Devil's Disciples MC Series- The Complete Boxed Set

by Scott Hildreth

  Braxton and I walked across the street. My stride was lighter. My vision, which had been limited to what was directly in front of me, now included full peripheral. Be it marking my skin permanently with recognition of my loss or Braxton’s explanation of me not being God that caused the process to begin, I’ll never know.

  But I knew one thing.

  A transformation was taking place.

  219

  Reggie

  Standing at the kitchen countertop, my father stirred his coffee. “After you left here on Sunday you went home and had a bonfire in your back yard. Tell me how that was a good—”

  “It wasn’t a bonfire,” I argued. “We weren’t roasting marshmallows and hotdogs or having a kegger.”

  He faced me and took a sip of his coffee. “You had a fire in your back yard. Big enough that someone called the police. Bonfire or not, what’s the difference?”

  “Huge difference,” I said. “If it was a bonfire, it would be an irresponsible act. The fire in question? It was an evil necessity.”

  He gave me his signature stink eye. “Evil necessity?”

  My father and I had a rather unique relationship. He was undoubtedly my parent—and acted as such—but we were also friends. I couldn’t imagine a life without him in it, nor could I fathom having a relationship with him other than the one we had.

  “It was Jared’s stuff,” I explained. “The stuff he left in the house. All of it was crap I hated.”

  “Those facts made it an evil necessity?”

  I hadn’t lied to my father about Jared, I simply chose not to tell him the complete truth. From the beginning, he didn’t like Jared. His cop intuition wouldn’t allow him to. He explained that he saw through Jared no differently than if he were transparent, and that he didn’t like what he saw.

  Admitting the truth would allow my father to say I told you so.

  Clutching my cup of coffee between my hands, I let out a long breath. Sooner or later, he was going to say it, anyway.

  “Do you remember Brandon?” I asked. “The guy that’s marrying Tina?”

  “Big kid? Kind of dopey acting?”

  “He’s nice. He’s just. I don’t know. Slow to react.”

  He chuckled. “He’s slow.” He sat down across from me. “Let’s leave it at that. What about him?”

  “They were having a bachelor party at that strip club in Oceanside, because that’s what guys do. When they were leaving, Brandon saw Jared in his car in the parking lot. He was with one of the strippers—”

  “With one how?” His posture straightened. “What were they doing?”

  “They were having sex, dad.”

  The veins on his neck jutted out. His fist clenched the coffee cup so tightly I felt that it would shatter any second. His face flushed crimson.

  He stood.

  Following a few audible breaths through his nose, he cracked his knuckles. “I’m going to break that little prick’s neck.”

  “I’m over it, and you should be, too,” I said. “Sit down. Please.”

  With reluctance, he eventually did as I asked, and sat. “If I ever see that little prick, I’m going to…”

  He shook his head but failed to complete his sentence. He didn’t need to. I knew what he’d do, and it wouldn’t be pretty. He earned his nickname, Tank, for a reason.

  “That’s why the fire was an evil necessity,” I explained. “I was bringing our relationship to a close. I told him whatever he left at the house would be burned, and that’s what I did.”

  With his eyes fixed on the center of the table, he sipped his coffee. I knew to give him his space and allow him to digest my breakup with Jared however he must. I watched the clock on the microwave tick away the time. After three minutes passed, he looked up.

  “You’ve never been one to make idle threat,” he said.

  I raised my index finger. “If I say it…”

  “I mean it,” we both said at the same time, reciting the second half of the phrase my father used repeatedly.

  He let out an audible sigh, which wasn’t really like him. He normally didn’t hesitate to say anything, nor did he express a tremendous amount of emotion, excluding anger or frustration.

  “I’m sorry, and I’m not,” he said. “Eventually, you two were going to break up. It was inevitable. I’m sorry for how it came about, but I’m glad it happened before you two were married.”

  “Yeah, me too—”

  “Or had a kid together.” He wiped his brow. “That would have been a goddamned disaster. Having that turd coming by for the next eighteen years to share custody of a child he fathered? That’s been a nightmare of mine for the past four years.”

  “Well, you won’t have to worry about that.”

  “Thank God.” He leaned back and gave me a look. “So, what now?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Meet a surfer boy at work? Single for a while? Online dating? What’s the plan for your relationship future?”

  I felt compelled to tell him about Tito, but for no other reason than to allow him to see I was truly over Jared. After a little thought, I opted to keep my mouth shut.

  “Single,” I responded. “At least for a while.”

  “Don’t sulk over that piece of shit,” he said. “He’s not worth it. At least get out and meet a few people. It’ll be easy to get in an emotional rut after a long-tern relationship. If anyone knows that, I do.”

  My mother left when I was twelve. My father claimed it took him until midway through my high school years to recover. I often wondered if he ever truly recovered.

  “I won’t sulk,” I assured him. “Don’t worry.”

  “You’re my only child,” he said. “I worry.”

  “I went on one date right after Jared left.”

  His brows knitted together. “How long’s he been gone?”

  “Ten days.” I shrugged. “Give or take. Sunday before last.”

  He smiled a prideful grin. “You’ve already been on a date?”

  I’d managed to go there and wished I hadn’t. I decided to keep it short. “Yep. I think Mel and I are going to go up to wine country next weekend and have a little weekend wine-fest.”

  “What was he like?” he asked. “Nice guy?”

  “Who?” I asked, even though I knew what he was asking.

  He scowled. “The guy you went on a date with.”

  “He was nice. Intelligent. Polite. He had a great moral compass. I got drunk, and he didn’t try to take advantage of me.”

  “Sadly,” he said. “That’s a plus. Especially in this day and age.”

  It wasn’t as rocky as I thought. Glad that it was over without incident, I gave a nod. “I agree,”

  “What was his profession?”

  I should have known it wasn’t going to be so easy. In high school, he demanded that he meet everyone I’d gone on a date with. In college, he did the same—if I made the mistake of mentioning them. He said his exposure to all walks of life prevented him from trusting any man who wouldn’t look him in the eyes and shake his hand.

  “He manages carwashes,” I muttered.

  He seemed entertained by my response. He cocked his head to the side. “High-end car washes? Detailing Bentleys and Lamborghinis?”

  “No,” I responded. “The self-serve type.”

  He scowled at me. “No one manages self-serve carwashes. He’s either unemployed, or he’s a criminal.”

  I felt a compulsion to defend Tito, and I didn’t really understand why. Nevertheless, I did so with vigor. “Someone’s got to manage them,” I argued. “And, that someone is him.”

  “If his job is managing carwashes, he’s a criminal.”

  “What if he really manages carwashes?”

  “Car washes manage themselves,” he replied. “An owner has a contract with a firm for the products they use: soap, wax, and cleaner, and they come by once a week or whatever and check the levels. They’ll have a contract with the water filtration rep for their
deionized water, and they’ll have a maintenance contract with a company for their pumps. Nobody works at a self-serve car wash except for the owner, who typically uses the all-cash business as a means to launder money.”

  “Not everyone’s a criminal,” I said.

  “Laundry mats, flea market vendors, carry-out restaurants, taco trucks, some hair salons, nail salons, these are typical all-cash businesses,” he said, counting on his fingers as he spoke. “They all claim to make no profit whatsoever. Across the board, they evade taxes by claiming little income and inflating their expenses. The typical car wash owner, however, has a lucrative business that thrives. At least that’s what they claim at tax time. How can their all-cash business thrive, while all the others make no profits? Because their income is shit, and they use the carwash to filter their ill-gotten cash, claiming tremendous revenue. The business is a front for them to launder hundreds of thousands of dollars through, and there’s no one to question them. If they own multiple car washes, they have a means to launder millions.”

  I stared blankly. Being the daughter of a detective was exhausting. “When are you going to retire?”

  He smirked. “After I catch the little clique I’ve been chasing.”

  He’d been trying to catch the same elusive street gang since before I was in college. As certain as he was that they were a criminal enterprise, he couldn’t do so much as confirm their existence, let alone prove they’d committed a crime. His “instinct” continued to drive him to pursue them.

  I looked at him and sighed. “Do you ever turn it off?”

  “What?”

  “Being a cop?”

  “I can’t,” he said dryly. “It’s who I am.”

  “Well, he’s nice. You don’t have to believe him about the carwash thing, but I choose to.”

  He looked me in the eyes. “Bring him by.”

  “We’re not dating,” I said for clarification’s sake. “We went on one date.”

  “You said he’s nice, Not, he was nice,” he argued. “You’re planning on seeing him again.”

  “Stop interrogating me,” I huffed.

  “Stop withholding the entire truth.”

  “I may see him again, I may not,” I admitted. “I’ll have to see.”

  “What does he drive?” he asked. “What did he pick you up in?”

  I should have known that’s where he was going to go. I considered lying, but just for an instant. Telling him the truth was going to start a full-fledged investigation into everything related to Tito. Nevertheless, I couldn’t lie.

  “A Harley,” I muttered.

  “Tattoos?”

  “He’s covered in them,” I said as if it were a huge upside to Tito’s existence.

  He crossed his arms over his chest and glared. “Does he ride in a motorcycle club?”

  If I had to paint a picture of an imperfect man—in my father’s eyes—it would be Tito or someone like Tito.

  I had no idea if he rode in a motorcycle club. If he did, he’d be my father’s nemesis. Detective Ted Gottschalk spent a considerable amount of time investigating motorcycle gangs and their criminal activities, then rained on their club’s parades at the most inopportune times.

  “Ride in an MC?” I acted satisfied by the mention of it. “I sure hope so.”

  “Damn it, Reggie.” He stood. A side-eyed glare followed. “You know damned good and well—”

  I shot from my seat and glared right back. “He’s. A. Nice. Guy.”

  “Fine,” he huffed. “Bring him by.”

  “If we go out again, I will.”

  He looked me up and down. “Fair enough.”

  “Fair enough,” I mimicked.

  With an eyeroll in progress, he shook his head. He opened his arms. “My love for you should never be in question.”

  It wasn’t. If there was one man that I knew loved me more than he loved himself, it was my father.

  I hugged him. “It’s not.”

  “I may seem like an overbearing prick,” he said. “But it’s all for your safety. I can’t have you seeing someone who manages car washes by day and robs banks by night.”

  “If said someone even exists,” I said with a laugh.

  “Believe me,” he said. “He’s out there, somewhere.”

  220

  Tito

  A few minutes before closing time, I stood just inside the entrance to The Buckle while Reggie helped a young woman select a pair of cut-off shorts from the display. Stealing nervous glances at me as each opportunity presented itself, she smiled and joked while holding various pairs of the skimpy denim garments for the woman to inspect.

  “Hey, Taddeo,” Raymond said from behind me.

  Focused completely on Reggie, his voice startled me. I turned to face him. He looked especially gaunt and overly happy to see me. I wondered how much of his sunken-cheek look was obtained by the makeup he wore.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  He lifted a button-down shirt and looked it over. “Oh, nothing much. Just trying to clothe the world’s heterosexual men with shirts like this awful specimen without laughing hysterically when they try them on. How’s the car wash business?”

  I laughed. “She told you what I do for a living?”

  “She tells me everything.”

  I grinned. “Good to know.”

  He glanced at Reggie, and then at me. “Did she tell you everything?”

  “Tell me everything about what?”

  “About her ex?”

  “She said they just broke up.”

  He clasped his hands together. “Did she tell you why?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  He glanced over each shoulder before looking right at me. “He had sex with a stripper,” he whispered. “In the parking lot of the strip club.”

  “Oh. Wow,” I coughed. “That ought to do it.”

  He leaned close enough to kiss me. “He knew her.”

  “Knew who?”

  “The nasty stripper,” he whispered. “He said they were, like, best friends.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t a one-time thing,” I said. “If they were friends.”

  He leaned away and looked me over. “I know, right? That’s exactly what I was thinking. I never liked him. Not even a little bit. They had a barbeque a few years ago in their back yard, which, by the way, is huge. Reggie used it to burn everything that stripper-fucker Jared left in the house. The cops came. To the fire, not the barbeque. Anyway, back to the barbeque, he—Jared—cooked sausages, ribs, hamburgers, and I don’t know, some other stuff. Whatever it is that people barbeque. He had everything. When I went to get my food, he said, ‘watch Raymond, he’ll get a wiener, he loves them.’ Everyone laughed. I didn’t tell Reggie, but now I regret it. I thought it was rude. I mean, I’m not a closet gay by any means, but really?” He rolled his eyes. “He didn’t need to say that.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “He didn’t.”

  “Does it bother you?”

  “That he said what he said?”

  “That’s not what I meant,” he said. “But, yeah.”

  “I think it was uncalled for, and rude,” I responded.

  “It doesn’t bother you that I’m gay?”

  “Does it bother you that I’m not?”

  He smirked. “Actually, maybe a little bit.”

  I laughed. Whether he tried to be or not, he was very entertaining to watch, and to listen to. When he talked, he spoke with his hands, waving them wildly and touching whoever it was he spoke to.

  In response to his statement, I struck my best manly pose—hand-on-chin, gazing at nothing, with my bicep flexed.

  “I was joking,” he said with a wave of his hand. He gave me a quick once-over. “Kind of.”

  Completely comfortable with my sexuality, I was a million miles from being homophobic. Gay men were attracted to gay men no differently than heterosexual men were attracted to heterosexual women. That was my belief, anyway.

  I lowered my
hand. “I’m flattered.”

  “You should be,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’m not easily pleased.”

  I glanced around. Short of the woman Reggie was helping, the store was empty. I looked at Raymond. “I’ve got a few questions.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Are gay men attracted to heterosexual men?”

  “I can’t speak for the community,” he responded, tidying a stack of shirts while he spoke. “But I can tell you this. I don’t want to be in a relationship with a straight man. Not someone who’s experimenting with his sexuality. That’s a recipe for disaster. If you met a woman who was lesbian her entire life, and then decided to experiment with a man, would you want to pour your heart and soul into a relationship with her?”

  I wondered how many heartbreaks a man could withstand before he isolated himself from women altogether. “No,” I said. “I would not.”

  “You’d have this fear that one day she’d go back to her roots, right?”

  “Right.”

  “But.” He scanned me from the tips of my boots to my shoulders, then looked me in the eyes. “I often daydream about men I find attractive. It’s hard not to.”

  “I think that’s healthy,” I said.

  “Thank you.” He smiled. “What are the other questions? You said you had several.”

  “What about the fire?” I asked. “You said Reggie used the big back yard to burn—”

  His eyes went wide. “She didn’t tell you?”

  “No. She didn’t.”

  “Oh. My God.” He took a glance in Reggie’s direction and quickly returned his attention to me. “She and that crazy friend of hers, Mel? They took all of Jared’s belongings to the back yard and piled them up. Then, they doused everything in gasoline and set it on fire.” His brows raised dramatically. “Yes. On fire. Like, a blazing inferno that could be seen from El Cajon—maybe even as far as Chula Vista.” His eyes shot to Reggie, who was still talking to the girl. He waved, flashed a smile, and then looked at me. “When the police showed up, they were both standing there with a bottle of wine in one hand and a knife in the other. The police pulled their guns and screamed at them to either drop the knives or get shot. Complete insanity, if you ask me.”