Devil's Disciples MC (Box Set)

by Scott Hildreth

  Baker chuckled and patted her on the back. “I appreciate everything. We’d have been fucked if the cops found that wallet.”

  “Agree with you on that one, Boss. And, no, I didn’t tell them shit. I said I couldn’t see anything other than the black SUV. I took his card and said if I thought of anything, I’d let him know. Before you ask, I didn’t give him my name, and I backed out of there, so he couldn’t get my plate number.”

  “You don’t have a front plate on your car?” Baker asked.

  “I’ve got Connecticut plates. My car’s exempt from having two. It’s an antique with no place to put it.”

  “Good work,” Baker said.

  Cash looked through his wallet. Upon satisfying himself that everything was there, he shoved it deep into his front pocket. “I’m not carrying this fucker in my back pocket anymore. I can tell you that.”

  “You ever carry it to a job again, and I’ll see to it that you’re scratching your unemployed ass,” Baker warned.

  Ally kissed me in passing. She looked at the boxes. “Holy crap. What have you fuckers been doing?”

  “They’re impossible to drill,” Cash said. “We can’t cut ‘em with the plasma, or we’ll torch the money. Gotta drill ‘em. We’ve only got one drill bit that’ll work, so we’re taking turns.”

  “Pull ‘em,” she said. “With a slide hammer.”

  Cash gave her a puzzled look. “A what?”

  “Slide hammer.” She glanced in Baker’s direction. “You’ve got a slide hammer, don’t you?”

  Baker shrugged. “I don’t have any idea.”

  She looked at me. “Did Ghost build the Shelby in the garage downstairs?”

  I nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Is his tool box still down there?”

  “It’s the big red one,” I said.

  “Key?”

  “It’s unlocked.”

  She got on the elevator and returned in a few minutes with a slide hammer. She situated the twelve boxes so the locks were all facing her. Five minutes later, she was done.

  She tossed the last lock onto the table. “That, gentlemen, is how a locksmith pulls a lock.”

  “I’m still waiting for one of these to have a bomb in it.” Baker’s eyes darted between the boxes. “Something’s going to happen, I know it. Red getaway car. Thirteen boxes. Dropped wallet. That’s not the end of it, I’m sure.”

  Ally shielded her eyes with her hand, jokingly protecting herself from the potential bomb blast Baker spoke of. She flipped the lids of the boxes open.

  “There,” she said. “I’m not superstitious.”

  The five of us stared at the boxes in disbelief.

  The twelve identical boxes were filled with equal amounts of banded hundred-dollar bills.

  “Holy. Shit.” Baker gawked. “What did we stumble onto?”

  “Looks like a Federal Reserve withdrawal,” Ally said.

  “Someone’s going to be pissed,” Baker said.

  “How much you think it is?” Cash asked.

  “We’ll know in a few minutes,” Baker said. “It’ll be easy to count.”

  Half an hour later, there was a mountain of bills stacked in front of us. Based on the staggering amount, we knew the investigation regarding its whereabouts wasn’t going to end any time soon.

  “I feel like we should count it again,” Baker said.

  “No need,” Ally retorted. “They’re stacked twenty-five high, that’s two hundred and fifty grand. Three wide is seven fifty, and they’re fourteen deep. It’s ten million, five hundred. Plus the drawer.”

  “Drawer was sixteen grand and change,” Reno said.

  “Just shy of two million each, after the club’s cut,” Baker said. “Damned nice.”

  “I can’t believe we stumbled onto this,” Tito said. “The odds of encountering a Federal Reserve withdrawal are staggering.”

  “I can’t believe we got away,” Reno said. “That fucking cop came out of nowhere.”

  “I can’t believe Ally still got virgin skin,” Cash said.

  We all looked at him like he was crazy.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” I asked.

  Cash gestured to Ally. “Need to get our sister a tattoo. She’s a member of this fuckin’ club. We need to start treating her like one.”

  I struggled not to smile.

  Baker nodded. “We’ll need to have a vote, and—”

  “All in favor of Ally being a full-fledged member of the Devil’s Disciples respond with an aye,” Cash said, “All opposed, nay.”

  “Aye.”

  “Aye.”

  “Aye.”

  “Aye.”

  Cash looked at Baker and raised his brows. “Well?”

  “Aye, motherfucker,” Baker said with a smile. “You’d have heard me say it the first time if all you prick’s weren’t talking at once.”

  Cash looked at Ally. “Looks like you’re in, shorty.”

  159

  ALLY

  I waited two anxious weeks for my tattoo. Shirtless and sprawled out on a century-old leather-wrapped operating table, I was ready to get the process underway.

  The tattoo shop’s walls were peppered with vintage black and white photos of actors and actresses sporting photoshopped color tattoos. WC Fields had an anchor on his forearm. Marilyn Monroe had a floral sleeve along her left arm, from wrist to shoulder. I scanned Marlon Brando, Steve McQueen, and Robert Redford, looking for James Dean, and eventually gave up.

  “No James Dean?” I asked.

  “He’s in the men’s bathroom,” The tattoo artist responded. “Over the toilet.”

  “Why is he hidden in there? He’s awesome.”

  “He was awesome. He was also gay.” He gestured toward the station on the other side of the shop, where a cute skinny jeans clad kid with a well-trimmed beard was tattooing a woman’s foot. “Carson’s gay. So, I thought James Dean could get a peek at Carson’s wiener every time he goes in there to pee. It creeps him out. Carson, not JD.”

  I laughed. I liked that he called him JD. Sometimes I did the same thing.

  It was my first trip to a tattoo shop. So far, I liked what I was seeing. Old-school tattoo art was on display by the entrance, the artists sat in vintage leather office chairs, and the tattoo tables were refinished dentist’s chairs from the turn of the century.

  “I always say, ‘go big or go home.’ You’re going big as fuck on this one,” the artist said.

  “I wanted to get it reduced to the size of a quarter, and have you put it on my left butt cheek,” I said. “But the club shot down that idea.”

  “Get your head in a good place, and give me the word,” he said. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

  I lifted my head. “Kiss me.”

  Goose knelt and gave me a kiss. “It’s not that bad.”

  “Says the guy that’s got a shit-ton of tattoos.”

  He shrugged. “If it was bad, I’d only have one.”

  “True.” I glanced over my shoulder. “I’m ready when you are.”

  The buzzing sound started before I felt the first prick. The sensation wasn’t at all what I expected. I detested getting any kind of shot at the doctor’s office and feared it would resemble countless repeated shots.

  It was more of a scratching feeling, as if someone was dragging the tip of a knife blade across my skin. It wasn’t pleasant by any means. Oddly, I found it satisfying. As the artist traced the needle along the outline he’d placed on the center of my back, I tried to decide what portion of the design he was working on.

  The sensation enveloped me. Lost in the sea of pain, I lowered my head, and closed my eyes.

  The tattoo etched upon my skin would bind me to the five men who shared the same branding. The night before, I’d sworn an oath to protect the anonymity of the club—and my brothers—at any cost. Although lacking in physical stature, I was sure my street-smarts and experience more than made up for it.

  Meeting the club’s expectations wa
sn’t going to be easy. I didn’t want easy. I wanted a challenge. I needed a challenge.

  Being in my father’s presence provided a sense of belonging. Working at his side filled me with self-worth. It had been eleven years since he passed. That time was spent aimlessly attempting to find a place where I fit in. A place where I felt I belonged.

  Now that I was doing what I loved with the man I loved, my self-worth was constantly elevated. Goose didn’t have to dole out praise or accolades—even though he did on every occasion that presented itself.

  One glance at his pride-filled eyes provided all the reassurance I needed that I was doing exactly what he expected of me, and more.

  I liked that about Goose. He didn’t wear his emotions on his shirt sleeves. He didn’t attempt to hide them, either. He was balanced. Perfectly so, as far as I was concerned. He kept me guessing when he needed to and offered an immediate explanation when he felt one was useful.

  “That ought to do it,” the artist said. “Get up and take a look.”

  I lifted my head. “You’re done already?”

  “Already? Three hours wasn’t enough?”

  Goose reached for my hand and helped me to my feet. Once in front of the mirror, I glanced over my shoulder at the reflection.

  The image spanned from shoulder blade to shoulder blade, and from just below the base of my neck to the middle of my lower back.

  A grim reaper-ish devil with a pistol in one of his skeletal hands, and a bag of loot in the other was centered beneath the top “rocker” which bore the club’s name, Devil’s Disciples. Below the pistol-packing mascot, a Latin phrase was now a permanent part of my being.

  Familia Ante Omnia.

  Filled with pride and a sense of belonging, I recited the phrase, in English.

  “Family over all.”

  160

  GOOSE

  Ally was dressed in a pair of cut-off overalls, a white tank top, and her sneakers. We’d just finished watering and trimming everything on the roof deck. It was one of the Sunday chores we shared. Her cheeks wore a tinge of pink from a morning in San Diego’s early spring sun.

  Standing beside our bench with an empty watering can swinging in her hand, she looked at me like I’d pissed on her parade.

  “Disarray?” She dropped the can and put her hands on her hips. “Out-of-place? It’s no wonder your eyes are brown. You’re full of shit.”

  “I’m serious,” I said.

  “Point to it,” she demanded. Her eyes darted around the roof deck. “This entire place is spotless.”

  I shook my head. “Not the house. My life.”

  Her cheeks flashed from pink to bright red. “Your life is in disarray? You feel out-of-place? If it’s any consolation, my life is perfect. At least it was until you said that shit. What the fuck, Goose?”

  As good as I was at talking to everyone else about their problems, I was terrible at talking to Ally about mine. In my eyes, she was perfect. That perceived perfection was intimidating. So much so that I often felt I was unworthy of her. Being in her presence during those times made me feel anxious.

  It was one of those times.

  “It sounds bad when you say it like that,” I explained. “It came out wrong.”

  “All I did was repeat what you said.” She looked me over. “I’ll give you a chance to make it come out right. Take your time, because I’m not trying to hear that shit you said a minute ago. Not again.”

  “I feel like everything’s cluttered up—”

  “Cluttered up?” she huffed. “Cluttered—”

  I raised my index finger. “I wasn’t done.”

  She sighed. “Continue.”

  Her hair was in pigtails. Not the “on the side of your head” type that Pippi Longstocking wore. They were more of a “braid on each side of your neck” affair. I liked them. In her overall-shorts, pigtails, and sneakers, she looked irresistibly adorable.

  “You look cute,” I said. “Adorable, really.”

  She kicked a loose rock across the roof. “Don’t try changing the subject, motherfucker. Get to talking.”

  “I was just saying. I like those pigtails.”

  “They’re not pigtails. They’re braids.”

  “I like them.”

  Her face scrunched into an angry scowl. “What’s cluttered, Goose? Talk to me. What’s fucked up? I can’t fix it if I don’t know.”

  I took a mental pause and tried to think of a way to dumb it down. After some thought, I drew a long breath.

  “I feel like there’s stuff at your apartment. Clothes. Shoes. I don’t know. Just stuff. The day to day stuff, and, of course, the other stuff. You’ve got some clothes here, some at your place, and I don’t like the thought of things not being organized.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “You want me to clean my apartment?”

  “No. I want you to move in,” I explained. “Live here, and only here. Permanently. You and me. In this house.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “That was your clutter?” she asked. “Me not living here? The fact that I was just staying here?”

  “Uh huh.”

  She laughed. “You’re such a dork.”

  “I’m not a dork,” I insisted.

  “You are. In a good way. A cute dork.” She took a step toward me. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

  She was exactly what I wanted, and so much more than I deserved. I’d somehow reached a point that nothing else mattered to me but her. The money. The house. It all became immaterial without her. If she could find it within herself to grant my wish, my life would be complete.

  “For as long as I can remember, my life has been missing something,” I explained. “I didn’t realize what that something was until I met you. When you leave, I feel like a part of me leaves with you. When you come back, everything is how it’s supposed to be. I don’t want to give you a reason to leave.”

  “Don’t say another word.” She closed the gap between us. “End it with that. It was perfect.”

  “Is that a yes?” I asked.

  “When I’m away from you, my eyes hurt. I don’t like it when my eyes hurt.” She kissed me. “So, yes. It’s a yes.”

  I kissed her. Not a simple kiss, like the one she’d given me a moment before. It was a toe-curling kiss. The kind that caused my mind—and my breath—to escape me. When our lips parted, I was dizzy, breathless, and extremely satisfied with what my life had become.

  She traced the tip of her index finger over her lips. “I really like kissing you.”

  “I like kissing you, too.”

  “I have a question,” she said.

  “What?”

  “It’s a three-car garage, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can I park my car in there?” she asked.

  “The Bug?”

  “No.” She laughed. “Not the Bug. I’ve got another.”

  “Oh really? What is it?”

  “A twenty-year-old Porsche,” she said, pronouncing the word Por-shuh. “I had it shipped here in an enclosed trailer. I’m as anal with it as you are with your house.”

  “Is that the one you set the track record in?”

  One corner of her mouth curled up. “It is.”

  “Sure,” I said. “You can put it right beside your SUV.”

  “My SUV?”

  “Ghost said whoever became the getaway driver was supposed to make that car their own. He said, becoming one with your getaway car is crucial, or something like that.”

  “Okay,” she said with a smile. “I’ll park it beside my ‘red’ getaway car.”

  I smirked. “Speaking of red, I’m seeing red right now.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t remember the last time we fucked,” I said with a laugh.

  “All you’ve got to do is ask.”

  I didn’t want her to think all I wanted was sex, because it wasn’t. I shrugged. “I don’t want to over-ask.�
�

  “We can’t have too much sex,” she explained. “No matter how often you ask. And, for what it’s worth, you don’t have to ask. You can just say, ‘Ally, take off your clothes and assume the position’.”

  I lifted her chin with my index finger. “Ally?”

  She grinned. “What?”

  “Take off your clothes and assume the position.”

  161

  ALLY

  “Closer,” I whispered. “I want you closer.”

  “I can’t get any closer,” he replied. “I’m touching you.”

  “I want all of you touching me.”

  We’d been officially living together for four weeks, to the day. Sunday had become a day of household chores, cleaning motorcycles and cars, and making love. No matter what happened during the week, we always made time to make love on Sunday evening, before dinner.

  He lowered his chest, pressing it against mine. I kissed him eagerly, devouring his mouth as if it was vital to my survival.

  He wedged his hand between us and guided himself past my aching folds. As each inch penetrated me, my mind drifted further away.

  He paused.

  Our mouths parted. I gazed into his eyes. They gleamed with satisfaction. Filled with his entire length, I relished in the feeling of becoming so in touch with my love for him that I could feel it. In fact, my soul filled with it.

  Our love making wasn’t simply sex. It certainly wasn’t fucking. With each stroke, we developed a stronger union. A more established bond.

  We were making love. Manufacturing it.

  His forearms slipped behind my back and his hands cupped my shoulders. Holding my body tight to his, he gave himself to me, one unbelievably incredible stroke at a time.

  I wrapped my arms around him, pressing my fingertips into the muscles of his back. Feeling him with my hands gave reassurance that he was real, and that what we were sharing was more than something my mind had simply conjured up.

  I pressed my face against his chest and drew in his scent. He smelled like a man should smell. Not sweet or obtrusive. Defining it was difficult.