Devil's Disciples MC (Box Set)

by Scott Hildreth

  “It sure does.”

  A sample of the chicken parmesan followed. The chicken was tender and juicy, while the breading was crisp and flavorful. “Where in the world did you learn to cook like this?”

  “A lot of practice. I’ve been cooking for the club since we were kids.”

  “You guys moved here right out of high school, right?”

  He nodded. “I keep forgetting you spent two months talking to Ghost. You two must have become pretty close.”

  “We talked every day until the day of the accident.”

  “Did you see him the day he died?”

  “I did,” I admitted.

  His gaze dropped to his food. “He uhhm. He didn’t come around as much as normal after Abby died. We all figured he just needed some time and a little space. When we did see him, he was in good spirits. At least he seemed to be. I guess he was just hanging out in the diner, huh?”

  I sipped my wine. “He spent a lot of time there.”

  He nodded. “I’m glad he had someone to talk to during that trying time. Losing her had to be tough on him.”

  When my father died, I hated being asked about it. Although people gave condolences out of kindness and with sincerity, the constant reminder that he was gone did more damage than good.

  I hated to ask, but I also hated more not to.

  “How are you doing?” I asked.

  “I’m okay.”

  He wasn’t. I could tell it was eating him up from the inside out. “He thought the world of all of you guys. You know that, right?”

  He picked at his food. “We thought the world of him, too.”

  “It gets better as time passes,” I explained. “I know it’s tough. All I had was my father, and when he passed, I was alone. It wasn’t easy, but I got through it. I still think about him today. Every day, actually. I guess the difference is that I smile now when I think of him instead of crying. Crying is required to heal, though.”

  “I’m not a crier.”

  “Just this once, you should try it,” I said. “It’s part of the healing process.”

  He continued to flip the back of his fork through his salad. “According to you. I need time to pass. That’s all.”

  “Our eyes are the vessels through which our soul weeps,” I said. “There’s only one way to relieve the pressure building up in your soul, and that’s to shed a few tears.”

  He slowly raked his eyes upward until they met mine. “Who said that?”

  “Said what?”

  He cleared his throat. “Our eyes are the vessels through which our soul weeps?”

  “I just made it up.”

  His gaze fell to his food. “I like that.”

  While he picked through his salad, I ate my food—slowly, for once. Midway through my chicken parmesan, he spoke.

  “Ghost went to the cemetery every Sunday following Abby’s death, without fail. He texted me from her gravesite on the day he died, and I didn’t respond. It’s uhhm. It’s been eating me up. I was out in the yard, doing my Sunday cleanup. He probably sat there and waited for me to respond for thirty minutes or so, knowing him. Him waiting on that response caused him to be late. Being late put him in front of that drunk driver. If I would have taken time to respond, things would have been different. Five minutes would have made all the difference in the world. I keep thinking about that. If I would have texted him five minutes before he left, he would have left five minutes earlier.” He looked up. A tear clung to the corner of his right eye. “And, he wouldn’t have died.”

  “You can’t take the blame for his death,” I said softly. “Everything happens—”

  “Don’t tell me how everything happens for a reason,” he said, his tone harsh. “I don’t believe that horseshit.”

  I thought about the day Porter died. The last morning that we had breakfast together.

  “Is your real name Gordon?” I asked.

  He coughed out a laugh. It almost brought him to tears. “That cocksucker told you my name?”

  “No, he didn’t tell me your name. He just said something about Gordon right before he left.”

  He sighed. “Yeah. I’m Gordon. Why?”

  “He didn’t text you from the cemetery. He texted you from the diner. Your response wouldn’t have made a difference. He would have still been going to the cemetery afterward. His fate wasn’t in your hands, Goose.”

  His hands balled into fists. “Bullshit.” He extended his fingers and pressed his flattered hands against the table. “How would you know when he texted me?”

  “Because,” I said. “He started to get up and leave, and he said, ‘I’m going to see if Gordon wants to go eat a piece of pie.’ He sent you a text, got up, hugged me, and left. It was ten minutes after nine. I remember, because he looked at his watch and said, ‘Shit, I’m running late to go see Abby.’”

  He walked to the kitchen and picked up his phone. After messing with it for a minute, he laid it aside. He took a step in my direction, and then paused. He turned around and braced his hands on the countertop. Then, he began to weep.

  I stepped to his side and draped my arm over his shoulder.

  “God damn it,” he blubbered. “I miss him, Ally.”

  I missed Porter desperately. I had breakfast with him daily and looked forward to our time together. He possessed a level of kindness that not many men did. Each morning that I ate alone was a reminder of his absence.

  “I miss him, too,” I said. “But it’s not your fault.”

  He nodded. “I can see that, now. I think…I think I wanted it to be. I needed someone to blame.”

  I was told never to discuss religion or politics. I hated to ask, but felt I had to.

  “Do you believe in heaven?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “God?”

  He nodded.

  “Look at it this way,” I offered. “He’s up there right now, having a slice of pie while Abby eats a whole pie to herself. From what he said, she loved pecan pie.”

  Still crying, he let out a laugh. The two emotions got tangled together. The laughter won. He then laughed until he lost his breath. Upon regaining his composure, he turned to face me.

  He chuckled. “Porter and his fucking pie.” He wrapped his arms around me and held me close. “Thank you.”

  His hands rested against the small of my back. I laid my face against his chest. In his arms, I felt small. Protected. We melted together. A tear of recognition welled in my eye. It escaped, bringing many others with it. Then, I, too, wept.

  For the tender soul of a man I desperately missed.

  And a woman I never met.

  136

  GOOSE

  The ride north along the 5 out of San Diego was the most relaxing forty minutes I’d ridden since Ghost’s death. Clearly on the road to recovery, I gave thanks for Ally and everything she brought into my life.

  After taking the exit at Oceanside’s Mission Ave, the four of us rolled to a stop at the light. Cash and Baker led the way, with Reno and I side by side behind them.

  “Gorgeous fucking day,” I said, glancing at Reno. “Feels good to ride.”

  “Maybe we can get a few of ‘em to go for a ride after we get done,” he replied.

  “I’m doing just fine,” I growled. “I’m not looking to go on a ride with a bunch of fuckers I don’t know.”

  “They’re good people.”

  I glanced over my shoulder and gave him a look.

  He shrugged. “I’m just saying…”

  When the light turned, Baker accelerated like he was running from the cops. Cash matched his speed. Reno and I followed close behind. When the leader of a group of Harleys rides hard, everyone follows suit. Something in the male bravado required it.

  The sound from our exhaust was deafening. Necks craned. Jogger’s eyes widened.

  Four bikers grinned.

  One loud Harley makes enough noise to turn heads for a few blocks. Four of them, in unison, made an entirely different sound. S
imilar to what I expected a Category 5 hurricane or F5 tornado sounded like, we came blazing into Oceanside like we owned the town.

  A few moments later, we entered an industrial park. Baker didn’t have to tell me where the clubhouse was. After clearing a left turn, I could see it. Above the garage door of a large metal warehouse, the FFMC logo was clear. Beneath the midday sun, just beside the open garage door, two men dressed in jeans and leather kuttes were leaning against the building drinking bottled beer.

  One was a jovial-looking clean-cut giant. I guessed his age at thirty. His muscular biceps were the size of my thighs. He wore an ear-to-ear grin. He looked like he invented the word mischief.

  Standing beside him was a rough-looking man in his mid-forties. Covered with tattoos from head to toe, and wearing his salt-and-pepper hair cut short, he could have passed for an escapee from the US Penitentiary at Atwater.

  We came to a stop alongside where they stood.

  “Park ‘em in the shop,” the tattooed man said, his tone gravely. “It’ll keep anyone from knowing you’re here.”

  Engines off, we pushed our motorcycles into the shop, parking alongside what I guessed were their motorcycles.

  The jovial giant followed us. After we parked our motorcycles, he faced Reno and opened his arms. “What’s shakin’, motherfucker?”

  Reno embraced him and patted him on the back. “Same shit, different day Pee Bee,” he replied. “You’ve met Baker. Want you to meet a few more of the fellas.”

  “This is Goose,” Reno said, pointing to me.

  I shook the giant’s hand. “Goose. Pleasure.”

  “Pee Bee,” he said.

  “And this,” Reno said, gesturing to Cash. “Is Cash.”

  As they shook hands, I studied the two men. Cash stood an easy six foot four. Pee Bee towered over him by half a head. Grateful that we were on the good side of the Filthy Fuckers MC, I hung my helmet on my handlebars.

  “I’m guessin’ you’re the muscle, and he’s the brains,” Pee Bee said, gesturing to Cash, and then to me. He slapped Baker on the arm, nearly sending him reeling to keep his balance. “Just fuckin’ around, Baker. I know you’re the brains of the operation. You guys want a cold one?”

  It’s a good rule of thumb when offered a beer from a fellow biker to accept the offer. If declined, it’s often perceived as a pretentious gesture. At minimum, it’s rude.

  “Sure,” I said. “Appreciate it.”

  Reno, Cash, and Baker agreed. After being treated to a cold bottle of Budweiser, we followed Pee Bee through the garage door and gathered outside along the exterior wall of the building.

  Pee Bee nodded toward Baker and Reno. “You know these two clowns.” He gestured to me, and then Cash. “This is Goose and Cash.”

  Crip shook my hand. “Crip.”

  “Goose,” I said keeping it simple between us.

  Crip gave a nod as he shook Cash’s hand. “We met once before.”

  He seemed to be a no-nonsense fellow, which I respected. He had yet to crack a smile—or to show any emotion, for that matter. Based solely on his appearance, I suspected he only had one outward emotion.

  Anger.

  “Asking for a friend,” Baker said with a sly grin. “Heard there was club down south that needed to get rid of some DNA. Don’t know that there’s any truth to it or not, but hearing the rumor got us to arguing on what would be a sure-fire way to get rid of DNA, if someone ever had to. Cash thought acid would do it, but another member of our club argued. Reno here thought cremation would do it, and I think we all agreed it would work. What are your thoughts on the matter?”

  With one boot heel propped against the building and one on the ground, Crip nonchalantly lowered his sunglasses and gave Pee Bee a look. Then, he shifted his gaze to meet Baker’s. He chuckled.

  “We’re all brothers, here. Makes no sense to beat around the bush. What the fuck can I help you with, Baker?”

  “Is it safe to talk here?” Baker asked.

  Crip took a shallow drink from his bottle of beer. “Wouldn’t have asked you explain yourself if it wasn’t. This ain’t my first rodeo, Baker. Shit like what you’re alluding to is a common occurrence around here. Pee Bee likes to fire pottery from time to time, so we bought him a big fuckin’ custom kiln. As fate would have it, that motherfucker burns so hot it’ll turn anything to ashes.” He spat on the ground at his feet and then looked up. His mouth was twisted into a shitty smirk. “Fucking MS-13 are thick around here. At least they used to be. We’re gettin’ ‘em off the streets one by fucking one, though.”

  “What temperature does your kiln burn at?” Baker asked.

  Crip laughed. “How in the fuck would I know? I’m not an art instructor or a professor of fuckin’ pottery. You’re more than welcome to poke a thermometer in it if that’s what makes you fuckin’ happy. All I know is it’s hot enough to turn everything to ashes.”

  “Everything?” Baker asked.

  Crip took another drink. He nodded. “Everything.”

  “You gotta chunk ‘em up, though. At least cut their legs off at the knees,” Pee Bee chimed. “The kiln’s only five foot tall.”

  “He’s already ‘chunked up’.” Baker said. He met Crip’s stone-faced stare. “Sounds good to me.”

  Crip glanced over his shoulder, studied our bikes, and then looked at Baker. “I’m guessing you didn’t bring the cop’s body with you?”

  Baker turned ghost white. He swallowed so hard I could hear it. “Never said he was a cop.”

  Crip spat on the ground between them. “Didn’t have to.”

  Baker glared.

  Crip had a good fifty pounds on Baker, all of which was muscle. Although Cash was as mean as a snake, I couldn’t see us fighting our way out of there. With guns, maybe. Hell, Pee Bee was big enough to take on all four of us by himself.

  Prepared to claim Crip’s “cop” comment was nothing but an educated guess, I tried to get Baker’s attention.

  Nothing worked.

  With Baker now in a stare-down with the tattooed president of the Filthy Fuckers MC, the tension became so thick I could taste it. After a silent—and very tense—moment, Crip finished his beer.

  He took off his sunglasses and sized Baker up. He forced a sigh. “I’ve got a cop that tells me things. Rumor has it that a club down your way offed a retired cop. He was working on the sly for the SD sheriff’s office, which is where my cop buddy works. According to him, this cop came up missing some time ago. They found his cell phone in his driveway. Two things they didn’t find was his wallet and his badge. Those two pieces of missing info led them to believe, just for a while, that he might be alive somewhere. They’ve since decided that’s probably not the case.” He arched an eyebrow. “Sound familiar?”

  Baker nodded. “Really familiar.”

  Crip gave a crisp nod. “Don’t know if you have the wallet or the badge, but if you do, you might want to toss them in that oven, right along with him.”

  Baker looked at Cash.

  Cash shrugged. “Got ‘em.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” I fumed. “What if Crip wouldn’t have said anything? It’s shit like that that’ll get us hemmed up, you dip-shit.”

  “Tell me about it.” Crip chuckled and then tilted his head toward Pee Bee. “This fucking rocket scientist does dumb shit like that all the time.”

  “Not all the time.” Pee Bee argued. “Just every now and again.”

  “He gets busy fuckin’ his Ol’ Lady, and he forgets where his devotion lies,” Crip explained. “If a man doesn’t think to ask him, he might never know. Brought a Ziploc bag filled with cocks to my house one night. He’d been riding around with them all night. Found out later that he stopped and got a cheeseburger on the way to my house with that sack of cocks in his saddlebag, but that’s a story for some other time.”

  I wasn’t surprised at the bag of dicks comment. I found it shocking, however, that Pee Bee had an Ol’ Lady. If a club as hardened as the Filthy Fuckers had me
mbers with Ol’ Ladies, there wasn’t any reason why I couldn’t succeed at it.

  If I chose to.

  “So, you’re willing to help us out on this?” Baker asked.

  Crip nodded. “You get caught on the way here, I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. We’ll agree on a time and date, and I’ll have that thing fired up and ready. Prefer to do it on a Sunday morning, though. Takes that fucker twenty-four hours to cool down. Doing it during the week is a pain in the ass.”

  I looked at Cash. “Planning on bringing everything in your truck?”

  Cash nodded.

  I turned to face Crip. “This Sunday work for you?”

  He shook his head. “We’re headed to Palm Springs this weekend. Next Sunday works fine.”

  “Next Sunday works for me,” I said.

  “Works for me,” Cash chimed.

  Crip looked at Baker and gave a nod. “Sounds like a fuckin’ consensus. A week from this Sunday.”

  Baker extended his hand. “I appreciate it.”

  Crip shook it. “Sorry about your loss. Didn’t know the fella but heard nothing but good things about him. Damned fine man from what I’ve heard.”

  “He was,” Baker said.

  Crip shook his head in clear disgust. “Leave it up to a drunk in a cage. Probably be the death of all of us. Sons-of-bitches.” He looked at Reno. “Why don’t you get you dumb Army Ranger ass up here on Sunday and ride with us, you worthless prick?”

  “I could do that,” Reno said.

  “You could, or you will?”

  Reno nodded. “I will.”

  “Be here at seven,” Crip said.

  I wasn’t surprised that Crip and Reno knew one another, but it shocked me that Crip invited him to ride with them on a day-long venture.

  “How do you two know each other?” I asked.

  Crip looked at Reno. “Can I tell ‘em?”

  Reno shrugged. “I don’t give a fuck.”

  Crip picked up the beer bottle that Pee Bee set at his feet, and twisted off the cap. After taking a long drink, he glanced at each of us. “Him and his ground pounding Ranger buddies were in the Kandahar Province, on patrol. Al Qaeda got them pinned down between a few big rocks.”