Devil's Disciples MC (Box Set)

by Scott Hildreth

  “I knew what it meant,” I said, my voice straining from the emotion I was feeling. “Read.” I cleared my throat. “Read mine.”

  Mine wasn’t as delicately written as hers. When she finished reading it, she laid it beside the flower vase.

  She inhaled a long breath, and then let it out. “You asked me not to hurt you,” she said. “After we kissed. Remember that?”

  “I do.”

  She brushed her hair behind her ear and then scratched her nose. “I need to ask you to do something for me.”

  I grinned. “Okay.”

  “Don’t leave me. Please. No matter what happens between us, don’t make me live a day without you. If there’s ever something I do that makes you angry or sad or whatever, just tell me. I’ll fix it. There’s no reason for us not to be together, ever. Doing this.” She pointed to herself and then to me. “It’s easy. Too easy. I don’t even have to try. I’m just my stupid self and you accept me. Don’t--”

  “I won’t.” I said.

  “I can’t imagine what I’d do if--”

  “I won’t,” I assured her. “Don’t worry. I’m not leaving. Now, or ever. I lay in my bed at night and think of you. I read and re-read your text messages. I’ll probably sleep with this card under my pillow. It’s crazy, but I can’t imagine living a life without you.”

  “Neither can I,” she said. “So, it’s settled.”

  “What’s settled?”

  “You’re stuck with me.”

  I slipped my arms around her waist and pulled her tight to my chest. I knew I’d never leave her. I didn’t have it in me. I feared, however that she’d one day leave me.

  Every other woman I loved had.

  Why would she be any different?

  99

  ABBY

  George sat down across from me and gave me a quick look over. “It’s been a long damn time since you came in here for advice.”

  “Who says I’m here for advice?”

  “We’re empty.” He waved his hands toward the vacant seats. “It’s three o’ clock. Too early for dinner, and too late for lunch. You’re here to talk.”

  It aggravated me that he knew me that well. “No, I came in for something to eat.”

  He rubbed his hands together. “What’ll you have? Pancakes? The Abby? Your other favorite? Apples and grilled cheese?”

  “I’m not hungry,” I admitted. “You’re right. I wanted to talk.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “It’s perfect.” My shoulders slumped. “That’s the problem.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Perfect is a problem?”

  “I don’t feel like I deserve this. I worry that it’s all going to come crashing down. That he’s going to leave me. That it’s too good to be true. He’s too good to be true. This entire thing is too good to be true. That there’s no way this can last. That--”

  “Take a breath” He reached across the table and cupped my hand in his. “In through the nose, and out through the mouth. You’re going to hyperventilate if you’re not careful.”

  “I get worked up when he’s gone,” I said. “I don’t know what the problem is. It’s like I can’t function without him.”

  He squeezed my hand and smiled. “Solution sounds simple to me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Spend more time together,” he said.

  We saw each other every day. I didn’t want to smother him and give him a reason to reject me. But. When he was gone, my mind went fifty different directions, developing possibilities of what might happen to prevent him from ever returning. Everything from changing his mind about being in a relationship to wrecking his motorcycle. I remained stuck in my pattern of worrying until he returned.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him, because I did. When he was away, I simply couldn’t believe I deserved something as special as what we had.

  I let out a breath. “I see him every day. If we had normal jobs, we wouldn’t see each other this much. Sometimes I see him two or three times a day. It’s not that. It’s just. I get worked up when he’s away. When he’s gone, I can’t believe I deserve what it is we have when he’s with me.”

  “It doesn’t matter if he’s with you or he’s gone, Abby. You still have it.” He looked at me like I was crazy. “Did you give him that bracelet that Lawson’s wife made for you?”

  “I did.”

  “What did it say on it?”

  “You know what it said.”

  “What did it say, Abby?” He arched one brow. “Remind me.”

  “Believe,” I responded. “It said, believe.”

  “Sounds to me that you need to take some of your own advice,” he said with a dry laugh. “Believe, Abby. Believe you’re worthy of him. Believe he’s in this for all the right reasons. Believe that he feels the same way about you that you feel about him. Believe that your lives collided for a reason. That the man above gave you an opportunity, and that for once you were paying attention and recognized what it was he put in front of you.”

  I nodded. “I’m trying.”

  “I don’t like too many people, and I like this guy. It has nothing to do with cars, if that’s what you’re wondering. Deep down in my gut, I believe Porter’s a good man. I can’t assure you of what the future holds, but I can tell you this: your odds of succeeding are greater with him than they were with--”

  “Don’t even say his name,” I said.

  “Well, you were with him for six years, and we never had a talk like this.”

  “I was in that relationship for sex. I didn’t care about him. I was a fool and got wrapped up in the comfort of having sex and thought that was enough. I learned that it wasn’t.”

  Sex was the only thing I had in common with Kelvin. If we weren’t screwing, I didn’t see much value in having him around. In fact, when we were done having sex, I often wanted him to leave.

  “Exclude the sex,” he said. “Why are you in this relationship?”

  I thought for some time before speaking. The answer was easy for me to understand, but not so easy to convey. George released my hand and relaxed against the back of the booth while he waited for me to respond. After an awkward silence, I decided it wasn’t one reason, it was many.

  “Well, for one, when he kissed me the first time it was better than sex. Every time we kiss it’s like that. It’s crazy. And, he makes me laugh. He gives compliments without me asking for them. He puts his hand on my waist when we walk. It just rests there, reminding me that he’s with me. I can be myself when I’m with him and he accepts me, even though I’m a dork. He laughs with me, not at me. I don’t have to ask him if he cares about me, he shows me. Then, there’s this part of him that seems broken, and I feel like I’m fixing it. He gave me a card the other day, and it said, ‘When I’m with you, you’re all that matters. When you’re away, you’re all that matters. Abby, you’re all that matters’. I guess that kind of sums it up. I feel the same way.”

  He smiled. “Sounds like love.”

  “I like him a lot,” I admitted. “But I don’t think it’s love. Not yet.”

  He chuckled. “Why not? Are you afraid if you admit it that he might find out? That he’ll run away?”

  I was. I nodded subconsciously but didn’t respond. George studied my face. When the silence got awkward, he continued.

  “For any relationship to survive, honesty is required,” he said. “From what he wrote in that card, I’d guess that he feels the same way. I recommend you tell him exactly how you feel. It’ll probably make you feel better. It might make him feel better, too.”

  “Not saying something isn’t being dishonest,” I said.

  He leaned forward and looked me in the eyes. “Through the windows behind me, you watch a man rob the bakery across the street. He runs out, gun in one hand and a bag of money in the other. The police come in here afterward and say, ‘We’d like for anyone who saw anything to step forward’. You choose to maintain silence. Are you being honest?”

>   I shrugged. “Kind of. I mean, they didn’t ask if I saw anything. They just said we’d like for you to step forward.”

  He reached under his apron, pulled out his phone, and messed with the screen for a minute. Then, he turned it to face me.

  hon·est – adjective: free of deceit and untruthfulness; sincere

  He set the phone aside. “I’ll ask it a different way. Would maintaining silence in the scenario I gave you be honest, based on the true definition of honesty?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “I’ll just rephrase my statement about relationships,” he said. “For any relationship to survive, it must be free of deceit.”

  After George’s speech I felt obligated to have a talk with Porter. It didn’t make the thought of doing so comforting, though. The possibility of rejection was real. If I said nothing, I was safe. But, I was also being deceptive.

  I hated being wrong.

  “We’re going out to eat tonight,” I said. “I’ll see how it goes. Maybe I’ll have a talk with him.”

  He smiled. “If the time is right.”

  I reached across the table. “I love you, George.”

  “Love you too, Abby.”

  100

  PORTER

  I connected the linkage to the carburetor and checked the cable, making certain it was smooth and without any kinks in the travel. After double-checking electrical connections, I looked at George.

  “I think we’re ready to give it a try.”

  He looked the car over, exhaled a slow breath, and shook his head. “I can’t believe you’ve got this thing ready to run in two weekends.” He glanced at me. “Do you really think it’ll start?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He nodded toward the engine. “Do you really think it’ll run?”

  “I know it’ll run,” I said. “Get in and turn the key.”

  “Fucker’s been sitting in here for four years.” He opened the car’s door and climbed inside. “Seems like more of a dream than reality. Had this thing shipped here from Okinawa Island, Japan.”

  He’d twice told me the story about a Colonel who bought the car stateside during the onset of the Vietnam war, and then had it shipped to the Marine base on the island of Okinawa. Then, over the years, it had been sold to multiple Marines, one of which blew the engine in a drunken display of tire burnouts. He purchased the car with the blown engine and in need of bodywork, later shipping it home immediately prior to retiring.

  Beaming with pride, he got in the driver’s seat, crossed the fingers of his left hand, and turned the key. On the third rotation, the sound of raw horsepower echoed off the walls of his garage.

  “Hold it at one thousand RPM for a minute or so,” I shouted, reaching for the oil pressure gauge.

  “Holy shit!” he howled. “She runs!”

  While I verified the oil pressure, he stared at the tachometer. A face-splitting smile gave hint as to the pleasure he derived from finally having the car in operating order. Personally, I got my satisfaction out of building the engine from scratch.

  Knowing that I took hundreds of parts and assembled them into a running engine with my bare hands gave me a sense of worth. The engine would extract three times the horsepower of a Detroit manufactured equivalent and be ten times as reliable.

  “Take it to about eighteen hundred,” I shouted.

  The engine’s RPM increased. The vintage metal signs he’d hung on the garage walls began to vibrate and shake. A quick check of the gauge confirmed we had great oil pressure.

  “What’s the temp?” I asked.

  “Two hundred,” he shouted.

  I visually checked for oil and water leaks and found none.

  “Shut her down,” I said.

  He turned off the engine and opened the door. “Look,” he said, extending his arm. His hand was shaking. “I’m shaking like an infantry private in a combat zone.”

  “What are you nervous about?” I asked.

  “Shit,” he scoffed. “This isn’t nerves. I’ve got nerves of steel. This is sheer excitement.”

  “Let me look her over for leaks and you can take her for a spin.”

  “I’d tell you to feel my heart,” he said. “But that’d be weird. Fucker’s about to jump out of my chest.”

  “Wait till you romp this fucker at a twenty mile an hour roll,” I said.

  “What’ll she do from a stop light?” he asked.

  “If you don’t have a sticky tire, it’ll just send you sideways,” I said. “This thing’s going to be a monster on horsepower with the cam I chose. You said you wanted it hot, so it’s hot.”

  He tried to hide his smile but didn’t even come close. “What if I put some sticky tires on it?”

  “Get some Mickey Thompson’s on it, and it’ll probably yank that left tire off the ground when you take off.”

  His eyes went wide. “You think so?”

  “I know so.”

  “But, it’ll pass emissions?”

  I nodded. “With flying colors.”

  While George paced the garage, I spent the next thirty minutes checking connections, re-tightening fasteners, and checking for leaks. After double-checking everything, I climbed from beneath the car, removed my rubber gloves, and tossed them aside.

  “Let’s see what she’ll do,” I said.

  He extended his hand. “In case I’m too excited to remember when we get back, just want you to know how much I appreciate your help.”

  I shook his hand. “Least I could do, considering you’re Abby’s best friend.”

  “She sure thinks the world of you,” he said.

  “I’d say the feeling’s mutual,” I said. “Can’t imagine life without her in it.”

  I walked around the car and got in on the passenger side. He climbed in the driver’s seat and glanced over his shoulder. “You guys go out to eat last night?”

  “Had steaks up in Oceanside at a seafood joint,” I responded. “Great ribeye.”

  He reached for the key, paused, and then looked at me again. “She have much to say?”

  I chuckled at the thought. “She’s always got a lot to say. Non-stop talk out of that girl. One of the things I like about her is that a man never has to worry what she’s thinking. She’ll tell you.”

  He grinned a half-assed grin and started the car. When he shifted it into reverse, he grinned. “Love how that cam sounds at an idle. If this son-of-a-bitch could talk, it’d be saying, ‘don’t bother trying to race me, I’ll kick your ass.”

  “I’m sure it would.”

  He drove slowly until we were at the highway on-ramp. After checking for traffic ahead, he looked at me. “It’s okay to stomp it?”

  “Don’t take it above five thousand RPM for five hundred miles. That’s all.”

  He nodded. “Okay. I’m gonna gun it.”

  I knew exactly what the car would feel like. I’d built dozens of high horsepower Ford engines. He, on the other hand, had refused to drive Eleanor, and only had an idea of what he believed the car would feel like. I was anxious to see the look on his face when he saw the car’s true potential.

  We were rolling uphill at fifteen or twenty miles an hour. I glanced over my shoulder and made sure no one was behind us. “Don’t be afraid of it,” I said. “Just stomp it all the way to the floor and keep your eye on the tach. Shift at five thousand.”

  He clenched his jaw, gripped the shifter knob tightly, and mashed the gas pedal. The car didn’t hesitate to react.

  Both back tires gripped firm on the hot Southern California pavement. The engine’s horsepower was converted to energy, and that energy was beyond what I – or George – was ready for.

  The car shot forward like a rocket, slamming both of us against the seat backs. In an instant, George shifted gears expertly. After the car slid sideways a few inches, the tires gripped, once again causing the engine’s power to smash us against the seats. After shifting into third gear, he was well over one hundred miles an hour, and not t
o the highway entrance.

  He released the gas pedal.

  “Holy shit! That power’s crazier than hell.” He glanced in my direction. “I think you’ve got a gift, Son.”

  “Few things I’m good at,” I said with a smile. “Cars is one of them.”

  “Yet you’re managing car washes,” he said. “Abby told me that, and I about had a heart attack.”

  “It pays the bills.”

  “My fucking heart is pounding,” he exclaimed. “Did you hear this ole girl screaming out the tailpipes?”

  “Sounds like she belongs on a race track,” I said.

  “I’ll drive her from work from time to time,” he said. “Watch people drool over it. Other’n that, she’ll be out at the track, racing for side bets.”

  “Well, you’ve got the shifting down. All you might need is a few suspension tweaks.”

  “Know anyone who can tweak a suspension?”

  “Other than me?” I asked.

  He laughed. “Should have known.”

  We took the next exit ramp, and drove back to his house slowly, and without incident. Through the quiet neighborhood he lived in, the car’s exhaust turned a few heads, which George seemed to like.

  When each person looked, he waved like a politician on parade. Seeing his joy couldn’t have pleased me more. When we came to a stop in the garage, he turned off the engine and looked at me.

  “Set the bullshit aside, Porter. What do I owe you?”

  I opened the door. “Stack of pancakes.”

  After getting out, he peered over the top of the car. “I’m not fucking around,” he growled. “I need to pay you something. You did in two weekends what I couldn’t do in years. I got quotes to build this thing, and after everyone saw that box of loose parts, the numbers were in the ten-grand range. Couldn’t ever seem to afford that much. Let me give you a couple grand, at least.”

  “Wouldn’t even consider it,” I replied. “Friend of Abby’s is a friend of mine, and this is what friends do for one another.”

  He shook his head. “You’re one of a kind.”