The Bare Bones (The Bare Bones MC) (11 page)

Ford, too, had been harder than usual on Speed, even though he was his sponsor. Ford
knew
it had something to do with Madison. He couldn’t even fucking
look
at Speed and his dorky cauliflower explosion of hair without thinking of Madison. Madison’s plump, juicy tits. Madison’s sweet, delicious pussy. Madison’s callous, cold-hearted spirit.

Ford had bared his fucking soul to that cunt at the hospital in Flagstaff. She knew he had a vicious crush on her. Speed wasn’t known for playing things close to the vest, one of his downfalls as a prospect. She must have known Ford had come thisclose to putting down Speed just for refusing to tell him where she was when she’d first vanished.

He hadn’t exactly been at the top of his game that day. As a nurse, Madison should have at least respected that. He’d just lost his fucking mother. He’d just found and lost a brother in one day—in the same fucking
minute.
It didn’t matter that he hadn’t loved Corinne. He’d lost her that day too. Madison had allowed him to do a French job on her in the fucking quiet room, pumping his hopes high, knowing the whole time she was going to cut him off like a bartender.

He’d dosed Speed with Jack and a couple of Biker Coffees laced with meth, then buttered him up with some sweetbutts, some Bone Lickers. This way he’d learned that Madison was living with that fucking Belgian cardiologist.

Ford didn’t want to think anything bad about his precious Maddy, but he really had no choice. No matter which way he looked at their encounter that horrible fucking day in the hospital, she came out looking like a selfish bitch. He had begged her to allow him to give her head, and how did she repay him? By dumping him like a turd in a gift-wrapped box.

He was done with her. Madison Shellmound was in the rearview. From now on it was Bone Lickers for him all the way. He didn’t even want an old lady, not even a pretentious one like Corinne. His image could go right into the toilet as far as he was concerned. He was a worker, a fighter, and above all, a brother.

Speed knew that something had gone down in Flagstaff at the hospital. He must’ve known the entire time that Madison worked at the same facility where Ford’s Apache mother was dying. Speed must be shaking in his boots at the retribution Ford was plotting for him.

Cropper hadn’t said a word about the time Ford had spent in Flagstaff. Ford hadn’t confronted his father about Rebekah Quail, either. It wasn’t the sort of thing they discussed, except maybe after a case of Buds, a fifth of Jack, and several rounds of pool. Even then, they never really “talked,” per se. Someone usually bashed someone on the head with a pool cue. That was the Illuminati way of “talking.”

Ford just filed the incident away in the back recesses of his brain. His rage over the whole mother thing would just add fuel to the next fight he picked with Cropper. Ford fought much more savagely when royally pissed off.

In the chapel, brothers were already discussing the upcoming fish fry they were holding here at the Citadel in a couple of weeks. As usual, Tuzigoot would handle the deep frying itself. Ziggy Fulton was going to make side dishes, but there was a heated argument over whether they should go macaroni or potato. Riker thought potato salad was gross, and Duji thought macaroni was too starchy. The vote was unanimous on everyone loathing okra.

The vote was split on applying for DOT certification.

“If we were a woman-owned business,” said Ford, “we’d go to the top of the heap on those contracts. Cropper, have you brought it up again to Tonya?”

Ford could tell by Cropper’s downcast face that he had brought it up to his old lady. “Yeah. It’s a no fly zone. She doesn’t want her name on any Illuminati business. Now what about applying as a service-disabled veteran-owned small business?”

Ford cringed at that. He was a veteran, and he supposed he was disabled by the brain injury and partial deafness, but it just rubbed him the wrong way. “No. I’ve seen guys injured way worse than me and I don’t want to play the system like that.”

“You’re far too noble,” Cropper said.

“Yeah,” said Riker. Riker had been made Sergeant-at-Arms a few years back, much to the anger of Turk, who had expected the appointment. Turk had been working long and hard for that rank. Ford agreed with Turk, but there was nothing he could do. Cropper had chosen his own close brother since the short pants days. Riker was unreliable through and through, but he did have the balls to be Sergeant-at-Arms. Turk was stuck as Secretary, taking the fucking meeting minutes. “The system played
you
, brother. Payback’s a bitch.”

Even Ford’s best friend agreed. “I second that,” said Turk. “Get all the benefits you can from the hell you went through. It’s just another veteran’s benefit, like medical or home loans.”

Ford dismissed the idea out of hand. “I don’t need it. Leave it for the guys who are really hurting. What’s next on the agenda? I don’t think we have time to hit those Cutlasses who were riding through—”

“But what if
we
need it, brother?” Riker’s flinty voice cut through like a diamond. He was tenacious, Ford had to hand that to him. He had also been a Marine. “These DOT contracts are fucking lucrative. You can lump sum it out and pad it with all sorts of shit. They don’t care. No one looks.”

“Yeah,” several brothers echoed.

Unusually, Turk backed up Riker. “You were on the task force that personally hunted down al-Zarqawi. You were all over al-Qaeda!”

Ford was firm, too. He and Riker often locked horns in the running of their business. As Sergeant-at-Arms, Riker wasn’t even supposed to have any say in business. He was security, period. His ideas were boneheaded. He almost always chose the option where people got to kick the most ass, no matter the potentially disastrous outcome. “Forget it,
brother
. If you want to get certified as a woman-owned business then finish your sex change, but leave me out of it.”

Riker’s pupils were like smoking bullets as he narrowed his eyes at Ford, but Cropper said calmly, “He’s got his scruples. We can’t argue with that. Next.”

They discussed the Cutlasses for a while, but everyone was bored with that topic. Ford could tell they couldn’t wait to discuss Speed’s patching in ordeal.

“We can make him wrestle with Ford,” Turk said. “Except they can use objects, like fluorescent light bulbs and weed whackers.”

“Too dangerous. For me,” Ford added. He didn’t give two shits about Madison’s brother anymore. “If the bulbs break, I could inhale the mercury vapor. I say we make him sneak into the Cutlass’clubhouse and steal a pair of Doug Zelov’s skivvies. Off his sleeping body.”

Cropper guffawed. “That’s cruel and unusual punishment, even for Speed. I say we turn his favorite Bone Licker into our personal barmaid.”

Everyone liked that idea, but Gollywow pointed out that it didn’t involve any great sacrifice or act of valor on Speed’s part. They would do it anyway, but not as the main event.

Faux Pas said, “We could tie him up, blindfold him, and force feed him vodka, chocolate powder, and strawberry syrup.” Everyone made gagging sounds, and Faux Pas added, “That’s how they hazed me when I was a college freshman.”

“We can make him play Russian roulette,” suggested Riker.

Everyone stared blankly at him.

Finally Ford said, “Uh, doofus? Then he’d be dead?”

Riker shrugged, like “So?”

Several other ideas were floated, like perform fellatio on a baboon, give him the extreme piercing known as “The Chainus,” and tattoo him with Chinese symbols that mean “douchebag.” On his forehead. They were about to settle on Ford’s idea when Turk came up with an even better one, and they spent another hour honing the details of the plan.

Even better, they would give Speed his initial instructions during the fish fry rally. Hundreds of people, hopefully including Madison Shellmound, would see Speed blaze off into the desert on his mission into the vortex.

Everyone was in a good mood when Cropper finally banged the gavel and adjourned the meeting. Ford found himself walking next to Turk, who had to get back to his marijuana dispensary in P&E.

“That vortex thing is going to slay him,” chuckled Turk. “Speed’s a true believer.”

A lot of “woo woo” people thought that P&E was surrounded with energy vortexes, spirals of pure spiritual healing. Seekers conglomerated at these vortexes to chant, pray, and meditate. It was a healing energy, it was said.

Ford was actually on the fence about it. In one way, it was a fascinating concept. In another way, it was embarrassing bullshit. There had been a giant “Harmonic Convergence” here in 1987 with Shirley MacLaine that had just annoyed the crap out of the Bare Bones, among others. The earth was going to slip of its axis unless Shirley and thousands of other pilgrims got together and chanted. It must have worked, because the earth hadn’t hurtled into space.

The location of the Citadel on Mescal Mountain was alleged to be a vortex location, and once in a while some goof on peyote would be discovered meditating behind the mechanic’s shed. It was eerie. Sometimes you’d be eating dinner in the dining room and a cloud of patchouli incense would drift in the window. The Bare Bones didn’t own the air, but sometimes Ford was already in a foul enough mood that he’d stomp down there and bang some cosmic heads together.

But Speed was a true believer. He was terrified of the vortexes, and took routes to avoid them, even if it meant more mileage on his run. “He’s going to be shitting his pants when we send him out there,” Ford agreed. He knew it was evil to take his romantic frustrations out on Madison’s brother. It was a cold, cruel world. Being Veep of a biker club meant he had to become even colder and crueler than the next guy.

Outside in the sun now, Turk touched Ford’s arm. They stopped walking. A transport trailer hauling a couple of mini excavators rolled into the hangar. “I wanted to ask you something. Hope I’m not out of line. When you were in Flag, did you see Madison?”

Fury nearly obliterated Ford’s vision. Anytime anyone brought up Madison—which wasn’t often if they wanted to keep their skin—Ford literally saw red. Now he had to remind himself this was his best friend. He and Turk had held up their first ice cream truck together. So he steeled himself and admitted, “Yeah. Why?”

“Just wondering. You’ve been kind of…surlier than normal since you got back. Course, that could be because of your moms and all. But that wouldn’t explain why you’ve been so rough with Speed when you’re his sponsor.”

Turk was sharp, Ford had to give him credit for that. And it was best not to lie to a brother. Ford exhaled deeply, deflated. “No, you’re right. We had a…an encounter.”

“I take it congratulations aren’t in order.” Turk knew a lot about Ford’s history with Madison. A man had to blow off steam sometimes, and Ford had needed many outings over the years with Turk, many brothel crawls, some trips to Vegas, just to blot Madison from his mind.

“No. She let me give her a skull job in some fucking quiet room, then she booted my ass back to P&E.”

Even Turk looked surprised. He was a romantic asshole who had always wanted the best for Ford. And Turk thought Madison was the best. He worshipped her almost as much as Ford did. “That’s harsh. What were her reasons? Is she really against the club?”

Ford felt a screen close over his eyes as all emotion drained from him. He was like one of those double-lidded lizards who could shut off all feelings at will, and the person he’d be talking to would
know
. His face turned
that
bitter and mean. The psychologist said it was due to his combat experience, his traumatic brain injury. Ford knew he’d been that way forever. Life hadn’t been kind to him. “No. As it turns out, she’s only against
me
.”

Turk tried his luck, and pushed it. “Then why’d she let you go for a moustache ride? That’s rough.”

“I think she wanted to rub it in even more. I think she wanted to kick me when I was down, trip me up, and shove my face into broken glass.”

“Broken glass being her pussy.” Turk was being a good friend, and hating the people his brother hated.

“Exactly. Hey, Speed!”

The prospect was strolling by with a socket wrench in his hand. He was a pretty damned good mechanic. Speed paused respectfully, not daring to utter a word yet.

Ford continued, confronting Speed with a swagger. “You going to invite that sister of yours to our rally?”

A direct question demanded an answer. “I…wasn’t planning on it, no.” Speed looked properly mystified.

Turk was even looking sideways at Ford.
Good
.
Let them wonder what the fuck I’m up to.
“Why don’t you? I’m sure she’d like to see some of the old club again.”

Ford was gratified that Speed was so taken aback. His knees literally sagged, and he had to take a step back. “Wow! I mean, sure! I’ll call her right now. I’ll tell her that you specifically invited her.”

Ford held out his hands. “No, no, wait, don’t do that. Make it a surprise. Tell her that
you’re
the one inviting her.”

This seemed to please the nozzlehead even more. He whipped his phone from his pocket and was already speed dialing his sister. “Thanks, Torino! I’m sure she’ll be here with bells on!”

The two friends continued walking to Turk’s bike. A couple of sweetbutts were washing Riker’s ride. It was always immaculate, but he liked to make them eternally wash it on principal.

The marijuana salesman narrowed his eyes at Ford. “Now, are you gonna clue me in exactly what devil’s work you’re up to?”

Ford smiled slyly. “You gonna invite that Dayton Navarro?”

Dayton Navarro was a brother from their Flagstaff chapter. It hadn’t dawned on Ford until the past year or so, but suddenly there were clues everywhere. Turk Blackburn was probably at least bisexual, if not flamingly gay. Turk became highly giggly whenever around Dayton, it had slowly dawned on Ford. Being a piccolo player wasn’t the most popular image among biker brothers, to say the least. If Turk planned on becoming an uphill gardener, he’d best hoe his row extremely carefully.