Stay Vertical by Layla Wolfe Read Free Book Online Page B

could feel the vibrations of the bike through the soles.
    It had even occurred to Lytton that it might be a secure, brotherly feeling being a member of a club like The Bare Bones. Despite Kino’s best efforts at bringing him into the tribal fold, Lytton had grown up not feeling a part of something greater than himself. Lytton had an atheistic, every-man for-himself outlook on life that he pretended to enjoy. But often, when he got bitterly honest with himself after a bondage scene or other, he had to admit that it would be good to feel a sense of belonging , a sense of place. No wonder I never felt I belonged. The whole time I had no idea I was a half-breed.
    He had even gone inside The Bum Steer once under the guise of wanting a burger. To be brutally honest, he was curious how those bikers interacted. The bartender was like Tom Cruise on meth, flipping bottles underneath his legs until he smashed a fifth of rum on the tiles. But he was having a good time doing it. It was a rowdy, loud place, as could be expected, carpeted with discarded peanut shells, resonating with shouts, camaraderie, and the Allman Brothers.
    Lytton liked the Allman Brothers. Now he came to find out he actually had been a part of this brotherhood the entire fucking time.
    The Bare Bones lifestyle seemed so flamboyant, colorful, and dangerous. Lytton knew they also owned the Triple Exposure, the live sex streaming soundstage in the industrial part of P & E, as well as at least two brothels. Then, most interestingly, when Proposition 203 had made it legal to get baked, The Bare Bones had opened up their own dispensary, A Joint Effort, probably as a front for money laundering. Lytton had stopped on in a few times out of professional curiosity, talking to a soft-spoken guy about his growth cycles and color coding. Still, The Bare Bones farms weren’t as organic as the Leaves of Grass.
    But by the time Lytton arrived on Mescal Mesa, he was steaming again. Cropper, long may he live, and his motherfucking golden boy son Ford had cut him out of all this glory and splendor. Ford’s mother was another Apache woman, also of the White Mountain tribe—apparently Cropper liked the squaws. How did that equate to Ford being handed the keys to the limo while Lytton grew up thinking that fortified wine meant it was infused with vitamins? Thunderbird bum wine had been on so many tables in Whiteriver, Lytton had thought it was a locally-sourced drink.
    No, once Ford Illuminati admitted that he knew Lytton was his brother, Lytton was going to demand an active share in some of the family business. He didn’t know much about construction, so he’d demand to run the weed dispensary. That made sense. He didn’t need the income—it was more about demanding his rightful place in the family hierarchy.
    But now Ford the Golden Boy, hiding behind two stunningly model-like sweetbutts, was refusing to even acknowledge Lytton’s existence.
    One of the chicks tried to calm him down. “And who the fuck are you?” Lytton railed. True, her presence, her touch on his arm, had something of an angelic influence on him. It did calm him to look down on this seemingly innocent sweetbutt with the giant button eyes, like those paintings of those mournful, large-eyed kids. Bangs framed her brows as though someone had put a bowl over her head, giving her an even more innocent, childish look. Something in her reached out to Lytton, and he didn’t tear her head off. Plus, she had amazing, bouncy knockers.
    Instead, he just yelled, “Who the fuck are you?”
    She splayed her hands on her chest and said earnestly, “I’m June Shellmound, Ford’s sister-in-law.”
    Aha . It was making more sense now. The other sweetbutt, Maddy, must be Ford’s old lady. Lytton’s sharp eye caught that both were wearing wedding rings. Asshole had actually manned up and at least attempted to make someone an honest woman. He saw June was not wearing a ring, and for some reason, this comforted him. He