Devil's Disciples MC Series- The Complete Boxed Set

by Scott Hildreth

  241

  Reggie

  Spending my Sunday afternoons with Hap and Braxton was a pleasure. Having them be a part of my life was reassurance that my relationship with Tito was built on a rock-solid foundation that included his family.

  Hap reminded me of my grandfather. Tall with broad shoulders and a muscular build, he had an attitude a mile long. One problem was that no one—me included—could figure out whether to take him seriously or not. With a heart fashioned of solid gold, he’d do anything for you as long as he’d accepted you as a friend or family.

  Although Braxton was strikingly handsome and always well-dressed, there was something about him that left me wondering what was hidden beneath the outer shell of Tom Ford suits and Rolex watches he wore.

  His attitude wasn’t masked by smiles or superficial remarks. He wore his bitter brashness like a crown of jewels. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but wonder if beneath the gray beard and tough-guy bravado if there was another heart of gold, just like his father’s.

  I gave Tito my empty beer bottle. “Here you go.”

  Tito handed it to Braxton, who exchanged it for a full bottle. Tito passed the bottle to me. “Here you go.”

  Although there were no official assignments, each of us had our Sunday afternoon porch duty. Hap picked the topics of discussion. Braxton was in charge of the cooler—and of antagonizing Hap. Tito was caught between them, giving his opinions and often settling lop-sided arguments between the father and son duo.

  I acted as a referee, letting the men know when matters got out of hand.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Pleasure’s mine,” Tito said with a smile.

  “This heat wave’s killing me.” Hap tossed his empty bottle in the air. “Heads up, dip-shit.”

  The bottle flew past me. Braxton caught it with little effort, plucking it from the air in mid-flight. The show of talent was a tradition for Hap and a testament to Braxton’s hand-eye coordination.

  Every Sunday, Hap would throw his empty bottles of beer, typically unannounced, toward Braxton. Each time, Braxton would catch them.

  “Last one.” Braxton said, handing Tito the bottle. He leaned forward and peered toward Hap. “Go grab the reinforcements, Old Man.”

  Hap stood. “Last one?” He gave Braxton a puzzled look. “I just filled that son-of-a-bitch last night.”

  Braxton chuckled. “Looks like someone’s stealing your beer.”

  “Stealing it? If someone was stealing it, why wouldn’t they take it all? Why not take the cooler?”

  “They’re not taking it all because their little arms won’t hold any more.”

  Hap glared toward the other side of the street. “Those little fuckers. I’ll wring their little goddamned necks.”

  “Nothing worse than a thief,” Braxton said.

  “I’ll drink to that,” Hap said.

  Braxton laughed. “Just be careful how big of drinks you take, or we’ll have to cut this day short.”

  “I’ll get those little pricks,” Hap said under his breath.

  “Do you know who they are?” I asked.

  “I’ve got a good damned idea.” Hap responded. He took a drink and wiped his mouth on his forearm before gesturing toward the house with a nod. “Those two that are always fighting across the street. That woman and her children’s father, or whoever that punk is. Their kids are a couple of fifteen-year-old delinquents.”

  Hap set his beer aside and hurdled the porch railing. Halfway across the yard, he glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Braxton shot up from his seat. “God damn it, Old Man.”

  “Stay where you are,” Hap insisted. “I can take care of this myself.”

  “Stubborn bastard,” Braxton said under his breath.

  “I heard that,” Hap said.

  Braxton sat down. “One of these days, someone’s going to slap the shit out of that old man. Then, I’m going to have to slap the shit out of them.”

  “Are those kids bad?” I asked. “The ones he’s talking about?”

  “They’re not good, that’s for sure.”

  “Have you had run-ins with them before?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve never met the little fuckers.”

  I took exception to his remark. For him to categorize the neighbors without ever meeting them was wrong. “How can you say they’re bad kids if you’ve never met them?”

  “I’ve seen how they carry themselves. The way they walk, their hand gestures, their eye movements. Those things tell me everything about them.”

  “Interesting,” I said.

  Braxton gestured toward Hap. “Here we go.”

  Hap sauntered across the street like he didn’t have a worry in the world. He hopped onto the porch and hammered the backside of his fist against the door.

  In a moment, a woman answered. Dressed in a pair of oversized sweatpants and a stain-covered tee shirt, her pale arms were peppered with tattoos. Her hair looked like the Bride of Frankenstein.

  Although we couldn’t hear what was being said, we really didn’t need to. The gestures from both parties was enough for us to get the gist of what was going on.

  Hap waved his hand toward us. Then, he held his flattened hand parallel to the ground, even with his chest.

  She shook her head.

  Hap pointed toward the woman’s carport. What looked like empty beer bottles littered the area.

  With her mouth going a mile a minute, she nudged her way onto the porch, forcing Hap to take a few steps back. Wild-eyed, and apparently convicted in her beliefs, she let him have it.

  Hap gestured to us, and then pointed to the carport.

  She flipped Hap the bird.

  Hap returned the gesture.

  Apparently done with the argument, she stomped into the house and slammed the door.

  Hap stared at the door for a moment, and then retrieved one of the empty bottles from the carport. He looked it over, then raised it for us to see.

  I didn’t know about Braxton or Tito, but Hap would only drink one kind of beer, Michelob Ultra. He claimed its low-carb content allowed him to maintain his “awesome physique.” The bottle he held, at least from what I could see, looked like one of Hap’s.

  Clutching the beer bottle in hand, he checked for traffic and then bolted across the street. Upon reaching the porch, he tossed Braxton the bottle. “Have a look at that.”

  “Not surprised,” Braxton said. “They’re a couple of little turds.”

  “Well, the little pricks aren’t home,” Hap snarled. “According to her, they’re church-going saints who don’t drink beer, steal, or even fart. Sounds like the sperm donor’s gone, too.”

  “He’s not any better than the kids,” Braxton said.

  Hap picked up his half-empty beer bottle and looked it over. “What the fuck are we going to do? We’ll be out of beer in ten minutes.”

  “What do you have in the house?” Tito asked.

  “Wine. Been in there for a long while, too.”

  Tito’s nose wrinkled in opposition. “No whiskey or anything?”

  “What’s wrong with your ears?” Hap asked. “I could hear Braxton’s smart mouth from across the street. You can’t hear me and you’re only five feet away. I said I’ve got wine. That’s what I’ve got. Wine.”

  “What kind?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Hap responded. “Some kind of red wine.”

  Braxton reached into his pocket and retrieved a coin. “Heads, we’ll start drinking wine. Tails, I’ll go the liquor store and get more beer.” He flipped a coin high in the air and caught it. He slapped it against the back of his hand. “Call it, Old Man.”

  Hap peered the length of the porch. His eyes thinned.

  Braxton looked Hap up and down. His eyebrows raised. “Did you have a stroke?”

  “Why the fuck would you ask something like that?” Hap growled. “You’re an insensitive prick.”

  “Well, you were just s
tanding there staring at me. I thought maybe you suffered a stroke.”

  Hap looked down his nose at Braxton. “Fuck you, Son. I was thinking.”

  “There are two available options, Old Man,” Braxton said, sounding frustrated. “Heads or tails. Call it.”

  Hap nodded toward Braxton’s hand. “Heads, asshole.”

  Braxton lifted his hand. “Tails. Looks like you’re drinking wine.”

  “Son-of-a-bitch!” Hap said through clenched teeth. “Two out of three. Flip it again.”

  “What’s in it for me?” Braxton asked. “I’m fine with wine. You’re not. I just won. You lost. Why would I want to chance losing on a two out of three bet?”

  “Two out of three, you little prick,” Hap said. “Flip the fucking coin.”

  “Tito and I can go get some beer,” I said.

  “Sit down, sweetheart,” Hap said. “I don’t want you to go get it. I want Brax to go get it.”

  “It’s three blocks from here,” I said. “It’s not a—”

  “Two out of three, asshole,” Hap snarled. “Or, are you afraid to lose to the Old Man?”

  “It’s not like we’re arm wrestling or target shooting,” Braxton said with a laugh. “I’m flipping a coin. It’s fifty-fifty. There’s no skill.”

  “There’s skill in calling it,” Hap insisted. “Any whistle dick can flip a coin. Takes a man with skill to call it. Flip it, asshole.”

  Braxton flipped the coin, caught it, and slapped it against his wrist. He looked up. “Call it.”

  Hap crossed his arms over his chest. “Heads.”

  Braxton lifted his hand and revealed the coin. Immediately, he started to laugh. “Tails.”

  “Fucking horseshit,” Hap seethed, turning away. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Hap went into the house and clamored around for a few minutes. He returned with four glasses and a bottle of Pinot Noir. He lifted the bottle and peered at the label. “Pee-Noe Nwar. This ought to be fun,” he said snidely. “I’ll be surprised if I don’t barf up my lunch.”

  “You shouldn’t have left the beer cooler out all night,” Braxton nagged.

  Hap glared. “You should have flipped the coin higher, you weak-wristed turd.”

  I glanced back and forth between them. “Do you two ever stop?”

  “No,” Tito said. “They don’t.”

  “Braxton’s difficult to get along with,” Hap said, straight-faced. “He got it from his mother.”

  “He’s old and stubborn,” Braxton said. “He got it from his father.”

  “When you’re his age, will you be like him?” I asked.

  “Sadly,” Braxton replied. “I’m sure I will be. We’re an extension of the asshole’s who raise us.”

  “Damned shame I won’t be here to witness it,” Hap said.

  Braxton’s claim was accurate. I had adopted my father’s patterns of speech, odd quirks, mannerisms, and his system of beliefs. As much as I tried to tell myself they were my own, I knew better. I was a female version of him.

  No differently than my father, the world I lived in was separated into two segments. Right and wrong. There was no gray area. Everything either fit into one category or the other. I knew nothing or no one would ever change my—or my father’s—views.

  I glanced at Braxton. “I think you’re right. We’re an extension of the parent or parents who raised us.”

  Hap handed me a glass of wine. “You’re lucky you were raised by a cop. I’m sure your father has a good sense of moral value.”

  I handed Tito the glass and waited for Hap to pour another. “He does.”

  “Unlike those shit birds across the street.” Hap poured another glass and set the bottle on the handrail. “Not a moral bone in their bodies.”

  “It’s sad, really,” I said, reaching for the glass. “That they think it’s okay to steal.”

  “There’s no lower life form than a thief,” Hap said.

  I handed Tito the glass of wine. “I’ll agree.”

  “A cheater,” Tito said. “There’s nothing’s worse than a cheater.”

  “Cheater’s nothing but a thief,” Hap argued. He reached for another glass. “He’s stealing time and emotions from whoever he’s cheating on.”

  “Exactly!” I blurted. “You stole time from me, and I’ll never get it back. That’s what I told my ex.”

  A dilapidated silver sedan cleared the crest of the hill at a speed so rapid that it became airborne. When it came back down to earth, the front end crashed against the asphalt with a loud bang!

  Each of us craned our necks in that direction.

  “Looks like we might be having company,” Hap said.

  “Is that—”

  “The neighbor,” Braxton said, answering me before I finished my thought.

  The car came screeching to a stop in Hap’s driveway. The door flew open. A man bun-wearing guy with broad shoulders and long lean muscles pulled himself out of the car. Wearing stained khakis, a dingy wifebeater and sneakers, he stood at the edge of the driveway with his fists clenched, glaring at Hap.

  “Come here, old man,” Mister Manbun said through his teeth.

  “You got something to say,” Braxton said in an emotionless tone. “Come up here and say it.”

  “I’m not talking to you, Slick,” Manbun said without taking his eyes off Hap. “I’m talking to the old man.”

  Hap set the wine glass aside and barked out a laugh. “I whip cocksuckers like you on my way to a fight.” He bounded over the handrail in one leap and landed on the other side. “What’s the problem, dipshit?”

  “That guy’s mad,” I whispered. “Aren’t one of you guys going to help Hap?”

  Braxton laughed like I told a really good joke. “Help him? Against one guy? He doesn’t need any help, believe me.”

  I shifted my attention to the driveway. Simply looking at the men’s size, it appeared to be a mismatched fight. Hap was twice the size of Manbun and despite his age appeared to be in far better physical condition. Towering over his opponent like a muscular giant, Hap stood a few feet away with his bulging arms dangling loosely at his sides.

  “You accused my kids of being thieves,” Mister Manbun said. “And called my Ol’ Lady a liar. Got news for you, Old Man. My kids ain’t fuckin’ thieves, and my Ol’ Lady ain’t a liar.”

  “I didn’t call the kids thieves,” Hap responded in a much calmer tone than I expected. “I said I came up missing beer out of my cooler. Then, I pointed out that there were beer bottles in your driveway, under your carport. I suggested she ask them where they got them. She said they were yours, and I responded that I doubted it. Told her I never saw you drink from a bottle, only a can. That’s all that was said.”

  “She said you called her a liar and called the kids thieves,” the man insisted.

  “I’m going to explain something to you,” Hap said, his tone now laced with irritation. “Sundays are sacred to me. I sit on my porch and drink beers with my family. When that tradition is interrupted by a man standing in my driveway with a dumb look on his face and his hair in a fucking bun, I get irritated. When I get irritated, I get short tempered. When I’m short tempered, it’s in everyone’s best interest to keep their distance. So, before your car leaks oil all over my drive, why don’t you get in it and go? I can assure you it would behoove you to do so.”

  “Maybe you need to turn up your hearing aid,” Manbun growled. He puffed his chest. “I said, you need to apologize to my Ol Lady, motherfucker.”

  I heard a thud. Mister Manbun doubled over like he’d been shot. Mystified as to what happened, I leaned over the edge of the bannister and peered toward where they stood. All I could see was Hap trying to help the man to his feet.

  “What happened?” I whispered.

  “The Old Man punched him in the sternum,” Braxton said. “Guess he was tired of listening to him.”

  “Holy crap.” I gasped. “I didn’t even see it.”

  Braxton laughed. “Neither did
he.”

  The man gasped to catch his breath. After a moment, he stood upright. Red-faced and out of breath, he looked like he’d just finished running a 10k.

  Hap took a step back. “What do you say we just call it a day? I’ll replace my beers and you can go back to your life of petty crime.”

  Mister Manbun straightened his posture. He raised his hands like he wanted to fight. “Fuck you, Old Man.”

  With the speed of a bolt of lightning, Hap slapped him with his open right hand so hard he nearly knocked him off his feet. Before the man had a chance to recover, Hap slapped him with his left hand, just as hard.

  Stunned, Manbun stammered to remain on his feet.

  Hap swung his clenched fist into the man’s ribcage. The punch hit him with such force that it lifted him off his feet. He crashed against the car and then slumped to the ground like a ragdoll.

  Heaving to breathe, he looked at Hap with wide—and very worried—eyes.

  “I’m going up on the porch to have a glass of wine,” Hap said, turning away. “I’d be having a Michelob Ultra, but someone stole the stuff out of my cooler. When you catch your breath, I suggest you get in your car and go back to wherever it is you came from.”

  Proud as a peacock, Hap sauntered to the porch. After straightening the wrinkles from his tee shirt. he picked up an empty wine glass. As if nothing had happened, he poured it full and handed it to me. “This one’s for you, sweetheart.”

  “And, this one’s for me.” He tipped up the bottle of wine and took a drink.

  Whipping the neighbor in the driveway may have been no big deal to Hap, but it wasn’t a typical day’s happenings for me.

  “Where’d you learn to fight like that?” I asked excitedly.

  “Like that?” He laughed. “Various bars from here to Timbuktu.”

  Mister Manbun was struggling to come to his feet. Teetering back and forth, he steadied himself against the side of the car.

  “He’s getting up,” I whispered.

  Hap turned around. “If you’re considering getting a gun and trying your luck, I suggest you reconsider.” He gestured to the USMC flag hung from the porch’s overhang. “I can guarantee you I’ve got more guns than you do, and that I’m a much better shot than you are. Your best bet’s just to go back to where you came from.”