Bad to the Bones(4)

“All right, keep it nice.” He slapped Knoxie’s hard-on affectionately, professionally. “You’re still up like a steel plate. You can go back in, Rex.” He called Knoxie by his stage name, Rex Havox. Mel had chosen it because both real and fake names ended in an X and were therefore easy for everyone to remember.

Suddenly Knoxie didn’t want to dive back in. He suddenly felt finished with being Rex Havox, for some reason. It had served a purpose and now he was ready to move on. He was glad when the heavy door to the soundproofed room banged open and the handsome silhouette of Lytton Driving Hawk appeared. Lytton was the freshly-minted sergeant-at-arms for The Bare Bones MC. Not the smelly one Courtney referred to, Lytton had gone straight from his service as a Prospect and a grunt to take over the valued number three—some called it number two—position in the heavy-hitting club. Lytton was not only owner of the Leaves of Grass pot farm up in the mountains, now he was a big fish in a big pond, the entire Pure and Easy area his backyard.

So everyone stood at attention when Lytton yelled, “Knoxie! Drop your cocks and grab your socks. I’ve got an urgent errand for you.”

Knoxie did drop his cock and sprang to grab his street clothes as Mel sighed heavily.

“Lytton. You can’t just bust in here and grab my best guy. This guy’s so good he doesn’t even need his own fluffer.”

Lytton peeled some bills from a roll in his jeans pocket and handed them to Mel. “Here. This should make up for your money shot. Knoxie, I saw your cage in the lot. I need you to take me up 89.”

Knoxie wasn’t a patched member of The Bare Bones so he wore no cut. He was used to getting dressed and undressed in a snap, so now he just had to throw on his 501s, skintight white wifebeater, and his patch-free black leather jacket. He knew better than to ask Lytton what was up with the whole film crew—all five of them—eavesdropping.

So he made small talk while he dressed. “Does Madison still work at that doctor’s office? I was thinking of just going for some bloods. You know, get my cholesterol checked. I feel a sudden health kick coming on.”

Lytton snorted. “You need a health kick? You’re the studliest stud in the paddock. But if you want to check your bloods, yeah, it’s a cardiologist she works for. She can take your blood up at The Citadel.” The Citadel was a massive airplane hangar where the Boners ran their commercial concern, a heavy equipment rental business. It also served as their clubhouse since they’d stopped using The Bum Steer a couple years back. Now the Steer under Knoxie’s apartment was strictly a legitimate biker bar and grill.

Mel said, “Okay Misty, you got those billiard balls? We’re gonna move onto the weight training scene next.”

“Aw, damn,” groaned Courtney.

Knoxie was glad to avoid the weight training scene. Some other guy could do it. On the way out Knoxie practically ran into Misty carrying two handfuls of billiard balls. Misty had glossy, straight, blue-black hair, a pert nose, and uplifted boobs. She thought she was getting too old to act in the porn business, so she’d graduated to assisting Mel. They’d talked about her joining Knoxie’s private studio. She had a few years’ experience laying down ink, excelling at tribal, which is where Knoxie lagged.

However, he’d never thought of her as a potential bed warmer until now.

Her eyes twinkled as he passed her by. “I was looking at the Hell City website,” she started.

Knoxie was already walking backward, Lytton was hotfooting it so fast. “Oh yeah?” What a moron. That’s all I can think of to say? I’d better brush up on my flirtation.

Misty said, “I think we should book our hotel rooms soon to get the best ones. I’d like the Biltmore.”

“Okay,” Knoxie said moronically.

He followed Lytton down the hallway past the sign that declared TRIPLE EXPOSURE STUDIOS. It’s what the world is coming to. Hell City was a top industry tattoo festival held in August in Phoenix. Live tattooing, world class tattoo masters, bands—it was the high point of the year, professionally.

Knoxie asked, “What sort of run is this up 89?” Knoxie had gone on protection runs for the club before. He’d done minor favors for them over the years, things like create distractions, pass along messages, driven his cage for tasks that required a cage. Ran backup, offered his muscle.

“Wild Man was joyriding out by Slide Rock when he saw something that’s a whole game changer. Just need manpower to go check it out. I was the closest so I’m the point guy, and you’ve got the cage in case we need it.”

Leaving the building, they made a beeline for Knoxie’s Mustang, jumping right in. The Triple Exposure was in the industrial area of Pure and Easy, and it was a straight shot to the highway north. Knoxie waited for the pot farmer to explain the errand.

“You know those douchebags from that whack job cult out on Merry-go-round Canyon?”

Knoxie was highly intrigued. Those weirdoes had set up residence near Pure and Easy about seven years ago and had been a bee in the county’s bonnet ever since. There were rumors people had killed themselves after taking part in some whacko sort of pseudo-therapy groups up there. People had gotten out of control, had broken bones becoming violent. More, they were too over-the-top, even for Pure and Easy’s relaxed standards. The spiritual vortexes around the neighborhood had encouraged a lot of woo-woo reflexology practitioners, Rolfers who liked their chakras balanced, but there were already enough of those Shirley MacLaine types around. Even the most tolerant local citizens had started to bristle at the new invasion. Vendors had started to pop up selling T-shirts with photos of that Swami or whatever his name was in the crosshairs of a gun.