The Bare Bones (The Bare Bones MC)

by Wolfe, Layla

  That was it. That last little “I’m sorry” just sent Ford over the edge, and he took a big bite from the side of her neck.

  She lolled her head back on her shoulder like the slinky, sexy feline that she was, giving him more room to bite, suck, and lick.

  He yanked up her bra to completely bare her juicy tits to the gauzy spring sun. Leaning totally around her like a madman, he lifted a boob to his mouth, slathering his tongue all around the erect nipple. Now she uttered feminine little moans, little kitty cat gasps for air as she squeezed a handful of his hair. His thighs locked around hers, and he felt if he just thrust once or twice more against her ass, he might come.

  Ford was in the process of flipping her around to face him so he could get one mouthful and one handful of tittie when a stern growl came from the house’s back door.

  “Get the fuck over here. Now.”

  Conditioned to obey Cropper, Ford’s spine snapped to attention. His mouth left Maddy’s nipple with a popping sound, and he swiveled his head around to view Cropper in the doorway, frowning a fierce Cro-Magnon frown. Was that guy always lurking around, just waiting to pounce on the best moments of Ford’s life?

  “Oh,” panted Madison, trembling in Ford’s hands.

  Cropper pointed at the ground. “Now.”

  Ford didn’t have a fucking choice. As long as he continued working for his father he’d never be out from under his thumb. As the Prez of the Bare Bones, Cropper’s word was law.

  Now it was Ford’s turn to apologize. “I’m sorry, sugar,” he meant to say as he helped Madison cover her boobs with the wet elastic of the bra. But it came out like, “I’m sorry, sugar cookie,” maybe because he wanted to put some more fucking emphasis on how strongly he felt.

  “It’s okay,” she said breathlessly. “You’ve got to obey your dad.” Her face was beautifully flushed and she had that same innocent, stunned deer look he’d seen on her so long ago, the day they’d met. She swam away from him like a quick polliwog.

  The word “obey” rubbed Ford the wrong way, and he resentfully hauled himself up the pool ladder. He didn’t care if Cropper got a good gander at the swollen cock that bulged in his jock. Brothers were always going hard at it in front of each other. Hell, he’d even done a few father and son tag teams with Cropper. Why the fuck not? Pass-arounds loved the forbidden aspect of doing a father and son at the same time. It was a sure and easy lay.

  Ford hitched his thumbs under his waistband and tossed his wet mop of hair from his eyes. “Whassup.”

  That wasn’t the right thing. Cropper reached out and snatched Ford by the arm like a venomous snake striking. If Ford had worn shoes, they would have been left behind on the cement as Cropper hauled him into the living room like a fucking little kid.

  Like a fucking little kid.

  Cropper whipped Ford around in a half-circle until his back slammed up against the living room wall, knocking the breath from his lungs. In one long stride, Cropper was completely in Ford’s face, breathing Jack Daniels and cigarettes all over him.

  What. The. Fuck. Cropper had only given him a beatdown once in his life—when he’d gotten drunk and blabbed to some cartel beaner about a shipment of AKs, which the beaner had proceeded to intercept.

  He had deserved that. He didn’t deserve this, when he’d just been putting the moves on a smoking hot woman.

  Cropper even stuck his fat index finger in Ford’s face as he growled, “You listen to me, and listen good, sonny. Hands off that fucking used-up cunt. You’re in for a world of hurt if you keep hitting on her. I don’t care what sort of a fucking fighter you are. You are riding for one seriously hard takedown.”

  Suddenly it was as though he was in the ring. Ford’s instinctual survival instincts kicked in, and his hand shot up to wrench Cropper’s finger so completely he heard it crack. At the same time he kneed Cropper in the gut. The air was expressed from Cropper with a big “ooph” that was extremely satisfying.

  With Cropper doubled over airless, it was sorely tempting to deliver a double-fisted blow to the back of the neck, but Ford settled for throwing him. Cropper splayed on his back like an old man, actually surprising Ford with how easy it had been to get the best of him. Now it was Ford’s turn to loom over the fallen warrior and make some pronouncements.

  “Never ever stick your finger in my face again. And unless you come up with a damned good reason why I can’t continue playing with Madison, I’m gonna keep doing it.”

  Cropper reached a hand up as if to ask for Ford’s help. Ford was suspicious but couldn’t deny an assist. Sure enough, when he reached down to help Cropper, Cropper threw him too. It wasn’t vicious—it was almost as though all the energy had been sucked from Cropper, and Ford languidly rolled with the punches. They both lay side by side panting like drunk cowboys looking at the stars.

  “Give me your reason,” growled Ford. “And don’t say ‘she’s your sister’ because she’s not.”

  “She’s Ingrid’s daughter.”

  “So? We’ve tag teamed girls before.”

  “She’s going away soon.”

  “So? It’s not like I’m going to make her my old lady.”

  “I just don’t like it. Stick to the sweetbutts, boy.”

  Like a striking death adder, suddenly Cropper was straddling him. All Ford later remembered was a giant fist coming right for his jaw, then a different kind of starry night that sucked up all memory and sensation, like a black hole.

  Cropper’s voice came distantly as though from the end of a long tunnel. “Get your ass down to Mesa. Ruben Ochoa’s moving some serious iron today, so see him in his Superstition Springs mall store. Take little Bobby with you. And don’t you ever grab my finger, son.”

  Different hands helped him up. Ford was too dazed to resist. It was Robert Shellmound, June’s twin brother, and he guffawed in admiration as he led Ford to the couch.

  “Wow, that was some badass fight,” marveled Robert. Robert was a goofy, gangly boy, but his saving grace was his enthusiasm for the lifestyle of the Bare Bones. He took off his shirt so Ford could mop up the blood on his face with it. “He wants me to come to Mesa with you. Awesome!”

  “Okay, first rule,” said Ford. “Don’t say ‘awesome.’”

  “Cool, dudes.”

  “No ‘dudes’ either. We’re brothers now.”

  Robert’s eyes opened as wide as the sea. “Are you saying…”

  “I’m saying nothing. Just saying if you keep your nose to the grindstone and do right by us, we might let you prospect for us. Now get ready. You can take my Glock. No one goes unarmed. You can take my old Dyna. We’ll have to pick it up at the Bum Steer.”

  “Awesome—I mean, seriously badass, Torino.”

  Ford imparted a last lesson before he went to the bathroom to wash up. “There’s no ‘badass’ either, Bobby. You know why? Because when you’re a Boner you’re much too cool to be amazed by anything.”

  One weird thing stuck in Ford’s brain as he strode down the hallway. When Cropper had flung him back against the wall, he’d had a hard-on.

  As though he’d been getting off looking at Madison’s rack.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MADISON

  After Ford kissed me, things got strange between us.

  Even though Cropper had pulled him away to go on a run, I held out huge hopes that we’d continue down that sexual path.

  I was constantly wet. My pussy literally trembled with desire almost every waking moment. It made it very difficult to focus on my studies when I was trying to read six feet away from Ford. His long legs would be stretched out as he read his books—he almost always preferred reading to watching TV—and if he wasn’t wearing his cut he was shirtless, or worse, lifting weights.

  He lifted a lot more weights after we kissed. I took a lot more quick showers, to the point where Ingrid had the nerve to yell about the water bill. I wondered if Ford was working out some frustration too. If he saw me watching as he did bench presses in the backyar
d, it seemed as if he worked even harder. I knew it was just a matter of time before we brushed up against each other in the hallway and Ford pressed another big, wet, open-mouthed kiss on me. A kiss full of love, with his juicy, fat dick humping up against my pussy mound.

  Two weeks passed and Ford didn’t bring up the kiss. He couldn’t possibly know how worked up he’d gotten me. It was better than my craziest imaginings when he humped that long, fat cock against my ass. I lifted my ass to him because I wanted nothing more than for him to spear me with that dick. I wanted him to take me like an animal from behind, I wanted to feel his dick spurt cum deep inside me—jism, his beloved Miller always called it.

  I wanted to be the receptacle for all his bodily fluids. I wanted every tease of my hips, every clutch of my inner pussy to bring him joy and more joy. I quite literally wanted to feel his manhood, corny as it sounds, buried deep up against my womb, wanted to feel his thickness pulse, hear him cry out in ecstasy.

  I wanted to watch him fucking me in the mirror.

  Ford was carved like a turkey, his body a sublimely sculpted work of art. I wanted to watch his glutes contract as he swiveled his hips into me. His tattoos would undulate with each pump of his pelvis.

  I was a virgin and had never wanted that before, but now I wanted it as though it were life itself. “Either you believe in miracles or you stand still like the hummingbird.” I took this to mean that if I gave up on Ford, all would be lost. The human psyche needs to believe in something, or depression grabs ahold of you.

  After two weeks I started slamming dishes and books around, just irritated beyond belief, on a hormonal rampage. It was one of the last days of school and Ford was dropping me off in the morning at our usual spot. The usual kids started crowding around—I had suddenly become popular when I’d gained a brother who was in a motorcycle club.

  This time, though, I just suddenly adjusted my backpack, not meeting Ford’s gaze as he tried to say goodbye. I tromped off, my lower lip sticking out, desperately wanting Ford to follow me. Luckily, he did, brushing off all the hang-arounds who drooled over him and his bike.

  “Madison.”

  He didn’t even call me Maddy anymore since the pool kissing incident.

  I twirled to face him, wondering what dumbass thing he wanted now, like “what’s for dinner?”

  “Hey. You’ve been so quiet. Everything all right?”

  Already, tears stung my eyes! I prided myself on being so cool, remote, and unfeeling. I’m telling you, though, being forced to look at those sensuous, bowed, Roman lips was enough to set any girl off on a crying jag. I found myself saying, “No, Ford, everything is not okay. You kiss me one day and ignore me the next. What am I supposed to think?” I felt like such a petulant schoolgirl. I should’ve stamped my little foot for emphasis. Really, at least I was standing up for myself instead of expecting him to read my mind.

  “I know,” he admitted all in a whoosh. “I know. I’m so sorry about that. It won’t happen again.”

  “Won’t happen again?” I was falling, falling. I couldn’t wrap my head around what he was trying to say. “Why not? I liked it, Ford, in case you didn’t notice.”

  “I know. I liked it too. But Cropper…he doesn’t like it.”

  I screwed up my face. “What? Who gives a flying fuck what Cropper does or doesn’t like? Aren’t you over eighteen? Aren’t you your own man?”

  “Maybe after I move to the new yard to run Illuminati Trucking,” Ford said weakly. “I’ve got to get out from under Cropper’s roof, Madison.”

  “What the fuck, Ford?” I seethed. “You know that yard’s not going to be ready for another few months with all your permits and all, and I’ll be in Flagstaff by then. Why don’t you really tell me why you don’t want a repeat performance? You don’t like me that way. Is that it?”

  Ford smeared his hand over his beautiful face. He was so handsome I loathed him. I hated him, hated him! Why the fuck had I moved back into Ingrid’s broken-down house if I wasn’t going to be close to him? “That’s not it at all, Madison. You know I want you. I swear it’s Cropper. Listen. He’s got a…perversion.”

  “Perversion? What else is new?”

  “No, listen. He likes to watch.”

  “Watch? Like he’s a voyeur? So?”

  “Yes, like he’s a voyeur. You wouldn’t believe how many times he’s watched me getting up on sweetbutts. There are even holes drilled in the walls at the Bum Steer.”

  “So what?” I had heard of worse, more warped things in my short life. Ingrid once had a customer who, she told me after he split, liked to dress up as a pony and be ridden, harnessed, and fed like a horse.

  “So I just don’t feel comfortable subjecting you to that. You’re better than that, Madison.”

  I calmed down a little. It wasn’t me—it was Cropper getting in between us. I sidled up to him and crossed my arms so my tits spilled over my neckline. “Well, then. There are plenty of other places we can go. Didn’t Cropper tell your brothers to get their own crash pads? Or a hotel.”

  “No. That won’t help, Madison. Trust me. Cropper wants a taste of you, and I don’t want to give him even the slightest idea in that direction. If we can make it until you leave for school, then we’re home clear. I’ll be living at the airfield in that hangar, and it’s a fucking big hangar.”

  It all sounded like a bunch of fucking excuses to me. Ford didn’t want me. If men want you, they go and take you, no questions asked. They don’t let stupid, weird things like “my father wants a taste of you” get in their way.

  “I see.” I hoped to hell those hot, burning tears didn’t overflow down my face. I’d run if that happened. I had to face him squarely with unfeeling pride now. “I get the picture, Ford. You just can’t wait until you live in that hangar so you can fuck all the sweetbutts you want.”

  I did have to run away then, because the fucking bell was ringing, but Ford yelled after me,

  “And why don’t you wear shirts that cover you up better? Everyone can see half your tits!”

  That’s right, just yell that, why don’t you? About a hundred kids had heard that one and my tits jiggled furiously as I tried to storm with pride up the front school steps.

  I would damn well continue wearing wifebeaters. I had a summer job at a sandwich shop, so I’d go and fucking buy an even better push-up bra with my income!

  So I spent more nights at Sabrina’s, since her mother wasn’t sick to death of me anymore. I could alternate between Sabrina and the homes of a few other girls who had come to drool over Ford dropping me off at school. All I had to do was give a hint that he might come by to pick me up at their house in the morning, and the invitations to sleep over came flooding in.

  I know it sounds passive-aggressive of me, but sometimes P-A things just plain old work. I was hoping that Ford would, out of curiosity and pity, at least ask me where I’d been. But no, nothing. To test it out, I spent a few nights at home. He barely talked to me. He seemed lost in his own little world, discussing club issues with Cropper, and training Robert to be what they called a “Prospect.” Ford was building something that looked like an IED in the garage, but I knew better than to stick my nose into club matters.

  Some brothers of his even stopped by a few times. I knew some of them from visits to Pure and Easy. I’d only been to the Bum Steer once, but the Bare Bones had concerns all over the place. They had a brothel, the sex streaming place called the Triple Exposure, and an army surplus store run by a brother named Turk.

  Turk seemed to be Ford’s best friend, and he was arguably even more beautiful than Ford. Ford actually looked more Turkish, with his swarthy café au lait skin, his aquiline nose, and his full sensual lips. Maybe Turk was called Turk because he kept his gorgeous flowing long hair in a man bun, with just a few wisps framing the face so exquisite any woman would kill for it. He was a fully patched member too, although he didn’t seem much older than Ford.

  He was stunning. I remember Ford telling me once, before
he knew that I cared, that people were constantly running up to Turk to ask him if he wanted to be in their TV commercials, that’s how perfect he was.

  So when these brothers came by to discuss business, I put on that new push-up bra, tugged down my wifebeater, and pinched my nipples so they’d poke through both layers of fabric. I appeared in the doorway and “innocently” asked if anyone wanted anything to drink. We had Bud and Amstel Light for those guys watching their figures. Suddenly everyone was all over that, clamoring to put in their drink orders. I reveled in the look of simmering consternation on Ford’s face, especially when I “had” to lean so far over Turk’s shoulder that my boobs rested on his shoulder.

  I made sure that didn’t happen when I served Riker. The one and only time I’d gone to the Bum Steer, that guy had come staggering out with some kind of hard plastic cylinder stuck to his johnson. It looked painful, but he was so drunk he didn’t seem to notice—that, or the fact that he wore a giant bib and a big, flouncy kind of hat that looked like a baby bonnet.

  I was no innocent, but that was some deep-seated shit, and disturbing to the nth in a grizzled, flabby biker, so I stayed away from that shit.

  I heard them talk about me, though.

  “You tapped that pussy?” asked a guy named Tuzigoot. I don’t know if he was Native or Central American or what, but he did look like the kind of ancient Aztec god that would be furiously emerging from a jungle swamp to smite you down with a heavy solid gold idol. His face was severely pockmarked, and I’m sure no one had ever dared make fun of his waist-length hair. “That’s that fender fluff you’ve been riding around with.”

  “Yeah, you didn’t stay long at the Steer when you brought her,” Riker said obliviously.

  “Don’t go there,” said Ford darkly.

  I swelled with pride at this. Ford wanted to protect me from the long horny arms of his brothers. Then, naturally, all the guys started saying shit like “ooo, someone likes her,” “Ford’s been pushing up on that ass,” and “she’s got a balcony you could do Shakespeare from.” You know, normal mature guy remarks.