Stay Vertical (The Bare Bones MC #2)(48)
So I dared to ask, “If you hate Lytton so badly, why do you work with him?”
“Zelov tells us to. Hell, we’ve been trying to steal Driving Hawk’s pot for over five years now. Suddenly we’re supposed to believe he’s our friend? No, the only way that f*cking blanket-ass Injun is our friend is by giving us nice tight cunt like you.”
He grabbed a handful of my hair so tightly my eyes were forced open. Not only was I choking on the emanations of his stench, he was throttling this long twisted wiener in my direction.
“Mungu moja,” I whispered. One God.
“You’re gonna open wide for chunky, bitch.” I could hear Iso snarling filth as though from the end of a long tunnel. I think my survival instincts finally were kicking in, and my senses were shutting themselves down. “Suck my sugar stick, baby.”
He rattled my head around for emphasis, and I felt as though my brains were sloshing around in my skull. He’d probably broken my nose with that fierce backhand, but it could definitely be a lot worse, if only I could open up my jaw and take—
He rubbed the smegma-coated corona against my teeth. “That’s it, you f*cking slut. You know you love it. I heard about you sucking Driving Hawk’s big dick out in the greenhouse for the whole f*cking world to see. That’s all you want to do all day, give knob jobs to brothers. You’d make a perfect sweetbutt. That’s it, just open up and worship at the altar—Agh!”
Maybe it was his horribly juvenile way of referring to sex acts—or in this case, acts of violence against women. I knew sex had nothing to do with forced brutality like this. My body knew it before my mind could mull it over, and automatically, my jaws clamped down around that disgusting appendage.
It was as though I could hear or feel my teeth biting into the glans. There were definitely two or three senses at play simultaneously when my jaws did the Great White Shark around his skin flute. More liquid flooded my mouth as Iso let loose with an animalistic howl.
Instinctively he pulled away, hollering so loud the very equipment around me vibrated. “What the f*ck? What the f*ck’s wrong with you, you f*cking slut? Why’d you have to go and do that?”
I spit out blood and whatever else onto the floor. I knew he wasn’t about to leave me alone. I had just enraged him.
Every blow of his fist had me swinging about like a puppet on a string. Which, basically, I was.
Every blow made my world darker. When he bashed my ear, I thankfully stopped being able to hear from that side. One of the last things I felt was Iso tearing my mesh tank top from my torso. He must have grabbed some implement from the wall because he was just lashing and lashing my face and torso with something that had a thousand stingers while seething angrily what mostly sounded like “Shit…f*ck…cunt…”
“Call from Madison!” my phone kept insisting cheerfully.
I wished to hell he had smashed that phone.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
LYTTON
“Ugh.” Did I actually just say “ugh”?
Lytton rolled onto his side and tried to pry his eyes open. They seemed to have been glued shut. Unfamiliar furniture greeted him. Tacky, eighties stuff in pastel shades that made him want to vomit. Again.
Again? Had he already puked?
Raising himself on an elbow, Lytton speared his fingers through his mop of hair. Where the f*ck am I? And did I just really say that too? No, I think I’m just thinking it.
Another flowered fabric-covered couch held his partner, Toby Weingarten. Lytton was amazed that Toby’s chainsaw snoring hadn’t woken him yet. I must’ve been really out. How much did we drink last night? He had known for a decade that, as at least a part Native American, he couldn’t hold his liquor. That knowledge led to his next question.
What the f*ck did we do last night?
Lytton shoved aside the leather jacket he’d been using as a blanket and sat up dizzily. Everything must be okay if Toby was peacefully snoring away, so Lytton went back to the beginning, reconstructing events in his mind. An enormous glass carburetor bong on the coffee table gave him a clue as to their fate last night. He couldn’t take much pot, ironically. Mixing pot and booze was a surefire recipe for a blackout disaster with him.
Okay, the back alley blowjob he’d witnessed. He’d deposited the bottles of poison in the trash bin all right. He’d met up with Toby where he’d parked his bike by The Bum Steer. They had decided to go over to the house of a good associate of theirs, Michael Bartlett, who of course everyone called Buttlick. Buttlick was a fun-loving guy, some kind of racecar driver who always had lots of women pass-arounds.
“Why did I come here?” Lytton had an old lady. Right. June had gone back to Madison’s in P & E yesterday morning, leaving the house right after him. He had an old lady now. A pleasant feeling threatened to break through his virulent, noxious hangover when he realized I’ve got an old lady. I’d better go buy her a better collar. P & E wasn’t jam-packed with bondage stores, but he could rustle up something. Maybe a giant pink rhinestone-studded Newfoundland dog collar.
I hope I didn’t do anything with any woman. He usually did when he partied at Buttlick’s. Boy, he hadn’t gotten that hammered in awhile, not since his foray into the world of Jack Daniels when he’d found out who his real father was. Lytton reconstructed the night before. Jack Daniels had definitely been there, and skinny dipping, and oh, someone had puked onto a keyboard. Lytton hoped it wasn’t him. He was pretty sure it hadn’t been him.