by Wolfe, Layla
Fuck. As though I needed another fantasy to jack off to.
“Who are you?” she asked, cautiously.
Find your tongue, you shitbird. “Ford.” Did I just stutter? What a lame ass. Standing, he extended a hand for her to shake. He was glad his tight boxer briefs kept his hard-on in check tightly against his hip, although his wallet and its chain dragged down his jeans waistband to nearly pube level.
All ideas of forcing this chick into a life of servitude went out the window. That was good enough for the sweetbutts, the Bone Lickers of the Bum Steer Bar and Grill, but within seconds Ford knew he would never subject this woman to that treatment.
She finally smiled when she shook his hand, her hot palm lingering against his. “Ford Corvette? Ford Fiesta? Oh no, not Ford Explorer.” Her smile was crooked, like the slash on a keyboard.
He’d heard them all before. “Actually, my road name’s Torino,” he admitted. “My brothers gave me that name when I went full-on outlaw. Because I’ve got style, they said.” It had never felt so embarrassing to admit that before. Usually, it was a bragging point.
When she stuck her fingers in her back cutoff pockets, her tits announced themselves even louder. She may as well not have been wearing a bra at all. Ford shifted uncomfortably in his boots. “What’s a road name? You don’t look like my mother’s usual customer.”
Customer? Her mother’s a hooker? Ingrid had struck Ford as being too old to be a hooker, and besides, why would Cropper shack up with a hooker? Ford had been under the impression that by moving them into Ingrid’s house in the suburbs of Cottonwood and away from the clubhouse in nearby Pure and Easy, they were giving the Bum Steer a certain legitimacy.
That normalcy didn’t exist when unshaven men wearing patched leather cuts were roaring in and out of the side alley at all hours of the day, throwing darts at each other’s heads, or twirling nunchuks like a bunch of fucking babies. Actually, just last week Ford had stumbled upon an enormous pair of adult diapers underneath the bar at the Bum Steer. No one had claimed them, but Ford knew that one brother—named Riker because he’d actually done time there—enjoyed adult baby role playing. Thank God the diapers were unused, but that was probably the straw that had broken Cropper’s back.
Cropper had told the rest of the brothers to find their own digs, too. “No more crashing at the Bum Steer. Or over at the fucking Triple Exposure,” he added, referring to the live sex streaming soundstage the club also owned. Cropper wanted to lend a la-de-da aura to that business, too. Cropper had some good directions for the club to go in. He was in the process of getting together a trucking company for which the good Italian name Illuminati was a natural. They called him Cropper because he was like a farmer—so fertile that every venture he touched just grew and bloomed.
“Excuse me? Customer for…”
Madison nodded with understanding. “For crystal.”
Ford could feel his very face falling at this crushing blow. He’d learned to loathe meth after seeing what it did to people. “She’s a dealer? Just great.” But this was Madison’s mother he was talking about, so Ford put a quick spin on it. “Must make for a lively atmosphere around here.”
“Oh, I’m hardly ever here. I live…elsewhere.”
Ford had heard that, although nobody had gone into much detail. Cropper had said, “The thirteen-year-old, you keep your fucking hands off her. She’s got a twin brother who I rarely see. The fifteen-year-old barely comes around, so you can take her room.” He had noted at the time that Cropper hadn’t warned him to leave the fifteen-year-old alone. Maybe because she was never there, he reasoned.
“Yeah, about that.” Ford put one boot on a low wall and lit a cigarette. Smoke drifted into his eyes and he squinted at the young woman. “My father, I guess he’s claimed your mom. We’re moving in. No one told you?”
Madison held her hand out for his cigarette. She didn’t inhale very deeply, and she too squinted. “Whatever. That’s typical. My mother can’t live on her own. Physically or mentally.”
“She handicapped? She seems okay to me.”
Madison snorted cynically. “Yeah. Handicapped. More on the mental side than the physical side. She’s afraid to leave the house, and we’re of no use because we can’t drive.” Madison leaned in confidentially. Her look of secrecy was adorable. “Little does she know. I made it to school often enough to complete driver’s training. Not that I have a car to drive, but I’ve got my permit anyway.”
Ford stood up straight. It suddenly didn’t seem to matter that there was a noticeable bulge in his jeans. Her glance had flickered to it, but she seemed used to such sights. “Really? I’ll take you on a run. You can sit on my pussy pad. Then I’ll teach you to ride.”
“Motorcycle, I take it?”
“Yeah. Ninety-eight Harley Softail. Screaming Eagle upgrades. Custom T-bars.”
“Ape hangers?”
Ford grinned. She knew her stuff. Ape hangers were illegal in Arizona. “You know it.”
She sniffed. “I think those look ridiculous.”
The flood of mortification that swept through Ford surprised him. He normally didn’t care what anyone thought, and he realized he’d been showing off for the little teenybopper. Besides, in his world, ape hanger handlebars were the bomb.
As was his habit, he swiftly covered up his shame with a show of swagger. He was already shirtless, a condition that hadn’t failed to catch her eye, so now he undid his custom “Bare Bones” belt buckle. The weight of his wallet, the chain that held it and his dagger in its sheath all assisted the jeans to quickly drop to his boots, so he yanked those off too. “Go for a swim,” he said coldly. He didn’t even step on the cigarette that he’d tossed to the cement—he was that cool.
Her reaction was worth it. Her jaw fell, her eyes went round as Girl Scout cookies, and she even staggered back a step when she viewed him in all his underwear model glory. His erection that was still at half-mast nestled under the tight knit briefs was impressive, too, he knew. I’ll bet she’s an inexperienced virgin. She pretends to be a hardass, but I’ll bet deep down she’s just like every other teen. Scared and unsure.
Turning to the pool to make an impressive dive, Ford was stopped by the harsh bark of his father—and President of their MC.
“Torino! I need you on a protection run down to Camp Verde.”
Damn, if Cropper hadn’t chosen a more inappropriate time. He felt like whining, Aw, Dad, do I have to? But of course he couldn’t whine, so he faced his father squarely and nodded crisply, swiping his jeans from the ground.
That would’ve been the end of it, but Cropper sauntered forward, long gorilla arms swaying. Cropper did resemble an ape, so the ape hangers on his Super Glide were apropos. His greying hairline was so low he looked like he’d gotten into the stupid line twice. Ford didn’t like to feel uncharitable toward his father—overall, he had vast respect for him—but he didn’t appreciate Cropper ruining his attempt at a romantic moment.
Cropper stood inappropriately close to Madison. Ford had seen Cropper mack on jailbait before plenty of times, but for some reason this particular one made him uncomfortable. Cropper made no bones about giving her the once-over, his eyeballs about to roll on the ground like some cartoon dog. “You’re the fifteen-year-old,” he surmised.
Already the poor girl cringed back from Cropper. She was learning. “I suppose so. I’m almost sixteen.”
Wrong thing to say, Ford felt like telling her.
This pleased Cropper. He actually eyed her rack over the top of his shades. “Very pleased to meet you. I told my son he could have your room, but he can sleep in the garage.”
“They claimed you’re never here,” Ford felt the need to explain.
She shrugged. With her fingers again in her rear pockets, the ensuing tit jiggle made Ford fear for her safety. “I don’t mind. You can have my room. Like I’m sure my mother said, I’m never here.”
“I’m not taking your room,” Ford protested. He noticed that he
placed his body between Cropper and her—some instinctual protective move. “I can move back to the Bum Steer.”
She wrinkled her nose adorably. “What’s that? Some kind of slaughterhouse for old cows?”
Both Ford and Cropper threw their heads back and laughed uproariously. Ford had never heard that one before. Everyone in Pure and Easy knew it was the Bare Bones’ clubhouse, as well as actually serving a mean tri-tip.
Cropper clapped a hand on Ford’s shoulder. “No, son, don’t do that. We’ll figure something out. Get the two of you bunk beds.” Still laughing, the big ape man finally headed back to the house. He tossed over his shoulder, “Meet Turk by mile marker three-ten. Two box trucks full of Russian iron. Go plainclothes—we got heat from both ATF and Immigration.”
Cropper—and the back of his glorious cut flying their colors proudly—vanished into the living room. Ford wondered briefly why Immigration would give a fuck what they did. They had never fucked around near the border, and INS was too understaffed to care about anything else.
He sighed deeply and nobly, noting that Madison, too, was admiring Cropper’s patches. Their club insignia was a sort of stylized Incan skull and ribcage, very tribal. “You love the man,” Ford intoned importantly, “and you learn to love the club. If you can handle that, you can handle anything.”
Usually women were all over intonations like that—usually got him laid, and good. Not this girl. She just frowned in that slashy way and picked up his book.
“What’re you reading? Henry Miller? Any good? I read a lot.”
Ford liked that she read a lot. So did he. It had never been an option to graduate high school—there was too much pressing club business for that—but he was actually studying for his GED. This book, however, had nothing to do with that. He just loved Henry Miller. The guy was brash, bold, and had a colorful, unfiltered way of speech. “Read any part. I dare you. It’s just fantastic.”
Madison read. “What I want is to open up. I want to know what’s inside me. I want everybody to open up. I’m like an imbecile with a can opener in his hand, wondering where to begin—to open up the earth. I know that underneath the mess everything is marvelous.’” She gave Ford the most adorable, heartfelt grin then. Her eyes even looked glassy, as though the writing had made her tear up. “Wow. That’s great. Just great.”
“Isn’t it? You can borrow it if you want.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to deprive you of your favorite. I can steal one—I mean, borrow one from the library.”
“No, take it. I’ve got a million more where that came from. Oh, and don’t listen to my dad. Bunk beds, my ass. We’re not kids.”
“No,” she whispered. “We’re not kids.”
“And I don’t know where you’re staying, but shouldn’t you be with your mom?” Ford finally admitted the truth. “Hell, I’d like to see you around here, as long as I’m going to be stuck here.”
“I don’t agree about the mom part,” Madison said quietly. “But I think I’d like to be around here more, yeah.”
Just hearing that, Ford was on a high that lasted all day. Even though the chase driver sped so fast through the canyons, right up their asses, he and Turk nearly ate asphalt a few times. The douchebag seemed determined to get a Fast Riding Award, and Ford and Turk gave him a beatdown when they got to their destination.
CHAPTER THREE
MADISON
I was nothing before Ford. The first fifteen years of my life are meaningless. Not one breath I ever took, not one word I ever said, not a single thought of mine was important B.F., Before Ford. The air in my lungs was putrid like a meth addict’s breath until Ford Illuminati appeared in my backyard, reading Henry Miller, his jeans slung low, draping where his giant cock was nestled.
I was just this shapeless formless blob, a smear of smegma or a puddle of ectoplasm that’s spewed from a psychic’s mouth—meaningless, trivial, and ultimately bogus.
I never spent the night again at the Coyote Buttes camping spot. I went back there to gather my things. It was fucking typical that when I went to get my shampoo and makeup bags from beneath a Crucifixion Thorn plant, some condom breath had stolen my bag of Lancôme eye shadow and blush. As if. As if I was supposed to believe one of the stocking cap-wearing, bling jewelry-encrusted thugs who came up to Coyote Buttes would want my makeup? It pissed me off because Lancôme was expensive, and I had put my ass on the line stealing that stuff.
It was the final straw in a move that had long been coming. It was time for me to grow the fuck up and stop living on a damned butte.
I had plans and goals. I wasn’t about to become like the toothless, pizza-faced, scabby, grey-skinned losers, my mother’s customers who looked like they had bad perms but really had been sleeping under an overpass. One thing my mother’s neglect, although I didn’t even recognize it as such until many years later, had not done to me was to drown me in self-pity. No, I was tough as nails, with a hardened box turtle’s shell to the barbs of the outside world. No one can hurt you if you don’t feel anything for them, right?
I had managed to maintain a good GPA by spending a lot of time in the library’s computer lab, and I was determined to be a nurse. Yes, a nurse! Maybe I’d seen enough ailing people on their last legs when they came to Ingrid for the sort of “help” that would only kill them. Maybe that’s where I got this urge to help people. Even my friend Sabrina thought I was aiming a bit high. I knew I had to do something to get out of Cottonwood. Waiting for some meth head to stab Ingrid with an ice pick wasn’t the best option.
Ford moved into June’s bedroom, since she spent most of her time shuttling between well-to-do friend’s houses. Being near him gave me an odd, forbidden thrill, the likes of which I’d never felt. I kept trying to analyze it. Why did my pulse quicken with excitement at the mere thought of him sleeping on the other side of the plywood wall? Why did the sight of his bare shoulder blade inked with the skull and bones of his club touch a tender spot in me? I didn’t even know I had any tender spots, much less that the sight of a tattoo would touch them.
It wasn’t the tattoo that affected me so deeply. It was the man behind the tat, the beautiful, proud Italian with the luxuriant mane of glossy black hair. Ford truly was a full-on outlaw with an aura of tempting allure. He didn’t talk specifics to me, but I knew the Bare Bones were involved with gun running at the very least which was why Cropper was putting together a trucking business, as a cover. Ford went on protection runs to move the arms from point A to B.
He also went to administer “outlaw justice,” to “reason with” people who’d attempted to trick the club in some way. He was an excellent fighter—I’d gone with him to a couple of these backyard fight clubs where the rules seemed nebulous at best and the goal seemed to be unconsciousness.
The Bare Bones had numerous other business concerns, all in various shades of legitimacy. When I began to turn green with envy after Ford announced he was heading to the live sex streaming concern over the mountains in Pure and Easy, I knew I had a problem. When I caught myself reading Ford’s books and mooning over Miller’s fated, doomed romances, I knew I was a goner.
“She rises up out of a sea of faces and embraces me, embraces me passionately—a thousand eyes, noses, fingers, legs, bottles, windows, purses, saucers all glaring at us and we are in each other’s arms oblivious.”
I’d highlight sentences like that, hoping Ford would see and at least discuss and agree with me. When I caught myself highlighting “All my life I have felt a great kinship with the madman and the criminal,” I knew I needed help.
I was in love.
Searing, gut-wrenching, first time love.
The thing was, every move he made was of paramount importance to me. I planned my day around his. He started “scooting me” to school some mornings. Then it became most mornings. I felt like an addict when I perched on that pussy pad, pressing my tits to the warm patches on his leather-clad back. He emanated some chemical, some pheromone, that I needed like a lifel
ine. I clung to him with a desperation that wasn’t entirely safety-oriented. I had fifteen minutes of heaven every morning, desperately inhaling every ion of his exhausty, musky scent, squeezing him even tighter when he took a corner and practically dragged pegs.
I loved it when that happened, because it gave me an excuse to hold on for dear life and bury my face against the back of his neck. He always gave me the brain bucket to wear which afforded me more chances to nuzzle his hot, bare neck.
Knowing my fingers were just inches from that giant slug of a cock just thrilled me to the core. It wasn’t until Ford came on the scene that I realized I’d been severely lacking in normal hormonal urges. I fucked around with those troubled boys because of a psychological need in me. They filled a desire for physical intimacy, a loneliness, a void, but I never got horny over anyone. It was much more an urge in my thalamus than my pussy. Now I suddenly understood why my sister June lusted over Justin Timberlake. It was a primal, rock-bottom sexual drive—the drive that has launched a thousand ships as well as a thousand tragedies.
I had never felt any lust for the boys I made out with. I had always just gone through the moves. I knew what was expected of young, hot chicks. I knew how to fake the arousal, how to pretend to have enthusiasm. Simply put, I knew what boys wanted. Men are all massive egotists. They are all just mirror-gazing narcissists. They are so vain they give self-portraits as gifts. Believe you me, by the time I turned sixteen I was going through the motions to stroke their egos, and my heart wasn’t even into it anymore. At sixteen I was a burnt-out wreck, like a poor used-up hooker.
Being near Ford, I was suddenly a new person, as though he’d stolen all my vitality, my cells, my brain matter, my essence and replaced everything with new organs and fluid. A sexual vampire, he sucked out the bad and revitalized me with his pure shimmering goodness.