Devil's Disciples MC (Box Set)

by Scott Hildreth

  He gazed blankly at the wall beyond me for a moment before he continued. “There was eleven of ‘em at that fuel tank. Somehow I gathered up enough courage to crawl over there and get one of ‘em. Then, I got another. Gettin’ ‘em was pretty exciting shit, so I got another. About the time I was getting the fifth or sixth, I got shot in the leg. Before I got the last one, I got shot again. That one still hurts.” He rubbed his left thigh and then looked at me. “But guess what?”

  I swallowed heavily. “You uhhm. You got them all?”

  He grinned a shallow grin. “Sure did. Guess what else?”

  “What?”

  “I never would have got one of ‘em out of there if I’d have been worried about what might have happened. Each one of those men lived to see another day because of what did happen. We can’t let what might happen keep us from doing what our heart tells us is right. Remember that, Kid.”

  My eyes welled with tears. I wasn’t sure if it was because of what Mort went through, or because of what I so desperately wanted. I swallowed heavily and gave a mental nod. “Okay.”

  “What’s your heart tell ya?” he asked. “Not your gut. And not your fear talkin’, either. What’s your heart tell ya?”

  It was an easy answer. My heart wanted Baker. “My heart wants him.”

  He stood. “Anything else fucked up?”

  I smiled and shook my head. “Nope.”

  He looked at his watch. “Take the rest of the day off.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He gave me a look. “Wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t.”

  “Okay.” I pushed my chair away from my desk. “Thank you.”

  When he walked toward the door, his gate was prideful, and free of the limp he normally walked with. As he reached for the door handle, he glanced over his shoulder.

  “If we spend time worrying about the what if’s and might be’s in life, we’ll never know what could have been.”

  I mustered the energy to stand. As he pulled the door open, I wiped my eyes with the tips of my fingers. “Thanks, Mort.”

  “See ya, Kid.”

  35

  BAKER

  I preferred to be in the know. As the MC spent our scheduled afternoon at the firing range, I was not knowing a hell of a lot more than I wanted to be. Sadly, there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about any of it.

  Not knowing who may have planted a wiretap in my house gnawed at my nerves. Not knowing what they were hoping to gain through their surveillance was equally unnerving. The real kick in the nuts, however, was not knowing where I stood with Andy. It only took that sliver of uncertainty for me to realize she meant more to me than I had previously been willing to admit.

  I took aim, exhaled half the breath from my lungs, and fired three rounds as fast as I could. Then, three more. Three more. Three more. Three more. After two more, the slide locked open, indicating the weapon was empty. The entire process took roughly five seconds.

  I reeled the target in and inspected it. The seventeen rounds I’d fired were all in the silhouette’s chest, and could have been easily covered with the palm of my hand.

  Ghost tapped me on the shoulder. I repositioned the left side of my earmuffs away from my ear. “What?”

  “Jesus, Bake,” he said. “Pissed off?”

  “Nope. Just giving everyone something to strive for.”

  I was the second-best shot of the MC. Cash, much to everyone’s surprise, was the most accurate with a handgun. It was surprising considering Reno’s military experience and Goose’s love for weapons.

  Cash peered over my shoulder and scoffed. “Looks like One-eyed Pete shot that motherfucker. With his glass eye.”

  “Fuck you. Let’s see yours.”

  He pulled a target out of the lane beside me and unfolded it. “Have a look at this. I’m keeping it. Gonna put the fucker up in the elevator.”

  The silhouette had two bullet holes for eyes, two more nose holes, and a series of holes that formed the mouth. A perfect smiley face if there ever was one.

  “A smiley face?”

  “I’m gonna start doing characters. Rabbits, snakes, and birds and shit. Maybe dogs and fucking cats. Kind of like that creepy assed clown at Mission Beach, only not with balloons. With bullets.”

  “A creepy assed clown and a creepy assed biker,” I said. “You too would make one hell of a team.”

  He folded the target and tucked it under his arm. “Fuck you.”

  We’d been there for half the day, and still had our weekly meeting to attend. After surveying the lanes, discussing recently purchased weapons, and sharing our targets with one another, we rode to the clubhouse.

  The ride was somber, at least for me. Cash could sense that something was off, so he didn’t try to goad me into a street race. By seven o’ clock the meeting was over, and I retired into the comfort of my bed.

  I hadn’t been to bed that early since I shot Mister Walzer’s cat with my B.B. gun, and was forced to go to bed without supper as punishment. I rolled to my side and let the music play without taking the time to actually listen to it.

  No differently than I had on the two previous nights, I eventually reached for the pillow Andy had used. I pulled it against my face, closed my eyes, and inhaled a slow breath.

  Chaunce.

  Mentally, I drifted away. My decision to tell Andy that I was an outlaw was the right one, I was sure of it. Believing it didn’t make accepting her absence any easier. If anything, I questioned my reasons behind the justification for the crimes I committed.

  As I second-guessed my theories, there was a ticking sound from the living room. A few seconds later, there was another. I rolled off the edge of the bed, grabbed my pistol from the top of the nightstand, and crept into the dimly lit living room.

  The metallic tick came again, from the living room window. I lowered myself to my hands and knees, crawled toward the window, and waited. The streetlights cast an eerie glow into the room.

  Tick.

  I slipped my finger against the trigger guard.

  A minute later, another tick.

  Something was hitting the glass. I lifted my head enough to peer over the window ledge. Across the street, the normal winter activities were taking place. The coffee shop was filled with patrons sipping festive drinks and working on their mid-term papers.

  Nothing, however, seemed out of order.

  I lifted my head a little more. Upon seeing her, I exhaled.

  Standing on the sidewalk in a pair of jeans, a USC hoodie, and sneakers, was Andy. At her feet was a pile of cardboard. I grinned and shook my head.

  She waved.

  I set my pistol aside, flipped on the lamp, and waved.

  She picked up the pile of cardboard and turned it to face me. On the surface of what appeared to be a piece of cardboard box, two words were hand-written in bold block letters.

  WHAT DOES

  She swayed back and forth for a few seconds, and then folded the piece over the top of what she held. Two more words were revealed.

  A GIRL

  A few seconds later, she folded it again.

  HAVE TO

  And then, again.

  DO TO

  She tossed the eight-foot long section of folded cardboard aside. It was clear that at one time, it had been a box. Still holding another, she turned it over, exposing yet two more words.

  GET SOME

  She grinned as she flipped to the next section.

  DICK ON

  She folded the piece out of the way.

  A WEDNESDAY

  She flipped to the last section.

  NIGHT?

  She clutched the cardboard sign and grinned. I raised my index finger.

  She nodded.

  I rushed to my room, put up the pistol, and ran to the hallway. I pushed the elevator button. Before it came up from the basement, I turned toward the stairs in a dead run.

  In leaps and bounds, I took the stairs down to the first floor and yanked the door open.
Her eyes shot from the upper window to me.

  I gestured to my crotch. “To get this dick?”

  She bit against her lower lip and nodded repeatedly.

  “First, she’s got to be named Andy Winslow,” I said. “Second, she’s just got to ask.”

  She bent at the waist, picked up the pile of remaining cardboard, and then stood, holding the makeshift signs close to her chest.

  She forced her bottom lip into a pout. “Can I have some dick?”

  As much as I wanted to, I wasn’t going to fuck her unless everything was resolved.

  “Are we good?” I asked.

  “Good as gold,” she said with a smile.

  In my superstitious mind, it was the perfect response. It wasn’t surprising, considering it came from the perfect woman.

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, you can.”

  36

  ANDY

  In the past, my sexual satisfaction was in direct proportion to how hard I was being fucked. That belief held true until the night I threw decorative pebbles at Baker’s window.

  His chest was pressed tight against mine. He held me in position with his forearms, which were slipped comfortably beneath my upper back. Slowly and predictably, his hips worked back and forth, giving me every inch of him with each cautious stroke.

  I brushed his hair away from his face and raised my head from the pillow. Without further instruction, he leaned forward and kissed me. I raked my fingers through his hair and slid my hands along his tanned skin until they came to a stop at his shoulders.

  Holding him as intently as he held me, I kissed him while we shared the most intimate moments I’d ever had the pleasure of experiencing. It was no longer about orgasms or having his hips slap against my ass. The length of his dick was irrelevant, as was everything else about his appearance.

  As he made love to me, my heart became my only receptor. My outer extremities no longer sent signals of satisfaction to my brain. I felt him inside of me. I felt his chest against mine. I felt his lips and his tongue as we kissed.

  Yet.

  Satisfaction rushed from my heart, and my heart alone.

  I welcomed the feeling, viewing it as a reassurance that I’d made the right decision in accepting him into my life fully.

  His hips moved fore and aft, bringing with them the energy to pump the feelings through me, and through me they went. I filled with satisfaction until I felt I would surely burst, and when that moment came, I opened my eyes.

  Our lips parted. His eyes told me that he, too, was incapable of continuing. With our eyes searching each other’s face for clues of the satisfaction we hoped to provide, we reached climax.

  While in the comfort of his bed, with his arms wrapped around me, I had the orgasm of a lifetime. I didn’t scream, nor did I curl my toes or dig my nails into his strong back. I simply allowed it to take me away to a place I’d never had the pleasure of being.

  A place safe from harm. A place where nothing but my feelings existed. When I returned, I met his gaze. He was smiling.

  His eyes told me he’d been there, too. At the place where our feelings ran rampant and free.

  In that moment of vulnerability, I gave Graham Baker my heart.

  And, I never looked back.

  He scooped the eggs from his plate like a man who hadn’t eaten in days. I watched with eager eyes as he mopped the plate clean with the corner of his toast and then poked it into his mouth.

  “Damn it’s nice to have breakfast.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” I said with a smile. “Want more?”

  His eyes shot to the kitchen. “There’s more?”

  “There isn’t, but I can make some more.”

  He sipped his coffee. “That’s okay. Four eggs ought to be enough for anyone. Remind me of my aunt’s eggs. She made them just like that. Exactly like that.”

  I had no idea how he liked his eggs. Instead of going with the safe bet, which was scrambled, I cooked them over medium, my personal favorite. To think that they reminded him of what I hoped was home was uplifting.

  I smiled pridefully. “I’m glad you liked them. They’re my favorite.”

  He rubbed his hands together. “Let’s make a deal.”

  I reached for my coffee. “Okay.”

  “Saturday nights, let’s have a standing date. When we’re done, you can stay all night here. Sunday mornings, you make those eggs.”

  “I like it. Let’s do it.”

  He held his clenched fist over the table. “Gimme some fist.”

  I pounded my hand against his.

  I cut into the edge of my last egg. “If you like eggs so much, why don’t you cook them in the mornings? You’re self-employed. It’s not like you’re going to be late to the office.”

  “I can’t cook.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That food in the fridge? Goose got it at the store. I couldn’t even tell you what’s in there. If he doesn’t cook it, I don’t eat it.”

  I lowered my fork. “What about that night--”

  “Our first date?” he asked.

  “Yeah. All of the Brazilian food?”

  He pointed toward the refrigerator. “Goose.”

  “The left-over lasagna in the fridge?”

  He wagged his finger. “Goose.”

  “The peppers and chicken that’s in a zip-lock, and looks like it needs tossed out?”

  He wagged it again. “Goose. He’ll toss that out. He always does.”

  I chuckled. “How long has he been cooking for you?”

  “Fifteen years or so.”

  “Wow. That’s a good friend.”

  “We’re more than friends. We’re brothers. In time, you’ll see just how close we are.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “You’ll see through their actions.” He reached for his coffee. “Couple of ‘em aren’t keen on talking. But you’ll see by what they do and how they act that we’re noting but six brothers who share a few common bonds.”

  I hoped he was right. My guess was that although they might eventually warm up to me, the process would be slow.

  Very slow.

  After interrupting their schedule, taking one of their men’s time, and then stealing his heart, I couldn’t see them welcoming me with open arms any time soon. I took the last bite of my egg and recalled Mort’s words of wisdom.

  We can’t let what might happen keep us from doing what our heart tells us is right.

  That simple phrase was I needed to remember.

  37

  BAKER

  Two weeks of Saturday night dates and Sunday morning breakfasts had the men questioning my sanity. None questioned my loyalty, or my devotion, but side-eyed looks had become the norm in the clubhouse.

  I realized for the men to accept Andy as a whole – or in part – would require that they see her express loyalty and devotion. Then, in time, trust would develop. When they trusted her, she’d be treated no differently than one of the men.

  I feared the day was so far in the distance that I couldn’t quite grasp it.

  “Trust goes a long way with the men,” I said. “A long, long way. When they trust you, you’ll see a huge difference. It’s just going to take time.”

  “Trust goes a long way with everyone.” She twisted her hair into a bun and then checked it in the mirror. “If there’s no trust, even having a friendship is difficult.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way.” I put on my hat and then looked at her. Dressed in a sleeveless black dress and pair of heels I didn’t recognize, she looked marvelous. I nodded toward the four-inch heels. “New shoes?”

  She smiled. “They are. Sale rack shoes. They were one-fifty, marked down to thirty-five. I get lots of sale options because nobody has feet this big. Drag queens, maybe. I love shoes. It’s so bad, I might have a problem.”

  “I like your feet. If they were any smaller, you’d tip over if you leaned forward.” I chuckled. “How much time?”

  Her expres
sion went from a stink eye to a smile. “Just a few minutes. Why are we leaving so early again?”

  “Again? I never said. Just get ready, and you’ll see.” I kissed her. “I’ll be in the living room.”

  “Okay.”

  Bitter End, by Blind Pilot was playing when I walked into the living room. A song that made me yearn to have a father in my life, it typically ground against my nerves. I walked to the window, clenched my jaw, and peered out at the street.

  Saturday afternoons were slightly different than the weekdays, as the people who worked up and down the block were no longer parked along the curb. Most of the spaces were occupied by patrons of the coffee shop and several pubs that served lunch.

  A row of four Harleys was parked in front of the coffee shop. Inside, the small group of riders from a national Christian MC were having church. Unlike many of the one percent clubs that peered down their noses at clubs that didn’t claim the outlaw way of life, Devil’s Disciples accepted all bike clubs as having the potential of being equal.

  My eyes scanned the street. As the song ended, I turned toward the bedroom. After a few steps, goosebumps raised on my upper arms. I hesitated, turned toward the window, and took another look.

  A black Dodge Charger with tinted windows sat at the curb across the street. It was the same Dodge Charger I’d seen a few weeks prior, I was sure of it. The windows were too dark for me to see inside, but the black steel wheels that had replaced the standard aluminum alloy versions led me to believe my suspicions were correct.