The Bare Bones (The Bare Bones MC) (15 page)

I waited a few seconds before asking, “Where does Cropper live?” Luckily, I hadn’t seen him at all since the rally. It had taken another entire day for everyone to clear out, but Cropper hadn’t been among those helping break stuff down or clean up. Thank God.

“He lives with Tonya on the other side of P&E, in Hellcat Canyon.” Ford stopped chewing but didn’t swallow. He narrowed his eyes at me. “Why you always asking about Cropper? You got something against him?”

My heart sped up. Maybe if I could just convey in a vague manner that Cropper just sort of grossed me out, Ford would know to keep me at arm’s length. “Oh, you know. Nothing specific. Just when he lived with us in Cottonwood, he used to walk around with his bathrobe wide open. Just general stuff that can’t be unseen.”

Ford chuckled and finished chewing his jack. “Oh God, that’s Cropper for you. Sort of an exhibitionist. He only does that now when he’s staying at the Citadel in one of the rooms. You know, with sweetbutts.”

Ugh. So Cropper
did
sleep at the Citadel sometimes.
“You told me in Cottonwood that he was also sort of a voyeur. So which one is it?”

“Both. He likes being watched, but I think sometimes his equipment don’t work so good. When that happens, he likes to watch.” He stopped laughing as though something had just occurred to him. “Does he bother you? I mean, has he ever
done
anything to you?”

His hand shot out and grabbed the chain of my leash. He jerked my neck back so my head snapped as he pinned me to the sand. Faster than a barefoot jackrabbit he leaped over the crackers and cheese and was on top of me, the tip of his nose to mine. “
What did Cropper do.
”

“Nothing!” I cried. “What makes you think he did something?” I held my breath, petrified at what he might do next.

He slowly unwound himself. I saw the rage seep from his eyes and his face softened as he slid halfway off me. Propped on one elbow now, he released the leash enough for me to sit on my elbows too. I stuck a few fingers under my collar to loosen it.

He didn’t apologize, but explained. Ford Illuminati did nothing to be sorry for. “I’ve just known him to gross out even some of the most hardened sweetbutts, that’s all.”

“Yes,” I said meekly. “He just…sort of scares me.” I was thinking how I might be able to easily avoid Cropper. If he rarely went to the Citadel and
I
rarely went there, we might possibly never run into each other. “Do you mind if I still work?”

Ford frowned, perplexed. “Mind? No, why would I? But do you really want to drive an hour each way to work every day?”

“I can work four tens. Besides, aren’t you gone on…runs a lot?”

“Not so much anymore. We have grunts and new recruits who do most of that,
mija
.” I loved it when he called me
mija
. Living in Arizona, a lot of business was conducted in Spanish and it was a nice term of endearment. “I just go when an expert’s needed. Though there’s talk about me running a cage to Florence to pick up a transfer.”

“Oh, someone patching over from your Phoenix chapter?”

Ford smiled wryly. “No. More like picking up another club’s garbage. I’m not really sure why we want this guy, actually. He’s not even a brother, just a sort of cleaner. Things’ve been mayhem since the rally. Riker’s been in a haze for three days. Well, you saw him last night at the Citadel wearing those anal beads as a headband.”

I sighed. “Another sight that can never be unseen.”

“Look. Stick with Duji’s old lady, Dominique. You put her on your speed dial. If you ever need to know anything, call Dominique. She’s old school, been around awhile. She knows the ropes.”

We went by the Citadel because it was on the way back into Speed’s P&E apartment. We were going to sleep at Speed’s to avoid Cropper, Riker, and various Bone Lickers. But we were hungry and of course Speed only had a fridge full of condiments, so we stopped by the Citadel’s dining room where there was always a mess of food to be had.

I’ll never forget frying some bacon, then sautéing some onions and garlic for a scramble. Ford got very affectionate.

Henry Miller wrote, “There is no salvation in becoming adapted to a world which is crazy.” Amen to that, brother. I’ve always said that in life you’re only allowed one happy hour. This hour consists of a bunch of happy moments all strung together, but never more than a moment at a time. This is why you have to seize the moment and appreciate every tiny act of beauty.

I remember this trivial bacon and egg experience because it was the last happy moment I was allowed for a long time.

Ford stood behind me and kissed the top of my messed-up hair. “I can see you standing in my kitchen making me breakfast.”

“Oh, really? Last I checked, you were a better cook than me. You were the one bringing groceries into the house, forcing us to eat our vegetables. Don’t you cook anymore?”

Ford leaned against the counter and plucked a piece of crisp bacon from the paper towel. “Not really. There’s really no one to cook for. Not much sense in cooking for yourself.”

“I know that feeling.” I almost said, “My boyfriend is a vegan and he’s hard to cook for” because I was so relaxed around Ford, so accustomed to being able to tell him anything. Thank God I stopped there and examined Ford munching the bacon.

Ford watched me watching him. His beautiful, limpid Italian eyes were so arresting you could get lost in them. He’d filled out in his SEAL years. From the young colt he’d been as a teen he’d just gotten meatier, buffer, scarier. There were probably lots of long hours on a mission, or waiting for a mission, with nothing to do but lift weights. Ford was as frightening as a prison lifer, but he was a different sort of lifer.

He flashed me a grin then, and he wasn’t so terrifying anymore. I couldn’t resist taking a few steps to kiss him. I remember breathing in that fresh air and sweat essence of him, the way he smelled after riding. His phone in his cut pocket buzzed but he didn’t rush to answer it. We kissed deeply, sensuously, like two lovers after a good fuck—which I guess we were.

I finally had to break away to make sure the onions didn’t burn, and that’s when Ford got the news. “Yo. Mm-hmm. What? You’re fucking kidding. Which hospital?”

That’s when I turned off the burner. I knew we weren’t going to get to eat the onions and garlic.

We didn’t hear the whole story about Speed until we were actually at the hospital. That’s one frustrating thing about riding—especially when you’re so panicked you’re about to get a Fast Riding Award. It’s difficult to talk to each other. So before we got to the ER, all I knew was that Speed had freaked out about something in the desert while on his vision quest. He’d been thrashing his old Dyna, trying to speed away from some scene, going full throttle.

Ford hurriedly explained a bit more as we tore ass into the ER waiting room. “Our GPS coordinates sent him to the most intense vortex out on Lost Mountain, you know that one?”

“Yeah,” I panted, not really caring about any vortex at the moment. A vision quest meant you stumbled around freezing your ass off in the desert without any food until you saw your guardian animal. Well, no
wonder
people hallucinated foxes or eagles after three days with no sleeping bag or food.

Ford actually stopped to hold the door open for me. “Well, one of the funny parts of the plan was to instruct him to look under a certain rock where we’d stashed some peyote.”

“Oh, no. Who stashed it?”

“We sent that prospect Wild Man, but I’m sure Riker was the one who made the package. Cropper!
Turk!
”

Speed had the cops first call Ford, but we were too busy fucking our brains out to answer the phone. His second choice had been Turk, who had been the one to call Ford while we were frying bacon. We’d been too stupid sending him off alone into the middle of the wilderness to put an emergency contact card in his wallet. I would’ve thought about it, being a nurse, if I’d been in on the plan.

Cropper was grinning, but that was no indication of how things were going. He could be grinning because someone had stuck their face into a fan or been bitten by a Brazilian wandering spider.

Cropper was the first to speak. “I knew he couldn’t handle putting on a three-piece patch.”

I was ready to punch that baboon, I really was. “What the fuck happened?”

Cropper chuckled. “Guy started hallucinating.”

Thankfully Turk broke in. “I don’t think it was the peyote per se that caused the entire mess.”

Cropper added, “No peyote showed up on the tox screen, not even the tiniest bit of alcohol.”

I said, “No one routinely screens for mescaline—peyote—unless it’s already suspected. And I’m sure no one told them he’d taken any.”

“Of course not,” said Turk. “Anyway, evidently with his empty stomach the peyote affected him more strongly than expected. He was wandering around in the middle of nowhere when he came upon this group of people dressed up as giant stuffed cartoon animals—”

“Furries.” Cropper nodded with authority.

Turk continued. “Right, Furries, only they were having an orgy around a campfire.”

“Yiffing,” added Cropper.

“You’re kidding,” I said, genuinely pissed. “Typical, just typical! Leave it up to my brother.”

Turk said, “Yiffing, whatever. So our man Speed, I guess figuring they were a figment of his imagination, proceeded to ask to join in the fun. I guess because he wasn’t dressed up as a bear or one of My Little Ponies—”

“Bronies,” muttered Cropper.

“—they didn’t take too kindly to it. Speed told me he wound up being run off by a purple unicorn—”

Cropper could barely contain his mirth now, so I busted in. “How is he? I mean, he crashed his bike, apparently, right?”

Cropper sneered. “That’s actually the most serious part.” I didn’t know what he meant by that—yet.

Turk said, “Right. He told me he was dragging pegs and fishtailing down that super-twisty part of Broken Arrow Canyon. He was sparking the pavement just thrashing it when he swerved to avoid some cager.”

I had to close my eyes. “Oh, God.”

Turk said, “Oh God is right. He did a high side over the bike, laid the bike down up a canyon, while the cager kept going, naturally.”

“Naturally,” echoed Ford. “So how’s Speed?”

“I’m more concerned about the bike,” said Cropper, a bit more forcefully.

Turk said, “Speed’ll be fine. They’re bandaging him up now. Mostly road rash, or rock rash from flying through that gulley. I think one arm’s broken, maybe an ankle, and of course his face is scraped up. He was only wearing a T-shirt, no brain bucket or leathers. He might have a concussion.”

“When can we see him?”

“Any second now,” said Turk. “Nurse said she’d come back and tell us when Speed was ready.”

Cropper sparked a lewd grin. “Or should we call him…Bronyboy?”

Turk laughed. “Bronyboy, I like that!”

“Ponyboi,” suggested Ford, “since a unicorn ran him off.”

These moronic men were all laughing and goofing, and I guess I was relieved it hadn’t been worse. But the worst was actually yet to come.

I was suspicious why Cropper kept bringing up the bike. When the nurse came out and told us we could go in now, I held Cropper back. He was carrying some stupid fucking gym bag.

“Cropper.” I faced him for the first time since he’d accosted me in the hangar during the rally. He looked mildly at me, as though I’d just asked him the time. “Why do you keep bringing up Speed’s bike? I know you. So he trashed his bike. So what? It’s his bike.”

Cropper looked whimsically at the ceiling. “Ah, not really, doll. See, in this club, a prospect can’t own anything. Everything of his belongs to the club. Plus, Torino loaned Speed that ride. It legally does belong to us.”

“So? Speed’s a great mechanic. Can’t he fix it back the way it was?”

“It’ll take some time and doing, according to the tow company. Might as well buy one new.”

I shrugged. “Okay. I’ll buy one for him, then. Sign the pink slip over to you. What else are you suggesting? How much can that bike have been worth?”

“Thirteen large, last I heard. It had a Big Bore engine upgrade, V&H exhaust, all chromed out. I could be wrong, but you don’t have thirteen grand lying around. Unless you’re the world’s best cocksucker and that doctor dirtbag of yours is paying you in Benjamins, nurses don’t have that kind of coin lying around.”

He was right. I didn’t. I had been living paycheck to paycheck as a cardiac nurse. “So take it out of Speed’s salary.”

Cropper set his gym bag down and unzipped it. He reached in, but didn’t show me what he was grabbing. I looked around. We were in the ER waiting room. About ten other people lounged around, too. Surely he wouldn’t pull a gun in there. He said meaningfully, “When you bump a prospect to a three-piece patch, there’s no going back.”

He chose this moment to reveal the cut they’d taken from Speed at the rally, before he’d scooted off on his vision quest. Cropper brandished it as though he was Vanna White, showing both front and back. True to his word, the three-piece patch had been added to the back, and the “Prospect” patch removed and replaced with two new patches, “Red Rocks” and “Original.”

He was just holding it up for me to admire. “Now, I have no intention of bestowing this cut on that asshat loser until he’s paid back his debt to the club. And at his current salary, that’ll take approximately, ah, let’s see…” He pretended to think hard, stroking his beard. “Oh, yeah.
All year
. During which time that fucktard won’t have a single bite of food to put in his stomach
and
he’ll still be a prospect doing everyone’s dirty work. And he’ll be a guy without any cut at all because I’ll be holding this in my home safe.”

I didn’t like where this was headed. “You can’t withhold his cut, his colors. Speed’s worked hard for that. Ask Ford. He’s his sponsor. He’s told me that Speed’s the best mechanic you’ve ever had.”

“Is that so? Then Torino’s blowing smoke like a newly elected Pope, ‘cause bikes that Speed works on are known for slipping gears and squishy brakes. That’s probably why he went pavement surfing, not seeing some damned unicorn.”