Devil's Disciples MC (Box Set)

by Scott Hildreth

  Manos looked the package over, showed it to his mustachioed friend, and then threw it back in an underhanded lob, no differently than if he were tossing me a can of beer. “Sorry, my friend. I’m not inna-rested.”

  I dropped it into the backpack, zipped it, and slipped my arm through the strap. “That’s good, because I’m not here to sell it.”

  He cocked his head to the side. “Why are jew here?”

  “I’m in an awkward position.” Beginning at his huaraches, I dragged my gaze up his athletic frame as if I were sizing him up. When our eyes met, I cleared my throat. “Normally I wouldn’t come to a place like this unannounced, but my options are limited. I need to negotiate a deal.”

  He opened his arms and waved his tattooed hands toward the horizon. “A place like theese? What chu mean, a place like theese?”

  “The only place where a man feels comfortable enough to eat and shit in peace,” I said. “His home.”

  He grinned just a little. “I can sheet anywhere.”

  “I took a shit on the hood of a man’s car once,” I said with a laugh. “But that’s a story for another time.”

  He laughed out loud. “So what kind of deal jew need to negotiate, Meester?” He gestured toward the cook with a wave of his hand. “Barbacoa tacos? A refreshing michelada?”

  “Can I speak freely?”

  He nodded toward the man with the mustache and then tilted his head toward the cook. “Es my brahther and my cohsin. Jew can say anything here, Esse.”

  I patted my left hand against the backpack. “I need 1,500 of these, and I can’t get my source to answer his phone.”

  Mister Mustache went bug-eyed. He looked at Manos. “Mil quinientos?”

  One thousand five hundred?

  Manos gave a light nod and then shifted his eyes to me. “Jew have a name, Meester?”

  “Me? I’m Tyrone Tiddlewood,” I said, straight-faced. “This is my partner, Rex Rasmussen.”

  “Teedlewood.” He laughed. “Es fahnny.”

  “You can call me Wood, for short. He goes by Rex.”

  He gestured to the barstools at his side. “Jew hungry, Meester Wood?”

  “I’m always hungry.” I looked at Crip. “You hungry Rex?”

  “If you’re eatin’, I’m eatin’,” Crip responded.

  What I expected to go to hell in a handbasket had gone as smooth as silk. I had a hard time believing it was going to continue at that pace for long. Mentally prepared for things to fall off into the cartel’s violent abyss, I took a seat alongside Manos and his silent friend at the outdoor bar.

  “Toss jore leetle pinche chingadera on the floor,” Manos said, motioning toward his cousin. “He’ll take it back to jore motorcycle. Jew rode motorcycles, no?”

  I dropped the backpack beside his brother. “Sure did.”

  He nodded toward the pool. “Jew know how to sweem, Meester Wood?”

  “Sure do.”

  He looked at Crip. “Jew sweem, Rex?”

  “Like a fish.”

  “They say it’s bad to sweem after deener. Jew need to sweem now.” He tilted his head toward the pool. “Take off jer clothes and geet in.”

  I knew exactly what he was doing. If we were cops, we’d be recording the conversation with a listening device of some sort. As sophisticated as transmitters had become, none would be able to function if submerged in water. If the backpack was in the driveway, and we were submerged in water, he’d be assured we weren’t recording anything.

  Furthermore, if we were willing to get naked in front of him, it would eliminate the possibility of us trying to conceal anything.

  I stood. “I’m not modest.”

  I took off my shirt, folded it, and set in on the barstool. After taking off my boots and socks, I unbuckled my belt and lowered my jeans. As naked as the day I was born, I looked back at him like I didn’t have a care in the world.

  Manos looked me over quickly and laughed. “Jew don’t wear no fahking chones?”

  Chones was a slang term for underwear.

  I looked at him like I had no idea what he was talking about. “Huh?”

  “Skeevies.”

  “Underwear?” I asked. “Nope. Can’t stand the fuckers.”

  He chuckled. “Jer a fahnny fahker.”

  As comfortable as if I were at home, I walked to the pool and dove in. A moment later Crip sauntered to the pool and joined me.

  Up to my neck in the stranger’s pool, I watched as his brother rifled through my backpack and jeans. Purposely, I hadn’t carried a wallet. I wasn’t interested in having him know who I was and where I lived. Upon satisfying himself, Mister Mustache walked around the edge of the house, backpack in tow.

  Manos strolled to the edge of the pool lowered himself to a squat.

  “Jew two Güeros want fifteen hundred kilos?” he asked. “Who the fahk wants fifteen hundred kilos?”

  “I hate spending money,” I said with a laugh. “I’ve got to buy in bulk to get a good price.”

  One eyebrow raised. “What’s a good price?”

  “Ten grand a kilo.”

  He whistled through his teeth and shook his head. “Fifteen. Maybe twelve. Not ten.”

  “My contact with Tijuana said fifteen hundred at ten grand a kilo. If I can’t get it at ten grand with that quantity, I’ll drag my naked ass out of this pool, get dressed, and do business elsewhere.”

  He scratched his goatee. “Who is theese contact?”

  “El Pollo.”

  “Do jew know where El Pollo ees?” he asked without emotion.

  I shook my head. “If I did, I wouldn’t be here. I picked up fifty kilos from him on Tuesday, He hasn’t answered his phone since.”

  He gave me a side-eyed look. “Jew got fifty on Tuesday?”

  “Fifty and a promise of fifteen hundred in two weeks.”

  He laughed. “Two weeks?”

  “That was the agreement.”

  “How long for jew to get eighteen million, Meester Wood?”

  I swam to where he was and rested my arms over the edge of the pool. “I’m not going to give you eighteen million,” I said adamantly. “That’s twelve grand a kilo. I’ll give you ten. Fifteen million, not a fucking cent more.”

  He chuckled. “Jew don’t have to get sheety with me.”

  “I’m not getting shitty,” I said. “Like I said. I hate spending money. Ten grand’s all I’ll pay if I’m buying in quantity.”

  He looked at Crip and then at me. “Jew still hungry?”

  “That depends. Do I have to eat naked?”

  “Jer fahnny, Meester Wood, but I don’t like jer name.”

  “I don’t care much for it, either. I’m stuck with it, though.”

  “I have a new one for jew. A better one.”

  “A new name?”

  He nodded. “El Chistoso.”

  The funny man.

  “What’s that mean?” I asked.

  “It means jew and Rex can get dressed.” He stood. “It’s time for deener.”

  173

  CARMA

  Reno’s successful meeting with Bobby Hands meant that Angel was one step closer to the United States. The thought of him crossing the border made me itch.

  “They call him Bobby Hands because his hands are tattooed, and his last name, in Spanish, means hands,” I explained. “He’s Angel’s right-hand man. His captain, or whatever. I can’t believe you had the guts to just stop by without an invitation. That’s awesome.”

  As the words came out, I realized they weren’t very convincing.

  Not at all, really.

  “I thought you’d be happier,” Reno said. “This thing’s coming to a close.”

  Reno didn’t know Angel like I knew Angel. The media’s portrayal of him wasn’t good, but it did nothing to expose the darkness that loomed behind his sinister brown eyes.

  He was a heartless devil whose actions defined evil.

  “I’m not thrilled about him being in the same country as me. O
nce he’s captured, things will be different. When he’s locked up, I’ll feel safe. When I feel safe, you’ll notice a difference in how I act. I’ll be happy.”

  “If I thought I could get away with it, I’d bend you over this table right now and make you happy.”

  Wow, switch topics much, mister scatterbrains?

  My thoughts were of dying at the hands of Angel’s torturous thugs. Sex would make me forget about Angel, and of dying. I was all for it.

  “You’re all over the place, aren’t you?” My mouth curled into a guilty grin. “I’ll lock the door.”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t mean ‘get away with it’ like that. I meant something different.”

  “You were joking?” I looked at him like he’d kicked a puppy. “You don’t want to have sex?”

  “I do,” he said. “But I can’t.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t?”

  He shrugged. “I can’t.”

  I stared in disbelief. “I don’t understand. You said you wanted to bend me over the table and make me happy.”

  “I said I would if I could get away with it.”

  “Maybe you didn’t hear me.” I gestured toward the door. “I’m going to lock the door.”

  “Locked or unlocked, we’re not fucking,” he said flatly.

  “Why not?”

  “Because.” He sipped his beer. “I can’t.”

  “They make pills to fix that. You can get them in Tijuana for five dollars.” I reached into my apron and pulled out a handful of bills. “Here. Run and get some while I bus these tables.”

  “Not that kind of issue, smart ass.” He tapped the tip of his finger against his temple. “Issues up here.”

  I was confused. “Your brain?”

  “Brain. Mind. Whatever you want to call it.”

  I gave him a look. “Your brain won’t let you have sex with me?”

  “I won’t let me have sex with you.”

  I flopped into the seat across from him. “I’ve always found men confusing, but you’re the worst. You talk in circles.”

  “I’m not talking in circles, I’m stating facts.”

  Other than the spur of the moment sex with Reno, I’d had sex with one man, Angel. Sex with him was frequent, always rough, and never included any means of communication before or after, short of grunting. It was never about pleasure.

  I wondered if something was wrong with me. “You didn’t like it?”

  “I loved it.”

  “It felt good?”

  He grinned. “It felt great.”

  If it felt good and he enjoyed it, all he needed was a push. I decided to give him a shove. I chuckled out a laugh. “You can’t get it up.”

  His eyes shot wide. “Excuse me?”

  It was clear that my claim hit a nerve. I decided to continue. “You can’t get it up,” I taunted. “That’s your issue, right?”

  His face flushed ruby red. “It sure as fuck isn’t.”

  “Okay.” I pushed myself away from the table. “Whatever.” I looked at his empty plate and then at him. “Are you done? Do you want your check?”

  He laughed. “You’ve got a temper.”

  I did. It was awful. Oftentimes, it got me into trouble. Nevertheless, it was none of Reno’s business, especially if he wasn’t willing to tell me the truth about why he wouldn’t fuck me.

  “No, I don’t,” I insisted.

  “Yes, you do.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” I asked. “We’re talking about you not being able to get your dick hard. Don’t change the subject.”

  He pushed his beer bottle to the side and rested his forearms on the edge of the table. “You don’t like it that I can’t fuck you, and you’re trying to tease me into having sex with you.”

  “You can’t fuck me?” I leaned away from the table and arched an eyebrow. “That’s your new story?”

  “I can.” His gaze lowered. “I won’t.”

  Knowing that bit of information made matters worse. I wondered if he was married or in a committed relationship. I felt foolish for allowing him to break my sexual hiatus when I was sleep-deprived and mentally weakened to the point I couldn’t resist him.

  “Are you married?” I asked.

  “It’s not that.” He leaned away from the table and looked away. After a moment, he met my gaze. “I’ve got a rule. Sex one time, and that’s it.”

  I stared back at him for thirty seconds or so, at a complete loss for words. Then, the only response worthy of being said came to me.

  “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” I said.

  “It’s the truth.”

  “I didn’t say you were lying. I said it was dumb. Why would you make up a ridiculous rule like that?”

  “I don’t do relationships. If we keep having sex, you’ll develop feelings for me. You’ll be hurt when we don’t end up in one. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Considering that his little plan to capture Angel was likely to go to shit—and that we were both going to die soon—I didn’t see that any of what he said regarding feelings or relationships mattered. We could have sex until we were slaughtered by Angel’s thugs. Dying during sex would be much better than dying while bussing tables.

  All I needed to do was convince him to proceed along those lines.

  “Hurt me? I asked in rhetoric. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

  “Having sex with you was slightly above average,” I lied. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to fall in love. I learn from my mistakes. I’ll use that cock of yours one more time, though. If you’ll let me.”

  174

  RENO

  Carma’s bold nature wasn’t something I was accustomed to seeing in a woman. Brash or not, goading me into having sex with her wasn’t going to work. I was far too stubborn to give in to my desires—or her requests.

  “Enough about sex,” I said. “It’s not going to happen. Let’s talk about something else.”

  She peered down her nose at me. “Like what?”

  “Tell me about your life in Mexico.”

  “Mexico?” She rolled her eyes. “I hated it there.”

  She looked away and shook her head. I wasn’t sure if she was disgusted with me mentioning Mexico, or my refusal to comply with her sexual requests. Either way, it seemed she was just shy of being infuriated.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “So many reasons I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “You don’t have any good memories of it? There wasn’t anything you liked about living there?”

  She faced me. “I liked our home.”

  Frustrated. She was frustrated. I looked her over and grinned. “Tell me about it.”

  After a moment, the look on her face softened, as if she was recalling fond memories of her childhood home. The corners of her mouth curled up a little. “I miss it.”

  “Where was it?”

  “Rosarito.” He eyes lit up a little. “It’s in Baja California, about twenty minutes south of here. The ocean is the deepest blue you’ll ever see. The beaches go on forever, and there’s rarely anyone there. My bedroom window faced the beach. I’d stare out at the ocean for hours on end. The waves washing ashore were hypnotic. It was so peaceful. I’d sit and watch them, convinced the ocean was endless. It defined the feeling of freedom.”

  I realized her eyes weren’t brown. They were sprinkled with green specks, which I thought was odd, considering her ethnicity.

  “What did you have there that you don’t have here?”

  “Everything.” She shook her head. “We had a home that overlooked the ocean. It had a huge kitchen, big bedrooms, and we had a swimming pool. We had a live-in nanny. She was like a member of the family. Anita. She lived with us from the time I was born until we left. She was wonderful. Now, we live in a crappy three-bedroom rental house in a run-down neighborhood.”

  I didn’t have to listen to what she was s
aying to know she was disappointed. I could see it in her eyes. I tried to divert the conversation to something that brought her comfort.

  “Is Anita still there? In Mexico?”

  She lowered her head. “She is.”

  “Do you ever talk to her?”

  “I haven’t in quite a while.”

  “Did your mother work?”

  “No.”

  “Was she at home?”

  “She was. Anita lived with us not for the reasons you’re probably thinking. She cleaned, cooked, and kept the laundry done, which left my mother available to spend all her time with us. She helped us with our studies and took us to the beach when we were young. We played games and did crafts at home. It seemed all my father did was work.”

  “What was your father’s profession?”

  “He was an architect.”

  “Was? Is he still alive?”

  “He is, but he’s an illegal. There’s no work for him here.”

  “I just noticed your eyes aren’t brown. So, are you…” I hesitated, not wanting to call her a Mexican, but not sure if calling her Hispanic was appropriate, either.

  “My family is from Spain.” She smiled, as if proud of the claim. “My mother’s hair is gray now, but when she was young, it was blonde.”

  “At some point you moved to Mexico?”

  “My father’s grandparents and my mother’s grandparents both did. When they were kids, in the 1940’s. There were thousands of Spaniards that moved to Mexico just before World War II. My parents were born in Mexico. So, they’re both Mexican citizens of Spanish heritage.”

  “Can Spanish citizen’s move here?”

  “We’re not Spanish citizens,” she said, her tone almost bitter. “We’re Mexican citizens. Don’t get me started, I’ll end up crying.”

  “I’m guessing if you lived at a house that overlooked the beach and had a swimming pool. your father must have done well with architecture. What’s he doing now?”

  “We were very fortunate. He did extremely well with his job. He’s retired now. He doesn’t want to risk being caught and shipped back to Mexico, so he doesn’t work. He’s retirement age, anyway.”

  “Do your parents speak English?”

  “They do, just as well as I do. My father speaks English, Portuguese, and Spanish. My mother speaks broken Italian, Spanish, and English.”