Stay Vertical (The Bare Bones MC #2)(50)

Lytton narrowly avoided getting a Fast Riding Award. Luckily Toby banged on his lid like a bubble gum machine to alert him there was a motorcycle cop hiding behind a ponderosa pine, so he slowed down in time.

The front gate of Leaves of Grass was wide the f*ck open. “This is not f*cking good,” he yelled before he even cut his engine. Toby’s cage was there, but Helium Head’s Prius was gone. The doom and dread grew even stronger as Lytton realized Helium Head would never leave the gate open. He was only called Helium Head due to his blond ‘fro, not his forgetfulness.

Toby was already running while taking off his helmet. For a guy who didn’t pack a piece, he was certainly making a big act of bravery. But he ran down the side path of the house, presumably to check on the greenhouses.

Lytton went straight for the house.

The front door was wide the f*ck open, too. Lytton took the front steps four at a time, bounding like an antelope into the foyer while whipping his Glock from his waistband.

Living room was clear. So was the kitchen, dining room, family room. One strange thing Lytton didn’t pause long enough to really ponder was a bloody hammer on the kitchen table. It looked just tossed there, a dark red streak of already-dried blood giving it away. In the family room, after clicking through a few screens on one of the laptops, Lytton saw that the entire security system had been turned off right after eleven AM, after he had gone down the mountain with Toby.

Who the f*ck. Although calling the cops would be anyone’s first logical response, Lytton had to stuff that impulse down. He was dealing with the MC world now, and he’d done some pretty f*cking illegal things too the past couple of weeks. This must’ve been The Bare Bones’ natural response to having their weed truck jacked and parked in the alley behind their shop decorated like a Halloween shindig. Could be the Ochoa’s response, too, for missing a driver.

Lytton knew he was playing with fire. Retaliation was the name of the game with those motorcycle clubs. He had assumed his security system was foolproof, but something had f*cked up big time.

He was sneaking down the hallway soundlessly like an ATF agent in a crime show when he heard another car come up the front drive burning rubber and brake with a squeal of tires.

Madison Illuminati and another old lady came tromping into the foyer, bellowing at the top of their lungs, so the jig was up anyway. Lytton joined them in screaming, “June! June, where are you?”

The blonde with the four-inch black roots didn’t wait for any response, though. She stomped right over to Lytton and took a handful of his shirt in her first. She snarled, “You f*cking lowdown traitor. I heard what you did, disowning your own f*cking brother. Now you’ve joined with The Cutlasses and look what f*cking happens! We could’ve told you those f*cking Cutlasses weren’t to be trusted. This is all on your head if anything has happened to June.”

Of course Lytton didn’t hurt women, so he wasn’t sure what to do with this muscular tigress bullying him. She was definitely wasting time, though, so he wrenched his shirt out of her claw and shouted, “Shut the f*ck up, woman! June could be anywhere around here and we’re here making enough noise to keep the wolves awake!”

“He’s right, Brunhilda,” said Madison, who had her phone in her hand. She put her finger to her lips, listening. “Ssh.”

They all heard it at the same time. June’s phone announcing “Call from Madison!” and muffled whimpering, coming from his play room here on the ground floor.

Lytton reached the room in what seemed like four long strides.

Once inside the room, though, he went all limp. His hand that had gripped the pistol as though it were life itself suddenly went dead, dangling at his side.

A badly beaten June dangled from one of his f*cking suspension cuffs. She resembled the most battered piece of meat hanging from a f*cking hook, what was left after a boxer finished pummeling it.

Lytton fell to his knees beside her, easily unbuckling the suspension cuff while Madison collapsed on the other side of her sister. Madison was a nurse, he recalled, as she lifted June’s wrist to feel for a pulse.

“Holy f*ck,” swore Brunhilda, now in a hushed tone. “Whoever the f*ck did this is in for a world of hurt.”

Lytton didn’t want to let June’s arm down too swiftly. If she’d been hanging in that one position with her weight bearing on it, drifting in and out of consciousness, she could very well have dislocated the shoulder. He never kept anyone in the suspension cuffs, which were designed to bear weight, longer than thirty minutes. If the shutoff timer on the security system was correct, she’d been hanging like this for twenty-four hours. Her hand was frighteningly cold and clammy, but that was probably understandable.

“She’s alive,” whispered Madison, “but unconscious. Slow pulse, maybe fifty. Get me paper towels, bathroom towels, anything.”

Lytton said, “There are rolls of toilet paper in that closet.”

Lytton had been in many fights in high school. He’d participated in backyard Brazilian jiu-jitsu matches where blood was a common occurrence. Even then, no one had been beaten nearly this bad. June’s nose looked crooked, both her eyes were severely blackened.

“June, June,” he crooned. “June, wake up. We want her awake, right?”

Madison handed Lytton a wad of toilet paper. “Clean her up so we can see what’s going on. Sure, awake is a good sign.” She busied herself pressing on June’s fingernails, then rubbing her knuckles against June’s sternum. There was no response from June, and Lytton sopped up the blood that had pooled in the pit of her throat, the blood that had rolled down between her breasts, the blood around her mouth. He saw she apparently had all of her teeth, although a couple might be wobbly.