Stay Vertical (The Bare Bones MC #2)(15)
Well, they were probably still in shock about meeting a family member they hadn’t known they had. In retrospect, he should have been more aware of and sensitive to the feelings of his newfound family. But sensitivity had never been Lytton’s strong suit. That was why he never bothered giving any of his slaves orgasms. He was a dominant, alpha master of edge play, uninterested in power exchanges of any kind.
Lytton continued on obliviously. “I was thinking, I could run your marijuana dispensary for you. I know you don’t know me from Adam, but I happen to run the most organic and tightest farming operation up by Mormon Lake. You may have heard of the Leaves of Grass Ranch. That’s my operation. World-famous for my Eminence Front and Young Man Blue.”
“Wait one f*cking second,” said the proprietor of A Joint Effort, stepping farther into the office, suddenly not so soft-spoken anymore. “What the f*ck makes you think you can just sashay into the Citadel demanding to take over a business that’s been running perfectly fine up until now, f*ck you very much? Ford, I’m officially registering my disapproval of this * until further notice.”
Several other Bare Boners registered their disapproval, too, prompting Lytton to add, “I could actually improve the business. I’ve been down there. Things are a f*cking mess.”
“Excuse the f*ck out of me!” huffed the cannabusiness owner. “A Joint Effort is a well-oiled machine!”
“Yeah, oiled is a good description,” fumed Lytton. “You treat people like stoners, not patients. Your display floor is in complete disarray.”
“I know exactly where everything is.”
But Lytton was on a roll. He enjoyed displaying his superiority to others even when not asked to. “Sativa is medicine and needs to be treated as such, not as some f*cking accompaniment to a Grateful Dead jam session. It’s a dispensary, not a head shop. You’ve got your indicas mixed up with your sativas. Your edibles aren’t even under glass. You probably barter weed for work on your bike.”
He must’ve hit a nerve, because the proprietor reddened. In retrospect, it probably wasn’t the best move to barge into a clubhouse full of bikers, insist you were related, and demand part of their business. But Lytton wasn’t one for calm level-headedness. And he hadn’t been having the best day either.
Leaping out from behind his desk, Ford strode right for Lytton, practically knocking his own wife out of his way. Lytton wasn’t prepared when the guy—his brother—took a handful of his shirtfront and rattled him ruthlessly. He backed Lytton up against a bookshelf so violently that a giant federal manual of OSHA laws or some such shit bonked Lytton on the head. “Listen here, you twatwaffle. You can spit in a f*cking cup or whatever my wife needs from you, but until you’ve proven you’re honestly my f*cking half-brother, I’ve got nothing to say to you.”
“Here.” Maddy had gotten one of those tiny, flimsy cups that come with the water cooler and was trying to shove it between the men. “This’ll be fine, just literally spit in the cup, Lytton. I’ll have results by Thursday.”
Lytton grabbed the cup, smashing it flat. He needed to show this f*cktard that he would not be an easy target for his biker’s style of crass thuggery. Also, crass thuggery was sort of in the blood of a pot farmer who had to defend his crops against constant marauders.
Wrenching the guy’s fingers to unhand him from his shirtfront, Lytton stood tall and proud. It was literally in his Apache character to sneer and look down on people. Lifting one corner of his upper lip in disdain, Lytton seethed, “And until you’ve proven you’re worthy to be my brother, I have nothing to say to you.”
With great importance, he hocked a big old loogie into the crushed cup. Not taking his eyes from Ford, he smashed the spit cup into his brother’s hand, not the nurse’s. Placing his fingertips on Ford’s chest, he shoved hard. Ford just fell back several steps, probably relieved Lytton was leaving.
He squeaked the hell out of there in his tennis shoes. He was experienced in holding his head high and tolerating the derision of others. He ran the gauntlet through the crowd that had now grown to about fifteen bikers. Smelly, oily, leathery and seasoned, this crew of men may have lived harder lives than Lytton himself. He knew he hadn’t cornered the market on bitter life experiences. Hell, there was a Prospect in the hallway who leaned against a long gnarled cane thrust under his armpit like a greasy Tiny Tim.
No one said a word as Lytton departed. He couldn’t properly slam the heavy door, but the shaky metal stairs outside thundered with the appropriate volume to display his scorn for The Bare Bones. He knew they had all stampeded into Ford’s office to watch him out of the large bank of windows. He was embarrassed that not long ago he’d traded in his old Dyna Street Bob for a classic Softail, a Heritage Springer nearly identical to the one he knew Ford rode. Of course it hadn’t been intentional, but now he felt like a moronic goon knowing all eyes were upon him.
And that sister, June something, was jogging down the steps, waving an arm at him before he’d even started his engine.
“Lytton! Lytton!” she called, as though she knew him well.
It wasn’t unpleasant watching her trot across the parking lot. Her light brown hair looked incredibly soft, like a cloud around her shoulders as she ran. For the first time Lytton really looked at her.
He liked what he saw. June Shellmound seemed na?ve about life, or maybe about the interactions of men. He enjoyed innocent submissives, and it occurred to him she might come in handy in his fight against Ford Illuminati.