Devil's Disciples MC (Box Set)

by Scott Hildreth

I had no desire to share my lack of sexual promiscuity with the rest of the club, especially Cash.

  “Yeah,” I muttered. “Banged a little hottie I met in the bar.”

  I shoved the panties into my pocket and shook my head in disbelief. I may have been confused, but I wasn’t crazy. My fling with the pouty-lipped beauty was nothing more than a daydream.

  Finding the pantyless Cinderella would now become priority number one.

  Determining whether or not she could live up to my dreams would be number two.

  118

  GOOSE

  He stood and gestured to the chair opposite his desk. “You’re a hard man to reach, Mister Pearce.”

  I gave a half-hearted apologetic smile. “My apologies, counselor. I don’t answer phone numbers I don’t recognize.”

  “I must apologize as well.” He sat down and raked his fingers through his silver hair. “I learned of Mister Reeves passing rather late.”

  “No worries. I’ve been busy planning the funeral.”

  “Considering your voicemail was incessantly full, I opted to send the letter.” He slid a pile of paperwork across the desk. He pulled his sun-spotted hand away. “As I stated, I’m terribly sorry for your untimely loss.”

  The loss was going to haunt me for a lifetime. I realized Ghost’s death wasn’t a result of my actions. I was left to wonder, however, if action on my part could have prevented it. I’d live with that wonder bottled within me until the day I died.

  I gave a nod of appreciation. “Thank you.”

  “As you may or may not know, Mister Reeves inherited a good portion of Miss Northrop’s fortune, including her home on the beach. The paperwork I’ve given you explains in writing what I’ll attempt to summarize verbally.”

  I viewed attorneys in the same light I viewed cops. They couldn’t be trusted. As Mister Wicks situated himself in his leather seat, I thumbed through the edges of the paperwork he’d provided me.

  He laced his fingers together and peered over the desk. “The copy of the will I’ve provided outlines Mister Reeves’ legal intentions. You’ve been awarded his home on the beach, several million dollars in cash and investments, multiple motorcycles, and his personal effects. Additionally, Mister Reeves left a letter addressed to you. He asked that you consider reading it to the club, but he didn’t insist upon it. There’s no mention of the letter in his will, therefore you’re not bound to do so if you’re uncomfortable sharing the contents.”

  My mind shot to the notion of Ghost knowing he was going to die. It made no sense. Ghost may have loved Abby, but her death wouldn’t have prompted him to take his own life. He was killed by a drunk driver. His death was an accident, and I wasn’t willing to accept anything else as being fact.

  I shot a glare at the silver-haired devil. “You’re saying it was a suicide mission? That he knew he was dying?”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “Not at all. In fact, quite the contrary. He left the letter two months prior to his passing. Miss Northrop left him a similar letter. I’m sure her doing so prompted him to do the same. A kind gesture I must say.”

  Eager to see what Ghost had to say prior to his death, I shifted my focus to the stack of paperwork. “Is it in here?”

  “It is not.” He slid a sealed envelope across the massive desk. “You can read it now, or at your leisure. For clarification’s sake, I have no knowledge of the letter’s contents.”

  I opened the envelope and removed the folded sheet of paper. Upon unfolding it, I grinned at the sight of Ghost’s nearly illegible handwriting.

  Emotion catapulted into my throat. Fighting against it, I settled into my seat and began to read.

  After finishing the letter, I looked up. “Did he mention me delivering a car in the will?”

  He nodded. “He certainly did.”

  I chuckled. “That prick.”

  His eyes narrowed slightly. “Pardon me?”

  I folded the letter and slid it into the envelope. “He knew how much I detested driving. My ex-wife left me a minivan as a joke. Son-of-a-bitch has been sitting in my driveway since she left. I’d rather have my ass whipped than reduce myself to drive a car.”

  He coughed a forced laugh. “I take it you’re a motorcycle man, through and through?”

  “That’d be an accurate assumption.”

  “I haven’t seen the car in question. By the description he gave, however, it sounds like quite an automobile.”

  The car in question was a 1967 Shelby GT500 that had been modeled after Eleanor in the movie Gone in Sixty Seconds. It had nearly a thousand horsepower and was a flawless work of art that had been hand-crafted by a man who appreciated anything that was loud and fast.

  “He built it with his bare hands,” I said, recalling the countless hours Ghost spent fabricating the car in the clubhouse’s garage. “Piece by piece.”

  The thought of the car going to someone outside the club went against the grain of my belief. Nonetheless, I had every intention of granting Ghost’s wish.

  I hoisted the pile of legal documents. “I’m guessing you’ve got some paperwork I need to sign?”

  “A considerable amount of it. I can have Miss McClure get the conference room ready.” He arched an eyebrow. “If you’re ready, that is.”

  Accepting Ghost’s death as being reality wasn’t going to be an easy task. Although I’d viewed his dead body and seen his casket lowered into the earth, I was living in denial of the fact that he was truly gone.

  Signing the paperwork would undoubtedly prompt me to accept his absence. That acceptance would be the first step in the healing process.

  Delivering his one-of-a-kind muscle car to someone outside the club would be the second.

  119

  ALLY

  I’d eaten at Abby’s Place every day since my arrival in San Diego. Reminiscent of yesteryear’s ‘greasy spoons’ that once peppered the interstate from coast to coast, it differed from similar establishments in that the owner opted to use ingredients that were free of preservatives and chemicals.

  The diner’s offerings were truly made fresh to order. When the day’s ground beef supply diminished to nothing, there were no more hamburgers offered. After they cracked their last egg, omelets and pancakes were stricken from the menu.

  Eating there allowed me to consume a stack of Frisbee-sized pancakes without feeling overly guilty that I’d stuffed myself full of things I was incapable of pronouncing.

  As a teen, Doritos, corndogs, and Hostess Ding-Dongs were my staples. My father dying at the age of forty-two caused me to rethink my way of living life – and my diet.

  Lawson slid the two plates of food across the table. “Watch anything good last night?”

  “North by Northwest,” I replied. “I’m not a big Carey Grant fan, but that’s a great show.”

  He seemed bewildered. “Haven’t seen it.”

  I spent most of my idle time watching classic movies. North by Northwest was one of my all-time favorite thrillers.

  I situated the plates into their proper places. “I can loan you the DVD if you want.”

  “I might take you up on that.”

  I spread my pancakes with a film of butter. After smothering them in pure Vermont maple syrup, I lifted my fork.

  Lawson continued to hover over me.

  I gave him a good once-over. “Is there a problem?”

  He folded his arms across his chest and peered down his nose at the two plates of food. “Who eats a double burger with cream cheese, bacon, and jalapenos and has a short stack for a side? No woman I’ve ever met, that’s for sure. You eat like this every day. I’m surprised you don’t weigh five hundred pounds.”

  “I’m surprised at a lot of things, but if I take time to tell you what they are, my food’s going to get cold. Come back in ten minutes, when I’m done. I’ll give you my opinions on government corruption, the lack of depth in modern-day movies, and the overutilization of high fructose corn syrup by the sugar-pushing snack industr
y that preys on America’s youth.”

  He chuckled. “I’ll catch the highlights on that speech when you’re done. Sadly, it probably will be only ten minutes.” He put his hands on his hips and gave me a nod. “Enjoy. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

  I lifted my fork and smiled. “Thank you.”

  Midway through my mountain of flapjacks, the diner’s windows began to shake. As my butter-laced knife buzzed across the hard surface of the table, my gaze shot toward the street. I fully expected an extraterrestrial invasion to be well underway.

  Instead, I was treated to the sight of a Pepper Gray 1967 Shelby GT500. Its earth-shaking horsepower brought me to the brink of climax from one hundred feet away.

  I steadied my knife and gawked at the gorgeous sight. Taking it for a few laps at Lime Rock Park, which was one of the nation’s three oldest race tracks—and my father’s favorite place on earth—would be a dream come true.

  While the other girls played with Barbies and primped their hair, I walked to the library and devoured the current issues of Road and Track, Car and Driver, and Motor Trend.

  I didn’t consider myself a tomboy. I hated the thought of dirt under my fingernails. Nevertheless, the sound of loud exhaust pipes and the vibrations caused by high-profile camshafts did far more than make my butter knife buzz.

  The exhaust notes of American muscle cars lulled me to sleep at night as a child and kept me awake with anticipation as a teen. After my father’s death, I was forced to accept my silent evenings and weekends as being what my future held.

  Brimming with excitement, I blindly cut sections from my pancakes and forked them into my mouth as I admired the body lines of the fifty-year-old work of art.

  Much to my clit’s dissatisfaction, the car’s engine shut off.

  I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. Just as I turned toward my food, I caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye.

  I spun to face the window.

  Holyfuckingshit.

  With my mind in the gutter and a mouth filled with pancakes, I watched as he got out of the car and stepped toward the curb. The contrast of his deeply tanned skin against the sleeves of his stark white shirt did for me what washboard abs did for most women.

  There was nothing sexier than a lean, muscular man with tan skin wearing a proper-fitting white tee shirt.

  Not. One. Thing.

  Dressed in a pair of faded jeans, a white tee shirt, and a pair of slip-on biker boots, he resembled a short-haired version of James Dean.

  I found him attractive at the funeral. Irresistible was more like it.

  His lips were full and pouty, like Marlon Brando’s in A Streetcar Names Desire. With his eyes fixed in a permanent squint, he stepped onto the curb and lit a cigarette. He looked the car over from one end to the other, taking two long puffs off the cigarette in the process.

  A long white plume dissipated into the air above him. He snuffed the cigarette on the heel of his boot and slipped the butt into his back pocket.

  I watched with hungry eyes as he sauntered to the door and pushed it open.

  “Sit wherever you like,” Lawson shouted.

  Fork in hand, I slid to the corner of my booth and tried to become invisible.

  “Is George in?” James Dean asked.

  “Sorry, he’s out until five.”

  Fearing he’d recognize me, I remained slumped in my seat. After an incredibly long period of silence, the heels of his boots squeaked their way across the polished tile floor.

  Squeak. Squeak.

  Squeak. Squeak.

  Squeak.

  I glanced at my watch.

  4:40

  Hiding for twenty minutes wasn’t going to be an easy task. Especially when Lawson came to check on me in five.

  Squeak. Squeak.

  With each of James Dean’s steps the squeaking became more pronounced. Then, the unthinkable happened. It stopped.

  I looked up.

  He was peering down at me through thinning eyes.

  I was wadded in a ball at the back of the booth. Acting like it was my first choice of seating positions, I raised my fork and smiled. “Hi.”

  A look of confusion washed over him. “Were you…were you at Porter Reeves’ funeral day before yesterday?”

  I swallowed the lump in my throat and rested my head against my hand. “Maybe.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, ‘maybe’? You either were or you weren’t.”

  He was intimidatingly tall, especially from my vantage point. Shifting my attention to my pancakes, I broke his stone-faced stare.

  He loomed over me, waiting for my response. I cut off a section of my maple syrup slathered lunch and raised it to my mouth. “If you’re pissed off, the answer’s ‘no’. If you’re not, the answer’s yes.”

  “Why would I be pissed off?”

  “About the…” I shrugged. “You know. The ‘gift’ I left you.”

  His mouth twisted into a smirk. “So, it was you?”

  I feared he’d seen me do it, and now felt like an idiot for admitting what I’d done when I didn’t have to. I shoved the pancakes into my mouth and gave him a crumpled grin. “Kind of tough denying it now, huh?”

  Shoving my panties into the pocket of his leather jacket wasn’t completely out of character for me. It wasn’t typical, either. It was a spur of the moment decision. I was ninety-nine point nine-seven-five percent certain I’d never see him again. I thought my panties would brighten the obviously shitty day he was having.

  Now that he was hovering over me, it seemed like a bad idea.

  Kind of.

  “Want to sit down?” I asked. “You’re making me nervous.”

  He nodded toward my half-eaten food. “Are you waiting on someone?”

  “No,” I said with a laugh. “That’s all me.”

  He sat down. “I’m Goose.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Goose.” I offered my syrup-soaked hand. “I’m Ally.”

  He looked me up and down. “Is it common for you to leave your panties stuffed in some random stranger’s pocket, Ally?”

  “It’s not something I do daily.” I reached for my burger. “You just. I don’t know. You looked like you needed your spirits lifted.”

  “Did I?”

  “Well, we were checking each other out there for a minute. Then, it seemed like you kind of faded away on me. When you spoke, I realized how close you were to Porter. I just thought, I don’t know.” I lowered my burger and did my best to look innocent. “I do dumb stuff sometimes. More often than most people, I’m sure. I thought it might distract you from what was making you sad. You know, maybe it’d bring a smile to your face.”

  He stared at my half-eaten pancakes for some time. He looked up. “How’d you know Ghost?”

  “Who?”

  “Porter?”

  “I’d just moved here and stopped in at this place to get something to eat. He was sitting right here, at this table. On the day we met, he paid for my breakfast. We sat and talked almost every day after that while we ate breakfast together. Ends up we had a lot in common. He said I reminded him of his fiancé. I’m sorry about what happened. For your loss, and everything. I really am. He was a great guy.”

  He pursed his lips and swallowed hard. “Thanks.”

  I raised my burger. “Want half of this?”

  “Sure.”

  I cut the sandwich in half with my butter-covered knife and offered him the plated half. “I hate to eat in front of people.”

  “Me, too,” he admitted. “Always thought it was rude.”

  I tilted my head toward his spotless ride. “As rude as not offering to take me for a ride in your awesome Shelby?”

  He studied the burger as if trying to determine what was in it before committing to take a bite. He shifted his gaze from the burger to me. “It’s not mine.”

  “Are you a car thief, Goose?”

  His face immediately flushed red. He looked away. Half a se
cond later, he coughed out a mouthful of embarrassment.

  “So, you are a car thief, but you didn’t steal that one.” I took a bite of my burger. “Gotcha.”

  He chuckled and glanced in my direction. His face was still flushed. “Are you a detective?”

  I nodded. “I’m an amateur part-time detective, full-time thief, and certified slight-of-hand magician.”

  His face wore a look of disbelief. “You’re a thief?”

  “The detective thing’s for self-gratification. I detest courts, cops, the government, and laws, for the most part. I’m a rule hater. I steal things for the rush. Gum. Lifesavers. Things like that. The slight-of-hand stuff is just for fun.”

  He grinned and shook his head. “You’re funny.”

  “I was being serious,” I said dryly.

  “You’re still funny.” He lifted his chin slightly. “I like how you talk a hundred miles an hour. It makes you seem confident. That’s a good quality to have.”

  I blushed a little. “Thanks.”

  “Let me get your number.” He reached for his phone. “Before I forget.”

  My shoulder slumped. “I don’t have a phone.”

  He gave me a dismissive look. “I guess that’s one way not giving out your number.”

  “No, really. I don’t have a phone,” I explained. “I think they’re stupid. Go to any restaurant or bar and look for a couple that’s obviously out on a date. Sooner or later, they’ll both be on their phones instead of talking to each other. It’s dumb. I hate those things.”

  “You’re saying you don’t own one?” His eyes narrowed. “You don’t have a phone? Any phone?”

  “Nope.”

  “Not at all? A throw-away for emergencies?”

  “Nope. I’m technologically challenged. No phone. No laptop. No computer. I’ve got a TV and a DVD player for my movies. I’ve got an old-school VHS player, too. For some of my old movies.”

  He stared blankly. “Holy shit.”

  “Pretty much, that’s what everyone says,” I said with a laugh.

  “Hard to imagine someone getting by without one.”