Read Online Stay Vertical by Layla Wolfe - Free Book Online Page B

As we hummed along with my tits plastered to his broad, muscular back, I inhaled his warm, musky scent. In retrospect, it was probably one of his many strains of pot that imbued his hair.
    I had smoked bhangi many a time in Africa. I could only drink one big Tusker beer before feeling bloated and full, and there wasn’t anything much else to get you high other than the occasional bottle of third world palm wine or wazungu —white man—whisky, which was hugely expensive. Randy and I used to knock off work every day at six, drink our warm Tusker, and enjoy a bowl of bhangi . The penalties for being caught with bhangi were Turkish prison bad, although it was weak as hell stuff. I had never seen a whole plantation of pot plants. I was actually hugely interested in Lytton’s irrigation scheme. Things like that excited me, thrilled me to the core.
    But not as much as squirming my tits against that back like a slab of marble.
    I pretended I was trying to get comfortable as I squiggled my labia against the pussy pad. I was wearing one of the loose hippie skirts I’d become accustomed to in Africa, paired with a racer-back tank that had a built-in bra. I loved the manufacturer’s idea of “built-in bra.” It was more like just a second layer of fabric hemmed in by elastic, and my nipples always wound up poking out like hobnails on boots. A few times Lytton reached around and slapped my hip, presumably to stop me from squirming.
    It was forbidden and exciting to be shooting down Lake Mary Road like a luge sledder down a chute. A turn took us off the main drag and up the mountain about two miles. At an iron gate, Lytton paused for the first time since leaving Mescal Mountain to punch some numbers into the touchpad. Once the gate swung open, we were on our way again.
    I couldn’t tell much about the extent of his land due to acre after acre of pines. We reached a house that was surprisingly low-profile, just a two-story frame job that couldn’t have even been two thousand square feet. I was prouder than ever of Lytton for not being a show-offy boor. He rode a Harley because he truly enjoyed it, not to impress anyone with his cooler-than-thou lifestyle.
    Of course, just as I was removing my lid and thinking how unpretentious Lytton was, some slut wandered out onto the front porch. I don’t normally call other women sluts, but this one was so glaring and blatant, she probably enjoyed being called a slut. Her tiny lace camisole seemed designed specifically to highlight her, well, headlights. Her miniskirt was more like a handkerchief, and her eyeliner was smudged like a shopkeeper’s ledger.
    She draped herself over a banister and smiled lazily at Lytton. I could detect no expression on his face, and he lifted a hand to me, I suppose to bring me closer to him. I came tentatively—I hadn’t expected other sluts to be lying around, although of course it made sense for a single, well-to-do pot farmer living in isolation on a mountain.
    Lytton said, “The house is just a house, so let me show you the greenhouse, the clone room.”
    We walked down a narrow path between the trees. I said, “You said Doug Zelov told you about Cropper being your father. I remember Ford and Cropper talking about The Cutlasses. Ford’s not going to appreciate it much if you do business with The Cutlasses. They’re kind of mortal enemies, from what I gathered.”
    “I’ve never dealt with The Cutlasses on purpose, if that’s what you mean. They keep trying to force me to make deals with them, to help them.”
    “If I recall correctly, The Bare Bones blew up some warehouse of theirs not far from here, maybe ten years ago.”
    “I remember that. I was just going away to MIT, but my stepfather complained the roof down about hooligans near his property trying to kill each other.”
    “Well, it’s no big secret that Ford built the bomb that blasted the thing sky-high. I remember my brother Speed was prospecting for them, but he blew his mission to