Devil's Disciples MC (Box Set)

by Scott Hildreth

  After reaching the counter’s edge, he extended his hand. “Gilthrop Wilshire, Mister Reeves. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  I shook his hand. “It’s a pleasure. I was telling…”

  I looked at the salesman, who was standing behind him.

  “Winston,” he said.

  “I was telling Winston I expected to pay cash for the ring. He said last night that you took cash, and I said I’d be back tonight. He either didn’t believe me, or he misunderstood that I’d be returning with cash.”

  “Which ring do you have your eye on?” he asked.

  I pointed to it. “The custom ring at the corner of the upper case.”

  He smiled. “All of our rings are custom. Let me get it.”

  He removed the ring and set it on top of the counter. “Is this the one?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Would you like to look at it?” he asked.

  “I’ve looked at it. I’ve held it. I slipped it onto the tip of my pinkie finger. I’d like to take it home.”

  He inspected the ring, and then blinked a few times. “Mister Reeves, this example is a four-carat, VVS one clarity, D color, that’s a brilliant cut with excellent table, depth, and girdle. It’s four forty-three. That’s four hundred forty-three thousand. Call it four hundred forty for arguments sake.”

  “Will you take four hundred and forty for it?”

  He nodded. “We certainly would.”

  I tossed my backpack onto the display case. “I’ll need to get three grand out of there, then.”

  He looked at the backpack, and then at me. “Would you like to come into my office?”

  “Sure.”

  He lifted a wooden pass-through gate, and I followed him to his office. Thirty minutes later, I was preparing to leave with the ring.

  “I’ll come back for all the certificate paperwork tomorrow. I’m on my motorcycle, and I don’t want it to get bent. She might want to do something with it, frame it or whatever. I don’t know,” I said excitedly.

  “No rush,” he said with a smile. “We’ll keep it under lock and key.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’m sure she’ll love it.”

  “I’m sure she will,” he agreed. “Let us know how the engagement goes, will you?”

  After she agreed to marry me, I’d be so proud I’d feel like telling the world, Gilthrop Wilshire included.

  I admired the ring one last time, and then closed the box. “I sure will.”

  109

  ABBY

  Over my shoulder, I stared at the watery horizon and waited. When the next swell was fifty yards behind me, and approaching fast, Porter shouted.

  “Paddle, Abby. Paddle like fuck!”

  I looked at him, at the swell, and then did just as he’d taught me. With my eyes fixed on the shore, I paddled with my hands, attempting to match the wave’s speed. As the board started to rise, I pushed my chest off the board and quickly rose to my feet.

  Ho-lee-shit.

  I glanced to my left. Porter was beside me, twenty yards away, with my GoPro attached to some goofy piece of elastic that was strapped to his head.

  “I’m surfing!” I screamed. “I’m F-ing surfing!”

  “Looking good, baby!” he shouted.

  As quickly as it began, it was over. The wave diminished to nothing. The board, and I, came to a stop in the shallow water.

  After getting to a depth where I could stand up, I looked at Porter. “I want to do it again.”

  “We can do it all day,” he said. “If you want.”

  “Will you take that stupid thing off your head?”

  “Nope. I’m recording our life together.” He gestured toward the horizon. “Let’s catch another.”

  We surfed until I was no longer capable of standing. I couldn’t believe it was so easy, or that I’d waited as long as I had to attempt it. I found it humorous that it took Porter getting a handy in front of the UPS man to convince me to finally do it.

  After successfully getting up on a board, I suspected my future days would be filled with nothing more than binge watching Netflix, eating, having sex with Porter, watching the sunset, and surfing.

  “I’m famished,” I said as I walked ashore. “We need to eat.”

  “We need to get these boards back,” he said.

  “You can return that one,” I said. “I’m keeping this bad boy.”

  “It’s a rental, you have to return it.”

  I poked the nose of the board into the sand like I’d seen surfers do from my deck. “I’ll buy it from him. He’s not getting it back. It’s my lucky board.”

  Porter did the same with his. “Buy a better board.”

  I slapped my hand against the rag-tag looking piece of rental shit. “There is no better board than mine.”

  He shook his head. “Fine. If it works, keep it.”

  “I intend to.”

  He peeled the GoPro off his head and rested it on top of the board. “Is your stomach better?”

  I flopped onto the sand and let out a sigh. “It’s good enough to eat non-seafood. I swear, I felt like shit for a week. I still feel weak, but not that bad.”

  Either the oysters at Goose’s or the sashimi at my favorite sushi place made me so sick I couldn’t get out of bed for five days. I was doing much better but still felt tired. The thought of anything seafood related made me feel nauseous.

  “The diner?” he asked.

  The Devil Dog Diner was comfort food if there ever was any.

  “Pancakes sound good,” I said. “Those would be easy to digest.”

  He reached for his board. “Let’s get cleaned up and go to George’s then.”

  I glared. “Hold on a minute, Mister fast hands. Give me a minute to get up. Jeez. I’m worn out. It’s not every day I surf for six hours.”

  He looked at his watch. “Five.”

  “Six since we rented these piece of shit boards.”

  He gestured toward the chipped piece of fiberglass. “The piece of shit board you’re keeping?”

  I laughed. “I’m not keeping this piece of shit. If you’ve got good footage of me riding it, that’s enough. I am buying a board, though.”

  Surfing would require nothing more than walking off my porch and to the beach, which was a matter of feet away from my home. It would be a new activity to add to my list of things to do with Porter on a regular basis.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go eat.”

  An hour later, we’d cleaned up, changed clothes, and were seated in my favorite booth at George’s place. It was three in the afternoon. As always in the middle of the day, the place was empty.

  George handed Porter a menu. “So, other than surfing, there’s no other new news, is there?”

  Porter snatched the menu from George’s hand. “Not yet.”

  I looked at George. “Like what?”

  “Like.” He shrugged. “Anything.”

  I glanced at Porter. He was glaring at George. I shifted my eyes to George. He had an ear-to-ear grin on his face and was staring blankly at me.

  “What the F is going on?” I asked openly.

  “Nothing,” Porter blurted.

  “Just delivering menus,” George chided.

  I alternated glances between them. “I don’t know what you two of you are doing, but you can stop it right now. You’re creeping me out.”

  “Take your time looking over the menus,” George said with a smile. “I’ll be back as soon as you give me a wave.”

  I squinted. “Give you a wave? Since when do we wave you in from the outfield?” I handed him the menu. “I’ll have pancakes. Times three, please.”

  Porter handed his menu to George. “I’ll have the same, thank you.”

  “Ham?” George asked.

  “Please,” I responded.

  He looked at Porter. “Bacon?”

  “Please.”

  “Short stack with ham, and a short stack with bacon,” George said cheerily. “You’ll
have plenty of time to talk, we’ll have to mix the batter.”

  “You always mix the batter,” I said. “It’s one of the reasons I eat here, remember?”

  George grinned and turned toward the kitchen.

  “Is it me, or are you two acting like a couple of goofballs?”

  “Acting normal,” Porter replied.

  “You’re acting normal?”

  He nodded. “Perfectly.”

  “I think you and George are up to something,” I said.

  “Nope,” he responded. “We’re up to nothing.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. Nothing at all. Everything’s normal.”

  “Any new news?” I asked mockingly.

  He shook his head. “Nope.”

  “I was mocking George,” I said.

  “Oh.”

  I took a drink of my water and studied him. My birthday wasn’t for three months, and Porter’s wasn’t for seven. George didn’t celebrate birthdays, but his was in January, which was five months away.

  So, a surprise party was out of the question.

  I wondered if they might be planning a big fundraiser or a special dinner with the bike club. Maybe, I decided, Porter was quitting the club, which I really didn’t want him to do, now that I’d met everyone.

  “Have you given any thought to quitting the club?” I asked.

  “A little,” he said.

  “Don’t,” I said. “I like everyone. And, I don’t want you to lose that fellowhip, or whatever it’s called.”

  “Okay. Well, we can talk about that.”

  “Let’s talk about it, then.”

  “Not now,” he said.

  I cocked my head to the side. “What do you want to talk about now?”

  He glanced toward the kitchen and then shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  I gestured toward the back of the diner with my eyes. “Do you want to check with George and see what he wants you to talk about?”

  “No.”

  “I’m going to figure out what you two nut buckets are doing. You know that, right?”

  “I’m not doing anything.”

  “Yes, you are. And I know it.” I extended my hand. “Your phone, please.”

  He wiggled to the side of the booth, pulled out his phone, and handed it to me. His mouth twisted into a grin.

  I opened his text messages, scrolled through them, and saw nothing out of the ordinary. I handed him the phone. “I’m going to figure it out, believe me.”

  “There’s nothing to figure out.”

  “Pancake delivery,” George said, sounding like a he was trying out for an Aunt Jemima commercial.

  He set the plates in front of us. “Any new revelations?”

  “No!” Porter blurted.

  I looked at the steaming pancakes, and then at George. “What. The. F. Is. Going. On?”

  “Nothing.”

  I looked at Porter and raised a brow.

  He shrugged. “Nothing.”

  I picked up my fork and pointed it to George. “I’m.” I pointed it at Porter. “Going to.” Then, back to George. “Figure.” Back to Porter. “You two.” Then, to George. “Out.”

  George shrugged and turned toward the kitchen. “Nothing to figure out.”

  I looked at Porter. He was already half done with his pancakes and shoveling them into his mouth at a breakneck pace.

  “I don’t know what you two knuckleheads are up to, but if it includes embarrassing me, there’ll be hell to pay,” I fumed. “Remember, I have a video of you blowing your load over the edge of the deck.”

  “It won’t embarrass you,” he said.

  “What won’t embarrass me?”

  He cut another section of pancakes from the stack. “What’s going on.”

  I scratched my arm feverishly. “What is going on?”

  “Oh,” he said. “Nothing.”

  I glared at him while I poured syrup on my pancakes. I had no idea what he was planning, but when I found out, he was going to pay dearly for disrupting an otherwise peaceful mid-day meal.

  Because I didn’t like surprises.

  At all.

  110

  GHOST

  Baker gazed out the window of his office, looking at who knows what. I knew not to talk to him while he was peering through the glass. It was the time that he took every day to relax. Staring out the window while music played was his means of escape.

  The same as Abby and me sitting on her deck watching the sunset.

  I sat in the chair on the opposite side of his desk and enjoyed the music that was playing. When the song ended, he turned around.

  Upon seeing me, he gave a nod. “How’s it going, Brother Ghost?”

  “Going good, thanks.”

  He stroked his beard as he looked me over. “What brings you in? Hell, you haven’t been up here in ages.”

  “Just wanting to talk.”

  “About?”

  “Well, first, what was that song that was playing? I liked it?”

  “Peter Gabriel. In Your Eyes.”

  I recognized the artist as being the singer of Abby’s favorite song. “Have you heard Solsbury Hill? Same guy, I guess.”

  “I have,” he said. “You’ve never heard it?”

  “She was going to play it for me but hasn’t got around to it. Just wondered what it was about. I liked that last one.”

  He reached for his phone, fucked with it for a moment, and then set it on his desk. In a few seconds, a song began to play.

  I closed my eyes and listened intently. I didn’t perceive the song as spiritual, as Abby had described it. To me, it was more of a revelation about a man who was finding himself. When the song ended, I opened my eyes.

  “What’s that about, in your opinion?”

  “It’s about him finding himself after he quit the band he’d been playing in. He talks about making it from day to day, and how his life was in a rut. He talks about his life being filled with people who had no etiquette, and how he was going to find his own way. It’s about taking your own inventory and moving on without the baggage. That’s what I hear, anyway.”

  “Good tune. Kind of timeless,” I said.

  “I agree.” He turned down the music and stood. “I know you’re not here to talk music. How’s the girl?”

  “Abby? She’s great, thanks.”

  “Didn’t wreck the car, did you?”

  “Nope.”

  I crossed my arms and looked around the room. “Bought a ring.”

  “I’m guessing it’s not a clunky sterling silver set-up with a skull on it, is it?”

  I laughed. “Nope.”

  “You’re proposing to her?”

  “Planning on it.”

  “It’s a good feeling. Committing to a woman you love. I proposed to Andy on Christmas morning.”

  “Do you have any regrets?”

  “About becoming engaged? Hell no.”

  “No,” I said. “About how you did it? On Christmas morning?”

  He shook his head. “No. Why would I?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve been carrying this ring around for three or four days and can’t seem to find the right time to give it to her.”

  He chuckled. “Sounds to me like you’re having second thoughts.”

  “Not at all,” I said. “I just don’t want to do it at the wrong time, and I don’t want some cliché bullshit attached to my memory of it. Or, to hers.”

  “Not at Christmas, then?”

  “Nothing against you, Brother, but no.”

  He stroked his beard. “Do it at a time that’s natural. You know the feeling you get when you just feel like kissing her? Like, out of the blue?”

  “Yeah, it happens all the time, why?”

  “Give it to her at one of those times,” he said. “It’ll feel natural. Or, in one of those moments when you’re laying in bed admiring her. When she does something cute. When she, and you, are least expecting it. It’ll feel natural. Who g
ives a fuck about the story that’s attached to it. Do it for you, and for her, not for the story you’ll tell about it later.”

  I nodded. “Good point.”

  “Everything else okay?” he asked. “Is she still sick?”

  “She’s better. Fucking oysters.”

  “Didn’t bother me. Cash puked out his butt for two days. Must have been some bad ones in there. Hell, he flew them in from Louisiana, fresh. It’s not the Goose’s fault.”

  “Not blaming him,” I said. “Just one of those deals.”

  He studied me for a moment, and then grinned. “Finally lifted that ass of yours off that wallet.”

  “What?”

  “Other than building that fucking Mustang, you haven’t spent a dollar since high school. Took you thirteen years to build that car. As far as I can figure, that’s five hundred bucks a month, give or take. Hell, that’s the interest you’re receiving off our first job. You don’t even own a house, you rent one. You’re so tight, you squeak when you walk.”

  “Don’t like spending money.”

  “Did it hurt? To come up off some of that cash?”

  He was right. I was frugal. Spending money seemed like a waste to me. I grew up without it, and now that I had some, I cherished it. Buying a new pair of jeans troubled me so much I’d often wait until they had holes so big my junk was falling out.

  Spending it on Abby’s ring didn’t bother me one bit.

  I shook my head. “Didn’t feel a thing.”

  “Spend a chunk?”

  “Half a million.”

  His eyes went wide. “Jesus. Must be some ring.”

  “It’s a nice fucker.”

  “Got it with you?”

  I laughed as I reached into my pocket. “Been carrying it for days.”

  I handed him the box.

  He opened the box and looked the ring over. “I take it back,” he said.

  “What’s that? About me being a tight ass?”

  “No.” He handed me the ring. “About proposing. You need to make sure she’s got something soft under her when you do it, because she’s likely to faint. That’s one hell of a rock, Ghost.”

  “Hope she likes it.”