Shelter From The Storm (The Bare Bones MC Book 6) Page 10

  Lincoln wrote “neither let us be slandered from our duty by false accusations,” which in my case were probably true accusations, “nor frightened from it by menaces of destruction to the Government nor of dungeons to ourselves. Let us have faith that right makes might, and in that faith let us, to the end, dare to do our duty as we understand it.”

  My duty was to Pippa Lofting. I’d passed the bar with flying colors but was now prevented from practicing law. The smartest thing I could’ve done was to return to Jones and tell him I could find no tux rental girl.

  But I couldn’t leave Pippa to the wolves. And I couldn’t go to her with my hat in my hand, offering nothing. And I certainly couldn’t go as a sicario who decapitated guys and hung them from bridges.

  I was rude, screwed, and tattooed.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  PIPPA

  Every one of their rides was an adventure.

  That was the claim of the Run-a-mucca organizers. By the time we hit Vegas, pipes rumbling, leather streaked with dust, stomachs growling, I believed their advertisement.

  It was the most exciting, invigorating thing I’d ever done. We started out from the Bare Bones’ Citadel hangar in a small group. Ford Illuminati, Prez of the club, rode front door with his wife Maddie. Lytton and June, Tuzigoot and Brunhilda, and Faux Pas and Sapphire were the middle of the pack. Fox and I were the tail gunners.

  I’d never ridden two up with anyone before, and it was a high. My boots on the pegs, the incessant vibrations between my thighs, and most importantly, my arms wrapped tightly around Fox’s torso. I knew it was way too much exposure for me. As a WITSEC witness, I wasn’t allowed to be outside of contact with Randy Blankenship for more than three days. But I shut off my cell so I was off the grid of GPS tracking, an even bolder thing to do. Randy didn’t know I was a biker’s old lady—or was I? What was I to Fox other than a handy snatch, a Bone Licker?—but he knew I worked for them. I was taking a risk he’d call me, like for an update on my new weed venture which I think actually amused him. He might put two and two together if he heard about the famous annual Winnemucca run.

  I knew I was living dangerously. But it felt good again, like the old days with Russ Heston at the Coast Guard. I knew Russ was playing a risky game with some cartel, and he referred to it often, like a spy. Vague news had just come into Pure and Easy that Fox had completed some kind of mission for Ford. Maddie made references to it—as instructed, I was staying at her house. I knew it had something to do with the Ochoas, our rival out at Show Low. I was learning not to ask questions, but it gave me a dangerous thrill to have my arms around a man who had been up to some badass business. Maybe it wasn’t in my nature to fly under the radar in WITSEC, knitting and renting tuxedos.

  I could feel every sinew in Fox’s torso, and I even dared to brush my fingers against his nipples under the thin cotton of his tank top. We rode through giant swelling waves of almost blistering hot air, although some slopes were still carpeted with electric blue desertbells and richly purple fivespot wildflowers after a good decent rainy season.

  When we stopped in Vegas, I was alive with craving for the buff, ginger hitman. I was shocked when he paid for a separate room for me at the Venetian. We spent all night partying as a group, but he didn’t necessarily sit next to me or seek me out. I was floored. It even seemed that Maddie was looking at me quizzically. I went to my room much earlier than everyone else out of sheer confusion, clutching a bottle of Blue Nun. I almost turned on my phone to text someone, anyone. Then I remembered. The only people I was allowed to talk to were in the same hotel.

  The next morning, though, Fox sat next to me at the buffet breakfast and looked at me, it seemed, with glowing eyes. Maybe he was just as hungover as I was. That Blue Nun was garbage.

  “We’ll be in Winnemucca in eight hours,” he said with a smile. “Then I’ll take you to dinner. Enough of this crowd bullshit.”

  I was more confused than ever. But Duji was standing now, making a speech about giving Gollywow something called a Fast Riding Award. I guessed that Gollywow had gotten to Vegas before everyone else because there were lots of congratulations and jokes.

  In the parking garage, our group had swelled to about fifteen scoots. There were a couple of guys wearing cuts that marked them as members of The Friends of Distinction MC out of Las Vegas. Fox told me they were like a brother club to us. But for some reason they looked meaner than us, maybe because they wore chains and ball peen hammers around their waists. They didn’t even make the slightest effort to hide their large caliber pistols stuck down the back of their pants.

  Wolf was there, apparently having ridden two up with Tracy. I wondered how he’d stolen her away from Tobias. There were also a couple of guys from a club named The Bent Zealots. They seemed well-mannered, and Fox said they were actually a gay club. That intrigued me.

  But I didn’t have much time to ponder on their sexy asses, because Ford was standing on the seat of his bike, yelling like a referee. “All right, you bastards! The Bare Bones are heading for Winnemucca. Anyone is welcome to come with us. We’re one band of brothers connected at the heart.” He pounded his heart for emphasis. “But we’re not stopping for one more dickhead cop ticket.”

  “Yeah!” shouted a few guys like Duji, Faux Pas, Sax, Knoxie, Wild Man, and Speed. They all cast daggers with their eyes at Gollywow. And that’s how I found out what a Fast Riding Award was. It was not good.

  But the enthusiasm, the power in that parking garage was unbelievable. Fifteen men and fifteen women fist pumping and roaring. Women climbed on the backs of men, hanging on like baby possums. Men started their engines and revved them like the starting line of the Indy 500. It was wild.

  Ford’s last vows were, “If any pigs stop us, we fight! Anyone not willing to fight can just stay here and swim in the fucking pool and gamble all their money away like a scum-sucking rat bastard.”

  I was so excited I actually grabbed Fox’s arm and jumped up and down, rubbing my tits against his bare skin. I didn’t want to risk looking at his reaction, but I was unbelievably aroused by the show of brotherhood, the feeling of belonging. Right behind me some loud numbnuts bellowed,

  “The sun never sets on a Bare Bones patch!”

  Normally I’d be annoyed—my ears were going to ring all day now—but when I turned around and saw it was the amiable Wolf Glaser, I just laughed even harder. Fox grabbed me right back—in front of everyone!—and effortlessly lifted me by the waist. I easily slid my arms around his neck, still unsure of his intention.

  He was smiling too, carried away with the emotion of the moment. He had to shout to be heard above the yelling, the tailpipes. “I’m glad you came with me, Pippa. Whatever happens, I’ll see that you stay safe. I’ll hunt down anyone who tries to hurt you.”

  And then he kissed me.

  It was a bruising, punishing kiss, full of pent-up lust. It only lasted for a few shocking seconds, but it was like he had poured part of his soul into me. I nibbled lightly on his shapely lips, letting his soothing being ooze into me. Spearing my fingers through his thick, glossy hair, I reveled in the luxury of the moment. I had never felt so safe as in those few seconds.

  He broke the kiss, grinning to beat the band. I’d never seen the serious, thoughtful man this happy. He even slapped me on the ass then, commanding me to “hop on board, woman.”

  He didn’t know I’d inserted those Ben Wa balls earlier that morning, just to see what the motorcycle’s vibrations did to me.

  Well, let me tell you. Don’t try that at home, kids. Between the balls bouncing around in my cunt walls and my clit mashed up against Fox’s tailbone, I nearly came off about a dozen times. It was hard to keep a straight face, and I spent a good deal of the ride just leaning against Fox’s satiny back in a sort of half-conscious state, smiling lazily like a sloth.

  We’d hooked up with at least six more bikes of the Friends of Distinction by the time we rumbled into town. But true to Fox’s word, he broke off from the club�
��s route and found a safe parking spot one street over in the lot of an old-timey casino complete with murals of the Pony Express. Between the hangover and the Ben Wa balls, I was ready for anything, and I wobbled in my new cowgirl boots when Fox gave me a hand dismounting.

  He noticed. “You okay?”

  I nodded fuzzily. “Let’s see the sights.”

  We were immediately in the midst of a display of beautiful motorcycles, none of which I knew anything about. Fox schooled me on the difference between a touring class of bike and a builder class, and I was blinded by the amazing paint jobs on some “trikes” and sidecars. We shoved our way through crowds of bikers smelling of hot leather and pot smoke, and tons of women much better built than me in miniscule leather bras. They were brassy women, loud and inked, and I didn’t feel I was a thing like them. I was a simple girl with lank, straight hair, no ink, and barely enough to fill a regular bra. It made me feel small and insignificant.

  Fox gazed fondly at a Harley Sportster with alarmingly high handlebars he said were called “ape hangers.” “I used to have an ’04 like this. One of the things I hated to leave behind in New Mexico.”

  In my rattled state of mind, this must have sounded like an opening to me. “You said you were a real lawyer there. Why’d you have to leave?”

  He crooked a grin at me. He put an arm around me to move me off down the street. “If I told you that, I’d have to kill you.”

  “Not really.” I persisted, like a brat. “I mean, you know my deepest, darkest secret. I trust you not to tell anyone in Pure and Easy. Or anyone, period. I know next to nothing about you, but you’ve given me the best orgasm of my life.”

  “Have I?” He didn’t look at me, but I could tell pride was swelling his ego. He was really such a haughty, arrogant bastard. Why did I like him? Because he’d appeared to save me, like a knight in shining armor?

  “What town did you live in?”

  His ego deflated a tiny bit. “Taos,” he said sullenly.

  “And where did you graduate law school?”

  “Columbia.”

  “Oh yeah? Did you know Andy Hacker? He was Columbia law.”

  The haughty look returned. “My dear. I took my degree in ’05. I was at least five years before any of your friends.”

  That was true. We had turned into a food court with trucks emanating mouth-watering, smoky scents. I was as ravenous as the next girl, but I wouldn’t let a burrito deter me. “Okay, well, Fox Isherwood is obviously not your real name.”

  “No, it isn’t. Like you, I chose a literary last name when I went on the run. I take it you like Doctor Doolittle?”

  It was a feeble attempt at changing the subject. “Yes. I read them all when I was like six. Now, I really insist you tell me your real name. Tit for tat.”

  “Quid pro quo? Do you eat beef? These shredded beef tacos look—”

  “Listen here, Esquire whatever your name is, I demand you tell me right now what your real name is! Or I’ll…I’ll…”

  Fox turned to me, patiently looking at the sky. “Or you’ll what?”

  I realized it was pretty foolish—and futile—to threaten a sicario. Or a lawyer. But I had to finish what I started. “Or I’ll fucking go ride off with someone else and never talk to you again.”

  A storm cloud came over his face. This was a sight no one ever wanted to see. His aristocratic nostrils flared, and his pupils became pinpoints, black holes. He gripped me by the upper arms and moved me away from the line of folks waiting for tacos. “Listen. I am officially your only protection between here and that gun for hire with the holes in his jaw and his arm disintegrating.”

  Maybe it was the truth of Fox’s words. Or maybe I was just being a petulant baby with Ben Wa balls rolling around inside of me. “Oh yeah? Well, see how much I care!”

  And I stomped off. Yes, I stomped. I fisted my hands and stomped precariously in the brand new boots I wasn’t used to yet, sort of slipping on some waxy wrapper on the street and literally running into some guy who resembled an original Allman Brother. I couldn’t tell if Fox was following me what with all the people and yelling swirling around me. But I knew I was about to burst into babyish tears.

  It had all been too much for me. Getting inappropriately swept away by a fucking hitman, of all people, a secretive guy whose real name I didn’t even know. Granted, no one knew my real name either. He must have his reasons. But his remote attitude last night, then his cavalier one today, as though he knew I’d fuck him just because he was so damned great—that, and the bottle of Blue Nun, it all got to me.

  Boiling tears were just welling in my eyes when I heard some guy yell, “Hey, Pippa!”

  I stopped stomping. Through the blur I saw a guy in a black leather cut waving cheerfully, a giant red beer cup in his other hand. A girl standing next to him called out,

  “Over here! In a rush?”

  I thought I recognized her. Tracy. The guy must be Wolf. Trying to seem inconspicuous while wiping my tears with the back of my hand, I went over. They were waiting in line for some crap or other. Under his cut, Wolf sported an official rally T-shirt that said “Home of the Burning Bike.” He already had a Run-a-Mucca pin clipped to his do-rag.

  He said, “Hey Pippa, you coming to the tattoo contest tonight? Tracy here’s gonna get a skull and crossbones tat with my name on it.”

  Tracy didn’t seem too sure of herself. “Well, maybe. Or it could just be the head of a wolf.”

  Wolf was unfazed. “Hell yeah, that’d be good too. We need to commemorate how I saved Tracy from some drug-riddled shooting gallery down in Tucson. We were lucky to get out of there alive. Man, semiautomatic machine gunfire, flying bodies, and smoke were everywhere!”

  “Yeah, well,” Tracy said fondly, “most of that was due to you.”

  Wolf seemed to remember. “Oh yeah. That’s right. So Pippa, you want a beer?”

  “Hell to the yeah. I need something to settle that bum wine I drank last night.” I guessed Fox wasn’t coming for me, but I felt better now that I was with friends. We started to walk to a beer truck.

  Tracy had to ask, “So where’s Fox?” She giggled. “What an appropriate name. I don’t usually go for redheads, but that guy is one massive hottie.”

  I was glad when Wolf called, “Hey, Tracy. Should I put this patch on the back of my cut?”

  I squinted at the patch he held up from a vendor’s table. It said, “If you can read this the bitch fell off.” My jaw hung open, but Tracy laughed good-naturedly.

  She said, “Hell yes. You can put it next to the one that says ‘Mouths Don’t Get Pregnant.’ Whoa!”

  One moment Wolf was standing there, an inane grin on his face, holding up the offensive patch. The next moment he’d nearly jumped into a burly biker’s arms—and the biker shoved him back.

  Why did Wolf jump into the biker’s arms? The next thing I knew, a vaguely familiar form stood where Wolf had been, his spindly arms and legs pinwheeling like an acrobat. It was like Tobias wasn’t sure whether to kick or punch Wolf, but was afraid to do either.

  “Aha!” Tobias accused. “I thought this was where I’d find you! Someone told me you went to some typical jizzmonger biker rally, and had the nerve to bring along my woman!”

  Well, “jizzmonger” and “biker” weren’t two words you’d use together around there if you wanted to stay on this side of the veil. But I guess the bikers could see that Tobias was a man scorned, and soon after they started for him, they hung back and laughed.

  Wolf sputtered, regaining his equilibrium. His Run-a-Mucca pin was all knocked askew, and his cock-eyed do-rag made him look like a pirate. “Well! Tracy is her own woman, you lily-livered sack of shit! Maybe she didn’t want to be with a skinny nerd who looks like Pokey.”

  Tobias jammed his hands onto his narrow hips. I couldn’t believe he’d had the gall—or the ignorance—to wear a white patent leather belt to a motorcycle rally. “That’s Gumby, you moron! Pokey is the horse. And you’re so damned ugly that
Hello Kitty said goodbye to you.”

  The bikers gathered around and murmured their appreciation of this fine, sharply-honed insult. Tobias finally looked around as though aware of his surroundings for the first time, his face draining of all his rage.

  Wolf, too, became mortified that he seemed to be losing the battle. “Oh yeah? Well, tell your mom that I need change from yesterday, you dumbass!”

  When the crowd roared their appreciation, Tobias became enraged again. He took three furious, jerky steps toward Wolf. “I’d watch what I was saying, School Band Boy. You don’t even have an ass. It’s like you used butt-be-gone on your rear when you should’ve used chia-butt.” And he poked Wolf in the chest.

  That was when all hell broke loose. Wolf took a swing at Tobias’ head, but Tobias adroitly ducked. Wolf spun around and wound up sort of softly hitting a burly guy in the upper arm. Another guy held Wolf still by his shoulders, giving Tobias an easy shot at him. Tobias gave Wolf the ol’ one-two punch in the gut he’d probably learned from cartoons.

  In the uproar someone stepped on my foot. “Hey!” I yelled, trying to shove the heavyset girl off me.

  “Don’t yell at me, you bitch,” sneered the scary-looking bitch with black lipstick and at least fourteen facial piercings.

  I wasn’t afraid—I really wasn’t. But someone stepped between us, his back to the bitch, and that was fine with me.

  Fox held up his hands in the surrender position.

  And then he winked at me. And I knew everything was going to be all right.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  FOX

  “Open your eyes,” Lola used to tell me. “Open your eyes to what’s really going on, Travis.”

  Blindness had been my undoing.

  That phrase “open your eyes” stuck in my gut now as I watched Pippa Lofting stalk away. She had every right to ask my real name. I knew hers. Quid pro quo and all that. How many women let you fuck them without knowing your name?

  Then it struck me that I did want to fuck her. That would make her the first woman I wanted to actually have sex with, if you didn’t count the endless hookers and hangers-on of Ortelio Jones. The first real woman. The first woman who would dare to ask my birth name.