GHOST (Devil's Disciples MC Book 3)

by Scott Hildreth

“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.”

  20

  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 thinki
ng. 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 to 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.”

  I laughed. “So are you. I thought on the day we met that you were going to be a prick. But you’re all bark and no bite.”

  “Oh, believe me,” he said. “I bite, and bite hard. Abby’s got a damned good head on her shoulders, and if she thought you were a good enough man to come into my diner, I knew I needed to give you a chance.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “She’s a special girl,” he said. “Hard to understand what drives her to do what she does, but she’s driven. Can’t help but respect her.”

  I opened the car’s hood. “You mean the YouTube stuff?”

  “No, I was meaning the charity. She’s not one to brag, but I sure brag about her,” he said. “Last year she had a fundraiser for raising drug awareness amongst teens. Said she’s match two dollars for every dollar donated. Damned girl gave four million of her own money to charity. Year before she did the same thing for breast cancer. Year before that was to build a soup kitchen for the homeless. And, all she can do is talk about how I have that pancake fundraiser. She acts like I’m a saint. Truth be known, that girl is a gift from God if there ever was one.”

  I forced a smile and ducked under the hood. “She’s a gift, alright.”

  He leaned over the fender. “Say something to offend you?”

  I shook my head. “No, why?”

  “If there’s one thing I learned to do after fifteen years at war, it’s how to read people. Something I said tasted foul.”

  “I’m not a big God person, that’s all. Don’t care if you are, I’m just not what I’d call a believer.”

  “Everyone needs something to believe in.” He gazed at the engine for a moment, and then looked up. “In boot camp they asked, ‘Are you catholic or protestant?’ I said, ‘Neither.’ They said, ‘You’re one or the other, pick one. So, I picked protestant. I always struggled with God’s existence, at least until I was in combat. I found God one afternoon when I was on the receiving end of a Kalashnikov in Afghanistan. Kalashnikovs don’t jam for what it’s worth. Ever. His did. I don’t know who he was praying to, but my God answered my prayer.”

  He let out a long breath. “He went on to meet his maker. That night, while I was staring up at the stars, I somehow came to believe. Ever since, I’ve been a believer.”

  I felt like laughing but didn’t dare. “No offense, but having a guy’s gun jam made you believe in God?”

  “I think I was just looking for a reason,” he said. “On that day I found it. If a man doesn’t believe in God, he’s left to believe he is God. I’ve got news for you. You’re not.”

  I chuckled. “Never thought I was.”

  He turned away, returning in a moment with two beers. He handed me one. After I accepted it, I tilted the neck of the bottle toward him. “Here’s to fast cars, battlefield miracles, and having something to believe in.”

  He clanked his bottle against mine.

  I took a drink and then raised my clenched fist. “For now, I’m going to believe in this brass bracelet.”

  He gave a nod. “As long as you’ve got something to believe in.”

  I began checking for coolant leaks. After enough time passed that I felt like I could change the subject, I did, deciding to speak about something we both had in common.

  Abby.

  “I’m grateful as hell that Abby came into my life,” I said. “I’ve been blind to what it’s like have someone care about me – other than family – and I haven’t had any family for thirteen years or so. Hard to put into words how much she means to me.”

  He sipped his beer, and then silently studied me for a moment while I checked for leaks.

  “You’ve got something to say, just say it,” I said without looking up. “Never been much for having a man stare at me and not speak.”

  “She loves you,” he said. “But she’s scared to death to tell you. Don’t know if it’s my place to do so, but I guess I just did.”

  I sprung upright, banging the back of my head on the hood when I did so. “Son of a bitch,” I shouted. “That hurt like hell.”

  “Finding out she loves you?” He chuckled. “Or hitting your head?”

  “Maybe b
oth.” I rubbed the back of my head with the palm of my hand. “Did she tell you that?”

  “More or less,” he said.

  I’d felt like I loved Abby, but also feared telling her how I felt. Confiding my feelings wasn’t easy, especially when it came to love. One way to get tossed to the curb would be to tell her I loved her if she didn’t love me. More or less wasn’t much of an indication of love, though.

  I looked at him as if he’d taken a liberty he shouldn’t have. “More or less?”

  “We talked about you yesterday, at length,” he said. “She loves you. I thought she was going to tell you last night. It’s why I asked about your dinner.”

  “Maybe she decided she doesn’t,” I said.

  He took a long drink of his beer, and then lowered the bottle. “She’s scared to death of losing you. I know that.”

  “I know how that feels. I can’t seem to convince myself I deserve her. I can tell you that much.”

  “In my fifty some years on earth, I learned this,” he said. “When it comes to living life, we all get what we deserve. Nothing more, nothing less. If you don’t believe me, maybe you ought to have another look at that bracelet of yours.”

  I glanced at my wrist. It was nothing more than a piece of brass with a word stamped into the face of the metal. But, for the time being, it was all I had. I studied the inscription. Abby may have deserved me, but I wasn’t convinced I deserved her. Not yet, at least. Before I could truly believe, I needed to tell her the truth.

  The entire truth.

  If she accepted me when I was done, our relationship was meant to be.

  21

  Abby

  As a teen I was preached to about what types of boys to avoid. My parents weren’t overly strict, but they wanted me to succeed in whatever endeavors I chose. Success, in their eyes, couldn’t be achieved unless I selected the right man to be at my side.

  If I chose the wrong man, I’d be destined for failure. Or, so they led me to believe. Nonetheless, I was attracted to bad boys. The kids who were always in trouble. The boys who fought after school. The hellions who were ostracized by everyone else in school for their actions or beliefs. The kids who wore black, sat alone in the lunch room, and wore a scowl from first period until the dismissal bell rang.