Devil's Disciples MC (Box Set)

by Scott Hildreth

“And, you need a sexy dress…why?”

  She shrugged. “Because I want one.”

  “You have some.”

  “I don’t have any like this.”

  I glanced over each shoulder, and then looked at her. “You’re hanging out of both ends of it,” I whispered.

  She looked down her nose at me. “It fits perfectly.”

  When she tugged at the hem, her boobs all but fell out. When she adjusted the neckline, her ass cheeks were exposed. The miniscule piece of black fabric was clearly meant to be worn by someone much younger – and much more promiscuous – than my fifty-year-old neighbor.

  “You don’t need one like that.”

  She looked in the full-length mirror and grinned. “I think I do.”

  I let out a sigh. “What’s going on?”

  She adjusted the shoulders, and then looked at the reflection of her exposed butt cheek.

  “Nothing,” she said over her shoulder.

  She faced me. For being fifty, she looked damned good, I had to give her that. Wearing that dress, however, she looked like an overzealous short, blonde, tan, prostitute with oversized boobs.

  “Have you got another Match dot com date?” I asked.

  “I told you, I’m done with that.” She exhaled, allowing most of her exposed breast flesh to settle behind the skin-tight black fabric. “I want a well-hung biker to come over and give me some dick.”

  “Go stand in the street wearing that, and you’ll have the entire block trying to give you some dick,” I said with a laugh. “Is that what you’re after?”

  She glanced in the mirror. “That’s what I want, yeah. But, not from just anyone. From a biker.”

  Her relationship with Frank was an on again-off again affair that had spanned over a decade. They couldn’t get along for more than ten minutes but couldn’t go six months without fucking one another. The five months and thirty days of inactivity that separated their sexual sessions were difficult for her.

  She needed to meet someone else, no doubt. She didn’t need to use the postage stamp sized dress to do so.

  I looked her over for amusement’s sake, and then shook my head lightly. “What is the deal with this sudden fascination with bikers? You’ve been watching that ridiculous show, and now you’re obsessed with them. You’ve spent four years bitching about the guy down the street. What changed?”

  “I met one face to face,” she said. “He looks like trouble, walks like he fears no one, and smells like pure adrenaline. What’s not to like?”

  I couldn’t agree with her more, but I wasn’t about to agree with her out loud.

  “He’s okay,” I said. “But that doesn’t explain the dress.”

  “Bikers like skimpy dresses, so I want to have one.” She sucked in a deep breath, caused her breasts to heave, and stole a look in the mirror. “Just in case.”

  “I think the dress is too much. Too little, I mean. There’s not a time or a place that you can put it to good use.”

  “I’ll wear it the next time he comes over.”

  I couldn’t believe she said it out loud. Thinking about it was one thing, but saying it was another. If there wasn’t a girl code to address wearing undersized clothing in front of a woman’s sexual interest, there should be.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I wrinkled my nose at the thought. “It’s just some weird fascination you have. It’ll pass, no differently than the surfers you lusted after, and the businessmen that were before them.”

  “No, this one’s going to last.”

  I glared. “Since when?”

  “Since I met Dolla Bill,” she said with a laugh. “Watching him walk gives me hot flashes.”

  “It’s not him, it’s menopause.”

  She gave me the stink eye. “It’s not menopause. He’s mysterious, and it makes me sweat.”

  “He’s far from mysterious. He puts it all out there. There’s not much left to the imagination.”

  “I was imagining being force-fucked by him last night,” she cooed. “Under the car port, of all places.”

  I gave her a look. Enough was enough, and it was time I put my foot down.

  I cleared my throat. “He’s off limits.”

  “Settle down.” She glanced at the mirror, and then tugged against the hem of the dress. “I’m not even sure if it was him. It was a pretty weird dream, and it was hard to tell. Everything he was wearing made it seem like him, but he was faceless. I never got a good look at him.”

  “So, it wasn’t him?”

  “Hard to say. I don’t think so.”

  “What’s it mean to be ‘force-fucked’?” I asked.

  She took another admiring glance at her reflection. “Being fucked really hard.”

  I was puzzled. “There’s a name for it? I thought that’s what adults did when they had sex.”

  “No, really hard,” she said. “He was stuffing me so full of dick that we pushed his motorcycle from the carport to the fence. I was grabbing for something to hold on to, and he was fucking me so hard I couldn’t keep my footing. I’m not sure, but I think my feet were coming off the ground. Then, when the motorcycle tipped over, he didn’t even stop. Just smashed my face up against the fence and kept pounding away. Gas and oil were pouring out of it like mad.”

  I chuckled a laugh. “A biker would stop and pick up his motorcycle. He’d never keep fucking after his bike tipped over. That’s how you know it was a bullshit dream.”

  “Yeah. That, and it was raining. It never rains here.”

  “Rain? You were doing it in the rain?”

  She nodded. “Purple raindrops. I woke up drenched.”

  “You’re a weirdo.”

  She turned toward the dressing room. “I need to know if Dolla Bill has friends.”

  “He’s got friends,” I said. “They ride up and down the block once a week.”

  She pulled the door closed behind her. “I need to know if he’s got friends that are willing to force-fuck me under the carport.”

  “I have no idea,” I said under my breath.

  I didn’t want whatever I had with Cash to turn into nothing more than a fuck-fest. Having Jennifer offer no-holds-barred sex to his friends would do nothing but complicate matters. He’d undoubtedly expect the same from me.

  I had no intention of being that girl.

  He and his biker brethren would look at us as if we were nothing more than the whores who lived down the street. I wanted more than that from any man who was actively participating in my life.

  Much more.

  I simply didn’t know if he was willing to give more. If he wasn’t, I’d enjoy his company when he was willing to give it. I wouldn’t, however, agree to sex under the carport while purple rain fell from the sky unless he’d expressed a different level of interest in me.

  So far, he hadn’t done anything wrong, but his level of sincerity was currently in question.

  Jennifer came out of the dressing room with the dress draped over her shoulder. “What do you think?”

  “About the dress?”

  “I’m getting the dress,” she said. “I meant about seeing if he has any willing friends.”

  He may have had friends who would fuck Jennifer until she limped when she walked, but I wasn’t willing to find out. At least not yet. Cash had my undivided attention, but until he took a few steps in my direction, I wasn’t going to have sex with him, nor was I going to do anything to lead him to believe women like me – or my neighbor – were easy prey.

  “When he comes by the next time – if there’s a next time – I’ll see what he says.”

  She shouldered her purse and gave me a look. “If? I thought you sucked his dick until he went blind?”

  “I did.”

  “Bikers like blowjobs more than barbeque, beer, or billiards.” She walked past me. “You swallowed, right?”

  “Sure did.”

  “There’ll be a next time,” she said over her shoulder.

  I clutched my p
urse and followed her down the hallway. “Barbeque, beer, and billiards? Did you learn that on Netflix?”

  “No, I’m done with that series. I’ve seen them all, twice. I’m on to reading biker books now.”

  “Biker books?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Biker romance novels.”

  “There’s biker romance novels?”

  “Thousands of them,” she said.

  “I’m sure they’re accurate,” I said in a sarcastic tone.

  “As long as they keep bringing on dreams like the one I had last night, who cares?”

  I followed her to the register without saying another word. I had my doubts that biker romance novels would be accurate, but I had further doubts I’d be able to go the next twenty-four hours without at least taking a look at one.

  52

  CASH

  It had been a week and a half since I’d seen Kimberly. Each passing day had been filled with thoughts of her – but my fear of becoming dependent on a woman prevented me from acting on my desires.

  Aggravated that I couldn’t simply get a blowjob without being drawn into the eye of a life altering hurricane, I sat in Baker’s upstairs office at the far side of his desk, drinking a yogurt smoothie.

  Amazed at the flavor of the low-cal chocolate beverage, I lifted the plastic bottle and studied it. “Ever try one of these fuckers?” I asked. “I’m thinking they’re going to be my new go-to breakfast. They’re cheap, easy, and taste good as a motherfucker. Might be able to get back down to two hundred if I stick to drinking ‘em for a month or so.”

  “I don’t drink anything that uses aspartame as a sweetener. You might get down to two hundred, but you’ll be dead by the time your fifty.”

  I studied the ingredients and found aspartame as being one of them. Puzzled as to why they’d use it if it wasn’t healthy, I cocked my head to the side and narrowed my eyes. “Why do you always have to piss on my parade?”

  “Aspartame is arguably the most dangerous substance added to foods today,” Tito said from behind me. “It’s been linked to headaches, dizziness, problems with one’s digestive system, Alzheimer’s disease, diabetes, attention deficit disorders, Parkinson disease, and lupus.”

  I turned around. “Quit sneaking up behind me, you little midget. I wasn’t talking to you, I was talking to Baker.”

  “I agree with everything he said,” Baker said. “Aspartame is terrible shit.”

  Puzzled, I looked at the half-full bottle, and then met Baker’s gaze. “Why would they put it in here?”

  “Because if they didn’t, it’d taste like shit,” he responded.

  “I don’t believe it causes all those fucking problems,” I said. “They couldn’t sell it if it did.”

  Tito sat down beside me and placed his computer on the edge of Baker’s desk. “If you want to be an overweight diabetic who can’t seem to focus and has trouble remembering where your bike is parked, keep drinking them.”

  It aggravated me that Tito was as intelligent as he was. There were some things I simply wished I didn’t know. Stumbling through life ignorant of the horrors associated with chocolate yogurt smoothies wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

  I glared at Tito for ruining my new breakfast plan. If I had simply met him on the street, I would guess his age at no more than twenty-one. He hadn’t aged since high school, and although he was muscular and had a sleeve of tattoos, he seemed harmless to most who met him.

  At five feet ten, he was the shortest member of the club. Nevertheless, women found him irresistible. They often approached him in the bar under the belief he wasn’t with the five “thugs” that surrounded him. His repeated successes at bagging women had been a matter of contention with me since we were kids. Although he was a lifelong friend and club brother, he spent a good period of his time irritating the fuck out of me.

  I always walked away prior to our arguments becoming physical. If there was one man in the club that could come close to whipping me in a fight, it was Tito. He’d been raised by parents who owned martial arts training facilities and had studied Jiu-Jitsu since he could walk.

  Knowing so didn’t keep me from antagonizing him.

  “What about that fucking berry-flavored water you always drink?” I snapped back. “That shit probably has something in it that’ll make you shit like a goose and grow hairy moles on your nut sack.”

  “It’s water with the essence of fruit added. It’s healthy.”

  I gave him a crazy-eyed look. “What the fuck is ‘essence of fruit’?”

  “When fruit is cooked to make juice, the vapor that evaporates is captured. It condenses, forming water droplets that have a highly concentrated flavor of the fruit. Those droplets are the ‘essence of fruit’. A few drops of that concentrate are added to water, giving it the flavor of the fruit. It’s chemical and sweetener free.”

  “Well, la-tee-da,” I said mockingly.

  Baker chuckled. “Good comeback, Cash.”

  Reluctantly, I screwed the lid on the yogurt bottle and waved my hand in Tito’s direction. “Fuck this little know-it-all. I’ll drink these fuckers if I want to.”

  Baker looked at Tito and raised his eyebrows. “What did you find out?”

  Tito reached for his opened his fancy little laptop, traced his finger across the screen, and then looked up. “He’s got a smart home system that connects to wi-fi and can be controlled by Alexa, Google Home, or Siri. He can watch any of the twenty or so cameras on his cell phone in real time from wherever he might be at any time of the night or day. Open and close garage doors remotely, that kind of stuff.”

  I let out a laugh. “You can recite the dangers of aspartame without looking at a book, but you had to look at your fancy little laptop to tell us that?”

  He turned the laptop to face me. A hand-drawn sketch of the drug dealer’s compound, complete with dimensions of the walls, locations of cameras, bushes, trees, and anything else that could be imagined was on the screen. It appeared that an architect had drafted it.

  “I don’t need this ‘fancy little computer’ to explain his security system, no,” he said in a shitty tone. “But I thought it might come in useful to show what we’d be dealing with.”

  He handed Baker the computer. “Take a look. He’s gone a little overboard with camera placement, but I’d expect nothing less from a drug dealer. They’re always paranoid.”

  Baker looked at the sketch and then at Tito. “What are the half-moon shapes?”

  “Motion activated lights.”

  After a lengthy study, Baker handed the laptop to Tito. “Bottom line? Can we get in there?”

  “I can get video samples from each camera, then loop them into the system remotely. It’ll be a pain in the ass, but it’s possible, yes.”

  “What’s our biggest risk?” Baker asked.

  “Two things. One, that he comes home when we’re in there,” Tito said.

  “What’s the second thing?” Baker asked.

  “That he tries to pan the cameras while the system is in an altered state. If he does, it won’t work, and he might get worried. There will be video images, but they’ll be fixed video. If he tried to pan the cameras, he’ll realize it.”

  “This is one of those systems that you can control from your cell phone?” I asked.

  Tito nodded. “Correct.”

  “And he can move the cameras back and forth and shit from his phone?”

  “He won’t be able to on that night, no.”

  I chuckled. “Fuckers like him sit in the bar and just stare at their phones, wondering if someone’s coming to steal their stash. You know he’ll figure it out sooner or later.”

  Tito offered a half-assed shrug. “There’s only one way to manipulate a system like that, and it isn’t easy. If we want to get in, our only option is to send him a false video signal.”

  “What else do we know about him?” Baker asked. “Anything noteworthy?”

  Tito traced his finger over the screen, flipped through some pa
ges, and then stopped on a screen that was covered in typed notes.

  “He lives on Encino Verde Place. It’s a remote area in the city built into the side of a mountain. His home is a ten thousand square foot mansion. His net worth is unknown. He has a car collection that’d put Jay Leno’s to shame. The vehicles are registered in his name, so, he’s either bold, pretentious, or a little of both. I’m guessing value of his cars is north of thirty million. County appraisal has his home valued at five point two million. If it was in Malibu, it’d be a hundred million. I haven’t got to his claimed income yet, but I will. Not sure it’s necessary, though.”

  Baker shook his head. “We don’t need it. If he’s got thirty million in cars, he’s got something in that house of value.”

  “Agreed,” Tito said. “Showing up in court in a two-and-a-half-million-dollar car tells me all I need to know about how he flaunts his wealth.”

  “We’ll need to find out what his schedule is like, and when he might be out of town next. Any bright ideas?” Baker asked.

  Tito always had bright ideas, but he never volunteered them. He was the type of person that had to be asked to take every step along the way. He did nothing – and offered nothing – without being asked.

  “I could tap into his system fairly easily and listen to his conversations,” Tito said. “Depending on what he says and when he says it, it might take a while to learn anything. I suspect sooner or later, he’ll say something.”

  “Let’s do that,” Baker said.

  I tossed my remaining yogurt shake into Baker’s trash can. “Little fucker should have done that before he came in here. He always does that: comes in here armed with half the information we need to make a move on someone. Then, you’ve got to ask him for more. He knows what we want, and he knows what’s needed to do a job.” I looked at Tito. “Stop being a lazy little prick.”

  He set his laptop on the floor at the side of his chair. When he looked up, his eyes were thin, and he wore a stern look. “Fuck you, Cash.”

  “Fuck you, Tito. You like getting your ego stroked.”

  He extended his arm and raised his middle finger. “I don’t have an ego,” he said dryly.