Devil's Disciples MC (Box Set)

by Scott Hildreth

  The man studied George, but not for long. Upon realizing it was a fight he simply couldn’t win, his shoulders slumped.

  “That dog’s a dipshit anyway,” he muttered.

  He stepped into the street and stomped toward his truck. As we walked past, George eyed the man over his shoulder. The thought of such a foolish person having control of an animal’s welfare had my blood boiling. I followed George toward the diner, glaring at the animal abuser the entire way.

  As he got in his truck, he gave his parting comment under his breath.

  “Asshole,” he murmured.

  I flipped him the middle finger over my left shoulder while clutching the pup to my chest.

  George glanced at the puppy and then at me. He brushed his palm along the edge of his freshly buzzed scalp and shook his head lightly before looking away.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You throw bricks like a girl.”

  “Learn to throw a brick like a Boss,” I said with a laugh. “I’ll add that to my list.”

  “The ever-growing list,” he said, flashing a slight smile.

  “I’ll check one off today I never thought I’d get to,” I said.

  “Which one is that?”

  “Saving a life,” I said. “That only leaves six.”

  “What are you going to do when you reach the end?” he asked.

  It was a good question. At one point in time, my to-do list had over two hundred items on it. Somehow, I’d managed to accomplish all but six. Out of what remained, five would require nothing more than a little ingenuity and a sprinkle of effort on my part.

  The sixth?

  It was highly unlikely I’d ever achieve it.

  “After the last one?” I cradled the pup in my arms. “You’ll probably never see me again.”

  “What?” he gasped. “Why’s that?”

  “Because,” I said. “I want to let that one consume me.”

  82

  GHOST

  Holding my arms outstretched and parallel to the floor, I traipsed the length of the room with the grace of a two-hundred-and-thirty-pound ballerina. A week earlier, standing was difficult. Proud of my accomplishment, I looked at the sun-spotted face of the seventy-year-old doctor and hoped for a little recognition.

  A golf clap.

  A simple nod.

  Other than blinking twice, his face remained expressionless.

  I gave him a what the fuck’s wrong with you glare.

  After a moment, he lifted his chin ever so slightly. “In the last week, there’s been remarkable improvements in your coordination and balance. It doesn’t relieve the fact that the magnetic resonance imaging scan revealed a tumor eleven by eight by thirty-three millimeters in size. If you’re hoping for a clean bill of health you’re not going to get it, Mister Reeves.”

  I don’t know what I wanted. Reassurance that I could live a normal life until it was time for me to check in with my maker, I suppose.

  Something.

  After falling at the gym, I woke up the next morning with a pounding headache. Incapable of rising to my feet, I eventually admitted defeat and called an ambulance. An MRI gave news that many people secretly feared, but that I knew was inevitable.

  Mister Reeves, we’ve determined that you have a brain tumor.

  I grew up in a single parent home of sorts, being raised by my mother and grandparents. My mother acted as mothers do. She comforted me, supported me, and was sensitive to my childhood needs.

  My grandfather died from skin cancer when I was very young, and what memories I had of him were mostly manufactured. I used them to satisfy me that my home wasn’t fatherless. After his death, my grandmother stepped into the role as my fatherly figure.

  She was stern and opinionated. My friends and I knew we had to toe the line with her, or else. We respected her. In turn, she treated us with respect. She died of breast cancer when I was thirteen. After losing her, I stumbled through high school full of rage and depressed. I eventually turned to weight training as an avenue to rid myself of the anger and stress that followed her death.

  It worked well, providing an outlet I couldn’t seem to find anywhere else. Then, mid-way through my senior year in high school, my mother developed lung cancer. She didn’t live long enough to see me graduate.

  After I buried my mother, I shut down. My seventeen-year-old heart was broken. I became numb to life and all things in it. I was convinced I didn’t have the ability to let another human being into life, much less my heart.

  There were four people left on earth I that cared about. We’d been friends since kindergarten. We were inseparable hooligans who had managed to stay one step ahead of the law as juveniles. As soon as we turned eighteen, the five of us moved – as a group – away from Great Falls, Montana, and far from the memories of what cancer had taken from me. We settled in San Diego, California.

  Certain that I was destined to one day die from the same dreaded disease, I spent every day as if it were my last.

  Intimidation had always worked for me in the past, so I loomed over the desk and flexed on the old man. “No treatment. Period. End. Of. Story.”

  “Considering your background, I can understand your reservation,” he said dryly. “But there’s no shame in receiving treatment for cancer. Men do it every day. Men just like you. Big men. Tough men.”

  Apparently, his hearing was as bad as his comb over. I locked eyes with him and crossed my arms. “I don’t have reservations. The answer’s no.”

  Unfazed by my tactics, he leaned against the back of his chair and cocked his head to the side. “Why are you here, Mister Reeves?”

  “I need that prescription refilled so I can live with these headaches.”

  “Very well,” he said, his voice monotone. “Be forewarned, the pressure against your skull will increase as the tumor grows. Your vision will likely blur. Eventually, you’ll lose many of your cognitive skills. You’ll be reduced to using a wheelchair, and you’ll certainly die. All of this may be able to be prevented. The first step is a biopsy.”

  “Not. Going. To. Happen,” I said though clenched teeth.

  Truthfully, I was no different than anyone else. I didn’t want to die. Yet. My time had come, and there was nothing I could do to change it. Accepting it was a different story altogether. I expected my remaining days on earth would be spent angry and alone.

  His jaw tightened. He studied me for a moment. His gaze fell to his desk. He scribbled something down on a pad of paper and then tore off the sheet.

  “Here,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  I glanced at the scribbled note. It wasn’t a prescription. It was an address and a phone number. I looked at him and arched an aggravated eyebrow.

  “It’s a meeting you’ll need to attend,” he said. “An oncology social worker runs it, and she’ll be able to help you with coping. I’ll reserve hope that your attendance will open your mind to proceeding with treatment.”

  I tossed the note in his direction. It fluttered onto his desk like a leaf that had fallen from one of the thirty-foot-tall oak trees along the river of my home town.

  He picked up the sheet of paper and stretched his arm over the top of his desk. “The meeting, Mister Reeves, is mandatory.”

  My eyes thinned. The only mandatory meetings I planned to attend were with the motorcycle club. Sitting in a room filled with strangers and discussing my life wasn’t something I was willing to do.

  “It’s required by your insurance carrier,” he explained. “It’s considered mental health treatment. If you don’t attend, your insurance company will not pay your bills. Treatment, or no treatment, the bills will likely exceed half a million dollars.”

  I took the note from his grasp and gave it a second look.

  He nodded toward my hand. “All you must do to comply with your insurance carrier’s requirement is attend. I’ll ask that you do so with an open mind.”

  “I’ll attend,” I said. “But you’re not drilling
a hole in my head. Not now, or ever. There’s no one in your little meeting that’ll change my mind about that, either.”

  83

  ABBY

  Because of their ferocious nature during the Battle of Belleau Wood, the Marines were called Dogs from Hell by the German soldiers who fought against them. The Marines proudly embraced the moniker. Soon, Devil Dog became a nickname for all Marines.

  Upon retiring from the Marine Corps, George opened the Devil Dog Diner. His entire staff was an assembly of veterans who had chosen to serve meals after retiring from serving their country.

  I initially favored the restaurant because they bought fresh local produce and used organic meats, fruits, and vegetables in making their meals. Knowingly introducing chemicals into my body wasn’t something I would ever do.

  I later grew to admire George, his staff, and his way of conducting business. He wasn’t getting rich running the deli, but he gave back to the community, nonetheless. On the last Sunday of every month, he held The Flapjack Flashback, an all-day pancake extravaganza and fundraiser.

  Pancakes, eggs, and a side of meat were all that was available during the fundraiser, and they were sold until the restaurant closed at ten o’ clock at night. For that day, breakfast was priced at a dollar and fifty cents per plate. Most of the customers left huge tips, but George didn’t expect it. He said he wanted to turn back the clock to a time when breakfast was affordable.

  His revenue for the day went to charity. On that same day, his employees – at their own insistence – refused to be paid. State law didn’t allow them to work for free, so they simply donated their wages right along with George’s revenue to the chosen charity for the month.

  In support of him, his workers, and the restaurant’s way of conducting business, I ate at his establishment more than I ate at home. In many respects, the diner was my home.

  I sucked a cream cheese remnant from the tip of my finger. I would have never guessed anything could have made a grilled chicken sandwich taste better, but the cream cheese, grilled jalapenos, and peach jam sure did a good job of it. I pushed my plate to the far side of the table and grinned a toothy grin. “That was awesome.”

  George’s eyebrows raised. “How awesome?”

  “There aren’t levels of awesome,” I explained. “Acceptance of foodstuffs is explained using the following expressions: okay, good, great, fantastic, and awesome. Awesome is the pinnacle of goodness.”

  While searching my face for an answer, he reached for my empty plate. “Out of every sandwich you’ve eaten here, how does it rate?”

  “For someone who hates repeating himself, you sure don’t mind asking others to do it, do you?” I asked jokingly. “I said it was awesome. So, for me, it’s the number one sandwich.”

  “Good.” He flashed a quick smile. “We’ll call it The Abby.”

  Having the sandwich named after me would be as awesome as the sandwich itself. “Get outta here,” I shouted excitedly. “Seriously?”

  “If it’s your number one, that’s what we’re going to call it.”

  “As soon as it’s on the menu, I’ll promote it to everyone I know,” I blurted.

  He let out a laugh as he topped off my iced tea. “This place is far too small to have all of San Diego County in here trying to order the same sandwich. Maybe just tell the people in your meeting. How’s that?”

  “Right now, there’s only six people in it. That’s if everyone comes, and they don’t all come at once,” I said.

  “I know you’ve come to enjoy it, but that’s one meeting I wished was empty.”

  The meeting he spoke of was a cancer support group. As much as I enjoyed doing what I could to help others cope with the emotions that came with being diagnosed – and with surviving – I wished the same thing. Despite that wish, I’d seen many faces come and go over the years.

  “Are you walking, riding, running, or driving?” he asked.

  “Riding,” I said.

  He nodded toward the clock. “You better get to peddling.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. It was fifteen before one, and the meeting started at one. Shocked at how much time had passed, I reached into my purse and fumbled to find my wallet. “I really need to start wearing a watch,” I murmured.

  “Get to your meeting,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The sandwich isn’t on the menu yet. I can’t charge you for it.”

  “Thank you,” I blurted. I took off in a dead run for the door. As I yanked it open, I shouted over my shoulder. “Love you, George.”

  “Love you, too, Abby,” he said.

  Love. It was the one thing that was missing from my life. I loved many people and I made it a point to tell them so. There was an equal amount of people who loved me in return.

  But. I wasn’t in love.

  For love to be reciprocal, I needed to feel it was genuine. I was convinced finding sincerity was impossible. It seemed everyone who had any interest in me was either after notoriety or money. It was the price I had to pay, I suppose, for being successful.

  A price I wasn’t always convinced was worth the reward.

  84

  GHOST

  I’d never feared anything in my life, dying included. Yet, I stood in front of the door and dreaded pushing it open. According to the doctor, my means of accepting death was on the other side.

  Filled with nervous apprehension, I pushed it open and peered inside.

  An oil painting centered on the opposite wall captured my attention. It was a simple rendering – a lone cedar tree positioned at the base of a grassy hill. I wondered if the piece of artwork was chosen for a reason, or if someone simply selected it randomly. After a moment, I decided it was intentional.

  The tree stood as a reminder that when my clock stopped ticking, I would be alone. Frustrated upon realizing the painting’s symbolism, I dropped my gaze to the floor and let out a silent sigh.

  I chose the seat closest to me and sat down. A quick glance around the room revealed that it was decorated with various pieces of furniture, no differently than if it were a living room in a conventional home. Four complete strangers were seated across from me. Despite having never met, I knew we had one thing in common. We were either dying at an accelerated rate, or we’d somehow managed to cheat death.

  Across the room to my right, two women who I guessed to be in their mid-sixties were sitting side by side in a loveseat, smiling and laughing quietly. Their resemblance caused me to wonder if they were twins. I studied them long enough that the one closest to me noticed. Our eyes locked. She smiled.

  I forced a crooked grin.

  In a rust-colored chair on the left side of the room, a man chewed his fingernails. His knee bounced up and down anxiously. His pale cheeks were gaunt. The width of his shoulders told me he was once much larger. Dressed in a powder blue suit and a white button-down shirt, he looked the part of an insurance salesman or a financial advisor. The cap he wore was in complete contrast to his outfit and didn’t completely conceal his bare scalp.

  In the matching chair next to him, a beautiful young woman was seated. Her pale legs were crossed and the floral print dress she wore was wadded between her athletic thighs. On her feet was a worn pair of dingy white Converse sneakers.

  Her attention danced around the room, pausing at each object of significance for just long enough to snap a mental picture. Her straight brown hair cascaded down her shoulders, coming to a stop just above her perky little tits.

  Energy radiated from her like sunshine.

  I studied her for a moment, wondering if the insurance company would deny my coverage if I got caught fucking one of the patients in the broom closet. In mere seconds, I was lost in a daydream about her pouty lips being wrapped around my stiff cock.

  Halfway through an imaginary blowjob, the pain from my erection caused me to snap out of my dreamlike state. Aroused beyond comprehension – but fearing the elderly twins might notice the mile of dick that had risen to attention – I laid my
hands in my lap and faked boredom.

  I glanced in the sneaker-wearing beauty’s direction. Her eyes darted past me, and then quickly returned, meeting mine before I could look away. One side of her mouth sprouted upward.

  I smiled. I couldn’t help it.

  With her eyes still locked on mine, she draped her shoulder-length hair over her left ear. She playfully wagged her index finger toward the empty seat beside me and raised her eyebrows. I glanced to my side. Upon realizing I was seated in one half of a two-person loveseat, I looked at her and mentally objected.

  Despite my desire to hike her dress over her hips and shove her full of dick, sitting next to a stranger would make an already awkward situation much worse.

  Before I could blurt out my rejection, she rose from her seat. As she sauntered toward me, I filled with regret for failing to verbally oppose her offer to sit with me. I shifted my eyes to the elderly twins and wondered why I didn’t say something. Sarcastic one-liners were my specialty and being rude was second nature. When she sat down at my left side I was staring off in the distance and planning my departure.

  “Hi, I’m Abby,” she said. “This must be your first meeting.”

  I gazed out the far window, into the courtyard. After deciding I would simply tell her I preferred to be alone, I glanced over my left shoulder. The regret that had built within me for allowing her to sit down promptly vanished.

  She had the most amazing eyes.

  They weren’t one color. A combination of blues and grays and silver, all merged together as if they’d been painted by an extremely creative artist. The color seemed to change as I studied them. No matter where I looked, however, they provided reassurance.

  A fog of innocence surrounded her. Normally, I would have wanted to pin her hands behind her back, bury her face deep into the cushions of the loveseat, and shove her full of three pounds of dick. Instead, I wanted to pin her against the wall and kiss her until she became putty in my arms.