Stay Vertical (The Bare Bones MC #2)(21)
Lytton ejaculated down her throat with volcanic force—as though he hadn’t just come a few times that morning. His body froze into one rock solid unit as his dick pulsed, emptying milky jism into her hot mouth.
Son of a bitch. This girl can suck.
Lytton jumped and twitched as she continued loving his cock with her mouth. Instant regret flooded him. Regret wasn’t a concept or feeling Lytton was familiar with, but he identified it as such. He had used this poor woman for his own selfish ends. Normally that wasn’t an idea that filled him with much sorrow, either. He had callously, selfishly used her to A, wreak revenge on Ford, and B, get off. What sort of an * had he become?
He had had no intention in the world of giving her any pleasure. He never did when he enacted a scene. As she detached her mouth, smacking her lips with satisfaction, Lytton grabbed her by the biceps and lifted her. When her eyes met his, he saw that fever was causing her eyeballs to swim in her head. Pressing the back of his hand to her forehead, he knew she was unreasonably hot, even for just having given an enthusiastic blowjob in a greenhouse.
“I’m putting you to bed. After taking your temperature.” This caring, nursing attitude was foreign to Lytton, and he was glad when someone yanked the greenhouse door open. His associate Tobiah stormed in then—he’d been storming a lot lately.
“Typical, just f*cking typical!” Tobiah yelled. He stalked the way Lytton imagined a scarecrow would stalk, all loose-jointed and flappy, like a crazed shorebird. “I leave you alone for one f*cking minute and suddenly Cropper Illuminati is your father and you’re patching into The Bare Bones? Lyt, we don’t need that biker element drawing attention to our enterprise. If I wanted more attention, I would’ve just had someone sky write ‘free weed’ over our farm. Why don’t we just hold a Stan Lee comic book signing here as well?”
Lytton didn’t let go of June’s shoulders. She was regarding Tobiah with detached amusement, as though he were the day’s headliner entertainment. “Toby, I didn’t patch into the Bones. That would require a year of heavy service as a Prospect.”
Tobiah stood on one jiggly leg, kicking the other out like an antsy dog. “Really? Really? All this, and that is what you took from it? Not the part about Cropper Illuminati being your father? God damn!” Tobiah looked to June for support, pointing at Lytton as though he were amazing. “Amazing, isn’t he? A brilliant pot farmer, yet somehow oddly determined to run our business into the ground with his shenanigans. And you. Look at you. Standing here having a business-related discussion with your dick hanging out.”
Lytton had honestly forgotten his dick was hanging out, so he stuffed it back into his pants. He also politely untied June’s hands from behind her back. “Listen, Tobiah. It’s not my f*cking fault. Those f*cktard Cutlasses who busted on in here told me about Cropper Illuminati, and I went to The Bare Bones’ clubhouse to confirm it.”
“They’re not convinced yet,” June added, “but he did a DNA test that should come back in a few days.”
“DNA, my, my,” said Tobiah. “We’re getting fancy. Well, what are you hoping to gain with this new association of yours? I don’t want to distribute through their stupid Joint Effort, if that’s what you’re aiming at. You already have me almost convinced to sell through those hoodlum Cutlasses. I don’t need two rival gangs fighting over our Young Man Blue and knifing each other in our grow room. If I had to choose, I’d pick The Cutlasses any day. At least they haven’t committed fratricide yet…that we know of.”
Lytton was confused. What was Tobiah referring to? “Fratricide? Who killed their father?”
Tobiah guffawed. His big hawk’s nose stuck out from underneath the solid bowl of his haircut. Tobiah had been a nerdy MIT mechanical engineer when Lytton had handpicked him to help run his operation. He still wore a Klingon belt buckle on his white vinyl belt, colorful low-rise pants, and Converse sneakers. “I’m referring to your illustrious half-brother, Ford. It’s a well-known secret that he personally murdered your father. The papers said it was all gang warfare-related, but the scuttlebutt on the street is that Ford was down in that desert near Nogales.” Lytton must have been wearing an aghast expression, for all the humor fell from Tobiah’s face. “You didn’t…hear…?”
“Hear what?” barked Lytton. “That’s lowdown, shitty gossip! Why the f*ck would Ford kill his own father? They were business partners! They’d worked closely together for ten, fifteen years!”
Tobiah shrugged. “Who knows what goes on in the brains of mindless thugs?”
Lytton took three long strides toward Tobiah to jab a finger into his bony chest. “Hey! That’s my f*cking father and brother you’re talking, asshat. They’ve seen the dark side of riding.” He almost added “and lived,” but Cropper hadn’t lived, so he stopped himself.
“You want me to take it back? How can I take back the truth?”
“What proof do you have? It’s just malicious rumor unless you’ve got a f*cking videotape showing Ford actually icing the old man.” Lytton couldn’t believe it. The newspapers had said that during a routine heist of a truck full of illegal Mexican immigrants, something had gone south. The bodies of Cropper, as well as another Bare Bones guy and a member of some rival Baal’s Minion’s club, these were all discovered close to each other next to the smoldering hulk of the truck. All of the Mexicans, of course, were toast.