The Bare Bones (The Bare Bones MC) by Layla Wolfe Read Free Book Online Page A

of me, but sometimes P-A things just plain old work . I was hoping that Ford would, out of curiosity and pity, at least ask me where I’d been. But no, nothing. To test it out, I spent a few nights at home. He barely talked to me. He seemed lost in his own little world, discussing club issues with Cropper, and training Robert to be what they called a “Prospect.” Ford was building something that looked like an IED in the garage, but I knew better than to stick my nose into club matters.
    Some brothers of his even stopped by a few times. I knew some of them from visits to Pure and Easy. I’d only been to the Bum Steer once, but the Bare Bones had concerns all over the place. They had a brothel, the sex streaming place called the Triple Exposure, and an army surplus store run by a brother named Turk.
    Turk seemed to be Ford’s best friend, and he was arguably even more beautiful than Ford. Ford actually looked more Turkish, with his swarthy café au lait skin, his aquiline nose, and his full sensual lips. Maybe Turk was called Turk because he kept his gorgeous flowing long hair in a man bun, with just a few wisps framing the face so exquisite any woman would kill for it. He was a fully patched member too, although he didn’t seem much older than Ford.
    He was stunning. I remember Ford telling me once, before he knew that I cared, that people were constantly running up to Turk to ask him if he wanted to be in their TV commercials, that’s how perfect he was.
    So when these brothers came by to discuss business, I put on that new push-up bra, tugged down my wifebeater, and pinched my nipples so they’d poke through both layers of fabric. I appeared in the doorway and “innocently” asked if anyone wanted anything to drink. We had Bud and Amstel Light for those guys watching their figures. Suddenly everyone was all over that, clamoring to put in their drink orders. I reveled in the look of simmering consternation on Ford’s face, especially when I “had” to lean so far over Turk’s shoulder that my boobs rested on his shoulder.
    I made sure that didn’t happen when I served Riker. The one and only time I’d gone to the Bum Steer, that guy had come staggering out with some kind of hard plastic cylinder stuck to his johnson. It looked painful, but he was so drunk he didn’t seem to notice—that, or the fact that he wore a giant bib and a big, flouncy kind of hat that looked like a baby bonnet.
    I was no innocent, but that was some deep-seated shit, and disturbing to the nth in a grizzled, flabby biker, so I stayed away from that shit.
    I heard them talk about me, though.
    “You tapped that pussy?” asked a guy named Tuzigoot. I don’t know if he was Native or Central American or what, but he did look like the kind of ancient Aztec god that would be furiously emerging from a jungle swamp to smite you down with a heavy solid gold idol. His face was severely pockmarked, and I’m sure no one had ever dared make fun of his waist-length hair. “That’s that fender fluff you’ve been riding around with.”
    “Yeah, you didn’t stay long at the Steer when you brought her,” Riker said obliviously.
    “Don’t go there,” said Ford darkly.
    I swelled with pride at this. Ford wanted to protect me from the long horny arms of his brothers. Then, naturally, all the guys started saying shit like “ooo, someone likes her,” “Ford’s been pushing up on that ass,” and “she’s got a balcony you could do Shakespeare from.” You know, normal mature guy remarks.
    “Don’t. Just don’t, you hear?” was all Ford would say on the matter. “Now, Duji, how abso-fucking-lutely sure are you about this Cutlass storehouse out by Mormon Lake?”
    “Three hundred and ten fucking percent,” said Duji.
    “That’s mathematically absurd,” said my brother, who’d been invited in on the meet.
    Apparently potential prospects weren’t supposed to speak up, though, for a few brothers bodily lifted Robert and took him