Devil's Disciples MC (Box Set)

by Scott Hildreth

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Just doing some figuring.”

  “It’s exactly what we need for that house. Well, four thousand short, is all,” I said. “You didn’t…this isn’t from you, is it?’

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “Can we spend it?” I asked.

  He nodded. “We can.”

  “Do you know who it’s from?”

  His mouth curled into a smirk. “I do.”

  “Who?”

  “I can’t tell you,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  He shrugged. “Because I can’t.”

  “But it’s okay to use?”

  He smiled. “It sure is.”

  I was so excited that I was shaking. “Do you want to call him, or can I?”

  He handed me his phone.

  With trembling hands, I opened the text message from the realtor, and pressed the little phone icon in the corner.

  “There’s nothing I can do to get them to come down,” he said upon answering. “So, don’t ask.”

  “Will they come down four thousand dollars?” I asked.

  “Kimberly?”

  “Yes, this is Kimberly.”

  “Four thousand?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Instead of five hundred fifty thousand in cash, it’ll be eight hundred and forty-six thousand.”

  “Consider it done,” he said. “I’ll draft up the contract.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  “Thanks again.”

  I handed Cash the phone.

  His eyes widened in wonder. “Well?”

  “People who steal from the rich and give to the poor, are awesome.” I chuckled. “Tell the Prince of Thieves thank you. And, get your paint brushes ready. You just bought a house.”

  “We,” he said.

  “Huh?

  “We bought a house. You said you bought a house. I didn’t buy it. We did.”

  “Our house,” I said.

  “That’s right,” he said. “Our house.”

  It had a nice ring to it. I couldn’t wait to say it. Welcome to our home. Or even, hey, we’re free tonight. Would you like to come to our home? We can watch the sunset over the beach.

  “I like that,” I said with a smile. “It has a nice ring to it.”

  EPILOGUE

  “Missus Flannigan, we’re out of Cleveland Sage,” Billy said. “And there’s a man here who wants a full pallet.”

  I pulled off my reading glasses and set them aside. “How can we be out of Cleveland Sage? I just brought two-dozen pallets up on Wednesday.”

  “You were gone yesterday, ma’am. Someone from El Cajon came in and bought all that was left. He bought all the Matilija Poppies as well. I put a note on your desk.”

  My desk was a mess, but it was always a mess by the time Saturday arrived. I glanced around my desk only to find a dozen notes I hadn’t got to yet.

  “No more notes, Billy. Send me a text message or an email. Or find Tisha, or Jennifer if you have to.”

  He lowered his head. “Okay.”

  “I’m not mad,” I said apologetically. “I just. I’m sorry. I’m frustrated. Not with you, though. Who bought the Cleveland Sage?”

  He looked up. “He was a contractor for that new golf course. He said they’re the best he’s seen.”

  My heart fluttered at the thought of such a compliment. But my operation was small. We didn’t buy flowers from wholesalers and resell them. We grew them from seeds. They were my babies.

  “Oh, wow, tell him we appreciate his business,” I said. “And I’m sorry I wasn’t here yesterday. Cash and I were at the…we had a meeting.”

  “Was it?” His face lit up. “Did you hear?”

  “It was. And no, we haven’t. Not yet. We’re still waiting. Praying is more like it. Have you seen him? This morning?”

  “He was in earlier, but just for a few minutes.”

  Saturday was Cash’s only day to work at our nursery. He devoted about four hours to situating things, loading trucks, and doing heavy lifting.

  Sometimes Reno would help him, and from time to time Tito or Ghost would show up. All in all, my dreams had come true. All but one, that is.

  I set my glasses aside. “Thank you. I’ll see if I can find him.”

  As Billy walked away, I glanced at my desk. Covered in notes, catalogs, and magazines, it was impossible for me to see all the notes Billy left on my desk. He was a great kid, but he wasn’t much of a techie.

  The offspring of two SoCal hippies, he carried an old-school flip phone that he used for emergencies only.

  I lifted one of the magazines, looked at the cover, and then tossed it aside out of frustration. As I dug through the piles of hand-written notes, my desk phone rang.

  “Sherwood Florist,” I said. “This is Kimberly.”

  “Kimberly, this is Janet, from placement. How are you?”

  My heart stopped. “I’m uhhm. I’m.” I tried to swallow but couldn’t. I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth and swallowed hard. “I’m great.”

  “I’m sorry to call on Saturday, but I felt it would be best if I did. I know how you and Brock have been disappointed with…well, there’s no sense in prolonging this. I’m sorry, I’m stammering, I think I’m as excited as you two are going to be.”

  My heart pounded against my ribs. “Do I….do I have a reason to be excited? Do we have a reason to be excited?”

  “You do. You’ve been selected,” she said. “Congratulations.”

  I gasped, and almost dropped the phone. My eyes welled with tears. “Really?”

  “It’s true. I have the paperwork drafted, and all we have to do is get everything signed. She’s scheduled to be born on the eighteenth of next month, so I hope everything’s in order.”

  I reached for the Parenting magazine I’d cast aside and admired the cover. A precious photo of a baby girl holding a rattle brought tears down my cheeks.

  “Kimberly? Are you there?”

  I wiped my tears. “I’m sorry. yes,” I blubbered. “I am.”

  “When can I expect you?” she asked. “To sign the paperwork?”

  “Is this morning too soon?”

  “It’s normally my day off, but I’ll be here until noon.”

  “We’ll be there before noon,” I said excitedly. “Thank you, Janet.”

  I drew a deep breath, regained my composure, and pressed the all page button on the phone.

  “Cash Brockton Flannigan, to the office. Cash Brockton Flannigan to the office. This is a nine-one-one.”

  I hung up the phone and smiled.

  Before I could get the article on the joys of teething found, he rushed through the door. “What?”

  With my mascara running down my face, I looked up.

  His look changed from worry to disappointment.

  “Time to saddle up,” I said. “We need to roll out in five.”

  “What? What’s--”

  “Janet called.” I stood and opened my arms. “We’re going to be parents. They accepted us.”

  His eyes went wide. “For the girl?”

  I nodded.

  He rushed across the office and wrapped his arms around me, sweeping me off my feet in the process. After kissing me, he lowered me to my feet.

  “We get to name her, and everything,” he said. “Right?”

  “That’s right. She’ll have our last name.” I gestured toward the door. “Are you ready?”

  “Should we call her now?” he asked.

  “Oh shit,” I said with a laugh. “I almost forgot.”

  He handed me his phone. “I’ll let you do it.”

  She answered on the sixth ring.

  “I was trying to draw a bath, and now I’m standing here with my arse to the window.”

  I smiled. “Erin, this is Kimberly.”

  She cleared her throat. “How in the name of Jaysus are you? I haven’t seen you in a month, Love.”
/>   “I’m fantastic.” I looked at Cash and smiled. “You’re going to be a grandmother.”

  The phone fell silent for some time.

  “Erin,” I said. “Are you there?”

  “Earth has no sorrows that heaven cannot heal,” she said. “This child is a gift.”

  I looked at Cash and smiled.

  Erin was right.

  My life, in its entirety, simply couldn’t get any better.

  It took a badass biker, a charitable thief, and a little Irish luck to make me realize it.

  To the late Jerry Hicks.

  Thanks for the rock. It helped me until I could find a way to come to believe.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This book contains scenes of criminal acts, some that are typical of gangs and motorcycle clubs, and some that aren’t. The fictitious club name, Devil’s Disciples, is in no way tied to the real-life club, Devils Diciples. Different spelling, different club. The acts and actions depicted in the book are fictitious, as are the characters.

  Every sexual partner in the book is over the age of 18. Please, if you intend to read further than this comment, be over the age of 18 to enjoy this novel.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, are coincidental.

  GHOST 1st Edition Copyright © 2018 by Scott Hildreth

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at designconceptswichita@gmail.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights

  Cover design by Jessica www.jessicahildrethdesigns.com

  Cover photo by Golden www.onefuriousfotog.com

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  PROLOGUE

  In the grand scheme of things, the loss of human life goes unnoticed. Not surprising, as one hundred and five people die with each revolution of the clock’s second hand. Loss after regretful loss, the world, however, continues to turn.

  Nonetheless, on that day the planet’s balance was askew.

  The straps from the lowering device steadied the casket over the grave, giving it an appearance as if it were hovering over the darkened opening that lied beneath it. The beautiful Rosetan velvet interior was concealed from view, as was the body that had encapsulated the gracious soul for more than three decades.

  A man and a woman stood hand in hand beside the casket. The man’s jaw was clenched tight, a product of his inability to accept the untimely death of the deceased. I would have given my own life to spare this one, he thought.

  The woman, wearing a black dress and matching coat, rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet. Beneath San Diego’s midday sun, she filled with regret for her choice in attire. She nonchalantly raised her left hand to her cheek and wiped a tear, hoping the action would go unnoticed. Nothing made sense to her. How much grief, she thought, should one person endure in a lifetime?

  The grieving added to the profound pain that whittled away at her heart.

  In the distance, the drone of five approaching motorcycles gave hint that the deceased’s parents would not lament alone. As the men grew closer, startled birds flew from a row of Weeping Acacias that decorated the roadside.

  The motorcycles parked side by side beneath the blanket of shade the trees provided. One by one, the men, clad in jeans, black tee shirts, and black leather boots, dismounted their motorized steeds and turned toward the gravesite.

  After glancing at the flock of birds, one of the men reached into his right pants pocket, feigned surprise, and paused. “I need to grab something,” he said, directing his remark toward no one. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  He turned toward his motorcycle and lowered his head slightly. A tear rolled along the bridge of his nose, and then lingered at the edge of his nostril before it trickled onto his upper lip. Unlike the mother, he didn’t brush it away.

  He’d promised not to.

  As he prayed for a breeze that never came, he peered toward the distant horizon. Their last days together came to mind, and with them came slivers of peace. With some hesitation, he turned around and swallowed the lump of compassion that had risen in his throat.

  He then took the first step of many that he knew he’d be taking without the deceased at his side.

  81

  ABBY

  I threw the brick at the window as hard as I could. Much to my surprise, it bounced off the glass and shot at me like a rectangular brown rocket. Before I could dodge the projectile, it slammed into my knee so violently I feared I may be crippled for life.

  In the brick-filled bed of an unknown man’s pickup truck, I stumbled to keep my footing. I glanced at my throbbing knee. Blood trickled down my leg. Fueled by equal parts anger and compassion, I grabbed another brick from the selection piled at my feet.

  I had to act quickly. At least one life was at stake. I raised my hand and took aim at the truck’s back window.

  “Abby!” a familiar voice shouted from behind me. “What in the hell are you doing?”

  Brick in hand, I glanced over my right shoulder. “Saving a life,” I declared.

  George was the owner of the Devil Dog Diner, a restaurant I ate in no less than ten times a week. He was looking at me the same way he did the first time I ordered a cheese sandwich with apple slices on it.

  He’d retired from the Marines after serving thirty years. Even though he was in his mid-fifties, he still resembled his barrel-chested brethren that spent their current days traipsing through battlefields in distant countries. His massive biceps and permanent scowl made him an intimidating figure to those who didn’t know him. To me, he was nothing but a big teddy bear.

  Unless he was angry. And, from what I could see, he was angry.

  “Get down from there before someone starts filming this,” he said, glancing over each shoulder as he spoke. “The last thing you need is to be on the six o’ clock news with a brick in your hand and blood gushing out of your leg.”

  I acted as though I didn’t hear him. Using the brick, I gestured toward the sidewalk. “Watch out,” I warned. “Glass is going to go everywhere.”

  I hurled the brick with every ounce of energy I could harness. I watched in horror as the event played before my eyes like a slow-motion scene from a low-budget black comedy movie.

  The brick hit the center of the truck’s back window. The glass flexed but didn’t break. The brick changed directions, seeming to gain speed as it did so. Then, it plowed into the shin of my good leg.

  I stumbled backward, almost toppling over the tailgate and into the street. “Son-of-a-bitch,” I shrieked, reaching for what was left of my mangled shin. “That hurt like hell.”

  After steadying myself against the edge of the truck’s bed, I glanced at George and tried not to burst into tears.

  “You know how I hate repeating myself, but I’ll ask again.” He opened the truck’s tailgate. “What in the hell are you doing?”

  He was frustrated with me. I could clearly see – and hear – it. I swallowed heavily, and then took a deep breath.

  “There’s a puppy locked inside he was bouncing around and looking out the window when I came in for lunch when I came out I noticed the truck was still here the windows are rolled up tight he’s on the floor and looks like he’s dying I need to save him,” I said in one breathless sentence.

  He extended his arms toward me. “Let’s get you out of there.”

  “He’s going to die,” I pleaded
, my voice cracking from emotion. “I need to get him out of there.”

  He hopped into the back of the truck with ease and then lifted me from my feet. After lowering me gently onto the street he gestured toward his restaurant. “Go stand on the sidewalk.”

  Before I hobbled to the edge of the curb, I heard the glass shatter. While the shrill sound of the truck’s alarm filled the air, George disappeared through the broken window and into the cab of the truck. I limped to the passenger door and pulled against the handle frantically. After three or four yanks, the door lock clicked.

  The door flew open.

  The brown and white bull dog puppy George cradled in his arms looked to be exhausted. He was alive, and that was all that mattered.

  “Thank God he’s not dead,” I said.

  “Hey, shithead!” someone shouted. “What the fuck are you doing in my truck?”

  George handed me the puppy as he climbed out of the truck’s cab. With the shivering pup held tightly in my arms, I turned toward the angry voice.

  A lanky young man stood between us and the restaurant. He was dressed in khaki work pants, canvas boots, and a black sweat-stained tee shirt. He raked his sun-bleached hair from his face and shot me a sunken-eyed glare. “Gimme my dog.”

  I had all the patience in the world unless stupid people were involved. He’d proven his stupidity when he parked the truck beneath San Diego’s summer sun and rolled up the windows.

  “Go to hell,” I snarled. “You locked this dog in that truck with the windows up and left him there for two hours, you dumb jerk. He’s not yours any longer. You’re too stupid to take care of an animal.”

  After my tirade, his cheeks went red with anger. “Gimme the dog.”

  “F-you,” I hissed.

  I wouldn’t give him the dog if he held a gun to my head. While I made plans to knee him in the balls and make a run for it, George stepped between us.

  “If you take one step in our direction, I’ll pull off your arms and beat you with the bloody stubs,” George growled, puffing his massive chest as he spoke. “You’ve got two options. Hop in your truck and leave or get those skinny little arms of yours pulled off. I’ll let you pick which one.”