Have Gun, Will Travel (The Bare Bones MC Book 5) (10 page)

“
Joder! Mierda!
”
Fuck! Shit! “Me cago en la madre que te parió!” I shit on the mother who gave birth to you!

“Excuse me,” said Sax in English, so the barrel-chested woman with spindly legs wouldn’t know that he understood her swearing. “I’m wondering if you have any gift certificates I could give my girlfriend.”

The woman pasted on an evil grin to explain her gift card process, but found time in her explanation to break away and yell over her shoulder. “
Mover el culo perezoso y limpiar esas máquinas de cortar!
”
Get off your lazy ass and clean those clippers!
For women who were berated so much, the employees sure didn’t seem to be obeying her, maybe because she seemed to need more of them. Only four women scurried around tending to fifteen clients.

Sax decided to cut to the chase. Pulling out his smartphone, he thumbed to a photo of Tony Tormenta. It was one of his infamous Facebook portraits from days of old, but Sax had cropped out the guns and bags of white powder so as not to “lead” her.

“¿Conoces a este hombre?” Do you know this man?

Her face blanched under her pockmarked skin as she looked at the photo. He realized later perhaps he should have spoken in English, because maybe she was panic-stricken to realize he spoke fairly decent Spanish. He had to, in all his travels.

Still, she responded in English. “Never seen him in my life. What did he do, kill some woman?”

What a strange thing to say.
“Do you mind if I show your employees this photo?”

Her fake smile froze. Her pupils became black pebbles of nastiness. “They are too busy to look at photos. Can’t you see? If you want to show salon owners photos, go crosstown to l’Amour Nails and talk to that woman Nguyen. She is probably familiar with rapists. Now, please. I have much work to do.”

Sax realized he’d have to come up with a new plan for infiltrating the salon. As he turned to leave, a Mexican woman was entering the front door. But when she saw him, fright flashed through her eyes. She changed her mind, and fled down the street.

She could have thought he was an inspector from the health department. Or she could have thought he was one of Tormenta’s thugs. Sax had to admit, there was no way he could erase his aura of thuggishness. Even without his cut on, hos hoodie zipped over his wifebeater, he looked like what he was—a hired gun. Of course he had his Glock stuck into the back of his jeans under the hoodie.

Sax texted Beatrix as he walked. He’d parked a few blocks away so as not to frighten anyone with the sight of his ’98 Springer Softail.

On my way to pick you up at The Citadel.

Her answer was immediate.
Never mind. I’ll head to Lytton’s myself.

No, stay where you are. I don’t want you traveling alone.

I’m already on my way. No big deal.

I don’t like it. You need to learn to obey. Have Wolf Glaser chase you there if you have to.

Then there was silence. He also didn’t want her texting while driving, so he didn’t harass her anymore. But as he turned his fuel switch on, he thought about how they’d need to set very stringent parameters for the young missy. He liked that she was a “free spirit,” basically a brat, but if she was going to stay safe and alive, she’d have to obey him.

He’d put a fucking tracker on her car if he had to—in fact, that was a very good idea. He didn’t want that fucking Wolf Glaser idiot hanging around him, getting in the way—he could assign Wolf to be her bodyguard. She could stay at Maddy’s along with Wolf. That would give Sax the freedom to finish his job, return as the lion of the day in supreme glory, and sweep up the innocent gardener—educate her in the “low protocol” joys of being dominated by an expert service Master who didn’t mind someone pushing back a little.

He didn’t see Beatrix’s cage on Lake Mary Road. When he arrived at Lytton’s palatial, glassy, wood-beamed new home on Mormon Mountain and didn’t see her cage, he checked his phone. Nothing from the camp counselor he was now beginning to jones for like an addict. The more she rebelled and disobeyed him, the more she drew him in. She was definitely topping him from the bottom, far more than he was accustomed to. A good bottom could enact some freaky rebel play—Lord knew, Sax enjoyed the power exchange as well as the next guy. But Beatrix Hellman had been disobeying him in almost every facet possible since the moment they’d met. More than ever, Sax wondered with a fever who the hell her Dom was.

He had a beer with Lytton out on their deck. Passing black-bottomed clouds sent almost psychedelic shadows racing across the surface of Mormon Lake. Blocky boulders strewn under great swaths of Ponderosa pine covered much of the hill beneath Lytton’s house, and once again, Sax longed for some stability in his life. This was what Lytton was allowed to look at every day. Sax was embarrassed that Lytton could already tell that he couldn’t control Beatrix. If he was a good Sir, they would have arrived together.

“I’ve known Bee for about a year,” confided Lytton. He was the spitting image of his half-brother Ford—the hawk’s nose, the gorgeous velvety skin, the flashing, passionate eyes. That Lytton’s mother had been Apache lent Lytton the added dimension of mystery. Lytton was Dr. Driving Hawk. He held a PhD in chemistry from MIT, giving Sax an automatic kinship with him. Sax, too, was also technically a doctor, his doctorate from the University of Michigan, so the two men had a bond. They were also both former club-goers at The Racquet Club in Flagstaff. Sax thought Lytton had been known as Master Hawk in the olden days. “I knew she was in the lifestyle by her collar, but nothing else really says that about her. It’s sort of intriguing.”

“Yeah, about that.” Sax was glad the subject had been broached for him. “Who’s this Sir guy she’s got, anyway? I’m not saying this because I like her, but he seems like kind of a dick.”

Looking from side to side, Lytton took a step closer. “I tend to agree. June told me that one of the Flag sweetbutts told her that Beatrix was trying to cover up some arm and leg bruises one day. I mean, fine, if they’re into impact play and all. But this asshole had clearly caned places you don’t normally go, like her femurs, her radius, her humerus. June said it just looked like he’d brutalized her.”

Sax wasn’t very good at keeping emotions inside, especially anger. “I suspected that. I suspect Bee is a newbie to the lifestyle, and maybe doesn’t know the difference between someone dominating her, and someone abusing her.”

“You’re right there,” Lytton agreed heatedly. “Especially after living such a sheltered life in the convent.”

Sax’s blood ran cold.
“What?”

All expression dropped from Lytton’s face. “The convent. You know, up in Boulder. Colorado,” he added, as though that was the only detail missing from the story.

“Convent,” Sax repeated stupidly. It was taking a hell of a long time to sink in, he knew. He really had no other choice, though, than to stand there like a moron with his brain running out his ears. He was truly blindsided by what was starting to sound like an utter lie. A fucking
convent?
He’d concluded that Funkhauser had been blowing it out his ass when he’d told Sax she had been named “Sister Colette” in her life as a nun. Was Lytton just perpetuating the same strange lie?

“Yeah, you know. She was a novitiate, which I think is the step before taking her first vows to become a nun. You knew that,” Lytton stated.

Too prideful to risk appearing ignorant, Sax took the high ground. “Something about that, yeah. That’s the first side of her that strikes you. She’s got this very innocent schoolgirl aura about her.” He forced himself to grin casually, almost lasciviously, risking looking like a pervert just to take the focus off the fact that he hadn’t believed Funkhauser. “Her naivety was the first thing that struck me.”

Lytton grinned too. “She’s definitely got that innocence, especially compared to the sweetbutts who are her friends. You’re probably right. That’s probably why she lets that asshole literally walk all over her. She probably doesn’t know any better.”

“When did she leave the convent, do you know? Is this guy her first Master?”

“I think he is. She’s only been hanging around the Flag clubhouse for a year or so. That’s how long she’s owned the nursery. But no one knows why she decided to give up becoming a nun. Must’ve had some massive crisis of faith.”

Of course
. It all made sense now. It brought out untold layers of dominance, craving, and machismo in Sax, knowing Beatrix actually
had
been a nun, or on her way to becoming one. It explained a lot of his attraction to her, unbeknownst even to himself. He probably should have been ashamed that the idea of fucking a novitiate was causing his cock to lengthen and surge with blood. It was more than just a uniform fetish, which he’d been known to have on occasion. There was nothing more satisfying than turning a “meter maid” over one’s knee and dishing out her just punishment.

This was different—deeper, more personal, more profound. Knowing she’d been a novitiate shaded Beatrix with complexities and nuances. Sax had known she was a deeply layered woman, but this new knowledge sent a wave of gooseflesh down his arms, puckering his nipples, filling his balls with seed. Sax wanted a covenant with the sensual gardener, a covenant of dominance and submission. He needed to get to the bottom of this Roscoe Flantz’s hold over Beatrix. He was going to end that abusive assmuncher and take his fucking rightful place as Master of the luminous sister. He looked forward to the training of Sister Colette…

Much like a horny guy attempting to think about baseball, Sax turned to discussing business with Lytton. “I just went down to a nail salon, a tip I had about Tormenta. Possibly smuggling women from Mexico to work in his god damned sweatshops.”

Lytton snorted. “Sounds like a Tormenta scheme. I remember him a few years back approaching Ford to use my connections over at the Fort Apache Rez to funnel his Sinaloa heroin. You know how the feds hate going onto Rez land. Of course Ford said no, at great risk to our club. No one says no to Tormenta.”

“Well, I couldn’t get much out of the madam running the joint, naturally, without blowing my cover. I was wondering if you might at least have some inspectors on your payroll, you know, for your dispensary, your pot farm.”

Lytton brightened. “Of course! I’ve got an associate at the State Department of Health. I can reach out to ol’ Saul Goldblum, see if he can rattle some cages.”

“Maybe flush Tormenta out,” Sax suggested. “Listen. Beatrix was supposed to be on her way up here and I’m worried. Let me try calling her again.”

Lytton frowned. “Of course.”

Sax wandered to the end of the long deck where he could get a view of the approaching driveway. No texts from Beatrix. No voicemails either. At the risk of appearing to be a Dom with no control, he thumbed her phone number. Straight to voicemail.

Sax grunted, a tight sound of frustration. If she truly had left The Citadel when she said she had, she would’ve been here twenty minutes ago. Hands on hips, he paced angrily, not accustomed to having no control. The idea to hop back on his scoot and shoot back down the highway to find her was just a seed in his brain when the unmistakable rumble of a Dyna’s tailpipes approached.

Yes, the white Dyna seemed to be circling some square looking cage, maybe a Jetta or a Passat. The two vehicles were at war with each other, the Dyna swerving to the right, then the left, staying just inches abreast of the VW’s front bumper. They were playing chicken, and Sax wasn’t surprised to realize the Dyna was operated by none other than Wolf Glaser, Prospect Extraordinaire. But who was the nerdy driver, and why was Glaser harassing him?

Lytton must have heard the motorized tug-of-war, too, because he was also racing through the house toward the front door. June came from the kitchen area, her hands covered in flour.

“That’s Tobiah Weingarten,” she told Sax, her eyes wide. “He’s our Leaves of Grass business manager. I don’t think he likes Wolf Glaser very much.”

That was the fucking understatement of the year. The three stood on the front portico while the Jetta burned gravel, coming to a sideways stop. Wolf didn’t seem to expect this maneuver and practically did a high side over the Jetta’s hood. Sax had to admire the Prospect’s save. Tobiah only got a mouthful of gravel when he turned his head to shout at Wolf. Wolf leaped off his ride triumphantly, doing a dance on the tips of his toes.

“Ha! Ha! Sorry to keep you from your comic book signing, nerd boy!”

Tobiah
was
a bowl-headed nerd boy, as far as Sax could see. He sprung from his cage utterly apoplectic, his spidery little legs clad in burnt umber jeans, his belt so white Sax had to put his shades back on. Tobiah pointed with a shaky hand, the hand of The Ghost of Christmas Future. His voice oozed with loathing. “
You
.
You
embarrassing little baby
. Every time you come around to ‘help,’ you wind up doing nothing but hinder. You’re like a giant diaper-clad infant whose sole business is to ruin everyone’s attempts at doing their jobs.”

Tobiah whipped his spindly torso to face Lytton. “Do you know what this worthless excuse for a Prospect just did? He’s jealous that I stole a girl that he never had in the first place, so he nearly
erased
the
one
vital piece of evidence I found that I know you’d want to see, the one
transient
piece of evidence that was about to be zapped from the interwebs for all time immemorial, never to be recovered again!”

Wolf’s dance lost some of its zip, but he still pirouetted around Tobiah. “I could care less about Tracy—you can have her! She’s got limp, mousy hair and a pear-shaped body anyway.”

That did it. Tobiah lost his decorum then. Like a mathlete protesting a ruling, his arms waved uncontrollably, and he took several threatening steps toward the dancing Prospect. “This is
no game
, you overgrown toddler! You were breathing so far down my neck the steam practically shorted out my motherboard, and your hands dripping with pizza grease almost slipped and hit the ‘delete’ key!”