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.”
3
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.
4
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 compl
ete 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.
I hadn’t made out with anyone since I was in high school but kissing her became the only thing that seemed to matter. The pressure on my brain was obviously creating far more problems than headaches. The tumor was reducing me to a hopeless romantic.
Hoping to disguise my desires, I pursed my lips and offered my hand. “Ghost. Porter,” I stammered. “Porter.”
She squinted. “Did you say Ghost Porter-Porter?”
“Ghost’s a nickname,” I said dismissively. “Call me Porter.”
She set her purse between us. “That’s a pretty awesome nickname.”
Being in the presence of strangers troubled me. Apart from the men in the motorcycle club, I trusted very few people. I felt uneasy sitting next to her, but for different reasons. I wanted to touch her.
Everywhere.
I wanted to taste her. To run my fingers the length of her naked body, pausing at the dimples I was sure that existed just above the small of her back. To run my fingers through her hair while I pressed my naked chest to hers.
I shook my head, hoping to clear it of the odd thoughts that were quickly filling it. She wasn’t the type of woman I typically associated with. As a means of self-preservation, I preferred one-night stands, strippers, and women who idolized bikers. She looked like an actress from a Covergirl commercial and smelled like a spring rain shower.
I swallowed heavily. “What did you say your name was?”
“Abby. Like the Beatles album, Abby Road.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a small weathered notepad. “Is this your first meeting?”
“It is,” I admitted.
“It’s weird,” she said, flipping through the pages as she spoke. “Before you come through that door, you feel helpless and alone. You push it open and walk in, hoping for answers. To find someone that you can hold accountable. Then, you find out all that’s available is a roomful of compassion, a little experience, and a lot of understanding. You know what, though?”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s all we need.” She handed me the notepad. “Look at number thirty-two.”
I smiled again, even though I told myself not to. Her energy was undeniable. I glanced at the small sheet of paper. Eight hand-written items were on the page, seven of which had been crossed out. The one that remained, take a ride on a motorcycle with a real biker, was number thirty-two.
She extended her arm, holding her open hand over my lap. I glanced down, and in doing so, checked the status of my stiff dick. Relieved that I wasn’t going to embarrass myself, I gave her the notepad.
“What is it?” I asked. “A bucket list?”
“It’s a to-do list,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “I’ve hand it since I was thirteen. I’ve added things to it over the years.”
I tilted my head toward the notebook. “How many things are in there?”
She folded it closed and then dropped it into her purse. “Hundreds.”
I was fascinated. I wanted to know things about her. Everything. Why her skin was so pale. If her lips were natural, or if she’d had them injected with collagen. Why she wore sneakers with a dress. Why she had two four-inch squares of gauze taped to her legs. What the other one hundred and ninety-nine items on her list were.
“How many have you completed?”
She beamed with pride. “All but six.”
I wondered if I took the time to make such a list what it may include. The thought of it satisfied and scared me at the same time.
She leaned close enough to kiss, and then looked me in the eyes. “Are you a real biker?”
Her outspoken nature would normally cause me tremendous grief. For some reason, however, I found it intriguing. The problem with my dick slowly began to resurface.
“Who says I’m a biker?”
“I heard one pull up earlier. I know the sisters didn’t ride it, and I’m pretty sure Larry didn’t, either. That leaves you and me. The bike I rode had pedals and didn’t have an exhaust so loud it shook the windows.”
“Yes,” I said, quickly going back to thoughts of her dress being hiked over her hips. “I’m a real biker.”
She
leaned against the arm of the loveseat, crossed her legs, and then looked me up and down. When she did, her hair fell into her face. “So, Ghost Porter-Porter.” She swept her hair behind her ear. “When do you want to go for that ride?”
I chuckled. “Are you always so blunt?”
Her eyebrows raised. “I haven’t got time to be anything but blunt. I’ve got a busy schedule and beating around the bush is dumb.”
Taking women for rides on my motorcycle wasn’t on my to-do list, and it never had been. Considering the circumstances, I decided to make a minor adjustment to my standard policy.
“How about after the meeting?” I asked.
“Sounds great,” she said with a smile. “If you want to ride to Borrego Springs, we can cross another thing off my list.”
If things like going to Borrego Springs were on her list, it made taking a ride with a real biker seem like not that big of a deal. Suddenly, I felt unimportant and easily replaced.
“A trip to Borrego Springs? That is on your list?”
“Not Borrego Springs, specifically,” she said. “But holding a live rattlesnake is, and that’s the closest desert.”
I chuckled at the thought of her hunting rattlesnakes in sneakers and a dress that came to mid-thigh. “You’re going to hunt rattlesnakes bare-legged?” I asked, stifling a laugh. “That’s a good way to get bitten.”
“We’re all going to die sooner or later,” she said. “I’d rather it happened while I was having fun than when I was asleep.”
One week earlier, I was at a strip joint in Oceanside without a care in the world. Now, I was mentally planning my death and preparing to go rattlesnake hunting with a fearless Covergirl makeup model.
I’d always wondered what life would be like if I could truly throw caution to the wind.
Without warning, she lifted my hand and looked at my watch.
“Crap,” she said as she released my wrist. “I’ve got to get this meeting started.”
She stood and brushed the wrinkles from her dress. “Hi, I’m Abby, and I’m a survivor.”
GHOST (Devil's Disciples MC Book 3) Page 2
