Reno
Devil’s Disciples Book 5
Scott Hildreth
Contents
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Prologue
1. Carma
2. Reno
3. Carma
4. Reno
5. Carma
6. Reno
7. Carma
8. Reno
9. Carma
10. Reno
11. Carma
12. Reno
13. Carma
14. Reno
15. Carma
16. Reno
17. Carma
18. Reno
19. Carma
20. Reno
21. Carma
22. Reno
23. Carma
24. Reno
25. Carma
26. Reno
27. Carma
28. Reno
29. Carma
30. Reno
31. Carma
32. Reno
33. Carma
34. Reno
35. Carma
36. Reno
37. Carma
38. Reno
39. Carma
40. Reno
41. Carma
42. Reno
43. Carma
44. Reno
Epilogue
Also by Scott Hildreth
Dedication
To my brother by blood.
Matt, this one is for you.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This book contains scenes of criminal acts, some that are typical of gangs and motorcycle clubs, and some that aren’t. The fictitious club name, Devil’s Disciples, is in no way tied to the real-life club, Devils Diciples. Different spelling, different club. The acts and actions depicted in the book are fictitious, as are the characters.
Every sexual partner in the book is over the age of 18. Please, if you intend to read further than this comment, be over the age of 18 to enjoy this novel.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, are coincidental.
RENO 1st Edition Copyright © 2019 by Scott Hildreth
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at [email protected].
Thank you for your support of the author’s rights
Cover design & Formatting by Jessica Hildreth
Follow me on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/sd.hildreth
Like me on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/ScottDHildreth
Join my fan group at: www.facebook.com/groups/scotthildrethfans
Follow me on Twitter at: @ScottDHildreth
Prologue
In the country I grew up in, decapitated bodies were often suspended from the highway overpasses. The blood-stained concrete that lay beneath their headless corpses was a reminder to all of what happened to anyone who opposed the Tijuana Cartel.
As a child, my sleep was interrupted by vivid nightmares. In the dreams, I’d traipse a long line of bodies that swung from the bridge, gazing down at the row of heads that were propped beneath them. The open-eyed stares of dead classmates, teachers, and other familiar faces became etched into my memory.
I prayed that one day the violence would end. The cartel’s pay-offs to the Policia Federal provided them with reassurance that the authorities would forever look the other way. Knowledge of those pay-offs and the leniency they purchased left the men and women of Mexico living in a constant state of fear.
Dreading that the bloodshed would one day haunt much more than my dreams, I prayed for a man who could protect me from the cartel’s grasp. At seventeen, Angel Ramirez answered those prayers.
Amidst the throngs of criminals that lurked the city’s darkened streets, he walked without fear. He was handsome, financially independent, and bold. He showered me with affection and offered me lavish gifts. His presence alone brought with it a comfort I never knew as a child.
In no time, I fell in love.
As our relationship progressed, he made no effort to hide his belief that I was one of his many possessions. In his eyes, he owned me. Although I should have, I didn’t argue. I was young, naïve, and blind to what should have been.
My relationship with Angel was all I knew. I had nothing to compare it to, so I perceived what we had as normal.
The peace of mind he provided kept me from seeing the truth for several years. As I grew older, my eyes opened to the possibility that my view of him was clouded. Then, one day, the fog lifted. The man standing in the clearing had pistol-whipped a drug mule into a pile of unrecognizable flesh.
I learned my lover was none other than the leader of the very cartel that I despised. Upon realizing it, I ran as far and as fast as I could.
It seemed no matter where I went in hope of escaping him, Angel eventually found me. It came as no real surprise. Despite Mexico’s size and population, there was nowhere in the country that was out of the cartel’s grasp.
There was, however, one place that lay beyond Angel’s reach. A $5,000,000 reward in US dollars for information leading to his capture prevented him from ever entering the United States. He feared the US Federal Government as much as I feared him.
So, my family and I fled Mexico.
And.
We prayed.
1
Carma
A Sunday drive along the coast in Southern California will likely produce several members of one of the many motorcycle clubs that call the state their home. With an average temperature of 70 degrees, the weather is inviting for the two-wheeled enthusiasts.
I was intrigued by men who dared to choose a motorcycle as their mode of transportation. Being a waitress, I’d served my share of them. Most had the manners of a hungry shark. Subsequently, as fascinated as I was with bikers, I had yet to be pleased by any of their personalities.
The sound of approaching motorcycles grew louder. Clearing the table of my last guest for the night, I paused. The restaurant’s windows began to vibrate. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end as they pulled into the parking lot.
I mentally rolled my eyes at the thought of serving a bunch of Hells Angels who would leave pocket change for a tip. Grateful that it was nearly closing time, I meandered toward the kitchen.
I pushed open the door and peeked in. “Drunken bikers, get ready.”
“Pinche pendejos,” Luiz complained, looking at his watch. “Me voy a las diez horas.”
It was almost nine, and we closed at ten. Nevertheless, I wasn’t about to be left alone with a large group of unruly bikers.
I shook my head. “You’re not leaving until they leave.”
He glanced at his watch and gave me flippant wave of his hand. “Andele! Andele! Diez horas, puta.”
With Luiz being insistent that he leave at closing time, I was going to be in an awkward position. If the bikers weren’t finished eating by ten o’clock sharp, I would have to force them to leave.
My stomach knotted at the thought.
I turned toward the dining area and tugged my skirt into place. Just as I did, eight men came through the front door. They looked the same as the other bikers who patronized the restaurant, but unlike those who often barged in and demanded service, they acted differently.
They came through the door sl
apping each other on the back and coughing out laughs. Upon realizing the dining area was empty, the leader of the group paused. He glanced from one empty table to another.
“Seat yourself,” I said. “Don’t worry. The food’s great, you just missed the rush.”
As they took their seats at a table in the rear of the restaurant, I glanced at the patch sewn on the back of their vests.
Filthy Fuckers MC
I grinned to myself upon seeing the club’s name. The men resembled every other outlaw biker I’d seen—muscular, covered in tattoos, and unshaven—but so far, the name on their vests didn’t seem fitting.
La Cocina was a popular place in Chula Vista, California for those who liked an Americanized version of authentic Mexican food. Ten minutes north of Mexico and ten minutes south of San Diego, it attracted equal numbers of American and Hispanic regulars.
The owner’s willingness to ask minimal questions—and pay servers in cash—drew me to the establishment. The constant flow of hungry traffic kept me there for almost four years.
I handed out menus and offered the group a smile. “I’ll take your drink orders if you like.”
A man with graying hair and an eclectic collection of colorful tattoos looked up. The patch on his vest identified him as the MC’s President. Another patch gave his name, Crip.
“Bring us each a Budweiser, if you don’t mind,” he said. “And, a glass of water.”
“Eight beers and one water, or eight beers and eight waters?”
He chuckled. “Eight of each.”
“I’ll be right back.”
I returned in a few minutes with their drinks. As I handed them their bottles of beer, I glanced at the patches on the front of their vests.
Pee Bee. Crip. P-Nut. Smokey. Cholo. Meathead. The remaining two men wore leather vests but had no identification patches. One of them—a serious-looking man with short brown hair and hazel-colored eyes—paid close attention to my every movement. After I passed out the cups of water, he nodded toward the empty tray.
“You’ve got some serious talent,” he said.
His voice was sprinkled with authority. Intrigued, I shifted my attention to him. “What do you mean?”
“You carried sixteen drinks without spilling them.”
I tucked the tray under my arm. “You should see me juggle tacos.”
“You can juggle tacos?” His eyes narrowed. “No shit?”
He was the perfect man. Handsome and gullible. I offered an apologetic smile. “I was joking.”
“Jesus, Reno. How the fuck’s she gonna juggle tacos?” the bearded man beside him asked. “There’d be cheese and lettuce and shit everywhere.”
“After carrying all those drinks,” Reno said with a low laugh. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”
His laugh was dry and sexy, like his voice.
I looked him over quickly, and then scanned the group. “Are you ready to order, or do you need some more time?”
“I got a question,” one of them said.
I looked in his direction.
Pee Bee.
“Yes?” I asked.
“You said the food’s good, right?”
“It’s fantastic. Really.”
“Everything?”
“Everything.”
“What about the lettuce?”
“Lettuce falls into the everything category,” I said, straight-faced. “It’s fresh, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Where’s it come from?”
“Mexico, I think.”
He closed his menu. A look of disgust washed over him. “I don’t fuck with Mexican lettuce.”
“We can leave it off.”
“Take everyone else’s order, and come back to me,” he said. “I’ll think about it.”
I took everyone’s order before coming back to Pee Bee. After taking his order, I put my hands on my hips and gave the group one last look before turning away. “Anything else?”
Reno cleared his throat. “You didn’t write any of that down.” He undressed me with his eyes before continuing. “How you gonna get it right?”
His expressed interest made me feel uneasy and nervous. In a good way. I tapped the tip of my finger against my temple. “I’ve got a good memory.”
“Bullshit,” he said, nodding toward my apron. “You’ve got a recorder.”
“A what?”
He locked eyes with me. “A recorder.”
I laughed.
Seeming certain that his claim of me using a recorder was correct, he continued his stone-faced stare.
“What do you do for a living?” I asked.
His eyes narrowed. “Huh?”
“Your job,” I said. “What’s your job? Besides being an antagonist, a biker, and a heartbreaker?”
“You’ve got the heartbreaker part right,” Crip sniggered. “How’d you guess?”
“I can see it in his eyes,” I deadpanned. “He fears commitment.”
Truthfully, I saw nothing. It was probably a good guess, though. Bikers were known for being free spirits, and Reno was far too good-looking to be single for any other reason than personal choice. I guessed that he’d broken a heart or two in his travels.
“I don’t fear anything,” Reno insisted. “Repeat the order back. Who ordered what?”
Pee Bee threw a wadded napkin at him. “You keep fucking with her and she’s gonna forget it. Leave her alone. Let her do her damned job.”
“What’s your job?” I cocked my hip and looked him over. “Or, is being a biker your job?”
“I manage car washes.”
“Okay.” I thought for a minute about what a manager of a car wash might encounter in his daily travels. “So, you have to repair pumps, the little handheld wand, and then fill up the soap, wax, and that kind of stuff, right?”
“Damn good guess,” he replied. “That’s pretty much it.”
“If one of the little spray things is leaking or if it’s not cleaning the car off, do you know what to do to fix it?”
He laced his fingers together and looked at me like I’d challenged him to add two plus two. “Replace the nozzle.”
“If the pressure is low what do you do?”
He continued with the same look of annoyance. Knowing I was getting underneath his skin was satisfying. I gave him a look like I had better things to do than wait on his reply.
“Replace the impeller on the pump,” he said. “What are you getting at?”
“How do you know it’s the impeller than needs replaced?”
“Years of experience.”
“That experience comes from practice, right?”
He glanced at my tits. “I suppose.”
My clothes were nowhere near flattering. I wondered if he was looking at a stain, or if there was something about my faded black uniform that bothered him.
“I can memorize your orders because it’s a requirement of my job,” I said, taking a nervous look at my top. “The owner doesn’t want us writing it down. He thinks memorizing it is a nice novelty. From practice, I got good at it.”
He nodded toward my apron. “I think you’ve got a recorder.”
I cocked my hip. “What’s the bet?”
“What?”
“The bet.” I flipped my braid over my shoulder for a little added sass. “What’s the bet?”
“Oh, you’re a gambler, huh?” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “You tell me. What’s the bet?”
“If I recite it correctly, you’re going to leave me a twenty-dollar tip. If I can’t, I’ll pay you twenty dollars right now. How’s that?”
“Easiest twenty bucks I’ll ever make.” He leaned forward and offered his hand. “Start with me.”
I shook his hand and then crossed my arms over my chest, mimicking him. “You had the enchilada dinner, add a beef taco, add guacamole, with extra cheese.” I pointed at the bearded man at his side. “You had two burritos, both pork verde, extra verde sauce on top, no beans, double rice.”
I nodded to Pee Bee. “A Tecate with your meal, the Cocina Combo, hold the lettuce.” Then, I nodded at Crip. “Seafood Vera Cruz Dinner.” Then, Smokey. “Molcajete Bowl. Chorizo and chicken.” I looked at P-Nut. “Taco plate, no lettuce, no tomatoes, add grilled onions.” I turned to Meathead. “You had a bowl of chile verde with flour tortillas on the side, warm the tortillas, please.” I looked at Cholo and exhaled. “And, you had a double hamburger, hold the bun, no side.”
I looked at Reno and raised my brows. “How’d I do?”
He glanced around the table. After receiving a nod of reassurance from everyone, he grinned. “Damn. Looks like I’ll be leaving you a twenty-dollar tip.”
Seeing the grin on Reno’s face was more satisfying than it should have been. Something told me he didn’t do it often. I relished in the sight for a moment, and then flashed him a smile in return.
“I’ll spend it wisely,” I said. “If you need anything, my name’s Carma.”
He glanced at my tits. Again. “Karma? Like, if you do good, good happens to you? Do bad, bad follows you? That kind of Karma?”
I grew up in an affluent neighborhood in Baja California, a state in northern Mexico that lies just south of San Diego. I was raised by parents who insisted that English was my first language. Because of my Spanish ancestry, education, and ability to speak English well, I was often mistaken for being an American. I went by Carma, but my given name was Carmelita. Once I told someone my birth name, the typical response was, Oh wow. You’re a Mexican?
Reno: Devil’s Disciples Book 5 Page 1
