Devil's Disciples MC (Box Set)

by Scott Hildreth

  Reno grinned. “Sounds like you might know her.”

  George leaned back and looked the two of us over. Then, he met Reno’s gaze. “I’ll be honest. Employing such a person in this day and age is a tremendous risk…”

  My heart sank. He continued to speak, but I only caught every few words of what he said. It wasn’t his fault. He was right. Employing an illegal was a huge risk. Employers were fined, and even imprisoned for giving illegals jobs.

  “…nor do I agree with the government’s position on the matter,” he continued. “The only people who are indigenous to the country are American Indians. Hell, my family came here from Germany, years and years ago. Pretty disappointing that we gave the Cubans the wet foot-dry foot policy for fifty years but left the Mexican population with no option that was equivalent.”

  He shifted his eyes to me. “Anyone asks, you’re a San Diego native. The only one that knows differently is me. I’ll pay you in cash, once a week. You keep one hundred percent of tips, and I pay fifteen an hour in wages.”

  “Oh my gosh,” I gasped. “I’ve got a job?”

  “If you want it,” he said.

  I nearly knocked him over with a hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  He steadied himself and hugged me in return. “It’s the least I can do.” He released me and then looked us over again. “So, are you two…together?”

  I nodded eagerly. “We are.”

  “Isn’t love great?” George asked, alternating glances between us.

  I didn’t know how to respond. We hadn’t discussed the “L” word. I knew how I felt but had no idea what the depth of Reno’s feelings were. I knew how he acted, but he did a poor job of sharing how he felt.

  “It sure is,” Reno replied with a smile.

  He hadn’t told me he loved me, but he came as close as he could without saying it. For the time being, it would suffice. I decided to let him know how I felt, just in case there was any confusion.

  “Yes,” I said, shifting my gaze from George to Reno. “It sure is.”

  196

  RENO

  Goose, Ally, Cash, and I were seated at Abby’s Place, the diner George owned—and where Carma went to work. The place, as always, was packed from wall to wall with people hoping to sample George’s famous pancakes.

  “I’m getting the whole wheat ones,” Cash said. “Ghost sang their praises.”

  “I’ll try ‘em,” I said.

  “If you want to try something, try the eggs Benedict,” Ally said. “It’s out of this world.”

  “I’ll be trying everything on the menu,” I said with a laugh. “I give her a ride here from Chula Vista every morning and take her home every night.”

  “Short stack with a ham slice for me,” Goose said. “Get the same thing every time.”

  I knew Ghost spent most of his waking hours in the diner before his death. I glanced around, wondering if it was possible that his spirit managed to linger. I struggled not with God, but with the concept of life after death, be it a spirit or by some means of reincarnation.

  I hoped he was watching over us, and that he was enjoying seeing us at his favorite restaurant as much as I enjoyed my memories of him. I missed him dearly, and the memories he left behind were all I had to hold on to.

  “Do you think Ghost is looking down on us right now?” I asked.

  “Definitely,” Goose said.

  I looked at Cash.

  “Not sure. Like thinking he is, though.”

  “I think he is,” Ally said. “I believe in the heaven and hell where people sit on golden thrones or burn in eternal fire. He’s on a throne right now eating a short stack slathered in syrup.”

  “He wouldn’t eat a short stack slathered in syrup,” I said. “He’s too health conscious.”

  “There’s no such thing as calories in heaven,” she said. “You can eat whatever you want.”

  “You think so?” I asked.

  “That’s my opinion,” she replied. “My dad’s up there with a cigarette dangling from his lip and glass of bourbon in his hand. There are no repercussions up there. It’s heaven.”

  I realized no one knew for sure, but Ally and I shared the same opinion. That there was a heaven and a hell, one being good and the other bad. It was a way, I decided, for us to live with the consequences of our life’s decisions.

  Those of us that made good decisions throughout life were blessed with a heavenly place after our death, and those who made bad decisions were forced to live their afterlife in the equivalent of the hell they created during their living years.

  Carma came to the table. “Holy cow, this place is a mad house.”

  “Too much for you?” I asked.

  “No,” she replied. “I love it. It’s great.”

  She glanced at each of us. “Coffee and water?”

  Each of us nodded.

  “We’re ready to order,” I said. “If you’re ready.”

  As we placed our orders, Carma scribbled everything onto an order pad. I recalled the day we met, and her ability to retain the long list of items the group had ordered. Things were certainly different at the diner.

  I liked to think the location, established customer base, and constant flow of foot traffic would make the change a lucrative one for her. I was sure, however, there would be things about La Cocina that she would forever miss that weren’t related to income.

  Grateful that she had a job, but sorry she had to leave one that she enjoyed, I sat with mixed emotions while we waited on our food to arrive.

  We ate our breakfast and discussed our upcoming payday. After fees and taxes, we should each see just shy of two million each. I’d gambled away nearly every cent I’d made during my tenure with the club and lived off my weekly paychecks from the carwash job.

  I had no intention of wasting any of the upcoming funds on gambling. In fact, I had other plans for the money, all of which were legitimate long-term investments that should secure my financial future.

  It was time for me to grow up, and at least act like I had my shit together. If I chose to believe Crip’s rendition of how his life turned around after meeting Peyton, I’d no longer need gambling as an outlet.

  After we finished our meal, I looked at Cash. “You interested in riding to Chula Vista?”

  “For what?” he asked.

  “Go to Carma’s old restaurant.”

  “Fuck, Brother,” he whined. “I couldn’t eat another bite.”

  “Not going there to eat.”

  “Why we going there?” he asked.

  “Someone there I want to go see,” I replied.

  “Who?”

  “What fucking difference does it make?” I snapped. “You don’t know anyone there. You wanna go, or not?”

  “Grumpy bastard,” he said under his breath. “Sure.”

  Carma rushed from table to table, trying to keep half the establishment happy with her service. We gave her a hearty wave, and then bid farewell to Goose and Ally.

  I left with a smile on my face, knowing by the end of the day Carma would have dozens of people who would be just as impressed with her abilities as I was on the day we met.

  We got to the restaurant just after it opened, which was when Walter normally showed up. When we walked through the door, I glanced toward the table where he normally sat.

  His back was to the window, and his nose was buried in the newspaper. His fork was blindly searching for his plate of huevos rancheros.

  I gestured in his direction. “We’re going over to where that old man’s sitting,” I said. “And you’re going to be civil, understand?”

  “I’m always civil.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Well, I will be this time.”

  “You better be.”

  We meandered through the half-full restaurant, toward his table. Upon reaching it, I cleared my throat.

  “How’s it going, Walter?”

  He lowered the paper and looked up. When he recognize
d me, his face lit up. “Good morning, Reno.”

  “Good morning. This is my friend, Brock.”

  Walter raised from his seat and extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Brock.”

  “Likewise,” Cash said, shaking his hand.

  “Do you know what happened to Carmelita?” Walter asked.

  “That’s why I’m here,” I said. “Something came up. She had to get a different job. She’s in San Diego now. At a little diner that specializes in pancakes and such. She’d love it if you stopped in to see her.”

  He fumbled around for his phone and then glanced up. “What’s the name and address of the place? I’ll see if I can get this to work. Half the time, it won’t comply.”

  I pulled a business card from my pocket and handed it to him. “It’s all right here.”

  He grinned. “This is what I prefer. Something I can hold in my hand.” He looked at the card. “Abby’s Place, huh?”

  “Owner’s a retired Jarhead,” I said. “Most of the waiters are vets.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “Pancakes are out of this world.”

  “Between you and me? I don’t care much for Mexican food. Name’s Ortiz, but I was raised in Oregon, eating biscuits and gravy. Huevos rancheros is the only thing here that’s remotely close to breakfast food.”

  I laughed. “You’ll love that place. Might bring a smile to her face, too.”

  He put the card in the front pocket of his short-sleeved western shirt. “Don’t tell her I’m coming.”

  “Wasn’t planning on it.”

  “Wanna have a seat?” he asked.

  “God damn it Luiz!” someone shouted from behind me. “How many times have I told you? Check the plates before you put food on them.”

  The sound of breaking dishes followed. I turned toward the kitchen but saw nothing. I faced Walter. “Sounds like someone’s getting an ass-chewing.”

  “Owner’s waiting tables. Been on that kid in the kitchen all morning.” He grinned. “Surprised if they’re not needing a cook by lunchtime.”

  Walter was a widowed war vet. Having us join him for breakfast would make his day. I looked at Cash. “Have a seat, Brock.”

  I sat down across from him and cleared my throat. “Tell me about Oregon, Walter. When you’re done, I’ll tell you about Texas.”

  “Lived on the edge of a rock cliff, looking out over the ocean,” he said, beaming with pride. “It’s not like it is here. Everything is full of life, and as green as green could be. Most gorgeous country God’s ever created.”

  “I’m going to stop you right there for a minute, Walter. I have a question.”

  “What is it?”

  “Do you think the deceased can look down on us and see us? When they’re in heaven, that is? We had this discussion earlier, and I’d like your opinion.”

  “I’m sure they can. My Emily communicates with me all the time. All one has to do is open his eyes and his mind. If you do, you’ll see it and hear it. Guaranteed.”

  I gave a nod. “I’ll believe you, then. Go ahead with your story.”

  As he began to speak, a thunderous roar was followed by the sound of screeching tires. I craned my neck and looked out the window behind Walter. With smoke bellowing from the fender wells, a vintage Mustang fastback shot past the parking lot and sped toward the highway.

  I shifted my eyes from the car to the table. “Someone’s in a hurry.”

  As Walter continued his story, it dawned on me. He had no more than spoken about receiving signs from his deceased wife, and an old-school Mustang sped by. It was undoubtedly different than Ghost’s old car, but it was also very much the same. In fact, it was the exact same as Ghost’s when he started modifying it.

  A chill ran up my neck.

  I grinned and tilted my head toward the ceiling.

  Thinking of you, too, Brother.

  197

  CARMA

  I rushed from table to table, taking breakfast orders from the starving masses that were shoehorned into the diner like sardines in a can. As with many mornings, there was a group of people waiting at the door to get the first available table.

  When I got to the end of the aisle, I looked up. “What can I get—”

  I nearly fainted. “Mister Ortiz!”

  My customers were so much more than customers to me. They were friends. Having him stop in and see me was one of the best gifts I could ever receive.

  He smiled. “How’s your day going?” He glanced up and down the aisle. “This place is hopping.”

  “We’re busy all the time.” I sighed. “I love it.”

  “Do you?”

  “I do. I love it. L-O-V-E, love it,” I said. “It’s so different than La Cocina. The people are all nice, and no one seems to be in a huge hurry. Everyone speaks English, too.”

  “That’s a plus for someone like me,” he said with a laugh. “A non-Spanish speaking Mexican.”

  “We have huevos rancheros,” I said. “But I don’t know if it’s any good. I haven’t tried it yet.”

  “Truth be known,” he said. “Huevos rancheros isn’t a favorite of mine. The only reason I got it was because it was the closest facsimile to breakfast food you guys had.”

  “Have you looked at the menu?”

  “I have. Let’s go with the biscuits and gravy—the full order—and a short stack.”

  “The short stack is anything but short,” I said. “I’d go with the biscuits and gravy, and a pancake on the side. It’ll save you two-fifty, and I’m sure it’ll be enough.”

  “You sure? You know how I eat.”

  “The pancakes are as big as our plates. Have you seen the plates?”

  “I haven’t.”

  I glanced to my right. “Mister Reeves, can you show Mister Ortiz your plate?”

  Mister Reeves pushed himself away from the table. “If I must.”

  Reeves was a sweetheart. His sense of humor was dry, making him seem to be a jerk.

  Ortiz leaned forward and peered toward the booth next to him. Upon seeing the plate, he looked at me. “Let’s go with the single flapjack.”

  I nodded at Reeves. “Thank you.”

  He grinned. “Sure thing, Carma.”

  “Making friends, I see,” Ortiz said.

  “Like I said. I love this place. Words can’t describe how happy I am right now.”

  “Reno’s a good man,” he said.

  “He told you I was here, didn’t he?”

  He studied me for a moment before responding. “I was going to tell you no, but I can’t lie to you. He did. I’d have spent the rest of my life a sad, sad man if I didn’t know where you were. You’re the only woman in my life.”

  I felt flush. “I’d like to say you’re the only man in mine, but we both know that’d be a lie.”

  He looked around and then reached for his newspaper. “I better let you get to it. Stop back by and see me once things slow down.”

  “Biscuits and gravy with a pancake on the side,” I said, jotting down his order. “I will.”

  He unfolded the paper and shot me a smile.

  Working wasn’t all about the money, at least for me. The money was important, but it wasn’t the only reason I worked. I got a feeling of accomplishment from my job.

  My life with Angel crushed my self-esteem. Working was a necessary part in restoring the damage that was done. The busier I was the better I felt. Having satisfied customers was my means of measuring my successes. If they chose to leave a tip, it was reassurance that they were happy with my performance.

  The customers at Abby’s Place tipped nicely, leaving nothing to the imagination regarding their satisfaction with me.

  The bell that hung above the door clanged. I looked up. Mister Reeves waved and flashed a toothy grin. “See you tomorrow, Carma.”

  I waved. “Have a good day, Mister Reeves.”

  Men like Ortiz and Reeves were one of the reasons I chose to be a waitress. The rewards of the job were much more than mone
tary. A heartfelt smile and a wave provide me with what money couldn’t buy.

  A warm heart.

  Thirty minutes later, after making my rounds, I glanced around the restaurant. We were at twenty-five percent capacity. I let out a sigh, glanced at Mister Ortiz’s table, and then headed for the coffee station.

  George caught up with me just as I reached it. “The Old Man with the newspaper told me he came here just to see you,” he said.

  “Mister Ortiz?”

  He nodded. “He’s a very nice man.”

  “He is,” I agreed. “I was afraid I was just going to end up missing him. Reno told him where I was. I was tickled to see him.”

  “Well, he spent ten minutes telling me what a fabulous waitress you are.”

  “I’ll have to thank him. Hopefully, I won’t prove him wrong.”

  He laughed. “I didn’t need him to tell me, I can see it myself. You’re doing an amazing job, Carma.”

  I blushed just a little. “Thank you.” I gestured toward Mister Ortiz. “I need to fill his coffee, or he’ll get grumpy.”

  “Grumpy war vets are the worst.”

  I chuckled. “Tell me about it.”

  I poured Ortiz’s coffee cup full and glanced at his paper. “Anything interesting in the news today?”

  “Not so much today. Take quite a bit to top last Sunday’s news. Finally caught that murdering scorpion guy.”

  In English, El Alacrán meant The Scorpion. I was sure that was what he was talking about.

  “Do you mean the drug dealer?”

  “Drug dealer?” He scoffed. “He wasn’t a drug dealer. He was a dealer of death. Yes, that’s who I was talking about. Maybe things’ll clean up a bit around here.”

  “I hope so. Hard saying, though. Seems like there’s always someone to step in when someone leaves.”

  “True.”

  I quickly glanced at the headlines. The San Diego Tribune header caused something to come to mind. “That article the other day on the Scorpion guy, did you like it?”

  “Loved it,” he said.

  I beamed with pride. “That girl who wrote it is a friend of mine.”

  “Peyton Price?” he asked. “She writes good stuff. I love her style.”