Devil's Disciples MC (Box Set)

by Scott Hildreth

  “It was a fifty-thousand-dollar mistake,” Tito said. “I made an extra ten grand because of your accident. I’ll be talking about it for a long time.”

  “It was an accident, and it was eight months ago.” Cash looked at me. “What day is it?”

  “Seventh, why?”

  “No, not the day of the month. What day of the week? Is it Tuesday?”

  “Monday,” I said.

  He looked at Tito. “I’ll give you until Friday. Mention it after Friday, and you and me are gonna fuckin’ box.”

  Despite Cash being as mean as a snake, if there was anyone who could challenge him and make it a worthwhile fight, it would be Tito. His family had taught Jiu-Jitsu for generations, and he was a master at it. I prayed that Tito mention it during the following week’s Wednesday meeting, just to see them in action.

  “You and I,” Tito said, correcting Cash’s grammar.

  “That’s right.” Oblivious of Tito’s correction, Cash raised his clenched fists. “The two of us.”

  Unamused, Tito tilted his head toward me. “Looks like the town has three cops. One kid with an attitude, and two overweight fuckers in their mid-fifties. Kid appears to work nights. We’ll disable the generator, then cut the power and all communication at the same time. A cell phone jammer will make sure we don’t get a remote alarm.”

  “How are we getting in?”

  “The roof-mounted air conditioner weighs 560 pounds. It’ll take all of us to move it to the side. Then, we’ll go in through the ductwork.”

  “Sounds like a hundred percent to me,” Cash said.

  Tito glared. “Maybe you should disable the alarm, then.”

  “Maybe I should. I’ve watched you do it enough. No big deal, really. A cell phone jammer, some wire cutters, and a little blind luck.”

  Tito glanced at Cash and shook his head. “The place is lit up like a Christmas tree at night, so we’ll need a dozen battery-powered puck lights to make sure someone doesn’t notice the power’s off. If they do, they’ll call it in, and that cop will be there in a minute. My guess is he’s former military. Looks the part.”

  The index and middle fingers of Tito’s right hand were crossed. He did it when he didn’t want to forget something he felt was important.

  I nodded toward his hand. “What else?”

  He uncrossed his fingers. “This Pat guy. He’s got good credit, but he owes eight hundred grand on a nine hundred-thousand-dollar house. He leases a Benz AMG C63, and his wife drives a leased Lexus LX. On paper, he lives off his credit. There’s no doubt he has money, but he doesn’t deposit it in the bank or buy anything short of lunch. When he goes, it’s not with his wife, either. It’s with some hot twenty-year-old.”

  “Maybe his daughter?”

  “I don’t know who it is, but it’s not his daughter.”

  I grinned. “So, he’s getting some young pussy on the side, and he keeps his assets hidden? Might be planning on leave the wife, huh?”

  “The math doesn’t add up, that’s for sure,” he said. “I’m guessing his assets are liquid. My bet is that he keeps everything in that shop. If he does that much volume in gold, we’ll need to drive on this one. It will be impossible to haul much weight out of there on our bikes.”

  I looked at Cash. “This might be a damned fine job.”

  He flipped his hair out of his eyes and grinned. “Told ya.”

  “I would hate to leave anything behind,” Tito said. “Just to be safe, our vehicle will need to have a big cargo area.”

  I chuckled. “We’re not leaving anything behind.”

  Cash stepped to Tito’s side. “We could use that minivan Goose got in the divorce. It’s slower than the second coming of Christ. We’d blend in with all the soccer moms, though.”

  I looked up. “That white Toyota?”

  Cash nodded. “Fucker’s nice. Seats eight, and has those automatic doors. Slower’n fuck, though.”

  “No thanks,” I said.

  “It’s the Cadillac of minivans.”

  “According to who?”

  “Goose.”

  Cash was an asset to the club, no doubt. Sometimes, however, I questioned his common sense.

  “I’ll talk to Ghost,” I said. “He can get something big enough to haul everything. Something big and fast.”

  I looked at Tito. “What else?”

  “That’s it, really. As far as jobs go, this one should be simple. Only problem I see is that night cop. He walks like he’s from Texas.”

  I blinked a few times, at a complete loss of what that might have meant. “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “He wears boots, and his attitude arrives five minutes before he does.”

  “Hell, Reno’s from Texas,” Cash said.

  Reno was the club’s explosives expert. A former special forces soldier, he was an adventure-seeking maniac with a colorful personality and a huge attitude.

  I laughed. “That explains a lot.”

  “I’m serious,” Tito said. “This cop’s a potential problem.”

  “Maybe we’ll have to create a diversion,” I said.

  “Like Perris?” Cash asked.

  Tito shook his head. “Jesus. We don’t need another Perris. Start a fire. Tip over an avocado truck. Stage a drag race on the other side of town. Anything but another Perris.”

  In 2014, we were robbing a drug dealer’s mansion in one of Perris, California’s affluent neighborhoods. The community of three dozen homes was sheltered by a fifteen-foot-high concrete fence with one way in and out. A security contractor guarded the entrance twenty-four hours a day, making penetration of the neighborhood difficult, if not impossible.

  In broad daylight, five of us scaled the wall immediately behind the home and entered the residence unnoticed. Posing as a city inspector looking for a natural gas leak, Ghost drove past the gate by simply flashing a fake ID card. In ten minutes, we rid the home of eight kilos of cocaine, two hundred thousand dollars, and a cache of illicit firearms. Fearing the van would be searched by the guard as we tried to leave, we decided a diversion was necessary.

  Voluntarily, Goose scaled the fence, got undressed, and sauntered toward the guard shack. Naked as the day he was born – with his cock clenched in his fist – he strolled past the guard as if he were a long-time resident. A naked cock-stroking biker on a mid-day stroll through a neighborhood filled with multi-million-dollar homes proved to be more than the guard was willing to excuse. A foot chase ensued.

  While Goose streaked through the neighborhood with the guard only a few steps behind, Reno, the club’s self-proclaimed explosives expert, rigged the guard shack with an entire satchel charge of plastic explosives.

  It was enough C-4 to flatten the Empire State Building.

  The explosion that followed blew the structure to dust, and sent an orange ball of flames a hundred feet into the air. The subsequent concussion from the blast broke windows in more than half the homes in the neighborhood, and, according to the evening news, caused permanent damage to many of the resident’s eardrums. A two-hundred-foot radius surrounding where the guard shack once sat was marked by a blackened landscape and charred palm trees.

  In the hour and a half drive home, none of us could hear a thing. Goose was covered in cuts and scratches from running through yards, hurdling shrubs, and climbing the concrete fence naked.

  The job was a rewarding one, but went down in our history book as memorable because each of us lost our hearing for roughly a week. That, and the fact that Goose spent the entire ninety-minute drive to the clubhouse doctoring his wounds in our presence.

  Naked.

  I let out a long breath. “That was one hell of an explosion.”

  “The image will forever be burned into my memory,” Tito said.

  “Of the fireball?” Cash asked.

  “No,” Tito replied. “Of Goose trying to get that gauze taped to his bleeding nut sack.”

  I let out a laugh. “We’ll need to plan this one a little bette
r.”

  “Maybe get the Ghost to take the Ducati to the other end of town and ride some wheelies through a few yards,” Cash suggested. “That’ll get the cop’s attention.”

  I glanced at my watch and then walked to the window. “Ghost is our driver. He’s not doing stunts as a diversion.”

  “I was just saying--”

  I raised my index finger.

  Cash stopped speaking mid-sentence. I peered down at the lamppost. Andy hadn’t made it to work. I closed my eyes. As Sky Ferreira’s Easy began to play, it dawned on me that since Andy and I had sex, my headaches had been kept at bay.

  Cash may have been right when he mentioned masturbation as therapy, but I wasn’t about to let him know it.

  When the song ended, I opened my eyes. Andy’s bike was chained to the post. I grinned, and then turned around.

  “From the time we cut the power until we’re loaded, how much time?” I asked.

  “Ten minutes,” Tito said.

  “Not fifteen, or twelve?”

  He shook his head. “It’ll take one minute to get in. Four to penetrate the vault. Two to load everything. Three to get it humped up the ladder. Ten.”

  I raked my fingers through my hair. “Eight?”

  “Ten,” he said flatly. “Maybe nine. Depends on contents and weight. Not eight. Definitely not eleven.”

  I gave a slow nod. “The jewelry shop is on Main Street, but it’s not in the path for access or egress to or from the highway. I’ll have Reno blow up something on the other end of town as soon as we cut power. Any cops coming or going to the site of the explosion won’t drive past us. A nine-minute response time will get us out of there just in time.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Tito said.

  Cash clapped his hands together. “I can’t wait to see what this fucker has in his vault.”

  I, on the other hand, couldn’t wait to feel my cock sliding in and out of Andy’s tight little pussy one more time. I tilted my head from side-to-side and popped my neck. “Alright. I’ve got some shit to do. We’ll discuss this further on Wednesday.”

  For once, I was more concerned with getting fucked than I was with planning a job. Normally, I would find the change in my demeanor alarming.

  Considering how Andy’s pussy felt when it was clenching my stiff dick, I viewed it differently.

  It was migraine therapy, and nothing more.

  8

  ANDY

  My cousin, Holly, stood in the center of the kitchen with her eyes bulging. Her reaction to Baker and I having sex wasn’t at all what I expected.

  I counted my steps as I cut through the silence.

  One. Two. Three.

  “No. You. Didn’t!” She spat each word out as if it tasted awful.

  I paused, met her wide-eyed gaze, and smiled. “I did.”

  “You just did it?”

  “Just. Did. It.” I rinsed my coffee cup and then turned to face her. “Then, I did it again. Maybe a third time, I can’t remember. I was brain dead after the second time. Everything got really confusing. There was a lot of intermingling sweat, and his tattooed hands seemed to be everywhere. And, there was that manly scent thing, and my shaking legs. There was a lot going on.”

  She squinted. “Brain dead?”

  “He screwed me until I couldn’t think. I was a wreck. Wobbly legs, everything.”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t think you were, you know, like that.”

  I gave her a look. “Those two kids that got on the bus earlier. Were they yours?”

  Her nose wrinkled. “What do you mean?”

  “Nicky and Dickie or whatever their names are. The two hellions. They’re your kids, right?”

  She pressed the web of her hand against her hip and looked me over. “Henry and Helen, Andy. You know their names. I can’t believe you called them hellions, they’re just kids. And, you know they’re mine, why?”

  I did know their names, but she was wrong about them being hellions. The twins were possessed by the devil, as well as a few other evil spirits. It wasn’t Holly’s fault though; all children were malevolent.

  “Did you get pregnant with a syringe?” I asked.

  She glared.

  “Turkey baster? Immaculate conception?” I widened my eyes comically. “Was it an accident, like on Jane the Virgin? Did your gynecologist accidentally squirt sperm in your twat?”

  She continued to glare for some time, and then raised one eyebrow slightly. “What are you getting at? You know Hank’s their dad.”

  “You had sex?” I shrieked. “With Hank?”

  “Stop it, Andy.”

  “Did it feel good?”

  She gave me the stink eye.

  “Did he make you come?”

  The stink eye continued.

  “Did you close your eyes and bark out a breath each time he shoved himself in you, or did you fight him, screaming for him to stop because you hated it?”

  “Stop it, Andy,” she hissed.

  “Seriously,” I said. “Before he left you for the girl with the big fake boobs at the chicken wing place, did you like fucking him?”

  “Stop it.”

  I knew the comment about the chicken wing waitress would piss her off, but I wanted to piss her off. She deserved it after making the I didn’t think you were like that remark.

  I lowered my tone to a plead. “C’mon, Holly. Seriously. Did you like fucking Hank? Back when you used to fuck him? You know, when your relationship was good?”

  She let out a breath. “I loved it, why?”

  “You said you didn’t think I was like that. It sounded like you were against having sex. Kind of funny, considering you and Hank were bumping uglies since you were in high school.”

  “I didn’t screw him the day I met him.”

  “Having sex isn’t like buying a gun,” I said, scowling as I made claim. “There’s not a waiting period required.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Screwing a guy on the day you meet him is gross.”

  “No, it’s not. There’s the entire element of not really knowing who he is that makes everything that much more exciting. Being boned by a stranger is awesome. Once you get to know a guy, things change. They get comfortable. Sex gets boring. Then, they lie.”

  She sighed. “Tell me he wore protection.”

  “He left his socks on. They had guitars on them. Does that count?”

  “Eww. That’s gross.”

  “His cock was like velvet. A lot of things came to mind while he was fucking me with it. Gross wasn’t one of them.”

  “Are you going to do it again?”

  “I hope so. Maybe until I get to know him.” I chuckled. “Then, I’ll have to find another stranger to screw me.”

  “Don’t bring him here,” she warned.

  “Never crossed my mind.”

  She huffed out a phony sigh. “Where?”

  “Where what?”

  “Where’d you guys do it?”

  “In the pink,” I said with a smile of reassurance. “I won’t let a guy run it in my butt unless we’ve been doing it for a while.”

  “Oh. My. God.” Her mouth fell open. “That wasn’t what I…never mind.”

  “It’s true. If you let a guy poke it in your butt on the first date, you’re a skank. I’m not a skank. Not even close.”

  “You weren’t on a date,” she howled. “He just strolled into your office.”

  I shrugged. “If he strolled into your office, you’d be the one walking funny, not me.”

  “I doubt that.” She said snidely. “I wouldn’t let him--”

  I cut her short with an exaggerated scoff. “You wouldn’t be able to tell him no.”

  “Oh really?” She gave me a look of disbelief. “I think I could.”

  I shook my head. “One word describes him. Only one.”

  “What’s that?”

  I said the first thing that came to mind. “Irresistible.”

  I chained my bike to the lamppost and took a
quick glance at Baker’s window. As with each of the days that had passed since we met, he wasn’t there. I wondered if I was alone in my belief that the sex was awesome, or if he was simply busy doing something entrepreneurial.

  Becoming attached to men wasn’t something that I let happen. My relationship with Baker, if anything, would remain sexual, and that would be the extent of it. I didn’t expect him to provide me much more than a little conversation and a lot of dick. If my expectations were met, my life would remain uncomplicated, and I wouldn’t be let down when he eventually lied to me, cheated on me, or left me.

  I dismissed his repeated absence and rushed up the stairs. After unlocking the door and kicking it open, I relaxed into my magical chair. I found it difficult to believe someone was going to pay me for the time I spent at work, as there was nothing meaningful for me to do.

  I looked around the room. Although my first few paychecks were allotted to reducing old debt, I daydreamed about the day I could decorate my office with pictures, vases, and other items that would personalize it.

  While I was in mid-thought, there was a faint bang against the door. Then, another. And, another.

  The door burst open.

  Wearing skinny jeans, a tee shirt, and sneakers, a delicate man in his late twenties stood in the doorway. His product-infused bangs were situated high above his pale forehead, and pointing skyward.

  When our eyes met, the corner of his mouth curled into a grin. “Oh. Wow. Are you the new manager?”

  I smiled in return and straightened my posture. “I sure am.”

  Donning a huge grin on his boyish face, he stepped inside and pushed the door ajar. “I’m Stephen Hinkle. I live in 2-A.”

  “I’m Andy.” I looked him over, and wondered how much he weighed. Less than me, I decided. “Andy Winslow. What can I do for you?”

  “There’s been some odd noises coming from upstairs.”

  I felt if he continued to stand, that his bones may break from the stress. I gestured toward the empty chair in front of my desk. “What kind of noises?”

  He looked the chair over, brushed the surface of the seat clean, and then sat down. “Strange ones. Drilling sounds. Pounding.” He crossed his legs. “And an awful scraping sound. You know, like when the construction guys were cutting the concrete sidewalks across the street.”