Stay Vertical (The Bare Bones MC #2)(53)
Turk Blackburn, who couldn’t possibly have known what Lytton had witnessed yesterday by the Dumpster, seemed the most pissed. His beautiful eyes that looked rimmed with smoky eyeliner narrowed at Lytton, and he looked about to spit. It was evident to everyone by now that Lytton had gotten into bed with The Cutlasses. Lytton had a hand in the jacking of the Staples truck and the theft of the weed. Now Lytton was presenting evidence that his business manager, Tobiah Weingarten, had been the cybercriminal behind the Assassin’s Creed virus.
Lytton stepped in front of Toby protectively and held up his hands, but that husky nerd August beat him to it. August pointed at Tobiah. “That’s him!” he cried. He may as well have been shouting, “J’accuse!” because every single Bare Boner took a step forward as one unit. Ziggy punched his own palm, others cracked their knuckles, brass or otherwise. Others fluttered their hands over the pieces stuck into their pants as though they played little bells, itching to pull a trigger.
Lytton was quick to react. “Hold on! I’m not here to give up my man. I’m here to form an alliance.”
Toby stepped out from behind him. “It’s okay, Lyt. I can take my lumps. I’ve already seen my best friend pummeled into strawberry jam with a f*cking hammer. This has already been the worst day of my life. Do your best, men.”
Why did Toby keep going on about how Helium Head was his “best friend”? Lytton shoved Toby aside again. “We’ve both lost people to these lowdown cretins, The Cutlasses. Namely, Isosceles Weaver just buried my lead hydraulic engineer with a f*cking hammer in my own greenhouse, and he tried his damnedest to put my old lady into the ground. She’s fighting for her life at Mercy General right now. He killed the Ochoa truck driver for no good reason, so no. I want to see Weaver go down. And I’ve got some ideas how to do it.”
Ford took one more step toward Lytton and sneered down his nose at him. “First thing’s first, brother.” He made a lightning-quick uppercut to Lytton’s jaw that so took him by surprise, he nearly flew out of his Nikes.
Of course, it was to be expected that Ford might hit him. Lytton deserved it. It was just a formality that needed to be gotten out of the way before they could do business together.
So Lytton sprawled on the floor with an entire biker club looming over him. He felt his jaw. “I deserved that.” He wondered if he should get up, so he stayed on the floor. He would just get knocked down again. “I’ve been a f*cking horse’s ass,” he said, using Madison’s term for him. “I should’ve given you the benefit of the doubt before I ran off half-cocked.”
With his arms folded in front of his chest, Ford loomed even more menacingly than the others. “No one in this family is ever half-cocked,” he growled.
What? Should Lytton be laughing? Was Ford trying to lighten up the situation? “I should’ve found out your reasons for…doing what you did.” While the rest of the club probably knew what Ford had done, Lytton had the hunch that it wasn’t cool to refer to it directly. “It’s not your fault I didn’t know Cropper was my father until I was thirty. It was Cropper’s f*cking fault. He knew I existed. He just didn’t want to acknowledge any Tomahonky kid.” He had the feeling Ford could relate to that, not having known about his own brother until long after the kid had died.
Ford nodded down at him. “Get up.”
Figuring that now they could get down to brass tacks, Lytton stood, but Ford flattened him again before he even saw the fist coming. Lytton skidded on his ass until he was stopped by a glass case displaying bongs.
What the f*ck? Oh, it was on, all right! Ford may have been a graduate of many a backyard fight club, but Lytton knew Brazilian jiu-jitsu. He sprung up like a jack-in-the-box, taking Ford so by surprise that he was able to get in a few frontal jabs to the face before landing a solid left, then a right hook to the jaw.
Ford stumbled backward into his wall of men, his nose trickling blood. Tuzigoot and Turk caught him lovingly, cradling him protectively like a baby until Ford shook them off. Fire was in Ford’s eyes, his nostrils flaring angrily. “Motherf*cker! You bust into my world and get my sister-in-law almost killed with your f*cking backstabbing games?” Ford feinted and ducked, connecting another uppercut to Lytton’s solar plexus.
All the air was socked out of Lytton’s lungs, but he managed to breathe in enough ragged air to give him strength. A few rapid fire karate chops to Ford’s throat and again Ford was against the ropes of his brothers’ arms, his brow knitted with rage.
Lytton held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Listen, Ford. I’m here to tell you that at three o’clock an inspector from the Department of Health Services is arriving to make a surprise inspection. That’s all I want to warn you about. Now I’m here to tell you, I can call him off—”
Oof! A massive head butt to the stomach again had all the air expressed from Lytton’s lungs. This time he really did crash backward into the bong case, prompting Turk to shout, “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” while a glass hookah with several plastic hoses smashed onto Lytton’s head.
With the upper hand, Ford executed an admirable takedown of Lytton. The two men wound up grappling on the tiles. They seemed to be equally matched. They tumbled and pummeled each other, when they could get an arm free. They were in a solid clinch. One more shift of power, and Lytton had Ford in a decent half nelson, grinding his face into the tiles.