Table of Contents
Prologue
Epilogue
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ONE - Baker
TWO - Andy
THREE - Baker
FOUR - Andy
FIVE - Baker
SIX - Andy
SEVEN - Baker
EIGHT - Andy
NINE - Baker
TEN - Andy
ELEVEN - Baker
TWELVE - Andy
FOURTEEN - Baker
FIFTEEN - Andy
SIXTEEN - BAKER
SEVENTEEN - Andy
EIGHTEEN - Baker
NINETEEN - Andy
TWENTY - Baker
TWENTY-ONE - Andy
TWENTY-TWO - Baker
TWENTY-THREE - Andy
TWENTY-FOUR - Baker
TWENTY-FIVE - Andy
TWENTY-SIX - Baker
TWENTY-SEVEN - Andy
TWENTY-EIGHT - Baker
TWENTY-NINE - Andy
THIRTY - Baker
THIRTY-ONE - Andy
THIRTY-TWO - Baker
THIRTY-THREE - Andy
THIRTY-FOUR - Baker
THIRTY-FIVE - Andy
THIRTY-SIX - Baker
THIRTY-SEVEN - Andy
THIRY-EIGHT - Baker
THIRTY-NINE - Andy
FORTY - Baker
FORTY-ONE - Andy
FORTY-TWO - Baker
FORTY-THREE - Andy
Also by Scott Hildreth
Baker
Scott Hildreth
Dedication
In a world of I need it now, and is there any way I can get it for less, striving for perfection is a task that has been cast aside. Few spend the time and effort in hope of achieving perfection, and even fewer obtain it.
Thank you to J.R. Nocera at Supreme Auto Collision for not only striving to be the best, but for obtaining that goal with a vigor employed by few.
Contents
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Prologue
ONE - Baker
TWO - Andy
THREE - Baker
FOUR - Andy
FIVE - Baker
SIX - Andy
SEVEN - Baker
EIGHT - Andy
NINE - Baker
TEN - Andy
ELEVEN - Baker
TWELVE - Andy
FOURTEEN - Baker
FIFTEEN - Andy
SIXTEEN - BAKER
SEVENTEEN - Andy
EIGHTEEN - Baker
NINETEEN - Andy
TWENTY - Baker
TWENTY-ONE - Andy
TWENTY-TWO - Baker
TWENTY-THREE - Andy
TWENTY-FOUR - Baker
TWENTY-FIVE - Andy
TWENTY-SIX - Baker
TWENTY-SEVEN - Andy
TWENTY-EIGHT - Baker
TWENTY-NINE - Andy
THIRTY - Baker
THIRTY-ONE - Andy
THIRTY-TWO - Baker
THIRTY-THREE - Andy
THIRTY-FOUR - Baker
THIRTY-FIVE - Andy
THIRTY-SIX - Baker
THIRTY-SEVEN - Andy
THIRY-EIGHT - Baker
THIRTY-NINE - Andy
FORTY - Baker
FORTY-ONE - Andy
FORTY-TWO - Baker
FORTY-THREE - Andy
Epilogue
Also by Scott Hildreth
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.
BAKER 1st Edition Copyright © 2017 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 model: Justin Forsyth
Photography by: Justin Forsyth
Cover design by Jessica www.JessicaHildrethDesigns.com
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Prologue
I sat on the barstool with my legs dangling over the edge. Scared to do anything more than sit motionless, I watched him as he paced the floor. The pistol he held was gripped so firmly that his knuckles had gone white.
“Do you think because of who I am that you’re safe?” He cackled a sinister laugh. “That there’s some code? An oath I’ve taken that’ll prevent me from hurting you? Is that what you’re thinking?”
It had crossed my mind, but I had no idea how to respond. His tight jaw and fiery eyes warned me that reasoning with him wasn’t a remote possibility.
I wanted Baker to walk in. To see what was happening. There would be hell to pay, regardless of this asshole’s status. I was sure of it. My eyes drifted to the century-old grandfather clock situated in the adjoining room.
Shit.
Baker wouldn’t be home for two hours. My heart fell into the pit of my stomach. It was two hours I doubted the pistol-wielding maniac was willing to give.
I scanned through the memories of every cop show I’d binge watched on Netflix. I hated admitting it, but I was a hostage. I needed to downplay the situation. To reassure him that hurting me wasn’t in his best interest. We’d develop a faux hostage-captor relationship, and then negotiations could begin.
Swallowing my fear would be step one. I could talk in circles – and easily buy a few hours of time – if I could get past my dry tongue and the knot in my throat that was choking me from speaking.
“Hurting me won’t…be…it won’t be necessary,” I stammered. “I’ll comply.” The bitter taste of the inevitable rose in my throat. I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth and swallowed heavily. “I can assure you that you won’t…you won’t have to--”
“I won’t have to what?” He spat. He waved the barrel of the pistol at me. “To protect me and my brothers, I’ll do whatever I have to, believe me. I can’t risk forfeiting the time we’ve put into this operation.”
“I have no…I’ve got…I don’t know what you want,” I murmured.
“You’re going to talk,” he said through his teeth. “Believe me, you’ll talk, or you’ll wish you had.”
“Just tell me…just tell me what you want to know.” The words got stuck in my throat, and I began to softly cry. I swallowed hard. “I’ll…I’ll do my best.”
He glared at me. With each swing of the clock’s pendulum, his eyes thinned a little more. “Tell me what you know about the operation. Every word you’ve overheard. What you know, and what you think you know. Everything.”
I had no idea what he was talking about. “I don’t know anything,” I whispered. “I swear. He doesn’t tell me--”
He stepped so cl
ose taste the whiskey on his breath. Then, he raised the pistol and pointed it at my head. “Why are you in here snooping around?”
I closed my eyes. Obviously, he had no idea how intimate Baker and I had become. I wasn’t snooping around. I’d become a fixture in Baker’s life. Our relationship had evolved from casual sex to one of exclusivity and imminent love.
I debated with what to tell him. Divulging too much information about my relationship might put Baker at risk. Saying too little wouldn’t justify my presence in his home. I was in a situation where I couldn’t win.
Protecting Baker was my priority. I decided to lie. I would ad lib my way through it. It was the only way I could shield Baker from the unknown.
“Answer me,” he hissed. “Or I’ll plaster your brains all over that bed.”
I opened my eyes. “I come by on Sundays and clean up the place. I was getting ready to leave when you walked--”
“Cleaning girl?” His hand began to shake. “Sundays, huh?”
I swallowed heavily. “Yeah. Sometimes I cook--”
“Bullshit. You’re here every fucking day. You sneak in at night. I’ve seen you.” He tilted his head toward the living room. “That night you had the signs. You’re fucking him.” He slipped the tip of his finger against the trigger. “You’re a goddamn liar.”
“I uhhm--”
The door behind me opened.
My head swiveled toward the sound.
Baker!
Upon seeing us, Baker stopped in his tracks. His eyes darted around the room and then locked on us. “What in the absolute fuck is going on?”
I kept my eyes fixed on him. I wondered how he was going to save me. Surely, he’d give me a signal.
Something.
I felt the barrel of the gun press against the back of my head. “I’ll kill this bitch. I fucking swear.” He yanked to my feet. “Don’t take another step, Baker.”
“Her?” Baker raised his hands raised to the sides of his head. “I don’t give a fuck, kill her. She doesn’t mean anything to me.”
She doesn’t mean anything to me?
With each of those six spoken words, a dagger was thrust into my heart. How could he say such a thing?
My assailant wrapped his arm around my neck and yanked me off the stool. I slammed against his chest. Struggling to breathe, and now facing Baker, I searched his face for answers. His eyes were fixed on the man who towered over me, but offered nothing to ease the pain of what he’d said.
The wild-eyed maniac took a step back, dragging me with him. “I’m not fucking around, Baker. I’ll put one in the back of this bitch’s head.”
Slowly, Baker lowered his hands.
The pistol pressed hard against the base of my skull. “Keep your hands where I can see them, Baker.”
She doesn’t mean anything to me. The words echoed in my mind. Then, it dawned on me. That was his sign. He had a plan, I simply didn’t know what his next step was. Whatever it was, it was going to have to be precise. One wrong move, and I would be nothing but a memory.
I closed my eyes.
Please. Guide me through this. Help me understand what it is that I need to…
The explosive sound of the gun firing caused me to suck what would surely be my last breath.
The feeling of warm blood cascading down my face and onto my chest followed.
Then, everything went black.
ONE - Baker
Six months ago.
Cash paced the room with his eyes glued to the floor. I stroked my beard with the web of my hand while I waited for him to respond. After wearing the soles of his boots thin and streaking my freshly cleaned floor with scuffs, he paused and looked up.
“We don’t kill women, children, or the elderly,” he said under his breath.
His actions were unacceptable. As the president of Devil’s Disciples MC, I had many responsibilities. Keeping my men out of prison was one. Being a babysitter wasn’t. I demanded that everyone follow the rules outlined in the club’s bylaws. If they couldn’t – or wouldn’t – there was no place for them in the MC.
I could count the rules on one hand. Following them was paramount to the club’s success.
I studied him. An intimidating man to outsiders, he was lean and muscular with a mess of hair that obscured his eyes when he didn’t take the time to clear it away from his face. His jaw was sparsely covered in scruff, and his tanned skin was spotted with tattoos. His eyes were commanding, making looking away from him difficult.
“You understand the importance of that rule, don’t you?” I asked.
“Suppose so,” he said in a flat tone.
I pushed my chair away from my desk and stood. “You suppose so?”
“I guess so.”
“You’re guessing?” I sauntered toward him. “You know how I hate guessing.”
“What the fuck, Baker? It was an accident.”
“You expect me to believe you fired that weapon on accident?” I narrowed my gaze. “You left a bullet buried in the cabinet beside that bank manager’s shoulder.”
“I don’t care if you believe it or not,” he snapped back. “That’s what happened. It was an accident.”
“If you’re prone to discharging your weapon on accident, maybe this club isn’t the best place for you. I can’t put the rest of the men at risk, Cash.”
He looked me over as if sizing me up. “What are you saying?”
“I just said it. I can’t put the men at risk. You know the rules. Only point where you intend to shoot, and only shoot who you intend to kill. No women, no children, and no old people unless it’s self-defense. It’s a pretty simple set of rules. You’re lucky you didn’t kill her. If you had, we’d all be facing murder charges.”
“It was a fucking accident,” he insisted. “It won’t happen again.”
Our club was a close-knit group of men who were friends long before we chose to prove our alliance to one another by donning leather jackets and getting matching tattoos. My friendship with Cash began in kindergarten. He made the mistake of challenging me on the playground. An ass whipping ensued.
As much a kindergartner could administer, anyway.
We’d been friends ever since. Friendship didn’t afford him a pass for putting the club at risk, though. We had a strict set of rules we followed, one of which was training monthly as a group at the firing range. It provided assurance that we were as fast – or faster – at reacting when we faced a threat.
Another was indexing our weapons when we were on the job. Indexing – or carrying the weapon with the index finger out of the trigger guard – was a crucial step in preventing gun related accidents from happening.
I gestured at his right hand. “If you were indexing your weapon, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“Accident, motherfucker. It was a fucking ac-ci-den-t. I’m done talking about it.” He folded his arms over his chest. “She was a mouthy bitch, anyway.”
“She was doing her job.”
“She was mouthy.”
“She was trying to protect the bank’s interest.”
“Fuck her,” he hissed. “It’s insured by the feds.”
“Sounds like she got under your skin.”
“I was sick of listening to her.”
“It wasn’t an accident, was it?”
He glared. “If I wanted to shoot her, I would have shot her. Right in her shit-talking mouth.”
“It wasn’t an accident, was it?” I asked mockingly.
He chuckled a dry laugh, and then cut it short. “Yes, it was.”
I turned toward the window. Three stories down, the street was lined with parked cars, most of which disappeared at five o’clock when the workday ended. I scanned the block while Ben Harper’s Burn One Down played. When the song was over, I turned to face him.
He’d done little to convince me it was an accident. The bank manager in question had directed some pretty choice expletive-laced threats at Cash, and I suspected his temper
got in the way of him doing his job.
“Your cut will be reflective of that accident,” I said in a dry tone. “Mistake. Poor judgement. Temper tantrum. Whatever you want to call it.”
He scooped the hair away from his eyes and shot me a glare. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I’m not.”
“How much you gonna cut me?”
“Enough that we don’t have this conversation again. No matter how much someone gets under your skin.”
“Fuck that bitch,” he said through his teeth. “She was trying to give me the bait money. And, she talked a huge line of shit. We voted, Baker.”
I gave him a sideways look. “If the tables were turned, tell me what you’d have done.”
“If I was her?”
“If you were her. What would you have done?”
His eyes searched the floor for a moment. “I’d have given the thief the bait money.” He tilted his head to the side and raised both eyebrows. “But I wouldn’t have made it so obvious.”
I spit a laugh on the floor between us.
His eyes thinned. “What?”
“You’d follow the conditions of employment at the bank, but you won’t follow them with the club?”
“She was an irritating bitch.”
“It wasn’t an accident, was it?”
“Yeah.” He grinned a sly grin. “It was.”
It wasn’t an accident, and I knew it. “Whatever you want to call it, it’s going to cost you roughly fifty-three thousand bucks. After the club’s paid, that’s seventy-five percent of your take.”
BAKER (Devil's Disciples Book 1) Page 1