Andrea that part.
Hardened faces of shock and outrage looked at Roman now. Mortified that he’d said anything, he had to follow up with something. “A note said ‘happy New Year’s, because this will be your last.’”
It was sort of anticlimactic, and luckily Ford took over for him then. “So the big point I want to make today is, we’re on the lookout again for Riker and any Bamboo Boys. Tormenta too, of course, but I know he operates out of Nogales. Bamboo Boys should be pretty easy to spot, and I think everyone knows what Riker looks like. Their main target will be Roman or Gudrun, who rode up with the first pack. But knowing how random and psychotic Riker can be, it can be any fucking one of us.”
A French Canadian brother named Faux Pas said, “Maybe we shouldn’t get as out there as we usually do during this run. Like, maybe minimize how many gallons of tequila we each drink, since we need to be sharp.”
That statement caused the biggest uproar of the entire meeting.
“No fucking way!”
“Take all the fun out of it!”
“That sucks epic ass, Frenchie. I’m just as sharp when I’m toasted as when I’m sober.”
Even Faux Pas and Ford laughed, completely dismissing the idea that they might dial back the fun a shred. This was the famous Painted Desert run, and no one was going to dial it back for anyone.
Ford made motions to dismiss the meeting, raising the gavel he’d borrowed from the Flagstaff Prez. “And don’t forget we’re in Cutlass territory still. Our brother Butch Trucks might own the Two Guns Ranch where we party, but it is smack in the middle of Cutlass turf.”
This was cause for uproarious laughter. Brothers elbowed each other in the gut and embraced each other in thug hugs at the idea they might run into some Cutlasses. Frankly, Roman looked forward to it too. Just let them try anything. Obviously Cutlasses couldn’t come onto Butch’s land, but last year the area around Two Guns had been crawling with them, resulting in some pretty bang-up run-ins.
Bring it on. Roman was spoiling for a fight. He’d had so much anger inside him the past year. The only time he’d blown off steam was when he’s grabbed Gudrun and shot Riker—and then Riker turned out not to even be fucking dead, doubling Roman’s frustration.
Ford adjourned the meeting, and Roman rushed to the can so he wouldn’t have to wait in line. Just thinking about confronting some Cutlasses had the tiny hairs standing up on the back of his neck. He wore a patch on his cut that said Sinza Pietà, or no mercy in Italian, because his dad had been Italian. To him, it meant that when yo
u fought with one Boner, you fought with them all. Cutlasses would get ploughed and think they were tough, and a Bare Boner was an attractive target. If each brother fought a rival one-on-one, they’d be there forever. Much easier to issue one mass beatdown so their reputation preceded them. Then the next fifty guys wouldn’t try anything.
While peeing, Roman overheard an Assassin say, “I heard a few Cutlasses were seen out at the Wagon Box earlier today.”
The Wagon Box was a bar where most of the action had taken place the year before, so Roman chimed in. “Right on. Last year we were wiping the bar with them.”
“I remember,” said the Assassin. “Let’s have a repeat. You really saved that girl from Riker? I saw the video of you carrying her down the street. Looked like some hero in a western.”
Roman shrugged. “Just picked her off the bed after shooting Riker in the throat,” he said modestly. He felt so good he almost swaggered to the sink, and after washing his hands he got up the confidence to text Gudrun. He had the feeling they weren’t supposed to be doing that, but he was in a rebel mood after that meeting.
Where are you? I miss you.
He dared to say that, “I miss you.” He knew it sounded sappy, but hell, he did miss her. They had grown close, fallen in step with each other comfortably. Yes, like family members, but also like—well, lovers. There was that tension between them, the push and pull, the uncertainty of never knowing from one minute to the next what might happen.
Roman felt bound to Gudrun because he needed to stick up for his own. She had no one in the world other than her father. While Slushy could be a powerful mover and shaker in the MC world, it was time for Gudrun to move on as a woman and find a man who could be her equal. She was getting over her husband’s death, and she couldn’t mourn forever. Being banned from Tucson had pretty much forced her hand into this new life.
To his shock, as he moved out into the bar part of the Flagstaff clubhouse, his phone buzzed him back. He stood stock still in the middle of a group of frolicking, rowdy men. One guy jostled his arm so badly he nearly dropped the phone. The flare of anger that welled in him scared him. He’d almost punched a brother because he’d nearly made him drop Gudrun’s message!
I miss you too. Look underneath the big old honking stuffed elk head.
It was like in one of those fantasy sequences where everything else in the room gets fluid and fades out. All the rowdy men liquefied and shimmered as though underwater, and all Roman could think was What elk head?
Had Gudrun left him a note underneath some elk head? Roman moved through the dream numbly. He passed a checkered couch, a pool table, banners with sports pennants. There she stood, radiant, Madison’s too-tight T-shirt with the fringes and southwestern motif making her look unbearably hot.
The hottest thing about her was the glow from within. After all she’d been through, she still glittered like a fairy covered in dust. Her crimson hair was parted on one side and partially curtained her impish expression. How could she be so light and tantalizing when she’d just been through the fucking wringer? Roman made a beeline to her, practically shoving aside the brothers and old ladies, sweetbutts and hang-arounds who got in his way.
He took her by the upper arms. “What the fuck are you doing still here? I thought you went ahead with Lytton, Tuzigoot and the others in the first party.” He shook her a little. “How’d they fucking leave you behind, Gudrun?”
She looked surprisingly uncaring. Tossing her head a little at the roomful of men, she said, “Under the stuffed turkey.”
Roman looked around frantically. He hadn’t noticed any stuffed turkey, but then he hadn’t been looking around for mounted fowl.
Then he saw him. None other than Wolf Glaser caught his eye, lifting a mug of Budweiser to Roman.
Roman’s anger thermometer started rising, but he stuffed it down because he didn’t want to leave Gudrun’s side. “That asshole! How dare he take on such a giant responsibility as taking care of you? He just decided on his own to let you stay instead of riding with the pack?”
It was Gudrun’s turn to hold Roman’s biceps. “I asked him to, Roman. And Ford approved it. He said as long as I ride two up with Wolf, I can ride in the same pack as you. Wolf’s all about true love now. You know what a sap he’s been for Tracy.”
That was true. When they’d told Wolf that Tracy had been playing Klingon Boggle with Tobiah Weingarten, he’d blown a gasket.
Wolf had paced and ranted and raved. “What’s that pantywaist got that I don’t? He sits around playing Halo and Words with Friends, not lifting weights and target practicing like me! The last time he saw this much action with a girl was when the new Lovin’ Lamb blowup doll came out. I’m giving that dipwad so many royal flushes when I see him he won’t know which end is up!”
Now, standing in the darkened clubhouse, Roman had to chuckle. He even raised a hand in greeting to poor Wolf. “Tracy probably sees Tobiah as her savior, her protector. You know, the way you see me.”
Gudrun raised one eyebrow. “Oh, you mean like Stockholm Syndrome?”
“What? Listen, I can’t hear over this fucking music. Let’s go over here.”
“Over here” just turned out to be another hallway where a half a dozen couples were making out. Roman propped Gudrun up underneath some plaques commemorating The Bare Bones MC for their work with the Lions Club or other charitable organizations.
Her eyes sparkled with an inviting taunt, as if she knew exactly how loaded she was with sex appeal. Sometimes Roman wondered why he even associated with women, they were so mysterious, strange, and secretive. Was it possible to know them? So he said, “Look. I understand bikes, and I understand my brothers, Gudrun. But I’ll never understand you.”
She looked him slyly up and down. “It’s not up to you to understand me, Roman. Why do you need to?”
“I want to! I know all about Harley engines. I can build a bike from a shed full of parts. I know backward and forward the stupid, asinine things men do. But there’s nothing more confusing than old ladies.”
She played with a lock of her hair. “I’m no old lady. I’m just your stepsister.”
Steam practically shot from Roman’s ears, he was so worked up and riled. This time he really did shake her. He rattled the seductive grin right off her face. “We’re no blood relatives, goddamn it, woman. You can choose your friends but not your relatives, and the family you create—the people you gather around you, the folks who become your real family, your club, whatever you want to call it—they’re stronger, tighter, more steadfast than any fucking blood relatives. For that I’m fucking grateful, Gudrun.” He took her chin in his palm. “I don’t want you to be my blood relative. Those assholes always let you down, screw you over, and disappoint you. I want you to be more than that to me.”
The taunting look in her eyes was gone now. Something almost like the fear of a trapped animal replaced it. Her palms were flat against the wall behind her, and she tried to wrench her jaw from Roman’s palm. “I…”
Her voice was a tiny trickle under the blare of the southern rock song pounding from several speakers in the clubhouse. Roman rubbed her lower lip with his thumb. “You what, Gudrun? Don’t like what I’m saying?”
“It makes me…uncomfortable. You’re right. Families are the worst.” Her voice gained traction, strength, and she looked him fiercely in the eye now. “They think that being related by blood gives them the go-ahead to screw each other over. The worst things I’ve seen done to people have been done by blood relatives. The people you choose of your own free will walk on eggshells. They’re careful. They know if they fuck with you, you can walk away. With blood, you can’t. You’re stuck with these dicks.” Her look softened then, and a smile curled her lips. “I just like pretending you’re my blood. It’s nastier that way.”
That was it. Bending at the knees, Roman leaned his hips into her, pinning her to the wall. With her jaw still in his palm, he swiped her lips quickly, just once, like a sunbathing lizard.
He panted on her cheek so heavily he created steam. “Okay then, sister.” He slid his other palm up her ribcage to just barely cradle one heavy boob between thumb and forefinger. “Give me some of your sweet, nasty loving.”
Right before he kissed her, she giggled with joy. It sounded like she said “ooh” right before he swept in for the big, passionate kiss. Teasing open her lips with the tip of his tongue, he lapped at the backs of her incisors to relax her, to open her up. Slowly, little by little, she moved her hands from the wall to grasp his hips. She let him dry hump her up the wall until she was almost at his eye level. Their pelvises glued together, Roman’s erection pulsed against her satin-covered pubic bone. He knew she thought she was fat, but it was easy to hold her up against the wall with the sheer strength of his hips—Lord knew he’d bounced enough guitars, groupies, and other sordid things there in his time.
Roman couldn’t tell if it was the kiss, the surge of blood to his dick, or the marijuana wafting in the air that gave him a sudden head rush. He broke the kiss with a gasp, and they panted against each other’s mouths.
“Roman,” Gudrun sighed, nibbling on his lower lip. She leveraged her pussy bone against his hard-on, managing to lift both of her boots off the floor. He held her glorious ass in his hands as she walked her feet up the back of his engineer’s boots, sort of planting her toes against their stiff top.