Ghost
Devil’s Disciples Book 3
Scott Hildreth
Contents
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Prologue
1. Abby
2. Ghost
3. Abby
4. Ghost
5. Abby
6. Ghost
7. Abby
8. Ghost
9. Abby
10. Ghost
11. Abby
12. Porter
13. Abby
14. Ghost
15. Abby
16. Ghost
17. Abby
18. Ghost
19. Abby
20. Porter
21. Abby
22. Ghost
23. Abby
24. Ghost
25. Abby
26. Ghost
27. Abby
28. Ghost
29. Abby
30. Ghost
31. Abby
32. Ghost
33. Ghost
34. Ghost
35. Ghost
36. Ghost
37. Ghost
Epilogue
Dedication
To the late Jerry Hicks.
Thanks for the rock. It helped me until I could find a way to come to believe.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This book contains scenes of criminal acts, some that are typical of gangs and motorcycle clubs, and some that aren’t. The fictitious club name, Devil’s Disciples, is in no way tied to the real-life club, Devils Diciples. Different spelling, different club. The acts and actions depicted in the book are fictitious, as are the characters.
Every sexual partner in the book is over the age of 18. Please, if you intend to read further than this comment, be over the age of 18 to enjoy this novel.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, are coincidental.
GHOST 1st Edition Copyright © 2018 by Scott Hildreth
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights
Cover design by Jessica www.jessicahildrethdesigns.com
Cover photo by Golden www.onefuriousfotog.com
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Prologue
In the grand scheme of things, the loss of human life goes unnoticed. Not surprising, as one hundred and five people die with each revolution of the clock’s second hand. Loss after regretful loss, the world, however, continues to turn.
Nonetheless, on that day the planet’s balance was askew.
The straps from the lowering device steadied the casket over the grave, giving it an appearance as if it were hovering over the darkened opening that lied beneath it. The beautiful Rosetan velvet interior was concealed from view, as was the body that had encapsulated the gracious soul for more than three decades.
A man and a woman stood hand in hand beside the casket. The man’s jaw was clenched tight, a product of his inability to accept the untimely death of the deceased. I would have given my own life to spare this one, he thought.
The woman, wearing a black dress and matching coat, rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet. Beneath San Diego’s midday sun, she filled with regret for her choice in attire. She nonchalantly raised her left hand to her cheek and wiped a tear, hoping the action would go unnoticed. Nothing made sense to her. How much grief, she thought, should one person endure in a lifetime?
The grieving added to the profound pain that whittled away at her heart.
In the distance, the drone of five approaching motorcycles gave hint that the deceased’s parents would not lament alone. As the men grew closer, startled birds flew from a row of Weeping Acacias that decorated the roadside.
The motorcycles parked side by side beneath the blanket of shade the trees provided. One by one, the men, clad in jeans, black tee shirts, and black leather boots, dismounted their motorized steeds and turned toward the gravesite.
After glancing at the flock of birds, one of the men reached into his right pants pocket, feigned surprise, and paused. “I need to grab something,” he said, directing his remark toward no one. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
He turned toward his motorcycle and lowered his head slightly. A tear rolled along the bridge of his nose, and then lingered at the edge of his nostril before it trickled onto his upper lip. Unlike the mother, he didn’t brush it away.
He’d promised not to.
As he prayed for a breeze that never came, he peered toward the distant horizon. Their last days together came to mind, and with them came slivers of peace. With some hesitation, he turned around and swallowed the lump of compassion that had risen in his throat.
He then took the first step of many that he knew he’d be taking without the deceased at his side.
1
Abby
I threw the brick at the window as hard as I could. Much to my surprise, it bounced off the glass and shot at me like a rectangular brown rocket. Before I could dodge the projectile, it slammed into my knee so violently I feared I may be crippled for life.
In the brick-filled bed of an unknown man’s pickup truck, I stumbled to keep my footing. I glanced at my throbbing knee. Blood trickled down my leg. Fueled by equal parts anger and compassion, I grabbed another brick from the selection piled at my feet.
I had to act quickly. At least one life was at stake. I raised my hand and took aim at the truck’s back window.
“Abby!” a familiar voice shouted from behind me. “What in the hell are you doing?”
Brick in hand, I glanced over my right shoulder. “Saving a life,” I declared.
George was the owner of the Devil Dog Diner, a restaurant I ate in no less than ten times a week. He was looking at me the same way he did the first time I ordered a cheese sandwich with apple slices on it.
He’d retired from the Marines after serving thirty years. Even though he was in his mid-fifties, he still resembled his barrel-chested brethren that spent their current days traipsing through battlefields in distant countries. His massive biceps and permanent scowl made him an intimidating figure to those who didn’t know him. To me, he was nothing but a big teddy bear.
Unless he was angry. And, from what I could see, he was angry.
“Get down from there before someone starts filming this,” he said, glancing over each shoulder as he spoke. “The last thing you need is to be on the six o’ clock news with a brick in your hand and blood gushing out of your leg.”
I acted as though I didn’t hear him. Using the brick, I gestured toward the sidewalk. “Watch out,” I warned. “Glass is going to go everywhere.”
I hurled the brick with every ounce of energy I could harness. I watched in horror as the event played before my eyes like a slow-motion scene from a low-budget black comedy movie.
The brick hit the center of the truck’s back window. The glass flexed but didn’t break. The brick changed directions, seeming to gain speed as it did so. Then, it plowed into the shin of my good leg.
I stumbled backward, almost topp
ling over the tailgate and into the street. “Son-of-a-bitch,” I shrieked, reaching for what was left of my mangled shin. “That hurt like hell.”
After steadying myself against the edge of the truck’s bed, I glanced at George and tried not to burst into tears.
“You know how I hate repeating myself, but I’ll ask again.” He opened the truck’s tailgate. “What in the hell are you doing?”
He was frustrated with me. I could clearly see – and hear – it. I swallowed heavily, and then took a deep breath.
“There’s a puppy locked inside he was bouncing around and looking out the window when I came in for lunch when I came out I noticed the truck was still here the windows are rolled up tight he’s on the floor and looks like he’s dying I need to save him,” I said in one breathless sentence.
He extended his arms toward me. “Let’s get you out of there.”
“He’s going to die,” I pleaded, my voice cracking from emotion. “I need to get him out of there.”
He hopped into the back of the truck with ease and then lifted me from my feet. After lowering me gently onto the street he gestured toward his restaurant. “Go stand on the sidewalk.”
Before I hobbled to the edge of the curb, I heard the glass shatter. While the shrill sound of the truck’s alarm filled the air, George disappeared through the broken window and into the cab of the truck. I limped to the passenger door and pulled against the handle frantically. After three or four yanks, the door lock clicked.
The door flew open.
The brown and white bull dog puppy George cradled in his arms looked to be exhausted. He was alive, and that was all that mattered.
“Thank God he’s not dead,” I said.
“Hey, shithead!” someone shouted. “What the fuck are you doing in my truck?”
George handed me the puppy as he climbed out of the truck’s cab. With the shivering pup held tightly in my arms, I turned toward the angry voice.
A lanky young man stood between us and the restaurant. He was dressed in khaki work pants, canvas boots, and a black sweat-stained tee shirt. He raked his sun-bleached hair from his face and shot me a sunken-eyed glare. “Gimme my dog.”
I had all the patience in the world unless stupid people were involved. He’d proven his stupidity when he parked the truck beneath San Diego’s summer sun and rolled up the windows.
“Go to hell,” I snarled. “You locked this dog in that truck with the windows up and left him there for two hours, you dumb jerk. He’s not yours any longer. You’re too stupid to take care of an animal.”
After my tirade, his cheeks went red with anger. “Gimme the dog.”
“F-you,” I hissed.
I wouldn’t give him the dog if he held a gun to my head. While I made plans to knee him in the balls and make a run for it, George stepped between us.
“If you take one step in our direction, I’ll pull off your arms and beat you with the bloody stubs,” George growled, puffing his massive chest as he spoke. “You’ve got two options. Hop in your truck and leave or get those skinny little arms of yours pulled off. I’ll let you pick which one.”
The man studied George, but not for long. Upon realizing it was a fight he simply couldn’t win, his shoulders slumped.
“That dog’s a dipshit anyway,” he muttered.
He stepped into the street and stomped toward his truck. As we walked past, George eyed the man over his shoulder. The thought of such a foolish person having control of an animal’s welfare had my blood boiling. I followed George toward the diner, glaring at the animal abuser the entire way.
As he got in his truck, he gave his parting comment under his breath.
“Asshole,” he murmured.
I flipped him the middle finger over my left shoulder while clutching the pup to my chest.
George glanced at the puppy and then at me. He brushed his palm along the edge of his freshly buzzed scalp and shook his head lightly before looking away.
“What?” I asked.
“You throw bricks like a girl.”
“Learn to throw a brick like a Boss,” I said with a laugh. “I’ll add that to my list.”
“The ever-growing list,” he said, flashing a slight smile.
“I’ll check one off today I never thought I’d get to,” I said.
“Which one is that?”
“Saving a life,” I said. “That only leaves six.”
“What are you going to do when you reach the end?” he asked.
It was a good question. At one point in time, my to-do list had over two hundred items on it. Somehow, I’d managed to accomplish all but six. Out of what remained, five would require nothing more than a little ingenuity and a sprinkle of effort on my part.
The sixth?
It was highly unlikely I’d ever achieve it.
“After the last one?” I cradled the pup in my arms. “You’ll probably never see me again.”
“What?” he gasped. “Why’s that?”
“Because,” I said. “I want to let that one consume me.”
2
Ghost
Holding my arms outstretched and parallel to the floor, I traipsed the length of the room with the grace of a two-hundred-and-thirty-pound ballerina. A week earlier, standing was difficult. Proud of my accomplishment, I looked at the sun-spotted face of the seventy-year-old doctor and hoped for a little recognition.
A golf clap.
A simple nod.
Other than blinking twice, his face remained expressionless.
I gave him a what the fuck’s wrong with you glare.
After a moment, he lifted his chin ever so slightly. “In the last week, there’s been remarkable improvements in your coordination and balance. It doesn’t relieve the fact that the magnetic resonance imaging scan revealed a tumor eleven by eight by thirty-three millimeters in size. If you’re hoping for a clean bill of health you’re not going to get it, Mister Reeves.”
I don’t know what I wanted. Reassurance that I could live a normal life until it was time for me to check in with my maker, I suppose.
Something.
After falling at the gym, I woke up the next morning with a pounding headache. Incapable of rising to my feet, I eventually admitted defeat and called an ambulance. An MRI gave news that many people secretly feared, but that I knew was inevitable.
Mister Reeves, we’ve determined that you have a brain tumor.
I grew up in a single parent home of sorts, being raised by my mother and grandparents. My mother acted as mothers do. She comforted me, supported me, and was sensitive to my childhood needs.
My grandfather died from skin cancer when I was very young, and what memories I had of him were mostly manufactured. I used them to satisfy me that my home wasn’t fatherless. After his death, my grandmother stepped into the role as my fatherly figure.
She was stern and opinionated. My friends and I knew we had to toe the line with her, or else. We respected her. In turn, she treated us with respect. She died of breast cancer when I was thirteen. After losing her, I stumbled through high school full of rage and depressed. I eventually turned to weight training as an avenue to rid myself of the anger and stress that followed her death.
It worked well, providing an outlet I couldn’t seem to find anywhere else. Then, mid-way through my senior year in high school, my mother developed lung cancer. She didn’t live long enough to see me graduate.
After I buried my mother, I shut down. My seventeen-year-old heart was broken. I became numb to life and all things in it. I was convinced I didn’t have the ability to let another human being into life, much less my heart.
There were four people left on earth I that cared about. We’d been friends since kindergarten. We were inseparable hooligans who had managed to stay one step ahead of the law as juveniles. As soon as we turned eighteen, the five of us moved – as a group – away from Great Falls, Montana, and far from the memories of what cancer had taken from me. We settled in San Diego, California.
Certain that I was destined to one day die from the same dreaded disease, I spent every day as if it were my last.
Intimidation had always worked for me in the past, so I loomed over the desk and flexed on the old man. “No treatment. Period. End. Of. Story.”
“Considering your background, I can understand your reservation,” he said dryly. “But there’s no shame in receiving treatment for cancer. Men do it every day. Men just like you. Big men. Tough men.”
Apparently, his hearing was as bad as his comb over. I locked eyes with him and crossed my arms. “I don’t have reservations. The answer’s no.”
Unfazed by my tactics, he leaned against the back of his chair and cocked his head to the side. “Why are you here, Mister Reeves?”
“I need that prescription refilled so I can live with these headaches.”
“Very well,” he said, his voice monotone. “Be forewarned, the pressure against your skull will increase as the tumor grows. Your vision will likely blur. Eventually, you’ll lose many of your cognitive skills. You’ll be reduced to using a wheelchair, and you’ll certainly die. All of this may be able to be prevented. The first step is a biopsy.”
“Not. Going. To. Happen,” I said though clenched teeth.
GHOST (Devil's Disciples MC Book 3) Page 1