Devil's Disciples MC (Box Set)

by Scott Hildreth

  She raised both eyebrows. “It’s a curly mess.”

  My throat tightened. I swallowed heavily and then raised my index finger. “Is that the natural color?”

  “This?” She shook her head lightly, sending her hair into slow-motioned orbit. “No. It’s naturally brown. Brown and curly.”

  A person’s nationality made no difference to me. I truly believed we were equal in the eyes of our maker, and, therefore, should be in mine. I ranked people based on idiocy, and quickly cast the idiots from my life. Sensible people were kept as associates and companions. Color, religion or nationality never came into play.

  I did wonder about Andy having the Brazilian temper, and how it might come into play when I broke off our sexual relationship. The odds of Cash being right about her nationality were a million to one. Her pale skin tone told a story that her hair and eyes couldn’t deny.

  I sat down. “Kinky and brown? Is that a genetic thing?”

  “I suppose. My mother’s Brazilian. I’ve got her hair.” She blinked a few times. “And her eyes. Sucks that blue eyes are recessive. I wish I had them, instead.”

  What little rigidity my cock had when I sat down promptly vanished. I swallowed a mouthful of complications and coughed into my clenched fist. “Brazilian, huh?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “You’re pretty pale for a Brazilian,” I said, as if I could argue her claim.

  She rubbed her forearm. “I use sunscreen and try to stay out of the sun as much as possible. If not, I’d be pretty dark.”

  I stroked my beard, and then forced a smile. “Interesting.”

  Fuck.

  The last thing I needed was to be on the shit list of a Brazilian woman with an explosive temper. The problems she could bring into my life were huge. Then, there was Cash. If she simply came to my office to call me a cocksucker and he recognized her, it would be disastrous for her – and me.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  Based solely on my fear that she’d react in a manner comparable to how Natalia acted with Cash, I decided not to end our relationship. I needed more time to think. There had to be a way I could leave her and save the repercussions. I simply needed to figure out what it was.

  I needed to remain in her good graces – at least for the time being. Feeling oddly relieved with my decision not to end our mid-day sex sessions, I exhaled a breath of relief and crossed my ankles. “The other day, the regional manager said you had bad news. I forgot to ask what it was.”

  Her nose wrinkled. “Regional manager?”

  “The old man that drives the truck.”

  “Oh, Mort.” She leaned onto the edge of her desk and wrung her hands together. “I was excited to tell you, but we started boning and I forgot.”

  “So, what’s the news?”

  “3-A.” She faked a pout. “It’s no longer available.”

  I had no interest in moving into the apartment, but she certainly didn’t know it. I clapped my hands together. “That’s great!”

  “But wait,” she said. “It gets better.”

  I widened my eyes in more false excitement. “Really?”

  She pushed herself away from the desk and crossed her arms. “Guess who’s moving in?”

  “I’d hate to try.”

  “Seriously. Guess.”

  “Ben Harper?”

  She laughed. “The musician?”

  “What do you know about Ben Harper?”

  “I know that Diamonds on the Inside is what most would describe as his best album, but I disagree. I think The Will to Live is much better. Not everyone likes live albums, though.”

  I stared at her in sheer disbelief. Ben Harper was one of my all-time favorite musicians. For her to have heard of a lesser known musician such as him, and to like him, was a shock.

  “So, it’s not Ben Harper?” I asked jokingly.

  “Back up,” she said. “How do you even know who he is?”

  I crossed my arms and gave her a look. “How do you know who he is?”

  “I listen to his music, that’s how.”

  I looked her over. Her hair was a little lighter than normal, and I liked the new shade. I cocked my head to the side. “Who else do you listen to?”

  “Everyone from The Delfonics to James Blunt, why?”

  Both were artists that I had listened to, and enjoyed. I was surprised that our taste in music was so similar.

  “Just wondering.” I glanced around her office, and wondered why she hadn’t given it a woman’s touch. When she came back into my line of sight, I grinned. “What makes you angry?”

  “What do you mean?

  “What irritates you in life?” I asked. “Day to day life. Give me the top ten.”

  She counted on her fingers as she responded. “Tailgaters. Lines at the grocery store. Oranges that I can’t get the peel off. People who don’t use their turn signal. Call centers who call me and try to sell me something. Stubbing my toe. Upside down toilet paper. Having the cashier hand me change on top of a receipt. People who park crooked, and burnt toast.”

  Her response was without hesitation, which I thought was impressive. I agreed with everything she mentioned except for one thing.

  “What’s upside down toilet paper?” I asked.

  She twirled her finger in a circle. “When it’s upside down.”

  “Care to elaborate?”

  “When it comes off the back instead of the top.” She exhaled a breath through her clenched teeth as she shook her head. “If I’m at someone’s house, and their toilet paper is like that, I’ll fix it. It drives me insane.”

  “I’m the same way.”

  “Why’d you ask me what irritated me? Nobody’s ever done that.”

  “If your favorite car color is red, and mine is blue, we’re not going to argue about who’s right. We’ll just accept it. But, if you hate it when people park crooked, and every time we went somewhere I parked crooked, it’d drive you nuts. A person’s dislikes reveal far more about their compatibility than anything.”

  She leaned away and looked down her nose at me. “Why are you worried if we’re compatible?”

  She had a good point. I really had no idea why I asked her the question. It was time to change subjects.

  I looked away. “I’m not.”

  After a short period of silence, she cleared her throat. “We got off track. You were guessing who was moving in upstairs.”

  I wasn’t in the mood any longer. “I’ve got to make my rounds.” I stood and brushed the wrinkles from my jeans. “Just tell me.”

  “Me,” she said with a smile. “We’re going to be neighbors!”

  Just like that, my biggest fear was one wrong move away from becoming a reality.

  16

  ANDY

  Holly glanced around the apartment. “It seems empty.”

  A contemporary red leather couch and a modern oversized blue fabric chair sat across from one another in the otherwise lonely space. Everything else I once owned had been sold to pay rent. Frustrated at what I’d lost, but more grateful for what remained, I waved toward the two pieces of furniture. “It is empty. It’s bigger than your entire house, and it’s got nothing but a couch and a chair in it.”

  “You need to go shopping.”

  “I’ve got bills to pay first,” I said, more to remind myself than to make her aware of it. “Maybe in a few months.”

  She gave the spacious room another quick look. “It’s just you, so I guess it’ll be okay.”

  I shrugged. “It’s going to have to be.”

  “An upside is that you get to park your bike in the basement. It’ll keep people from messing with you on the nights you have to…” She did the air quote thingy. “Work late.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “When you and that guy with the arm-sized dick have sex in your office.”

  I chuckled. “We do it during the day, not at night.”

  “Never late in the day?”

  “Nope.”

>   “Do you think it’s weird?”

  “That we don’t bone at five o’clock?”

  “That you only do it during the day.”

  Him leaving his shirt on was weird. But, I never viewed the time of day we fucked as weird. I guessed he was busy being an eccentric entrepreneur in the evenings. It wasn’t anything I needed to justify to Holly, that was for sure. “We bone when he’s got time. He’s got businesses to run.”

  She tilted her head to the side and raised her eyebrows. “He has sex during the day and runs his business at night?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Listen to what you’re saying.”

  Now that she’d mentioned it, it seemed slightly odd. Maybe a little more than slightly. I wasn’t going to admit it, though. He didn’t wear a wedding ring and there weren’t any of the telltale signs that he’d taken one off, either. As long as I wasn’t having an affair with a man who was in a committed relationship, I really didn’t care why he chose to fuck me during the day.

  “He comes by when his schedule lets him,” I said. “Stop worrying about it.”

  “Has he been up here yet? To see your new place?”

  I hadn’t seen Baker since the day I told him I was moving in. I suspected he feared having me as a neighbor would create problems with his privacy, but nothing could be further from the truth. I expected him to give me mine. In return, I wouldn’t invade his. Given enough time he’d see I wasn’t a threat to his manner of living life. When he did, he’d return.

  I hoped so, anyway. Even though all we shared was sex, I missed out time together.

  “Not yet,” I said.

  She walked to the window and peered down at the street. “You don’t see that as weird?”

  “Everything’s weird to you.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Hank started doing weird stuff. Six months later, I found out he was having sex with that Simon chick.”

  “Sierra,” I said. “Her name was Sierra Simon.”

  She gave me a condescending look and then turned toward the window. “Yeah. Sierra. Fucking bitch.”

  Holly placed blame for the affair on the waitress, saying that she should have had enough common sense not to fuck a married man. She set up fake accounts on every social media platform imaginable, and friended her on Facebook while posing as another person. After a few years of stalking her, she eventually let it go.

  But she never found fault in Hank’s actions.

  I, on the other hand, viewed it no differently than I viewed my father’s decision to cheat on my mother. He had a responsibility to be faithful to her, and he didn’t meet it. He made a conscious decision to crush her belief that he loved her and her alone. I viewed the aftermath, entirely, as being his fault.

  It wasn’t a matter of if a man would cheat, it was a matter of when. For men, it seemed lying was second nature.

  “Hey!” Holly shouted. “Is this him?”

  Her voice brought me back to reality. I wiped my watering eyes as I walked toward the window. “Huh?”

  She pointed toward the glass. “Is this your guy?”

  The faint sound of a motorcycle running grew louder as I approached her. I stepped to her side and looked out the window. A man with crazy hair was seated on a motorcycle that was parked at the curb in front of the adjoining building. Standing on the sidewalk beside the man’s motorcycle, was Baker.

  “Oh wow. Yeah. He’s the one on the sidewalk with the beard and tattoos.”

  Holly pressed her forehead against the glass. “That guy on the motorcycle took off his helmet, and I was like, holy crap.”

  I looked at her. “What?”

  “He’s sexy.”

  I took another look at him. His long hair hung in his face, and his arms weren’t completely tattooed, like Baker’s. Instead, they were spotted with small pieces of illegible artwork. “He looks like a thug.”

  “So does that other guy.”

  “Whatever.”

  Baker seemed nervous. Every few seconds, he glanced over each shoulder. After a moment, the man on the motorcycle nodded and put his helmet on. Then, Baker turned toward the building, and the man rode away.

  Holly took a step back and looked at me. “Looks like they were doing something shady.”

  “Looked to me like two friends talking.”

  She made a face as if she’d swallowed a worm. “Your guy looks sketchy.”

  “Not as sketchy as that ex-con on the motorcycle.”

  “He kept looking over his shoulder, like he thought the cops were coming.”

  “Who? The ex-con?” I asked, although I knew she meant Baker. For some reason, I felt the need to defend him.

  “No. Your guy.”

  I gave her a cross look. “His name is Baker.”

  “He looks sketchy. He acts sketchy. I say he’s sketchy.”

  I tossed my hands in the air. “He might be,” I said. “I don’t care. I’m not married to him, I’m just riding his dick.”

  As much as I told myself that was the case, the spasm in the pit of my stomach said otherwise.

  17

  BAKER

  Our MC had several rituals, most of which were a result of my superstitious beliefs. For one, on the eve of every job, we went out to eat as a group. Our choice for the night was Hunter Steakhouse. A no-frills dive with a small seating area and large portions, it was known for mouth-watering Prime Rib.

  Unlike most motorcycle clubs, we didn’t wear colors. In our opinions, donning a leather vest with a patch stitched on the back wasn’t enough of a commitment. Additionally, the vests drew unwanted attention to the group, making the members a target of the local, state, and federal authorities.

  We chose to have the MC’s patch tattooed on our backs. In the club’s eyes, joining the MC was a lifelong pledge; therefore, the patch should be a comparable commitment.

  We rode our motorcycles side-by-side, and equally spaced. That formation was maintained regardless of speed, and our speed was ever changing. Cash and I set the pace, as we were in front. If we sped up, the group sped up. If we slowed, the group slowed.

  Although we had many choices, we rode our Harleys when riding as a group. A mismatched group of bikes that spanned four decades in age, their only common theme was loud exhaust pipes.

  Cash twisted his throttle back and held it in place. I accepted the challenge without question. The high speed would test my body’s ability to absorb the imperfections of California’s roadways.

  In half a mile, the group was veering in and out of traffic, changing lanes three at a time, and speeding past vehicles that were moving much slower than the MC’s one hundred miles an hour. The sound from the motorcycle’s exhaust was close to deafening, and stood as a warning against anyone considering getting in our path.

  When our headlights illuminated the exit sign to Highway 8, Cash let off the throttle. The laughter and shit-talking started as soon as the sound of our exhaust cackled to a dull roar.

  As we rolled into the restaurant’s parking lot, Reno shouted at Cash. “I had mine about half-throttle. Might want to get that ‘Glide checked out. Probably needs a set of rings.”

  “Motherfucker doesn’t need rings, asshole,” Cash retorted.

  Reno backed his bike into the stall beside Cash and peered over his left shoulder. “Sure acts like something’s wrong with it.”

  “Fuck you,” Cash seethed. “There isn’t--”

  Ghost backed in beside Reno, positioning his rear tire to be even with the three that were already parked. “Had mine about half-throttle, too. If I’d have pegged it, I’d have climbed up your back fender.”

  “Same here,” Goose said dryly. “Had to let off mine. Damned near hit Reno when we took off. I twisted that bitch all the way back, and then I decided you must have just been dicking around. You didn’t have yours pegged, did ya?”

  Cash looked at Tito and cocked an eyebrow. “Well?”

  Tito situated his bike beside Goose’s and shut it off.
“I’m with Reno. I thought I was going to hit Ghost. Maybe there’s something wrong with yours. Plugged exhaust or a bent valve. Something.”

  Cash glanced at me, pulled off his helmet, and let out a long breath. “What do you have to say?”

  I draped the chin strap of my helmet over the handlebars. “Me?”

  “No, motherfucker. I’m talking to the palm tree behind you.”

  I turned toward the entrance and brushed the wrinkles from my jeans.

  “God damn it, Bake,” Cash whined. “There ain’t nothing wrong with Mary, is there?”

  A stripper in Austin, Texas once sucked Cash’s cock so aggressively that one of his nuts swelled to the size of a baseball the next morning. We rode to Phoenix, Arizona, but he couldn’t go another mile. The swollen testicle required thirty-two thousand dollars’ worth of surgery and ten days of antibiotics. Even though he limped for a month afterward, he swore it was the best blowjob he’d ever received.

  The human vacuum cleaner’s stage name was Mother Mary. In her memory, Cash graced every post-blowjob Harley he owned with her name.

  I turned around and situated my bracelets. “I had another half inch of throttle,” I lied. “You were just playing, weren’t you?”

  “Son of a fucking bitch.” He looked at his bike, and then at me. “Seriously?”

  “Half, maybe three quarters of an inch, yeah. Why?”

  “I had her pegged, Bake. All the way back.”

  “Have Reno tear it down and rebuild it,” I said dryly. “I’d say the cam’s flat. Might be rings. Who knows?”

  “God damn it. That motor’s not that old.”

  “Age has nothing to do with it,” I said. “Just like the woman you named her after, Mary’s had a rough life.”

  “Mary was hot as fuck. You don’t even remember what she looked like.”

  I choked on a laugh. “She looked like haggard shit. One tit was bigger than the other, she had a two-inch scar on her belly, a mole on the left side of her neck, and her son’s name was Jesus. How’s that?”

  He walked past me and pulled open the door. “I don’t remember the mole.”