Have Gun Will Travel

By Layla Wolfe

The sun never sets on a Bare Bones patch.
Beatrix Hellman has reunited with her Bare Bones sweetbutt friends from high school. Her isolated life in a mountaintop convent has ground to a sudden halt, her faith dashed against the rocks. She needs something else to believe in, and her old friends become her new family. But a sadistic cartel associate of the club has maimed one of the whores. Bee and the women put a bounty on Tony Tormenta’s head. And they think they know just the man for the job.
Zane “Sax” Saxonberg is back from a different sort of exile. He was banished by his club Prez brother Leo a decade ago to ride the interstates of America as a nomad. Haunting back road BDSM clubs, Sax has a willing submissive in every state. He returns to the Bare Bones’ backyard to help the women and to check on his nephew Harte. Instead he finds a fiery slave in Bee—part camp counselor, part nun, part Force-Me Queen.
Will Sax’s bold heroics renew Bee’s faith in the world? She finds control and strength in submitting to the virile bad boy biker. With each power exchange, she is brought closer to a fresh hope and conviction, but tracking down the brutal Tormenta also brings fresh danger as they close in on his mountaintop hideout.
Publisher’s Note: This is Book #5 in the Bare Bones MC series. This book is a stand-alone and can be read out of order, but the series is best read in order to gain the full experience. This is not your mother’s contemporary romance. Daring readers will encounter violence against women, Daddy Dom/rebel play, May/December age play, exhibitionism/voyeurism, spanking, your garden-variety bondage, and a HEA. It is not for the faint of heart. It’s a full length novel of 66,000 words with no cliffhanger. Recommended 18+ due to mature content and possible triggers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Layla Wolfe
• Release date: Feb 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370812417

Layla Wolfe

Layla Wolfe is a wannabe biker's Old Lady who is satisfied with a leather jacket, one bad-ass pink camo compound bow, and a vicarious outlaw lifestyle.Layla has published 25+ erotic romance titles under the name Karen Mercury.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

BEATRIX

The roar was so loud and gnarled that it wasn’t even human.

I wasn’t sure what I was listening to at first. Strange sounds weren’t unusual at The Drawing Board, clubhouse for the Flagstaff chapter of The Bare Bones MC. That’s why I hung around. Never a dull moment. I wasn’t really a sweetbutt, having never actually fucked a member. But a lot of the women were my friends and I liked the relaxed, exciting environment. I was a hang-around, I guess—the female equivalent of those pathetic losers who stand on the fringes of the club, hoping beyond hope they’ll get picked for the latest Prospect opening but doing nothing to prove themselves. Yeah, that sounds like me.

I was out back in the courtyard planting a cute sort of bonsai cypress into a colorfully painted Mexican pot. As I sifted the rich, fragrant fertilizer into the pot, I chatted with Brenda Ridings. Brenda aspired to become the official old lady of Harte Saxonberg, son of the Prez, Leo Saxonberg. I wished her luck. Only the choicest, cleanest, most upstanding sweetbutt would be chosen for the saintly Harte. That’s why he hadn’t really had anyone more important than fender fluff in the year I’d been around. Leo was waiting for a woman with class, looks, and smarts for his only son, and although she was my good friend, Brenda Ridings wasn’t it. I’d gone to high school with many of the club whores.

Are you coming to the fish fry this weekend, or do you have to work? Brenda asked me.

I owned my own nursery on the outskirts of town, another reason I’d never become a sweetbutt. It was way too much work keeping that place running, and I usually only got away for a few hours. Besides, I had a boyfriend, someone not affiliated with the club. I’ll sure try, Brenda. Is Dayton Navarro’s band going to play? Brenda would’ve settled for Dayton Navarro, too, but he hadn’t shown any interest in her, either. Poor Brenda. The life and drama of a club sweetbutt.

"You bet. That guy is one stone cold fox. He’s pushed up on practically everyone except me. Huh? What the fuck is that?"

It sounded like the roar of a cornered, injured bear. The spooky bellow came from one of the back rooms of the long, train-like building shaped like a T. People in the bar area would have to run around a few corners to reach it, although it didn’t sound like anyone was clamoring to find out what the sound was. I jammed my trowel into the soil, and we raced in through the back door.

Brenda said, I think that’s the room where Cassie went half an hour ago.

She was right. The bear roar was male, but now Cassie’s high-pitched squeal joined in. She was fighting with whoever she’d brought back there.

"You fucking cunt! boomed the guy, who sounded large and menacing. Brenda and I paused briefly in our race down the hallway when the smack of flesh against flesh resounded inside the little cubicle. You fucking bit me!"

We looked at each other, wide-eyed. Suddenly we weren’t too eager to bust in like saviors. You never knew what these men were capable of. They all packed pieces, of course. Many of them were unpredictable and prone to violence. That was just the nature of belonging to an outlaw motorcycle club. You didn’t get there by being a law-abiding, level-headed member of society. In fact, the more violent and unpredictable a man was, the more likely to get ahead in the club. That’s why I hung around. I thrived on the wild, uncertain atmosphere—the chance that something completely out of left field might happen at any moment.

And now it was.

"It was an accident!" shrieked Cassie, right before what sounded like the bruiser smacking her across the face.

Brenda looked ghostly. Should we intervene? Or wait for a man to come?

No one was following in our footsteps. We stood there like morons with our hands at our sides just listening to the violence unfold. I might like to be close to violence, but I guess when it actually happened, I wasn’t quite that eager to leap in. I didn’t even carry a knife—I was a mild-mannered gardener who might like a touch of bondage now and then. I wasn’t racing to be shot by this ape, who didn’t sound like any member of The Bare Bones that I knew. Who was he?

"That was no fucking accident! You motherfucking cocksucking piece of shit whore!"

Cassie’s screams were so high-pitched they were almost inaudible. From the scuffling, the furniture being knocked around, the grunts and the punches, I gathered he might be raping her. I muttered, Our father in heaven.

Two more women were now rushing down the hallway, giving me confidence. Rhetta and Missy added power to our little knot of women, and I became more indignant.

He’s beating the crap out of her! I yelled, loud enough for the brute to hear me. I didn’t care. There was strength in numbers. I didn’t understand why no men had come to our assistance. Up front, the jukebox was blasting The Allman Brothers, but Rhetta and Missy had heard the commotion. Surely the men had, too. If nothing else, where the hell was Harte Saxonberg? He was the tenderest one with the biggest heart. His father Leo was a cold-hearted businessman. One had to be, to be Prez. But Harte had an easy and true smile, always a kind word for everyone—just a big, buff giant of a love, from what I could see. And hot. Hella fine with his fiery ginger hair. I could easily see being bound by him, maybe a bit of clit torture.

A knife flashed in Rhetta’s hand. "That’s fucking Tony Tormenta in there. I don’t give a shit if he’s an important associate of the club’s. You do not run around beating up on us. It’s just not done."

Actually, it was done, and often. Bikers drank a lot and had hot tempers. It didn’t take much to set one off, and they weren’t above smacking around their old ladies if it was called for, to keep them in line. It was a very old-fashioned, old school sort of organization.

But with four of us, maybe we could help. I nodded emphatically. Tony Tormenta is some kind of fucking flesh peddler. He takes women from Mexico and white women and sells them up north in Utah, sells them into the hooking trade.

We all gasped as one when Cassie’s shriek changed pitch. It was now a long, low, mournful dirge—a widow moaning at her husband’s grave.

That was it. That was fucking it. Taking the bull by the horns as I’d been trained to do—I’d spent years learning to help the downtrodden, the helpless, the victimized—I turned the knob and flung the door open. The other three women piled in behind me, propelling me forward into the room.

Oh, dear Lord. It was way worse than any of us expected.

Cassie Hasselbeck was crunched into a pile of bones in the corner of the dirty little storage room. She really did look like a bird run over by a car with her elbows and knees splayed every which way.

Tony Tormenta, that soulless human trafficker, loomed large above her like some kind of puffed-up superhero. He’d been famous for his Facebook page where he’d posed pouting like he’d had collagen injections in his lips in front of piles of cash, guns, and drugs. Facebook shut the page down, but not before Tony Tormenta’s fame had spread beyond the underworld, into the region of ordinary people like me. I had even heard about the poor sicario, the hapless hitman of Tormenta’s who had displeased him in some way. His head had been made into a soccer ball for Tony and his cohorts to literally kick around. These iconic stories always resurfaced whenever Tormenta came into Flagstaff to do business with Leo.

I could’ve sworn I saw a drop of blood flick from the blade of the knife Tony brandished. He’d been hard at work cutting Cassie’s face to ribbons when we busted in, and he took a step back from her. He looked like he admired his handiwork, nodding with pleasure, barely noticing us. Cassie looked like a latticework cherry pie, diamond-shaped pieces of hanging skin leaking blood down her chest. He’d even managed to slash a few canals across her boobs, where they pulsed almost with a life of their own, beating in time with her heart.

Having been trained to assist the needy, I rushed forward and gathered Cassie to my chest. Rhetta was the only one with the balls to actually confront Tormenta. She showed him her knife. "You scum-sucking epic bastard! How dare you come into our clubhouse and hurt one of us?"

I couldn’t resist joining in, although my voice was filled with tears. You complete and utter dirtbag! Do you know what Leo’s going to do when he finds out you’ve maimed his favorite girl? But Cassie wasn’t Leo’s favorite girl. Rhetta probably was.

Folding his knife back up, Tormenta actually laughed at Rhetta. Leo’s not going to do a damned fucking thing, you worthless slut. You think he’s going to risk our valuable business partnership over some piece of shit sweetbutt who bit my salami? Not a chance in hell, sweetheart. Now get the fuck out of my way.

He strong-armed Rhetta so forcefully that she smashed against the wall, not having had the chance to use her knife before he flashed out the door.

I said, Call Gudrun McGill, Slushy’s daughter. She’s going to nursing school on the other side of town.

She’s on her honeymoon, said Missy, squatting next to us. We’ll have to get Maddy out of Pure and Easy. She’s the only other nurse I know.

Get her! I snapped, and Missy pulled her cell from her bra. It would take Maddy an hour to get up to Flag. I wondered if Cassie’s wounds would require stitches or plastic surgery of some kind. It was hard to tell, so I told Brenda, "Go get me a washcloth and a bowl of water. And find out why the fuck no real men have come down here!"

That’s what really pissed me off, the fact that not a single man had come to our aid. These men were so violent, so easily riled, so ready to rumble at the drop of a hat when it came to their club. Yet it was becoming painfully evident that anyone hurt one of their sweetbutts and they all turned the other cheek. Especially when it came to Tony Tormenta.

Something weird was going on. As I cradled Cassie’s head to my breast, her blood leaking so profusely I could feel its jammy warmth seeping into my shirtfront, it struck me. Any other guy beat up a woman like this, the brothers would’ve jumped him. Any other hang-around and even a Prospect tried this, he’d come out worse for the wear on the other end. Brothers could do what they wanted with their own old ladies, but now an outsider had slashed a sweetbutt into mincemeat, and not one guy even came to see what was going on?

It’ll be okay, Cassie. Cassie had been my BFF in high school, and the reason I’d started hanging around The Bare Bones MC. I had recently lost faith in my training and changed my life completely, returning to Flagstaff where we’d grown up. That was the natural thing to do. That’s how I, a former religious novice, had come to be where I was now, if you really want to know. I’d used my horticultural learning to buy a nursery that was for sale and gotten my own apartment. I’d hooked up with a Sir who trained me to be submissive—a sort of perverse continuation of the faith-filled life I’d just given up—and reconnected with Cassie.

She’d introduced me to patch holders in the club. I really liked the atmosphere, the camaraderie of hanging around the club. It made me feel part of a group again, like I was replacing my old family with a new one. It was Cassie’s entire life. She didn’t want to be a pass-around forever, either. She was one of dozens all vying to be The One for Harte Saxonberg. I had to admit he was adorable, manly, and charming as hell, but I was satisfied with the strict discipline of my own Sir. The club was my family, not my sex life.

We’ll get that motherfucker, I told Cassie now. He can’t just run around slashing up women like that. But I wasn’t convinced we would get Tormenta, not with the reaction, or lack of, that I’d just witnessed.

At long last, a pair of male engineer boots came stomping down the hallway. Just one guy, by himself. But it was better than nothing.

He spoke to Brenda outside in the hall. Of course it was Harte, the only one with enough balls to defy Tormenta. What the fuck? I just got back from the building supply store and I see Tony Tormenta blazing out of here with blood all over his fucking shirt. Navarro told me to come back here. What the hell happened?

Not waiting for an answer, Harte pushed his way into the small, dark room. His hand hit the wall switch, but the bare fluorescent bulb above only made the scene look even gruesomer, if such a thing was possible. His adorable Cupid-shaped mouth was now an O, and fire flashed in his eyes when he looked at Cassie. Brenda squeaked past Harte and set the bowl of water down next to me.

His voice was aghast. What…the… Then he collected himself, and shouted. What was Tormenta’s excuse for doing this?

Rhetta made a lip fart. She bit his winky dinky, apparently.

By accident, added Brenda.

Well, shit happens! Harte cried, logically. "He gets this fucking postal over a bitten dick? This is beyond fucking outrageous! And no one came to your aid?" Wiping his face with his hand, he paced in circles.

No one! I snapped. As I patted the trickles of blood from Cassie’s face, I could see that luckily none of them were terribly deep. But she’d be horribly scarred for life if Madison Illuminati couldn’t come up with some sort of plastic surgery for her—which I was sure Maddy could. "What is wrong with you fucking people? The bar is packed with patch holders, yet you’re the only ones with balls enough to come down the hallway?" I could afford to snap at a member of the MC. I wasn’t a sweetbutt. I had no stake in this. I just hated to see my friend injured.

"Not one person came to assist you? That’s it, man, that’s fucking it." Harte started back into the hallway, but he ran into another solid pillar of a man. I could only see the silhouette of the guy, but I could easily hear their pissed-off words.

Harte yelled, "What’s the fucking meaning of this, Dad? You let that Tormenta asshole get away with something like this and don’t lift a fucking finger? I don’t care if she bit his ding-dong clean off, there’s no fucking excuse for this sort of shit!"

Let me see, Leo Saxonberg said gruffly, shoving past his hulk of a son.

Leo took a look at us crammed into the corner of the room. He blinked once, then returned to the hallway. Even he couldn’t look. His voice was lower now, mumbling. Listen, Harte. You know how important my connection with Tormenta is. Let’s just keep this under the radar for now and not make a big fucking stink about it. She’ll get better and forget all about it. Get her a gift certificate for a spa treatment or something down in Pure and Easy. Send her to some vortexes.

"Vortices, Harte said hotly, his jaw tight. And her injuries aren’t going to be helped by any woo-woo spa treatment, Dad. That anusbrain cut her good. I can’t imagine a woman doing anything to warrant such fucking treatment."

Leo put his hands on Harte’s shoulders. I know, I know, Harte. It’s inexcusable behavior and so on. But you gotta understand Tony. That’s the world he lives in, the circles he moves in. That’s the sort of shit they do. I’m sure you’ve heard the story of how they took Roman Serpico’s father’s face and plastered it onto a soccer ball.

What? That was Roman Serpico’s father who was turned into a sporting good? Roman was the newest member of the Pure and Easy Red Rocks Original chapter, where it’d all started. He’d transferred there when the Tucson clubhouse had blown up. I could easily see the former rocker—and hitman-in-training—Roman go on the warpath against Tormenta once he heard about his latest stunt. But according to Missy, he was on his honeymoon with Gudrun McGill. Maybe Harte would take up our cause. He’d been known to go against his father. He wasn’t just a brainless, mindless robot following his father’s orders. That was yet another attractive thing about Harte. He was his own man.

Of course I’ve fucking heard that, and I fucking believe it, Dad. That’s why we’ve got to put a stop to this asshole. He’s out of control. Can’t you keep your business arrangements with him but not let him near our fucking clubhouse?

Leo shook his head with certainty. No. No. No, I can’t, Harte. You know how it goes. It’s the reaching out. It’s the courtesy between associates. It’s the common hospitality we show each other when we visit each other’s backyards. When I go down to Tucson on business, Tormenta hooks me up with a fucking time I’ll never forget.

Harte exploded. "Well isn’t that just fucking lovely, then? You’re going to invite that maniac back into our clubhouse just so he can do the same thing—or maybe worse—to another one of our women? You know what? You disgust even me, Dad. I don’t expect you or Birdseye to do anything about it, seeing as how no one has even bothered walking down that fucking hallway to see how Cassie is. That’s it. I’m washing my hands of you motherfuckers. I’m calling Uncle Sax."

"No!"

Leo’s bark stopped Harte cold in his tracks. Harte had his cell in his hand as if about to punch his uncle’s number. But Harte chuckled with disdain. "You think you can stop me? Sax is the only one who’ll do anything about this. He’s the only one left with any decent, human emotions. Maybe because you drove him away ten years ago. He was never under your vicious influence."

Harte made as if to split, but Leo grabbed a handful of the front of his leather cut. Touching a man’s cut was an unforgiveable offense, but Leo was the Prez, as well as Harte’s father. Harte stopped.

Leo snarled, rattling Harte mercilessly. "Let’s keep this buried, boy. I don’t know where you get the idea that that nomad loser Sax is suddenly going to ride over here from Maine or Bumfuck or whatever hellhole he’s currently growing moss in. But he’s going to care about some slashed-up pussy even less than I do. You give him far too much credit and I don’t know why. He’s a worthless, shifty nomad, and always will be."

Harte finally wrenched his cut from his father’s grip. His angry voice spewed from him, lizard-like, as though possessed by a demon. Don’t fucking touch me. And I don’t know why you’re always badmouthing Sax when all I’ve seen from him is good. He stalked off down the hall.

Leo shouted, You fucking call Sax and I’ll send you on that run to Nogales tomorrow.

I won’t go, bellowed Harte from the end of the hall.

"That’s what you think!"

Leo, too, stormed off. We women breathed easier. Like I said, never a dull moment around here. Normally that was why I liked it, but I was starting to question my attraction to the club.