BAKER (Devil's Disciples Book 1)

by Scott Hildreth

  I glanced at Cash and Reno. “He’s got a point, fellas.”

  Goose stood and looked at each of the men. “She was a mouthy Mexican. Now she’s a mouthy Mexican with a job next door. Personally, I think it’s funny. We’re kicking ass and taking names over here, and she doesn’t even know who we are. No one sees the irony in the fact that Brother Baker is slipping her the dick? It’s the ultimate fuck you. We robbed the bitch’s bank, and now Baker’s long dicking her. She’s getting double fucked. I say we leave it alone. We damned sure don’t need to be killing the neighbor. Shit, we already went through this conversation once, fellas.”

  “So, as long as Baker keeps fucking her, we’re good?” Reno asked, his tone carrying a hint of sarcasm. “But what happens when he stops?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Because she doesn’t know who we are. Remember that. She has no idea. And, I’ve already stopped fucking her. More than a week ago.”

  “I say we stay close to her, just to see what she’s thinking,” Ghost said.

  I nodded in agreement and then looked at each of the men. “You all know how I am about women. But, in this case, I’ll be willing to take one for the team.”

  Cash burst into laughter. “Take one for the team, huh? You keep fucking her, and we all walk around with our assholes cinched tight waiting for the axe to fall.”

  I stood. “I’m the clear loser in this equation, Cash.”

  “I’m not going to argue with you on that,” He said with a laugh. “Personally, I couldn’t get hard for that nasty bitch.”

  I felt my jaw tighten. She wasn’t nasty, and I wanted to attack him for saying she was. Instead, I walked to the kitchen and turned around.

  “Ghost made a good point. We’ve got to set emotions aside, and look at our two options. One is to leave it alone, and the other is to kill her. Killing her brings with it the high probability of being caught. Being caught means life is over.” I glanced at each of the men. “Leaving it alone, at worst, brings a ten-year hitch. And, that only comes if she figures out who we are. That time and date will only come if we tell her. It’s easy to say, let’s kill the bitch. Doing it and getting away with it is improbable.” I raised my flattened hand. “I vote we leave it alone. I’ll make the sacrifice to continue fucking this bitch on as as-needed basis for the time being.”

  “Leave it alone.” Tito’s hand shot skyward.

  Goose raised his hand. “Same.”

  “No brainer,” Ghost said.

  “Still think the sharks were a good idea,” Reno said. “But I’ll side with the consensus.”

  I looked at Cash. He glared at each of the men. “Fucking pussies.” He looked at me. His eyes thinned. “I think this deal smells like bullshit. I’ll vote with the club, but under…”

  His gaze lowered to the floor.

  “Under protest,” Tito said.

  Cash looked up. “Yeah. Under protest.”

  I scanned the group. “So. We’re unanimous?”

  Each of the men nodded.

  “Well,” I said. “I guess I’ll need to get close to this bitch and see what I can find out.”

  TWENTY-FIVE - Andy

  I looked at each of the pictures. They were perfectly straight and evenly spaced. Baker had taken the time to measure the room, center the pictures on the wall, and hang them with anchors that he set in the concrete mortar joints.

  The sideboard was positioned underneath them, and had a large decorative vase at one end, and a small one at the other. In the center, a miniature decorative easel displayed the building’s only announcement. My Gala Christmas Bash.

  The door opened slowly. Much to my surprise, it was Baker. Seeing him twice in three days was unusual, but welcome.

  He was wearing tight-fitting jeans, worn Chucks, and a white tee shirt with a heather gray vest over it. On his head was a cool gray hat with a purple feather in the side. He looked like a walking commercial for a hipster bar, not a biker.

  I smiled. “Good morning. I like the fedora. It’s a nice look on you.”

  “It’s a porkpie.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s not a fedora.” He took it off and tipped it toward me. “It’s a porkpie.”

  “Well, whatever it is, I like it.”

  He scooped his hair away from his face and put it on. “Thank you.”

  While I was busy trying to come up with a good reason to keep our relationship a non-relationship, he sat down and glanced over his right shoulder. I studied his tattooed hand as he stroked his beard. His hands were sexy. Too sexy, to be honest.

  A man’s hands were a weakness of mine.

  A man’s hands and his dick.

  And, his beard. And clothes. And eyes. Oh God, yes. His eyes.

  Baker’s eyes were impossible to describe. It wasn’t the color or the shape that made them unique. It was what happened when he looked at me. His intentions seemed to be scattered about in the iris, which often left me staring into them in hope of learning his thoughts.

  “I like the decorative touch,” he said.

  I nodded toward my awesome display, even though he was looking away. “All the floral stuff is real. It’s just dried. Michael’s is awesome.”

  “Who?”

  “Michael’s. It’s craft porn for girls. I went on a shopping spree with my new company credit card.”

  He turned to face me, pinning me in place with his beautiful orbs. “It looks great.”

  At that moment, I wished he didn’t have eyes. Actually, I wished a lot of things.

  I wished what he wore didn’t matter, but I looked forward to seeing his outfits each time he came. I hoped the day would come when I could sit across from him and not become aroused, but being in his presence always brought a tingling to my nether region.

  I wanted to detest him for how he made me feel, but I couldn’t. I simply stared back at him with eyes of admiration.

  “I feel like starting over,” he said.

  I propped my cheek against my palm. “Putting on a different outfit?”

  “No. With us. You know, a fresh start.”

  I broke his gaze and reached for a pen. After an unsuccessful attempt to twirl it in my fingers, I flipped it onto the desk between us. Embarrassed, I reached for it and looked up. “Us?”

  “You and me.” He stood and held his hand over the desk. “Nice to meet you, I’m Baker.”

  I smiled and reached for his hand. “Andy Winslow. Nice to meet you.”

  “Graham Baker, to be exact. But I don’t use my first name.” He released my hand. “Ever. It’s just Baker.”

  “I like it. It’s--”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Ever.”

  “Okay.” Whether I could use it or not, I liked knowing his first name. I liked starting over, and decided to do a little of it myself. “My Dad was from New York. My mom was first generation Brazilian-American. They met in Times Square. When I was thirteen, he cheated on her. She found out from my aunt. The girl you met? Remember Holly?”

  He nodded.

  “She’s my cousin. It was her mom that told mine,” I explained. “A friend of hers saw them out together. She was a waitress and they kept coming in to her restaurant.”

  He reached across the desk and cupped my hand in his. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m far from done.” I forced a smile. When I was younger, I couldn’t talk about it. Enough time had passed that doing so now wasn’t easy, but at least it was possible. “So, my mom got his gun and confronted him. He tried to take it, and she shot him. He uhhm. There were complications with his liver and pancreas. He uhhm….he died.”

  He squeezed my hand.

  There was more. I pinched the bridge of my nose between my eyes and hoped I could keep from crying. After swallowing a lump that had risen in my throat, I continued. “She was thirty-seven when she died in prison. They said natural causes. I say a broken heart.”

  “I don’t know what to--”

  “Nobody does,” I said. “I just wanted to t
ell you, so you’d know. I don’t trust men, and that’s part of the reason why. Part of it. There’s more, but we’ll save that for another time.”

  “Do you want to go on a date?” he asked.

  My heart palpitated. It was a surprise attack, and I wasn’t ready. Not even close. I swallowed a knot of fear and looked at him with wide eyes.

  “A date?” I whispered.

  He squeezed my hand gently and nodded.

  “Yes.” I smiled. “Yes, I would.”

  TWENTY-SIX - Baker

  Goose was the club’s chef, comedian, and weapons expert. Reno may have known everything about explosives, but Goose forgot more about guns than any of us would ever know. He was also the only member of the club with any relationship experience. Tall, lean, and extremely neat, he wore his hair close-cropped. He could pass for being one of the cities many Marines, but his dislike for the government prevented him from following that career path.

  He lived in what was once a suburb of San Diego. On paper, La Mesa was a town of 50,000. In reality, the city had grown around it, leaving no indication of borders. It was one of few areas in the city where a man could afford to own a home. The one thousand square foot ranch homes in the area brought between six hundred thousand and a million dollars, depending on condition.

  His home stood out as being the best manicured one on the entire block. In a yard suited for one palm tree, he had three. Low lying shrubs and other forms of vegetation filled the yard, giving it a colorful curb appeal unlike anything else for miles.

  I parked my bike in his drive and sauntered up the stone walk. As I stepped onto the porch, his front door opened.

  “Don’t tell me you were in the neighborhood.”

  “Came by to talk,” I said. “Got a minute?”

  “Got another fifty years if things go the way I’ve got ‘em planned.” He gestured toward the side of the house. “Take the gate to the back deck.”

  I maneuvered through the forest of trees, to the gate leading to the back yard. When I reached for the handle, he pulled it open. He handed me a bottle of beer. “It’s hotter than fuck. Here.”

  “Thanks.”

  He turned toward the back porch. “What’s on your mind?”

  His back yard was somewhat of a SoCal sanctuary. In a region where it never rained, the yards of most homes were decorated with rock and stone. Goose had somehow managed to convert his back yard to a thriving display of plant life suitable for the dry weather.

  The smell of honeysuckle tickled my nose as I followed him to the covered deck.

  He gestured to one of the four empty chairs that surrounded a small glass table. “Have a seat.”

  I glanced around the yard. “Looks nice back here. What’s with the pile of wood?”

  “Building an elevated platform.”

  I took a drink of beer. “For what?”

  “Because I don’t have one.”

  I took another drink and then looked him over.

  “Girl from the bank got ya troubled, huh?”

  I pursed my lips and shook my head in denial. “Not so much, no.”

  “What, then?”

  I had no relationship experience whatsoever. All I’d ever done was fuck women. No live-ins. No girlfriends. No emotions. My choice of being an outlaw at an early age prevented me from trusting that a woman could ever be a part of my life. I’d succeeded at breaking the law for twenty years by doing two things: being single, and surrounding myself with men I could trust.

  I needed advice on how to act like I liked someone.

  “I was wondering how to make it look like I want to be around her without letting her know I’m really not serious.”

  A confused look covered his face. “What?”

  “I don’t want her to know that I’m not interested. So, I want to do shit that makes it seem like I want to be around her. You’re the only one with relationship experience, so here I am.”

  He chuckled. “This is a bachelor pad in case you didn’t notice. I failed at my relationship, remember?”

  “You married a chick with three kids,” I said. “Anyone would have failed at that.”

  “I’m probably not the best to be giving advice.”

  I finished my beer and wiped my forehead on my arm. “Give me what you’ve got.”

  “You’re wanting her to think you’re in it for all the right reasons, even though you’re not?”

  I picked at the label on my beer bottle. “Correct.”

  “But you’re not?”

  I looked up. “Not what?”

  “Not in it for the right reasons.”

  I began to pick at the label again. “Correct.”

  “Women want to be treated with respect. Making them feel special is always a pretty big hit. You know, telling them you like something about what they’re wearing or how their hair is fixed. They like being told the truth, being able to trust the man they’re with, and feeling like he can protect her from every shit hat that might threaten her. Candy, cards, and flowers might be what Hallmark leads you to believe makes ‘em happy, but it ain’t the answer. Handing a woman a card and a box of chocolate doesn’t aggravate matters, but it doesn’t make ‘em as happy as cooking dinner.”

  “Sounds easy enough. Short of the cooking, all I’ve got to do is be me.”

  “Don’t lie to her, either. Whatever you tell her, make sure it’s at least close to the truth. If not, and she finds out you’re full of shit, Little Miss Bank Manager is going to turn and run.”

  “Andy.”

  His eyes went thin. “Huh?”

  “Andy. Her name’s Andy.”

  He erupted in laughter. After damned near choking to death on the beer he coughed up, he wiped the tears from his eyes and shook his head. “That’s hilarious.”

  “What? That she’s got a dude’s name|?”

  “Nope.” He took a drink of beer and shook his head. “We were planning the robbery and you said Andy. Ghost said who’s Andy. You said I said Reno. You know what? I thought you said Andy. Now I know. You said Andy. Sounds like this girl’s got you by the balls.”

  “Nobody’s got me by the balls.”

  He looked me over and then smirked.

  I wiped the sweat from my forehead and nodded toward his beer. “Got any more of those?”

  He chuckled. “Be right back.”

  He returned with four beers in a bowl of ice. After handing me one of them, he sat down. “You prepared to go the distance with this girl?”

  I twisted the lid off the bottle of beer and bent it between my thumb and forefinger. “What do you mean?”

  “What if something develops between both of you? You going to be able to lie to her about the job for the rest of your life?”

  “Jesus fucking Christ, Goose,” I snapped back. “We’re not getting married.”

  He tilted his beer bottle toward me. “She’s on your mind, no arguing that.”

  “She’s got a pussy like a vise,” I said. “She’s fun to fuck.”

  “They’re all fun to fuck.”

  “She’s different.”

  He rocked his chair onto the back legs. “Here we go. Now comes the truth.”

  “No, Goddammit. Her pussy’s different. It’s tight as fuck. Feels like…” I took a drink of my beer. Explaining it would be impossible. “It just feels different.”

  He balanced his chair on the legs and lifted his chin slightly. “How many chicks you think you’ve dicked in your day?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Guess.”

  I shrugged. “Fifty.”

  “She better’n all of ‘em?”

  “Oh, hell yes.”

  He leaned forward until the chair’s front legs came down onto the deck. “So much so that you can’t compare any of them to her?”

  “No comparison.”

  He looked me in the eyes for a long moment, and then nodded. “Your secret’s safe with me. Brother Cash finds out, and he’s liable to kill you both, though.�
�

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Your eyes are like an open book. All they take is a little studying. This girl’s more than a piece of pussy.”

  I looked away and shook my head. “Afraid not.”

  “Keep telling yourself that,” he said. “And you might start believing it. But you didn’t come here to get advice.”

  “Oh yeah?” I turned to face him. “Why’d I come here?”

  He tilted the neck of his bottle toward me. “To get permission.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN - Andy

  Baker was at my apartment for the first time, and we were simply talking. About absolutely nothing. Having a man in my presence and not fucking him somehow stroked my ego. As a result, my self-confidence crept higher and higher with each passing minute.

  I poured a glass of tea and slid it across the island. “So, you don’t think it looks empty?”

  Seated at the other side of the bar on one of my new stools, he reached for the glass. “That wasn’t what I said. I said it doesn’t look bad. But, it’s empty. There’s no denying it.”

  I poured another glass. “It doesn’t look bad, though?”

  He glanced over his shoulder and then shook his head. “No. Not at all.”

  Behind him, the two pieces of furniture made it appear that someone was minutes from moving out. From my vantage point it looked bad.

  I gazed blankly into the large open room, “I can’t wait until I can buy more.”

  “Did you have more?” he asked.

  “I did. At my apartment in Indio. It was nice. I had a sectional, the red couch, a loveseat, and that blue chair. And, some end tables and stuff. I got a lot of it used, but it was all nice. Really good quality. I had to sell it to pay bills. That stuff’s all I’ve got left.”

  He twisted his glass of tea in a circle, watching it as it turned in his hand. “After you lost your job?”

  I studied him as he studied his glass. “Yeah. Finding a job’s not as easy as you might think. A college education doesn’t guarantee anything.”