Devil's Disciples MC (Box Set)

by Scott Hildreth

  Goose was the club’s chef, comedian, and weapons expert. Reno may have known everything about explosives, but Goose forgot more about guns than any of us would ever know. He was also the only member of the club with any relationship experience. Tall, lean, and extremely neat, he wore his hair close-cropped. He could pass for being one of the cities many Marines, but his dislike for the government prevented him from following that career path.

  He lived in what was once a suburb of San Diego. On paper, La Mesa was a town of 50,000. In reality, the city had grown around it, leaving no indication of borders. It was one of few areas in the city where a man could afford to own a home. The one thousand square foot ranch homes in the area brought between six hundred thousand and a million dollars, depending on condition.

  His home stood out as being the best manicured one on the entire block. In a yard suited for one palm tree, he had three. Low lying shrubs and other forms of vegetation filled the yard, giving it a colorful curb appeal unlike anything else for miles.

  I parked my bike in his drive and sauntered up the stone walk. As I stepped onto the porch, his front door opened.

  “Don’t tell me you were in the neighborhood.”

  “Came by to talk,” I said. “Got a minute?”

  “Got another fifty years if things go the way I’ve got ‘em planned.” He gestured toward the side of the house. “Take the gate to the back deck.”

  I maneuvered through the forest of trees, to the gate leading to the back yard. When I reached for the handle, he pulled it open. He handed me a bottle of beer. “It’s hotter than fuck. Here.”

  “Thanks.”

  He turned toward the back porch. “What’s on your mind?”

  His back yard was somewhat of a SoCal sanctuary. In a region where it never rained, the yards of most homes were decorated with rock and stone. Goose had somehow managed to convert his back yard to a thriving display of plant life suitable for the dry weather.

  The smell of honeysuckle tickled my nose as I followed him to the covered deck.

  He gestured to one of the four empty chairs that surrounded a small glass table. “Have a seat.”

  I glanced around the yard. “Looks nice back here. What’s with the pile of wood?”

  “Building an elevated platform.”

  I took a drink of beer. “For what?”

  “Because I don’t have one.”

  I took another drink and then looked him over.

  “Girl from the bank got ya troubled, huh?”

  I pursed my lips and shook my head in denial. “Not so much, no.”

  “What, then?”

  I had no relationship experience whatsoever. All I’d ever done was fuck women. No live-ins. No girlfriends. No emotions. My choice of being an outlaw at an early age prevented me from trusting that a woman could ever be a part of my life. I’d succeeded at breaking the law for twenty years by doing two things: being single, and surrounding myself with men I could trust.

  I needed advice on how to act like I liked someone.

  “I was wondering how to make it look like I want to be around her without letting her know I’m really not serious.”

  A confused look covered his face. “What?”

  “I don’t want her to know that I’m not interested. So, I want to do shit that makes it seem like I want to be around her. You’re the only one with relationship experience, so here I am.”

  He chuckled. “This is a bachelor pad in case you didn’t notice. I failed at my relationship, remember?”

  “You married a chick with three kids,” I said. “Anyone would have failed at that.”

  “I’m probably not the best to be giving advice.”

  I finished my beer and wiped my forehead on my arm. “Give me what you’ve got.”

  “You’re wanting her to think you’re in it for all the right reasons, even though you’re not?”

  I picked at the label on my beer bottle. “Correct.”

  “But you’re not?”

  I looked up. “Not what?”

  “Not in it for the right reasons.”

  I began to pick at the label again. “Correct.”

  “Women want to be treated with respect. Making them feel special is always a pretty big hit. You know, telling them you like something about what they’re wearing or how their hair is fixed. They like being told the truth, being able to trust the man they’re with, and feeling like he can protect her from every shit hat that might threaten her. Candy, cards, and flowers might be what Hallmark leads you to believe makes ‘em happy, but it ain’t the answer. Handing a woman a card and a box of chocolate doesn’t aggravate matters, but it doesn’t make ‘em as happy as cooking dinner.”

  “Sounds easy enough. Short of the cooking, all I’ve got to do is be me.”

  “Don’t lie to her, either. Whatever you tell her, make sure it’s at least close to the truth. If not, and she finds out you’re full of shit, Little Miss Bank Manager is going to turn and run.”

  “Andy.”

  His eyes went thin. “Huh?”

  “Andy. Her name’s Andy.”

  He erupted in laughter. After damned near choking to death on the beer he coughed up, he wiped the tears from his eyes and shook his head. “That’s hilarious.”

  “What? That she’s got a dude’s name?”

  “Nope.” He took a drink of beer and shook his head. “We were planning the robbery and you said Andy. Ghost said who’s Andy. You said I said Reno. You know what? I thought you said Andy. Now I know. You said Andy. Sounds like this girl’s got you by the balls.”

  “Nobody’s got me by the balls.”

  He looked me over and then smirked.

  I wiped the sweat from my forehead and nodded toward his beer. “Got any more of those?”

  He chuckled. “Be right back.”

  He returned with four beers in a bowl of ice. After handing me one of them, he sat down. “You prepared to go the distance with this girl?”

  I twisted the lid off the bottle of beer and bent it between my thumb and forefinger. “What do you mean?”

  “What if something develops between both of you? You going to be able to lie to her about the job for the rest of your life?”

  “Jesus fucking Christ, Goose,” I snapped back. “We’re not getting married.”

  He tilted his beer bottle toward me. “She’s on your mind, no arguing that.”

  “She’s got a pussy like a vise,” I said. “She’s fun to fuck.”

  “They’re all fun to fuck.”

  “She’s different.”

  He rocked his chair onto the back legs. “Here we go. Now comes the truth.”

  “No, Goddammit. Her pussy’s different. It’s tight as fuck. Feels like…” I took a drink of my beer. Explaining it would be impossible. “It just feels different.”

  He balanced his chair on the legs and lifted his chin slightly. “How many chicks you think you’ve dicked in your day?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Guess.”

  I shrugged. “Fifty.”

  “She better’n all of ‘em?”

  “Oh, hell yes.”

  He leaned forward until the chair’s front legs came down onto the deck. “So much so that you can’t compare any of them to her?”

  “No comparison.”

  He looked me in the eyes for a long moment, and then nodded. “Your secret’s safe with me. Brother Cash finds out, and he’s liable to kill you both, though.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Your eyes are like an open book. All they take is a little studying. This girl’s more than a piece of pussy.”

  I looked away and shook my head. “Afraid not.”

  “Keep telling yourself that,” he said. “And you might start believing it. But you didn’t come here to get advice.”

  “Oh yeah?” I turned to face him. “Why’d I come here?”

  He tilted the neck of his bottle toward me. “To get permission.”r />
  26

  ANDY

  Baker was at my apartment for the first time, and we were simply talking. About absolutely nothing. Having a man in my presence and not fucking him somehow stroked my ego. As a result, my self-confidence crept higher and higher with each passing minute.

  I poured a glass of tea and slid it across the island. “So, you don’t think it looks empty?”

  Seated at the other side of the bar on one of my new stools, he reached for the glass. “That wasn’t what I said. I said it doesn’t look bad. But, it’s empty. There’s no denying it.”

  I poured another glass. “It doesn’t look bad, though?”

  He glanced over his shoulder and then shook his head. “No. Not at all.”

  Behind him, the two pieces of furniture made it appear that someone was minutes from moving out. From my vantage point it looked bad.

  I gazed blankly into the large open room, “I can’t wait until I can buy more.”

  “Did you have more?” he asked.

  “I did. At my apartment in Indio. It was nice. I had a sectional, the red couch, a loveseat, and that blue chair. And, some end tables and stuff. I got a lot of it used, but it was all nice. Really good quality. I had to sell it to pay bills. That stuff’s all I’ve got left.”

  He twisted his glass of tea in a circle, watching it as it turned in his hand. “After you lost your job?”

  I studied him as he studied his glass. “Yeah. Finding a job’s not as easy as you might think. A college education doesn’t guarantee anything.”

  He glanced over his shoulder, and then looked at me. “What’s your favorite color?”

  I let out a laugh. “Is this a trick question?”

  He stroked his beard. “No.”

  I laughed. Not because what he said was funny, but because it was contradictory to what he’d said only a week earlier. His expression changed to one of wonder. I caught my breath and explained. “You said a week or so ago that a person’s favorite color didn’t matter. What they detested mattered.”

  He chuckled. “You’re perceptive.”

  “If it wasn’t important to you, you wouldn’t have said it.” I raised my glass. “I pay attention.”

  He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. “What color furniture do you detest?”

  “Yellow,” I blurted.

  “Is that it?”

  “Pretty much.”

  His eyebrows raised. “Green?”

  “I’m good with green.”

  “Lime green?”

  “If it was a fun piece of furniture, it’d be cool.”

  “Tangerine?”

  “Same answer.”

  He studied his tea for a moment, and then met my gaze. “Red?”

  I was seeing a different side of Baker, and I loved it. Simply talking about furniture with him was more fun than I’d had in a long time. “Look behind you,” I said with a laugh. “I saved the red couch. It’s my favorite piece. At least I didn’t lose it.”

  He wiped the condensation off his glass of tea with his thumb until there was a small puddle on the countertop. As he played in it with his fingertip, he looked up. “The tea’s good.”

  It seemed he felt out of place, and I wondered why he really stopped by. I doubted it was to discuss furniture colors.

  “Why’d you stop by?” I asked. “What were you hoping to accomplish?”

  He tilted his head to the side and grinned. “Have you always been so outspoken?”

  I nodded eagerly. “Pretty much, yeah.”

  He took a drink of tea, set the glass aside, and then swept the puddle away with the back of his hand. “I feel weird.”

  “You came by to tell me you feel weird?”

  “No. With you standing over there, and me sitting here.” He stood, but didn’t make eye contact with me. “There. That’s better.”

  It wasn’t better. Something was bothering him. I didn’t feel that sex was our only common bond, and I hoped he felt the same way. I certainly didn’t want him to give up before we got started.

  “Does not boning bother you?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Not what?”

  “Boning. Fucking. Screwing.” I tapped my hand against the countertop. “Does being here and not having me bent over this island bother you? You seem nervous.”

  “I’m not nervous.”

  “Ohhhkaaay.”

  He crossed his arms. “I’m not.”

  I took a step back away from the island and looked him over. “You’re cute when you’re nervous.”

  “I’m uglier than fuck now then, huh?”

  He wasn’t. His jeans were cuffed, and he was wearing black boots. When combined with his unwrinkled white tee shirt and his nervous nature, he was cute. He was billboard worthy, and it amazed me that someone hadn’t scooped him up yet.

  “Yeah,” I said with a nod. “Uglier’n fuck.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Did you decide why you came by?”

  He mashed his arms tight against his chest. “On Saturday night. I’ll pick you up at, say, seven?”

  The complete change of the conversation’s pace caught me off guard, but I recovered quickly. And, I did so with a huge smile. “Seven sounds good. Can we take your motorcycle? I’ve always wanted to ride on one.”

  “We’ll take my car.”

  I laced my fingers together and batted my eyes playfully. “Can we take the motorcycle?”

  “We can’t,” he said stone-faced.

  “Oh. Is it broken?”

  “No,” he snapped.

  “Sore subject?”

  “Is what a sore subject?”

  “You bike being broken.”

  “It’s not broken.”

  “Why can’t we take it?”

  “There’s not a place for a passenger.”

  I’d never heard of such a thing. As far as I knew, all motorcycles had a place for a passenger. I wrinkled my nose. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Sounds like we’re taking the car.”

  He smiled and reached for his tea. After finishing it, he carried the glass to the sink. “You going to be here Friday night?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “Planning on it, why?”

  He turned around. “Just wondering.”

  I looked him over. “Are you leaving?”

  “I’ve got some business to take care of.”

  I wished he could stay, but I didn’t do or say anything to make him aware of my hopes. Instead, I acted indifferent.

  “Okay.”

  He took a step toward me, paused, and took another. Then, he hugged me. He smelled magnificent. I enjoyed having him hold me, and he must have liked it too, because he held me for some time.

  “Amos Lee,” he breathed against my neck. “I’ve always liked that song.”

  The Wind, by Amos Lee had been playing from the living room’s speaker as he held me. I was surprised he recognized the artist, but was pleased that he did. Music was one more thing we seemed to have in common.

  “It’s part of this playlist,” I said.

  He released me and took a step back. After taking every inch of me in, he smiled. “I like your playlist.”

  I took a step back and crossed my arms. In dramatic fashion, I dragged my eyes up and down his well-dressed frame. Then, I looked him dead in the eyes. “I like your playlist, too.”

  27

  BAKER

  Cash flopped into the chair across from me and scratched the sides of his head with his fingertips. After making himself look like a young dark-haired version of Albert Einstein, he leaned onto the edge of my desk. “What’d you make of that bullshit in that article?”

  He was referencing a newspaper article about the jewelry store robbery in Rainbow. According to the story, an undisclosed amount of jewelry and gemstones were taken in the heist. There was no mention whatsoever of the cash or gold.

  “They report the information they’re given.”

  He straig
htened his posture and gave me a confused look. “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “When a drug dealer gets busted,” I explained. “The cops display everything that’s seized on a bunch of folding tables. They have a news conference and show the guns, cars, cash and who knows what else. They’ll make it sound better than reality. Last night at just after midnight, a Mister Hector Agriaza was apprehended in his home. Ten million in cash, five million in blow, and a three-million-dollar car collection were seized. You can look at the fruits of their seizure on display. With a deal like this, they simply report what Pat told them was taken.”

  “So, you think Pat failed to mention the gold and cash?”

  “I know he failed to mention it. He couldn’t claim it, because he doesn’t report it on his taxes. If he reported it, the IRS would say, wait a fucking minute, asshole. You had how much money in cash and gold? You sure as fuck didn’t report it as income.”

  “Makes sense, I guess.” He glanced over each shoulder and then leaned toward me. “So, when are you thinking you’ll have a total?”

  “As soon as you turds get done with all that jewelry.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I’m ready to say fuck it and toss that shit. Just be done with it. It’s not easy getting all that shit torn apart.”

  “It’s worth way too much to toss.”

  The four-hundred-ounce gold bars we’d taken had a spot value of over six million dollars. It took the six of us an entire day to sort, categorize, and count the cash, which amounted to over two million. The jewelry was being broken down, separating the gemstones from the gold. The gold would then be melted, making identification of the jewelry impossible.

  The gemstones, including diamonds, would be tossed into the ocean. Certified gemstones, contrary to what was depicted in movies, could be traced as easily as a fingerprint.

  After the club took its cut of forty percent, each man would be awarded roughly eight hundred thousand dollars. No one would get a cent, however, until the take from the job was totaled, right down to the penny.

  He clapped his hands. “I’m wanting to get to that million mark.”

  “You’re there,” I said. “And then some.”

  “No. I mean in reality. Right now, it’s in theory, or whatever.”