The Bare Bones (The Bare Bones MC) (6 page)

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.

“Don’t. Just don’t, you hear?” was all Ford would say on the matter. “Now, Duji, how abso-fucking-lutely sure are you about this Cutlass storehouse out by Mormon Lake?”

“Three hundred and ten fucking percent,” said Duji.

“That’s mathematically absurd,” said my brother, who’d been invited in on the meet.

Apparently potential prospects weren’t supposed to speak up, though, for a few brothers bodily lifted Robert and took him into the backyard to toss him in the pool. After taking off the black leather cut with barely any patches on it, of course.

I tried flirting some more with Turk, but apparently his brother’s word was gold, for he barely looked at me again. Later that night, it struck me that maybe Ford was simply following
Cropper’s
rules when he warned his brothers away from me. Cropper wasn’t there, so maybe Ford was just echoing the same confusing thing he’d told me at the high school.

So instead of feeling proud, I became angry and confused again. So
what
If Cropper liked to watch? I liked to watch, too!

MADISON

I
had had a few of the watery Budweisers by that time and had dared to break into Ingrid’s schnapps. The clear liqueur was too sticky sweet for me, but I wanted to get a little trashed. I was messaging Sabrina on my laptop—of course she knew about my whole crush, the kiss in the swimming pool, everything.

MADISON SHELLM: Now he’s just out in the garage playing with his electronics.

SABRINA McMURTRY: I’m confused. Why can’t you and him just go to a hotel like everyone else?

MADISON SHELLM: Exactly, my dear. Why the fcuk not?

SABRINA McMURTRY: Yo’ure hot and he shoudl be glad you want him. He needs to learn a lessn.

MADISON SHELLM: What sort of lesson?

SABRINA McMURTRY: That’s you’re not gonna wait forevber.

MADISON SHELLM: I just really want to get fducked.

Sabrina was right! She was damned right. The booze had given me liquid courage, and I was already at my bedroom door by the time Sabrina typed:

SABRINA McMURTRY: It’s not like Flagstff is that far from Pure and Easy, anway. He can always visit

I didn’t want to go through the dining room where Ingrid was conducting business with some toothless wonders, so I went out front and around the side of the house where there was a separate entrance to the garage. I knew from the bikes parked out front that only Ford and Cropper were here—looked like even the “grunt” Robert had taken his white Dyna on an errand.

I was going to confront Ford. I was going to interrogate him until he either admitted he wanted me—which he’d done at the school—or told me to get lost. If he wanted me, he was taking me to a motel to fuck the stuffing out of me. No ifs, ands, or buts. Cropper didn’t even have to know.

Instead, I was about to encounter the most stupendous, life-changing sight of my life.

The door was ajar so I just shoved it open. I immediately stopped short, sucking in air.

There, by the feeble sixty-watt light of a clip-on work lamp, Ford sat back astride a work bench, sensuously jacking off.

I went utterly numb. It was a scene I’d only dared to imagine in my most insane, most frenzied masturbating sessions.

What. The. Fuck.

It was
better
than my fantasies. Shirtless, he leaned back on one palm, bringing the glorious muscles of his chest into sharp relief. Because the garage had no air conditioning, his pecs were slicked with sweat. That infuriating, softly oily line of hair that defined the centerline between his molded abs, well, I was finally able to see where it joined the shiny bush of his pubic mound. He leaned casually back, his hips thrust forward, the shiny, greasy limb of his cock in his fist.

I admit it—I went weak in the knees. I had to cling to the doorjamb. Luckily an iPod in the garage was playing some Led Zeppelin tune—“When The Levee Breaks,” if I recall correctly—and it had muffled my footsteps.

Ford was taking his time. Whatever lubricant he’d used made the bulbous cockhead shine like an enormous, taut mushroom he choked in his grip. He took his time easing his fist back down his pole. When his hand met with the root of his cock, he smeared his palm over his mound to take a handful of his balls. His hips twitched and his head rolled back, displaying the fine silhouette of his powerful throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he tried to swallow.