Shelter From The Storm (The Bare Bones MC Book 6) Page 2

  “Exactly. You strike me as a very polite, well-mannered man. According to the internet, your reputation that has soared far and wide rings in the streets.”

  Slayer looked pleased and modest at the same time. “Well. I cannot deny it. I have been sometimes labeled with the moniker ‘The Kindly Sicario.’ I have a gentlemanly way of not strewing the body parts all over the place as some messy people do. Once I even pulled up some flowers nearby—”

  “Wait. Hang on.”

  Fuck me dry. It was Ortelio Jones, already harassing me about the evening’s activities. I couldn’t very well pretend I was asleep and avoid the call, so I put my finger to my lips to tell Slayer to shut the fuck up, and answered.

  “Isherwood here.”

  “Fox,” said Jones grandly. Contrary to his name, Ortelio Jones was Mexican, with roots deeply intertwined with the Sinaloan drug trade. His compound was in Los Mochis. I could tell by his tone that it was too late to take credit for Slayer’s kill. “I have heard you had a little help tonight.”

  “Well, yes. Ah, that is true.”

  His tone didn’t stay grand for long. It only took a few seconds for it to rise to an irate level. “Just the idea you’d need the help of that clown, Santiago Slayer, is a stain on the Jones name!”

  “Well, ah, just so you know, I didn’t exactly ask for his help. I didn’t even know he was in the area.”

  It was as though Jones didn’t even hear me. “Joder! Now everyone knows it was that cabrón who buried El Baño, not us! You are going to have to get El Pozolero, his right hand man.”

  “The Soup Maker.” El Pozolero was so named due to his penchant for dissolving the bodies of his rivals in big soup pots. “Just tell me when and where.”

  Jones’ pause chilled me to the bone. “You will have to cross into New Mexico.”

  I didn’t want to tell him no. Lord knows, I didn’t want to say no. I had just been called on the carpet for messing up. This was not something I was accustomed to. But New Mexico? Jones knew to set foot there spelled my doom. “Ah, you must have other guys who can go there. What about Armando Grillo, or El Ostión?” He was called “The Oyster” because he rarely talked.

  Jones let up on me. “There is one way you can avoid New Mexico, my friend.”

  My heart jumped. Anything, anything. Being a sicario was my entire world, my whole identity. It was the only possible occupation for me after being forced to flee Taos. Sure, I could’ve become a FedEx driver, a plumber, a waiter. Anything was possible in this world. But being a sicario was the only occupation that gave me the same salary and finesse as my old one.

  “This will involve rubbing out a woman.”

  “Fine, fine.” I shouldn’t have been surprised I could kill a woman with no compunction. Women had gotten me into this predicament to begin with. “Who, where?”

  “Her name is Flavia Brooks. We’ve had word she’s living somewhere near Flagstaff working in a tuxedo rental store.”

  That was oddly specific information for someone who had no known address. “Nothing more on her location, then?”

  “Nothing. I will text you a photo shortly. I want you to go up there and look around tuxedo rental places.”

  “Sure thing, jefe.”

  I had a reprieve. After hanging up, I opened the photo of Flavia Brooks. Dear Lord, she was savage beautiful. Even a cold-hearted guy like myself had to admit that her caramel skin and bright electric blue eyes ringed in soot were straight out of a magazine’s pages.

  Instantly I had second thoughts about burying this girl. What the fuck could she have done? Yet Jones didn’t make a name for himself randomly running around hitting people. Briefly, I wondered if she was a reporter. Then why was she working in a tux rental store? Like me, maybe she was under deep cover.

  Then something occurred to me. “Hey. The Bare Bones MC—they’re up near Flagstaff, aren’t they?”

  Slayer nodded. “Their mother charter is in Pure and Easy to the south, to be exact. But they have a Flagstaff chapter. They recently moved out of the Tucson area after their clubhouse blew up, so they no longer have a real presence down here.”

  I thought fast. “Jones just told me to take a vacation. To get my mojo back. There are nice spots up there, aren’t there?”

  His eyes shined with zeal. “Oh, the red rocks are simply amazing! These sandstone rocks that have been beaten down for centuries…”

  Slayer’s voice sort of faded out as he continued raving about the geological strata of eons. A great horned owl had just glided soundlessly over our heads so close I could’ve swore I felt the beat of its wings, maybe twenty feet up. I dove for my bike’s saddlebags, pissed that my birding binoculars were stuffed way down at the bottom. I hadn’t used them in weeks, and by the time I fumbled with them and put them to my eyes, of course the owl was long gone.

  CHAPTER TWO

  PIPPA

  “Start low, go slow, that’s the motto.”

  I nodded. I was drinking in every word of Lytton Driving Hawk’s training session.

  “These are some low-dose options for edibles. Here are some Thick Mints, sort of a takeoff on the Girl Scout theme. They taste the same, with a peppermint hit that goes straight up your nostrils. Of course I can’t let you taste, or you’d be on the ground in an hour tasting everything. You’ll taste everything eventually. Just trust me. Here, smell one.”

  I inhaled deeply of the chocolate-covered cookie. Believe you me, you didn’t need to swallow it to get a hit of potent THC. Of course, I hadn’t smoked in six months, not since moving to Pure and Easy. I wasn’t allowed to. But Pippa Lofting was going to get herself a medical marijuana card, for sure.

  I said, “Overtones of coffee and maple syrup.”

  The darkly handsome budtender smiled, surprised. “Have you worked in a club before?”

  “No. That’s wine tasting lingo.”

  “Oh, okay. That should stand you in good stead. There are some vineyards on the way up to our plantation on Mormon Mountain. Have you tasted any of our local wine?”

  I really hadn’t had any wine in six months either. Way too afraid. “No, but I’d like to go tasting.”

  “Where’d you say you live?”

  I pointed, as if Lytton could see my tiny apartment. “Right up Bargain Boulevard a few blocks, above the indoor archery range.”

  He nodded knowledgeably. “Above Slushy’s office.”

  Slushy’s office? Was that some kind of juice bar? I was finding that in Pure and Easy many questions were best left unasked. I was fine with that.

  Lytton said, “In fact, in honor of Slushy, we renamed this brownie. It was called Make Me Happy. Now it’s just Slushy’s Choice. Here, inhale. I’ll let you decide what it smells like.”

  I breathed. “Well, chocolate, obviously. And…carob? Did you add carob?”

  Lytton stood tall and proud. “Yes! Usually only old hippies remember what carob smells like. Or people who buy dog biscuits. What else?”

  “Hm. Sort of a whiskey or a berry. Tart.”

  “You got it. Blackberry liqueur. You’re going to be excellent at this, Pippa. Where’d you get your plant biology degree from?”

  “Davis.” That was bullshit. My biochemistry degree was from Harvard. But if Lytton ever really pressed, I was sure my people could mock something up for him. I knew his doctorate in chemistry was from MIT, and his wife June had a master’s from Berkeley. At last, I was back with like-minded souls!

  The guard at the door let a couple of new customers in. They went straight for the edibles where we stood, but I wasn’t allowed to sell yet. I needed more training. I’d used a cash register at the tux rental place on the way out of town, but that was the extent of my working with the public. I sort of disliked the public, to be honest. But I was thrilled to be invited to work at A Joint System. It was much more up my alley then renting out frilly shirts to pizza-faced boys.

  “Shadow August here for an hour or so. I’ve got to meet someone for lunch,” said Lytt
on. He patted me on the shoulder. “You’re gonna do great.”

  My hormones were disappointed when the impossibly tall, gangly yet muscular babe took off out the back door. I heaved a giant inner sigh and took my assigned spot next to the crazy-haired, roly-poly ganjier, August. Lytton was married, and besides, having a hookup was the last thing I should be thinking about these days.

  Yet I did.

  Somehow all of this year’s excitement and drama had stirred my hormones, too. I was dying for a fucking hookup! I was thirty, yet measuring those teenaged bucks for tuxes with my trusty measuring tape had me all in a tizzy. They were not young enough to be my sons, so it was okay, but even the older men going to some benefit or other had me running to the bathroom to frantically relieve the tension. That bathroom saw more action than any Navy regiment. Those clients were none the wiser because I could seal the deal in less than two minutes flat, wash up, and be back all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

  My type was tall, dark, and handsome, and Lytton Driving Hawk fit the bill. With his burnished copper skin, hawk’s nose, and slickly shiny black hair, there was a man I’d like to get up on. I just had to keep these hormones under wraps for now. Besides, I certainly didn’t need June Driving Hawk on my ass. Some of these men seemed to belong to a motorcycle club named The Bare Bones, and their “old ladies” were scary to behold. Some of them wore leather jackets with patches that told everyone they were PROPERTY OF some biker, if you can believe that. Property of a man? Not a Chinaman’s chance in hell. Even before…the incident, I would have kicked and screamed at such subservience.

  August was showing the customers some elixirs, talking about their “activation time” and serving size. “This one’s derived from indica, so it makes you relax. It’s a body high, slower than the sativa. Sativa is a head high. Makes you energetic.”

  “This one’s a hybrid,” said the customer, pointing to a silver bottle. “What does that make you do?”

  I was dying to hear the answer, but I just noticed that my phone had been chiming insistently for who knew how long. “Excuse me,” I whispered, backing away from the pot lesson. It rarely occurred to me to turn my phone off anymore. No one had the number.

  It was a text from the girl who’d taken over for me at the formalwear place.

  EMILY: Pippa, there’s a guy here for you. Says he’s a friend of the family.

  I texted right back.

  PIPPA: What’s his name?

  It took Emily awhile. She came back with:

  EMILY: Randy Blankenship.

  PIPPA: Oh, that’s cool. I’ll be right down to get him.

  Good gracious Ignatius! Why the fuck was Randy coming to the tux rental store? Did we have an appointment I didn’t know about? I grabbed my purse and headed past the guard for the door after whispering to August that I was taking lunch.

  I had to go back toward my apartment, to the small parking lot out back, to get into my sensible Toyota Corolla. The rental store was a mile back toward the interstate. My hands gripped the wheel as if my life depended on it, and I sure could’ve used a bowl of indica.

  Had Emily told him I’d quit the tux rental biz? She had no reason to cover for me, to tell Randy I was just out to lunch. Emily was just a young “hang-around” of The Bare Bones, or should I say a “pass-around.” That was more accurate. I’d heard these women called “Bone Lickers.” Emily was basically a slut, with her tatted-up sleeves and multiple facial piercings. She was basically a bank, open for all depositors.

  The second I thought that, I felt bad. I liked some of the Bare Bones women. June, with her Berkeley education, her management of the Leaves of Grass pot farm up the mountain, she was a down-to-earth woman. And of course June’s sister Madison, a registered nurse. I liked her most of all. She was the one who’d gotten me the Joint System job. We’d been chatting after she came to pick up some matching powder blue suits for an R&B singing group she said she knew. Since her husband Ford owned the shop, she wanted to know all about me.

  Of course I gave her our cover version, the story I’d helped create with Randy and his boss. I was from San Francisco, and I’d gotten my plant biology degree from Davis. The second Maddy heard that, well, she was all over how I was too good to be working in a tux rental place. How I could at least put my knowledge to use working at the weed dispensary. I wondered if perhaps I hadn’t blown it too heavily, but the lure of working with chemistry again had me throwing caution to the wind.

  I had not informed Randy Blankenship.

  And now he was pacing in front of the store, his irritation obvious a mile away. Randy was basically a cool guy, I liked to tell myself. He was just bound by an overbearing network of rules and regulations the government constricted him with. Deep down, he was a cool guy who wanted the best for me.

  Or was he?

  For the first time, I heavily doubted this as I tentatively made my way toward him. He stood stock still now, his hands fisting at his sides. Oh, yeah. Emily told him. She told him I work at A Joint System now. Good gracious, Ignatius.

  “Hi, Randy.” I gave a little wave, hoping he’d tip me off to his status.

  He didn’t fail me. “Hi Randy? Hi Randy is all you have to say? Listen, let’s go stand over by your car. I don’t want every Tom, Dick, and LaShawn hearing what I have to say.”

  Randy still paced in smaller circles near my car. It looked like rage was literally coloring the whites of his eyes a shade of burgundy. “WITSEC rules are there for a reason, Pippa. Do you know how much you’re increasing your risk of exposure?”

  I had my counter-defense all planned out. “By working in a medical marijuana store?”

  “Any fool with eyes in his head can see that the majority of people going in there are stoners, Pippa. No medical disability whatsoever.”

  “So stoners are somehow going to what, Randy? Somehow recognize me from my job being held in complete isolation inside a warehouse?” I sort of scream-whispered that last part, in case Randy had forgotten.

  “Working at A Joint System puts you back into the whole world you’re trying to escape from! Why do you think we approved the tux rental store? Because what harm can come of consorting with hormone-driven teens out for the night of their life, that’s why. But a marijuana dispensary will put you right back in the circles you’re trying to escape.”

  I sighed heavily. “Randy. I hardly think some stoners can be put on the same level as”—and I moved closer to him so I could speak in a stage whisper—“The Sinaloan cartel.”

  He slapped his thighs with his hands. “Listen to this! You’re a relocated federal witness, Pippa. You can’t consort with known felons!”

  “Well, are they? Is anyone from A Joint System a known felon?”

  Randy sputtered. “Well—there’s—I’ll—it’s run by the Sergeant-at-arms for a dangerous, crime-riddled biker club.”

  “The Bare Bones.”

  “Yes. The Bare Bones MC. That stands for ‘motorcycle—’”

  “I know what it stands for.” I suddenly felt very hip.

  “—and I ran a background check on some of them. A certain Charles Bloor, otherwise known as Tuzigoot, has a record as long as your arm. B and E, assault, you name it.”

  “I’d probably never meet him unless he smokes weed.”

  “And they have an Antonio Medina, A K A Duji, who was charged with creating a public nuisance at a Pottery Barn.”

  “Pfft. They hardly sound like hardened criminals, Randy. What was he trying to do? Walk out without paying for a succulent garden?”

  Randy set his mouth grimly. “More like having a shootout with a bunch of Presencións.”

  “Oh,” I said in a small voice. Of course I was familiar with the Presención dynasty. In my year being held in a warehouse, forced to synthesize drugs for the Jones cartel, I’d learned enough Spanish to get the basic lowdown on things. Presencións had their fingers in many pies—meth and human trafficking. “Well. He’s hardly going to bring any Presencións around A Join
t System. That’d be the last thing he’d do.”

  “It’s the element, Pippa, the atmosphere you’re around. You’re a high-profile protected witness. Changing your address and name aren’t a guarantee of your safety, and you’re hanging around God knows what sort of felons. It’s not just the Bare Bones I’m talking about. I’m talking the general clientele who comes into that sort of place.”

  I drew myself up. “‘That sort of place’! I’ll have you know, everything Lytton Driving Hawk has done is above board! His long-flowering sativas are the envy of every Hempcon, and he’s won a shit ton of awards for his Eminence Front and Young Man Blue varietals.”

  “Be that as it may. I don’t like you hanging around in that atmosphere. Too much potential for a security breach.”

  “Randy. The Joneses didn’t deal in marijuana. Why would they, when Americans can get it just as easily locally grown, or from a dispensary? Down there they’ve replaced all their weed fields with opium fields.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m saying that I’m not moving in the same circles.”

  “But what do the Bare Bones deal in?”

  I shrugged. “Weed, as far as I know. Tux rentals. Archery ranges. They’ve got a big construction equipment rental business on some mesa.”

  “Heroin?”

  “Not as far as I know. Listen, Randy,” I said, in a fresh, hopeful tone. “I told August, the ganjier, that I’d take a half an hour lunch. I pride myself on being punctual. Why don’t you come to the dispensary and see for yourself? See how well-run and clean it is. I’m working in my environment again, Randy.”

  “Which you’re not supposed to do.”

  “Randy. I was a clinical research associate with the Coast Guard in Corpus Christi studying stem cells before I was abducted. That hardly prepped me for a career selling candy striped glass bubblers and Mountain High suckers.”

  “Look, I understand what you’re saying, I really do. You’re saying working at A Joint System already is a different world from the Coast Guard.”