GHOST (Devil's Disciples MC Book 3)

by Scott Hildreth

  “Rhode Island,” I said, my tone indifferent.

  “Seriously?” Cash whined. “Rhode fucking Island?”

  “I’m guessing you were team Connecticut?” I grinned and clapped my hands. “Decision’s made. We’re going to Rhode Island.”

  Cash flipped me his middle finger. “You weren’t even paying attention.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” I shrugged. “Vote was whether we wanted to go to Rhode Island or Connecticut. Club voted. Rhode Island it is.”

  Cash’s face distorted. “Asshole. If you don’t give a fuck, you should side with me, not Reno, Bake and Tito the turd.”

  “If I sided with you, it’d be a tie. Then, we’d be voting on two new places. We did that three years ago and ended up in fucking Florida. Not interested in going to that shit-hole again.”

  “Ghost needs to take a fucking nap,” Cash complained, turning to face Baker. “We can re-vote this next week.”

  “Vote’s complete,” Baker said. “We’re going to Rhode Island.”

  “Fuck that shit,” Cash snapped. “I want to see the leaves turning color in Connecticut. Rhode Island’s nothing but rocks and water.”

  Seeing the fall leaves sounded like a great idea. I’d never been through Connecticut in the fall. If I were to make a list like Abby’s, going to Connecticut in the fall would certainly be on it.

  “Connecticut.” I raised my index finger. “I’m changing my vote.”

  “If I allow the vote change, we’re in a tie,” Baker said. “If we’re in a tie, you know the rules.”

  “I don’t give a shit,” I said, turning to face Cash. “You want to ride to Connecticut this fall?”

  “Hell yeah,” Cash said.

  “Fuck it,” I said openly. “Cash and I are going to Connecticut.”

  “You’re all over the place,” Baker said. “What the hell’s wrong with you, Ghost?”

  Normally, I was decisive. Even if I happened to thrust myself into a situation that I later regretted, I never changed my mind. I was the poster boy for stubborn behavior, and the men knew it.

  “I’m exhausted,” I said, which was partially true. “Went to Borrego Springs earlier today. Caught a fucking rattlesnake. It was hotter than ten kinds of fuck, too.”

  “Borrego Springs?” Goose asked. “Why the fuck did you go to Borrego Springs?”

  “Rattlesnake?” Tito asked. “Was it a Western, Diamondback, Panamint, Sidewinder, Mojave, or Red Diamond?”

  Tito was a walking information vault, and often expected others to be as intelligent as he was. It was never the case. “How the fuck would I know?” I spouted. “It had a rattle on one end, and a pissed off head on the other.”

  “Was just wondering,” Tito said. “California has six species.”

  I pulled out my phone, opened the picture Abby had sent me, and handed the phone to Tito. “You tell me what that angry fucker is.”

  He looked at the photo. After his eyes shot wide, I decided whatever it was must have been what he was hoping for. He glanced at me, back at the phone, and then looked at Baker. His jaw was all but in his lap.

  “What?” Baker asked.

  Tito turned the phone to face Baker. Baker squinted in response. “Big snake. Don’t know what it is. Chick’s cute, though. Who is it?”

  “Uptown Abby,” Tito said.

  My eyes narrowed. “You know her?”

  Goose coughed out a wad of surprise and then snatched the phone from Tito’s hand. “You went to Borrego Springs with Uptown Abby?”

  “No shit?” Reno asked. “She’s hot as fuck.”

  I looked at each of them as if they were on fire. “Who the fuck’s Uptown Abby?”

  Tito grabbed the phone from Goose, fumbled with it for a moment, and then handed it to me. “This one’s funny. Just press play.”

  A YouTube video was loaded on the screen of my phone. I pressed play. After a five second video about the new BMW SUV, a woman appeared. Her hair was in a bun, and she was wearing glasses, but it was undoubtedly Abby. A much younger Abby, but it was her.

  Finding a man in San Diego that’s suitable for dating isn’t an easy task. Personally, I prefer a big man. A tall man. A man who makes me feel small and protected. So, I ventured to the gym in search of my perfect mate. What did I find?

  Well, I’m still single.

  I did come up with an idea, though.

  The personality gym.

  I think it’s a great concept. Instead of going in, lifting weights, and leaving with shredded abs, bulging biceps, and a missing neck, you would go in, get an awesome cup of Italian roast coffee and a bran muffin.

  While munching the muffin and sipping the coffee, you’d talk to a personality counselor. After six weeks, you’d graduate with manners, the ability to communicate with others, and a reasonable sense of self-worth.

  Why is it that most men who spend their idle time in the gym are referred to as meatheads?

  Because their heads are nothing more than a slab of meat, that’s why.

  The screen flashed to a sidewalk scene, where Abby was interviewing a man in front of a gym. He was wearing remnants of a tee shirt, spandex shorts, and carried a half-full protein shaker in one hand.

  Who was president when you were a senior in high school? Abby asked.

  The man took a drink from his plastic bottle and then gave her a confused look. Of what?

  The United States, she replied.

  After giving the question some serious thought, the man responded. Donald Trump.

  How many ounces are in two pounds of coffee? she asked.

  I don’t drink coffee how would I know? Next question.

  Who shot John F. Kennedy? she asked.

  I’m twenty-two. He took another gulp from his shaker, making sure to flex his bicep as he took the drink. That was before my time.

  Is it the Pacific or Atlantic Ocean that touches the coastline here?

  I’m not big into American history, he responded. Ask me something about proteins or carb loading--

  Does a man’s sperm have protein in it? she asked.

  He grinned. It’s got tons of it.

  How much? she asked. Per serving?

  He shrugged. Couple of grams.

  Gone with the Wind or Gone in Sixty Seconds? she asked.

  He drank the remained of his protein shake. Gone in Sixty Seconds.

  She motioned toward his protein shaker. How much of that stuff do you drink in a day?

  He raised the plastic cup. Three of these.

  How long does it take you to finish one set of curls? she asked.

  Twenty-two minutes, he responded proudly.

  That’s all I’ve got, she said with a smile.

  The screen switched to a split screen. On the left, the man’s body was visible, but his head had been swapped with a large wad of hamburger. On the right, Abby held the microphone.

  Does a man’s sperm have protein in it? she asked

  A makeshift mouth opened in the hamburger-shaped head. It’s got tons of it.

  How much of that stuff do you drink in a day?

  The hamburger-headed gym rat lifted the plastic cup. Three of these.

  How long does it take you to finish one? she asked.

  He raised the cup to his hamburger head half a dozen times, and then lowered it. Gone in sixty seconds, gone in sixty seconds, gone in sixty seconds…

  The screen switched back to the original one, with Abby sitting in front of the camera. Her eyebrows raised slowly, until they were at maximum height. After blinking repeatedly, she smiled.

  No male sperm was consumed in the making of this video, no douchebags were harmed, and, with the exception of mine, no ‘thank you’s’ were spoken. I’ll see you next week, when we’ll discuss rush hour traffic on the five, the rising price of cauliflower rice, and the migration of the Monarchs.

  She brushed her hair behind her ear, and then scratched the bottom of her nose with her index finger. She pointed at the screen. I’m uptown, I�
��m Abby, and I’m unfiltered.

  The screen faded to black.

  I turned off the phone, uncertain if I liked what I’d seen. I wondered why most of the men seemed overjoyed with the fact that I’d met the girl in the ridiculous video. I further wondered why all of them knew who she was.

  “That’s her,” I said, searching each of the men’s faces as I spoke. “What’s the big deal?”

  “She’s got twenty million followers,” Tito said.

  I stared at him in disbelief. “Twenty million?”

  He nodded. “Million. She makes about ten million a year off advertisements alone.”

  My eyes went wide. “Dollars? Ten million dollars?”

  “I can’t believe you don’t know who she is,” he said. “She’s been on Jimmy Kimmel, The View, The Tonight Show…Hell, I think she’s even met the president. How’d you meet her?”

  I had no intention of telling the men about my diagnosis, at least not yet. “I had no idea who she was.” I pushed my phone into my pocked. “She just randomly asked me if I’d give her a ride on my motorcycle. We ended up in Borrego Springs hunting rattlesnakes.”

  “Was rattlesnake hunting on her list?” Goose asked.

  I looked at him in disbelief. “You know about her list?”

  “She talks about it all the time,” he said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “It was on there.”

  Over the next few minutes, the men hit me with a barrage of questions, wondering if I was going to see her again and whether I fucked her before or after our trip to the desert.

  The day I left the doctor’s office, I had plans on going to one meeting, and one meeting only. After meeting Abby, I considered going to another just to see her again. I now felt I had to attend a meeting.

  Not because I needed therapy, or because thoughts of her caused me to smile.

  I needed to prove that some gym rats do have a personality.

  7

  Abby

  I ate my pancakes with the grace of a starving dog. The three oversized flapjacks reduced my desire for carbohydrates but did nothing to curb my appetite to see Porter again.

  Incapable of deciding whether I should send him a text message or order one more pancake, I stared blankly through the diner’s window. With a far more casual stride than normal, Lawson ambled into my line of sight.

  “Can I get another pancake?” I asked as his image walked past.

  He paused. “Just one?”

  I narrowed my blank stare and shifted my eyes to him. Two pancakes would fill the stomach of most of the Marine men who regularly ate at the diner. I’d already eaten three, but I had the metabolism of a greyhound, especially when something was bothering me.

  “Make it two,” I said, raising two fingers. “I might go for another run when I’m done.”

  He nodded and turned away.

  When I couldn’t decide what to do about one of life’s obstacles, I either ran or overate. At the end of my run, or by the time I wiped the corners of my mouth, I always had the answer. When I ran and overate, I was generally stuck – centered between what I wanted and what I truly needed – incapable of grasping either.

  Leaning one way or the other was the answer, and I couldn’t decide what direction was in my best interest.

  “What’s on your mind?” George asked from behind me.

  Seated at the end of a row of booths with my back facing the wall, I peered over my shoulder, toward the kitchen. “Nothing, really.”

  His square jaw tightened. He narrowed his eyes playfully and gave me a stare. “Lawson just came in the kitchen. The last time you ate six pancakes was the evening before you broke up with Kevin.”

  “Kelvin. His name was Kelvin, with an ‘L’,” I said. “And, I’m only having five.”

  He leaned over the back of the booth and looked me in the eyes. “I’ll ask again. What’s on your mind?”

  Immediately after meeting George, he stepped into my life as a father of sorts. Protecting me from Southern California’s undesirables seemed to be his calling. Upon hiring his male employees, he advised them of his hands-off policy when it came to me. If a patron acted overly friendly, George was at my table in an instant, squashing their advancements completely. Luckily, his clientele were regulars. Therefore, everyone knew his position on all things Abby related.

  I gestured to the empty seat across from me. “Sit down. It makes me nervous when you loom over me like that.”

  He sat across from me, resting his massive forearms on the edge of the table. He cocked an eyebrow. “Did you run this morning?”

  I nodded. “Five miles.”

  His mouth twisted into a smirk. “So, we’ve got a big problem.”

  “You know me all too well.” My gaze fell to the table top. “There was this guy at the meeting. He was really nice. We went to Borrego and I caught a rattlesnake.”

  I looked up, hoping I’d satisfied his curiosity.

  In complete contrast of my optimistic view, he coughed out a laugh. “Were you planning on stopping there, or are you going to continue with the rest of the story?”

  “That’s pretty much it,” I lied. “We rode out there, caught a rattlesnake, and then we rode back to the meeting. After that, I came home.”

  “I know you didn’t ride your bicycle to the desert.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Motorcycle?”

  I nodded.

  “Number thirty-whatever?” he asked.

  “Two,” I said. “It was number thirty-two.”

  “A biker. You’re contemplating a real biker?” He crossed his arms and peered down his nose at me. “What makes him special?”

  “I don’t know.”

  It was true. I didn’t know. He possessed the external qualities I liked in men, but beyond that I knew very little about him. I feared, however, that it was what I didn’t know that drew me to him. I wanted to find out what the root of his fear was. In time, I wanted to fix it.

  “What’s his…” He twisted his mouth to the side, seeming uncertain of how to continue. “Condition?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “He didn’t want to talk about it. We were discussing faith in the higher power, and he didn’t want to talk about that, either. But, he was really nice. I mean, we rode to Borrego Springs and back, and he never hit on me. Not once. And, he had no idea who I was, so that’s a plus.”

  His eyes widened a little. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive,” I assured him. “He doesn’t believe in social media. He thinks it’s dumb.”

  “So, what’s your plan?” he asked.

  I scrunched my nose and shrugged one shoulder. “Eat two more pancakes and see what I think?”

  “Bring him in here,” he said.

  It sounded like more of a demand than a recommendation. Mentally, my head shook vigorously. Outwardly, I tried to remain calm and seem unaffected by his request.

  “I don’t think that’s necessary,” I said, using caution to keep my tone emotionless. “Not yet.”

  “Bring him in here.” He slid out of the booth and stood. “I want to meet him.”

  I had my doubts Porter would show up to the next meeting. He lacked interest in sharing with the group. I suspected his attendance was mandated by his insurance company, and not driven by his desire.

  “Let me see if he even shows up to the next meeting.” I offered a smile. “We’ll go from there.”

  “Bring him in here.” He folded his arms over his chest. He did it when he was frustrated, and by my count, had already done it twice since sitting down. “That’s three times, if you’re keeping count.”

  I gave him an innocent look. “Three times?”

  “I said bring him in here three times.” He unfolded his arms and tugged against his apron. “Four, including this one.”

  I mouthed the words I’m sorry. “If he comes back, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “A fucking biker,” he murmured as he walked away.

  The instant George was gone, Lawson set my plat
e in front of me. After George’s interrogation I expected to be drawn to the steaming hot plate of goodness like a great white shark to a bleeding surfer. Instead, I looked at the Frisbee-sized discs of fried batter with disgust in my eyes. According to my lack of appetite, I wasn’t stuck in the middle any longer. My decision was made.

  Without so much as a moment’s thought I pulled my phone from my purse. I scrolled through my contacts and found Porter’s name. When I started to type him a text message, I noticed I had received one that I wasn’t aware of. It was an hour and a half old, and it was from Porter.

  I opened it.

  Ghost Porter-Porter: Have time to talk?

  I was instantly overcome with the same giddy excitement that filled me when Trent Rothchild asked me to senior prom. I fidgeted in my seat to thoughts of riding on Porter’s motorcycle, and of wrapping my arms around his muscular torso. I closed my eyes and tried to resurrect his scent but fell short, relying solely on a mental image of his handsome face and muscular physique as fuel to make me squirm.

  I wondered if he had questions about the meeting, about cancer, or if his interests were more along a personal level. Hoping his concerns were minimal and his interest in me was vast, I opened my eyes and typed a quick response.

  I’m eating a late breakfast. Other than that, I’m free all day. What did you have in mind?

  Instantaneously, my phone beeped. I glanced at the illuminated screen.

  Ghost Porter-Porter: Want to meet for lunch?

  My heart stammered. Short of a day dream, I’d shared no intimate moments with Porter. Nonetheless, I felt I was battling a premature teen crush.

  I searched the diner and found George standing fifty feet away, talking to a young couple I didn’t recognize. There’d be plenty of opportunities for him to meet Porter whenever I felt it was necessary. To do so now would have been awkward. When he looked up I flashed him a quick grin, feeling slightly guilty for not wanting to bring Porter to the diner.

  With my phone hidden in my lap, I typed my response.

  I’d love to. How does sushi sound?

  Upon reading his sounds great response, an involuntary squeal shot from my lungs. Embarrassed, I pushed the plate of cold pancakes to the far side of the table and dropped my phone in my purse, hoping I was the only one who heard the audible outcry.