Devil's Disciples MC (Box Set)

by Scott Hildreth

  Now dangling loosely from my grasp, the snake simply hung there.

  “Holy Moses!” I shouted. “I tamed a live rattlesnake.”

  “How’s it feel?” he asked.

  “Empowering,” I responded.

  My eyes scanned the ground for my purse. Upon seeing it, I nodded my head toward the ground where it laid.

  “Will you grab my phone? Please?” I asked. “I want to take a picture of this.”

  He did as I asked. Standing ten feet in front of me with my phone in one hand and the stick in the other, he looked at me. The pain in his eyes was gone. “Do you want me to take a picture?” he asked, pointing the phone at me.

  “Yes, silly,” I responded, alternating glances between my outstretched arm and the badass biker who took me rattlesnake hunting. “But I want you to be in it. Come over here.”

  He stepped to my side and swept his thumb across the screen of my phone. “It’s locked.”

  “Zero-nine-two-seven,” I said.

  He pressed the buttons with his thumb, fumbled to find the icon, and eventually got the camera rotated to take a selfie.

  “Take off that jacket,” I said. “Who wears a leather jacket in this heat, anyway?”

  He chuckled a dry laugh as he peeled off the coat. “Someone who doesn’t want to be bitten by a snake.”

  After tossing the coat on the ground beside my purse, he pressed the side of his chest against my shoulder and extended his arm. With the snake dangling from my shaking hand, I tilted my head toward his, looked at the screen, and grinned.

  “Take several,” I said.

  A puff of dry desert air wafted his scent into my nose.

  The excitement of holding the lethal reptile, the heat from the mid-day sun, and the soul-stirring scent of his manliness proved to be too much. My head spun and my knees went weak. In response, I rested my head against his chest.

  At that same instance, he snapped what would be the first picture of many.

  “What do I do with this guy?” I asked, nodding toward the snake.

  He took the snake from my grasp and handed me the phone. After releasing it fifty feet away from where I stood, he returned just in time to find me posting the photo of my head on his shoulder to my Instagram account.

  “Let me see that one,” he said.

  I held the phone between us, trying not to smile a cheesy grin at the disgustingly cute picture of me, him, and an exhausted three-foot long rattlesnake.

  “I like it,” he said. “Can you send it to me?”

  “You can go to my Instagram and get it,” I said.

  He choked on his laugh. “I don’t know anything about that shit.”

  “Instagram?” I asked, quite relieved by his apparent disgust.

  “Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Bumbler, Fumbler, Yourspace, Myspace, any of it,” he said.

  My eyebrows raised much higher than I wanted them to. “You’re not social media savvy?”

  “I’m not social media interested,” he said. “I’m computer savvy. I don’t think my business is anyone else’s business. I don’t subscribe to any of that shit.”

  He had no idea who I was or what I did for a living, that much I was sure of. Thrilled that he was blind to me and my social media following, I contemplated telling him the truth.

  “I don’t see why people feel the need to blast their personal business all over the internet,” he said, reaching for his jacket. “It’s fucking ridiculous.”

  Okay. Maybe telling him wasn’t such a good idea. At least not yet. There’d be plenty of time to tell him if I felt the need. Hopefully I’d be seeing much more of him at the meetings. If nothing else, I could get his phone number.

  “Do you text?” I asked.

  “If I have to,” he said.

  “But you know how it works?”

  He laughed a genuine laugh. “Yeah. I’m not a complete idiot.”

  After getting his number, I texted him a copy of the picture. Proof of our successes in accomplishing number fifty-six on my to-do list. I drew a line through two tasks we’d completed and tossed the pad into my purse.

  There were four to go, three of which I could tackle with little effort. I doubted the man strapping on his helmet could help me with the fourth, which was number two on my list.

  He secured the latch of his saddlebag. Now wearing nothing more than a tee shirt, jeans, and boots, his muscles bulged as he was straddled the motorcycle seat.

  Number two.

  An unconscious sigh escaped me.

  It never hurt to dream.

  86

  GHOST

  I was slumped against the arm of the sofa in the MC’s clubhouse. Lost somewhere between my childhood and my funeral, I was mentally vacant as the men discussed the club’s fall cross-country trip.

  “Brother Ghost,” I heard someone say.

  It sounded like a distant whisper. Not something I needed to respond to. I wondered for a moment if it was imagined or real.

  “Brother Ghost!” Baker howled.

  I stumbled through my mind’s fog and blinked until my vision was clear. Baker’s head was cocked to the side and he was looking at me with wide, waiting eyes.

  “What?” I asked.

  “What’s your vote?” he asked.

  “On what?”

  He glanced at the rest of the men and then shifted his eyes to meet mine. “Are you okay, Brother?”

  “I think I faded off for a minute,” I said.

  “Hard day at the gym?” he asked.

  I shrugged one shoulder. “Didn’t go.”

  “That’s a first.” He straightened his posture, stroking his beard as he sat up in his seat. “Connecticut or Rhode Island?”

  “Connecticut,” I said, not really giving half a fuck what he was talking about or where we’d be going.

  I knew the discussion was about our fall motorcycle trip, or at least it was when I slipped into a semiconscious slumber. Hell, I didn’t know if I’d even be around when fall arrived. If I was, I doubted I’d be in any shape to ride.

  “Great,” he said sarcastically. “Now we’ve got a three to three tie.”

  “Rhode Island,” I said, my tone indifferent.

  “Seriously?” Cash whined. “Rhode fucking Island?”

  “I’m guessing you were team Connecticut?” I grinned and clapped my hands. “Decision’s made. We’re going to Rhode Island.”

  Cash flipped me his middle finger. “You weren’t even paying attention.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” I shrugged. “Vote was whether we wanted to go to Rhode Island or Connecticut. Club voted. Rhode Island it is.”

  Cash’s face distorted. “Asshole. If you don’t give a fuck, you should side with me, not Reno, Bake and Tito the turd.”

  “If I sided with you, it’d be a tie. Then, we’d be voting on two new places. We did that three years ago and ended up in fucking Florida. Not interested in going to that shit-hole again.”

  “Ghost needs to take a fucking nap,” Cash complained, turning to face Baker. “We can re-vote this next week.”

  “Vote’s complete,” Baker said. “We’re going to Rhode Island.”

  “Fuck that shit,” Cash snapped. “I want to see the leaves turning color in Connecticut. Rhode Island’s nothing but rocks and water.”

  Seeing the fall leaves sounded like a great idea. I’d never been through Connecticut in the fall. If I were to make a list like Abby’s, going to Connecticut in the fall would certainly be on it.

  “Connecticut.” I raised my index finger. “I’m changing my vote.”

  “If I allow the vote change, we’re in a tie,” Baker said. “If we’re in a tie, you know the rules.”

  “I don’t give a shit,” I said, turning to face Cash. “You want to ride to Connecticut this fall?”

  “Hell yeah,” Cash said.

  “Fuck it,” I said openly. “Cash and I are going to Connecticut.”

  “You’re all over the place,” Baker said. “What
the hell’s wrong with you, Ghost?”

  Normally, I was decisive. Even if I happened to thrust myself into a situation that I later regretted, I never changed my mind. I was the poster boy for stubborn behavior, and the men knew it.

  “I’m exhausted,” I said, which was partially true. “Went to Borrego Springs earlier today. Caught a fucking rattlesnake. It was hotter than ten kinds of fuck, too.”

  “Borrego Springs?” Goose asked. “Why the fuck did you go to Borrego Springs?”

  “Rattlesnake?” Tito asked. “Was it a Western, Diamondback, Panamint, Sidewinder, Mojave, or Red Diamond?”

  Tito was a walking information vault, and often expected others to be as intelligent as he was. It was never the case. “How the fuck would I know?” I spouted. “It had a rattle on one end, and a pissed off head on the other.”

  “Was just wondering,” Tito said. “California has six species.”

  I pulled out my phone, opened the picture Abby had sent me, and handed the phone to Tito. “You tell me what that angry fucker is.”

  He looked at the photo. After his eyes shot wide, I decided whatever it was must have been what he was hoping for. He glanced at me, back at the phone, and then looked at Baker. His jaw was all but in his lap.

  “What?” Baker asked.

  Tito turned the phone to face Baker. Baker squinted in response. “Big snake. Don’t know what it is. Chick’s cute, though. Who is it?”

  “Uptown Abby,” Tito said.

  My eyes narrowed. “You know her?”

  Goose coughed out a wad of surprise and then snatched the phone from Tito’s hand. “You went to Borrego Springs with Uptown Abby?”

  “No shit?” Reno asked. “She’s hot as fuck.”

  I looked at each of them as if they were on fire. “Who the fuck’s Uptown Abby?”

  Tito grabbed the phone from Goose, fumbled with it for a moment, and then handed it to me. “This one’s funny. Just press play.”

  A YouTube video was loaded on the screen of my phone. I pressed play. After a five second video about the new BMW SUV, a woman appeared. Her hair was in a bun, and she was wearing glasses, but it was undoubtedly Abby. A much younger Abby, but it was her.

  Finding a man in San Diego that’s suitable for dating isn’t an easy task. Personally, I prefer a big man. A tall man. A man who makes me feel small and protected. So, I ventured to the gym in search of my perfect mate. What did I find?

  Well, I’m still single.

  I did come up with an idea, though.

  The personality gym.

  I think it’s a great concept. Instead of going in, lifting weights, and leaving with shredded abs, bulging biceps, and a missing neck, you would go in, get an awesome cup of Italian roast coffee and a bran muffin.

  While munching the muffin and sipping the coffee, you’d talk to a personality counselor. After six weeks, you’d graduate with manners, the ability to communicate with others, and a reasonable sense of self-worth.

  Why is it that most men who spend their idle time in the gym are referred to as meatheads?

  Because their heads are nothing more than a slab of meat, that’s why.

  The screen flashed to a sidewalk scene, where Abby was interviewing a man in front of a gym. He was wearing remnants of a tee shirt, spandex shorts, and carried a half-full protein shaker in one hand.

  Who was president when you were a senior in high school? Abby asked.

  The man took a drink from his plastic bottle and then gave her a confused look. Of what?

  The United States, she replied.

  After giving the question some serious thought, the man responded. Donald Trump.

  How many ounces are in two pounds of coffee? she asked.

  I don’t drink coffee how would I know? Next question.

  Who shot John F. Kennedy? she asked.

  I’m twenty-two. He took another gulp from his shaker, making sure to flex his bicep as he took the drink. That was before my time.

  Is it the Pacific or Atlantic Ocean that touches the coastline here?

  I’m not big into American history, he responded. Ask me something about proteins or carb loading--

  Does a man’s sperm have protein in it? she asked.

  He grinned. It’s got tons of it.

  How much? she asked. Per serving?

  He shrugged. Couple of grams.

  Gone with the Wind or Gone in Sixty Seconds? she asked.

  He drank the remained of his protein shake. Gone in Sixty Seconds.

  She motioned toward his protein shaker. How much of that stuff do you drink in a day?

  He raised the plastic cup. Three of these.

  How long does it take you to finish one set of curls? she asked.

  Twenty-two minutes, he responded proudly.

  That’s all I’ve got, she said with a smile.

  The screen switched to a split screen. On the left, the man’s body was visible, but his head had been swapped with a large wad of hamburger. On the right, Abby held the microphone.

  Does a man’s sperm have protein in it? she asked

  A makeshift mouth opened in the hamburger-shaped head. It’s got tons of it.

  How much of that stuff do you drink in a day?

  The hamburger-headed gym rat lifted the plastic cup. Three of these.

  How long does it take you to finish one? she asked.

  He raised the cup to his hamburger head half a dozen times, and then lowered it. Gone in sixty seconds, gone in sixty seconds, gone in sixty seconds…

  The screen switched back to the original one, with Abby sitting in front of the camera. Her eyebrows raised slowly, until they were at maximum height. After blinking repeatedly, she smiled.

  No male sperm was consumed in the making of this video, no douchebags were harmed, and, with the exception of mine, no ‘thank you’s’ were spoken. I’ll see you next week, when we’ll discuss rush hour traffic on the five, the rising price of cauliflower rice, and the migration of the Monarchs.

  She brushed her hair behind her ear, and then scratched the bottom of her nose with her index finger. She pointed at the screen. I’m uptown, I’m Abby, and I’m unfiltered.

  The screen faded to black.

  I turned off the phone, uncertain if I liked what I’d seen. I wondered why most of the men seemed overjoyed with the fact that I’d met the girl in the ridiculous video. I further wondered why all of them knew who she was.

  “That’s her,” I said, searching each of the men’s faces as I spoke. “What’s the big deal?”

  “She’s got twenty million followers,” Tito said.

  I stared at him in disbelief. “Twenty million?”

  He nodded. “Million. She makes about ten million a year off advertisements alone.”

  My eyes went wide. “Dollars? Ten million dollars?”

  “I can’t believe you don’t know who she is,” he said. “She’s been on Jimmy Kimmel, The View, The Tonight Show…Hell, I think she’s even met the president. How’d you meet her?”

  I had no intention of telling the men about my diagnosis, at least not yet. “I had no idea who she was.” I pushed my phone into my pocked. “She just randomly asked me if I’d give her a ride on my motorcycle. We ended up in Borrego Springs hunting rattlesnakes.”

  “Was rattlesnake hunting on her list?” Goose asked.

  I looked at him in disbelief. “You know about her list?”

  “She talks about it all the time,” he said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “It was on there.”

  Over the next few minutes, the men hit me with a barrage of questions, wondering if I was going to see her again and whether I fucked her before or after our trip to the desert.

  The day I left the doctor’s office, I had plans on going to one meeting, and one meeting only. After meeting Abby, I considered going to another just to see her again. I now felt I had to attend a meeting.

  Not because I needed therapy, or because thoughts of her caused me to smile.

>   I needed to prove that some gym rats do have a personality.

  87

  ABBY

  I ate my pancakes with the grace of a starving dog. The three oversized flapjacks reduced my desire for carbohydrates but did nothing to curb my appetite to see Porter again.

  Incapable of deciding whether I should send him a text message or order one more pancake, I stared blankly through the diner’s window. With a far more casual stride than normal, Lawson ambled into my line of sight.

  “Can I get another pancake?” I asked as his image walked past.

  He paused. “Just one?”

  I narrowed my blank stare and shifted my eyes to him. Two pancakes would fill the stomach of most of the Marine men who regularly ate at the diner. I’d already eaten three, but I had the metabolism of a greyhound, especially when something was bothering me.

  “Make it two,” I said, raising two fingers. “I might go for another run when I’m done.”

  He nodded and turned away.

  When I couldn’t decide what to do about one of life’s obstacles, I either ran or overate. At the end of my run, or by the time I wiped the corners of my mouth, I always had the answer. When I ran and overate, I was generally stuck – centered between what I wanted and what I truly needed – incapable of grasping either.

  Leaning one way or the other was the answer, and I couldn’t decide what direction was in my best interest.

  “What’s on your mind?” George asked from behind me.

  Seated at the end of a row of booths with my back facing the wall, I peered over my shoulder, toward the kitchen. “Nothing, really.”

  His square jaw tightened. He narrowed his eyes playfully and gave me a stare. “Lawson just came in the kitchen. The last time you ate six pancakes was the evening before you broke up with Kevin.”

  “Kelvin. His name was Kelvin, with an ‘L’,” I said. “And, I’m only having five.”

  He leaned over the back of the booth and looked me in the eyes. “I’ll ask again. What’s on your mind?”