“Well, something’s going on up there.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t from one of the other spaces?”
He looked at me as if I were foolish. “Quite. I went to Michael’s – he stays in 3B – and he said he heard it, too. He went with me to see if someone was in there.”
“But there wasn’t anyone there?”
“No.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“It started on Tuesday.” He counted on his fingers as he continued. “So, Tuesday, Wednesday, and then again last night.”
I removed a business card from my desk and wrote my cell phone number on the back. “I’ll go up there and look around.” I handed him the card. “If you hear it again tonight, you can call me on my cell. Don’t worry, I’ll get it resolved.”
He stood and slipped the card into his pocket.
“Is there anything else?” I asked
Before he could answer, the door flew open.
Dressed in a white tee shirt, jeans, and black leather boots, Baker stood in the opening. He raked his fingers through his hair, looked at Stephen, and then at me. “Bad time?”
“I was leaving,” Stephen stammered.
Baker sauntered toward the chair. Upon reaching it, he looked over his shoulder at Stephen. The air in the room thickened with tension. Then, without saying another word, Stephen left.
That was weird.
“Do you know him?”
He gave a halfhearted shrug. “I’ve seen him around, why?”
“I don’t know. He seemed kind of…” I glanced at the door and then at him. “Nervous.”
“Look at me.” He let out a light laugh as he sat down. “I’m sure he felt intimidated.”
It was a valid point. “I’m sure you’re right.”
He looked me over as if he’d never met me before, making no attempt to hide his thoughts as he did so. Eventually, his eyes became fixed on my cleavage. As he peered into my blouse, his mouth curled into a grin.
I crossed my arms and peered down my nose at him. “Did you make a decision about that apartment?”
“I haven’t.” He rested his tattooed forearms against the edge of my desk. “Maybe we should look at it again.”
I’d never played hard to get in my life, but for some reason, felt doing so was a good idea. I relaxed against the back of my chair. “Maybe I’ve got a few other people scheduled to go look at it.”
He lowered his chin. “Like who?”
“Like whoever I want,” I said in a snide tone. “Just some guys that came in over the last few days. I hadn’t heard from you, so I scheduled them to look at it. In fact, I’ve got back-to-back appointments up there all day with six different interested parties.”
I was failing miserably. Instead of coming off as hard to get, I looked like an overeager hooker who was going to be shuffling my clients in and out of my upstairs brothel. While I struggled to devise my plan of redemption, he stood.
“Stand up,” he said in a commanding tone.
I gave him the deer in the headlights look. “Excuse me?”
“Stand.” He cleared his throat. “Up.”
I did as he asked.
He sauntered in my direction, and then wedged himself between me and the edge of my desk. Standing so close I could taste the sweetness of his breath, he locked eyes with me. I wanted to look away. Despite my desire, I couldn’t break his gaze.
As I peered into his eyes, the familiar smell of his cologne caused my mind to chase thoughts of him fucking me senseless in the upstairs loft.
The memory of his face being buried between my legs while I was sprawled out on the kitchen island overwhelmed me. I stared back at him nervously as a tingling sensation engulfed me.
In what seemed to be a slow-motion gesture, he extended his middle finger, lifted it to his face, and then laid it against his flattened tongue.
My mind went aflutter. I wanted to say something, but I managed to say nothing. He reached for the waist of my pants with his free hand. While I stood on shaking legs and waited for the inevitable, he pulled his finger from his mouth and lowered his hand between us.
As much as I wanted to look down, I didn’t. I couldn’t. I cinched up my big girl pants, stood firmly in place, and held his gaze.
With his eyes locked on mine, he unzipped my pants. As much as I expected my mouth to blurt out some form of sarcastic opposition, it never came. He slid his hand beneath my panties. I could hear my heartbeat, and wondered if he could, too. If he could sense how anxious I’d become. If he had any idea of how aroused…
He pushed his finger deep inside me. I sucked in a choppy breath. Although I didn’t want to be, I was weak in his presence. I chewed against my bottom lip and embraced the fact that I was being finger fucked in my office by a man I barely knew.
He lowered his forehead until it met mine. “Show the motherfucker to whoever you want, little girl.”
A stuttering breath escaped me. “O…Okay.”
“But. If anyone touches this pussy? You’ll need to add a wheelchair ramp to that loft.” He curled the tip of his finger against my g-spot and raised his eyebrows. “Because I’ll break both his legs.”
He pulled his hand out of my pants and took a step back. After looking me over, he sucked my juices from his finger, and then turned away.
He opened the door and glanced over his shoulder.
I gazed back at him with the waist of my pants around my thighs, my panties pulled low enough to reveal my soaking wet pussy, and my mouth wide open. I made no effort to collect myself. I simply stared at him as if waiting for his instruction.
Then, it came to me. It was his eyes.
His mysterious eyes. I was being held hostage by them.
He scanned me from head to toe, and then grinned. “Pull your pants up, Andy. You never know when someone might barge in here.”
I zipped up my pants. I wasn’t weak in his presence.
I’d become powerless.
9
Baker
I stood at the window and gazed blankly at Andy’s bike. I needed to get rid of her, and I knew it. If any of the men found out I’d fucked the girl from the bank, they’d question my loyalty, and my ability to act as President of the club.
My life’s biggest fear had become Cash seeing and recognizing her. If he did, he’d put a bullet between her eyes. Afterward, he’d cut my throat. The answer was to stop fucking her. It wasn’t going to be easy, but it was necessary. The thought of never fucking her perfect little pussy again troubled me much more than I wanted it to, and had been haunting me since I woke up.
I shook my head, scanned the street, and then turned around.
Our clubhouse looked more like a frat house than it did a motorcycle club’s meeting room. Three 1970’s pinball machines were equally spaced on the left wall. Beside them, a black refrigerator decorated with hand-painted hotrod pinstripes was filled with bottled beer. On the opposite wall sat a pool table that doubled as a ping-pong table. Centered over the pool table, a vintage Lone Star Beer light hung. It was one of the few items Reno brought with him from Texas.
On the farthest wall was a commercial grade kitchen suitable to cook for the entire Naval fleet stationed at Point Loma. Goose demanded that the equipment he used on be of high quality. Considering depth of his menu, I gave no argument. The man could cook like no other, and volunteered to do so for each of our club’s feasts.
In the center of the room, a comfortably worn u-shaped leather sectional capable of seating twelve was where our meetings were held.
Contrary to the beliefs of outsiders, there were no stripper poles, no tables with the club logo carved into the wood, nor were there by-laws or regulations posted on the walls.
The club’s rules were easy to follow and even easier to remember. Getting in the club required that you didn’t lie, cheat or steal. A one-way ticket out was promised if a member killed the elderly, a woman, or a child – unless the act was in self-defense or deeme
d permissible by a club vote.
That was it.
Professional thieves that took an oath not to steal. Laughable, when one gave it much thought.
Seated at their normal positions on the couch, the men looked like they were preparing to watch a football game. Each of them either held a beer or had one within their reach.
I looked at Cash. “Our next job has the possibility of being our most profitable.” I glanced at each of the men. “It’s highly likely that it goes hell in a hand basket, too. It’ll require each of us give our best, a hell of a lot of planning, and one hell of a lot of luck.”
“Biggest potential problem?” Ghost asked.
“Getting caught,” I said with a laugh. “It’s an hour from here if traffic’s good. We’ll make a quiet escape, but we need to be prepared to outrun some small-town cops.”
Just over six feet tall and muscle from head to toe, Ghost was the best getaway driver in the Western Hemisphere. He split his free time between the gym and the racetrack, where he honed his skills to perfection. There were many times we’d certainly have been caught if it had not been for his skills in evading the police.
“I say we ride the Ducatis and use backpacks for our haul,” he said. “Hell, there’s not a car in SoCal that’ll keep up with a Panigale R model. Quick getaway is why we bought ‘em, wasn’t it?”
The motorcycles he was referring to were Italian superbikes built for racing, but sold to any member of the general public who could afford the near thirty-thousand-dollar price tag. With a top speed of over two hundred miles an hour, Ghost was right. No one would catch us.
Hauling a few hundred pounds of stolen gold in a backpack could – and probably would – prove fatal if one wrong move was made during the escape. Furthermore, six matching black and silver Ducati superbikes at a jewelry store in a town of two thousand would draw more attention than cock in a convent.
“The job’s in Rainbow.” I crossed my arms. “Six matching Panigales would have the cops there in less than five minutes. We’ve got to be in and out in ten.”
“Truck and enclosed trailer,” he said. “Put a vinyl sticker on the truck that says Hector’s Horse Barn. It’ll look legit. We could put the bikes in the trailer, and nobody’d be the wiser. I’ll drive the truck. The five of you could haul out the cash.”
It wasn’t a bad idea, other than a truck pulling a trailer would make a slower getaway than a ’67 VW Beetle. Having any of the men stopped and questioned by police wasn’t a risk I was willing to take.
“Five Ducatis leaving the parking lot would raise a few eyebrows. Someone would notice the truck and trailer, and then the cop would be there,” I said. “Rainbow’s a town of two thousand with a young night cop that has nothing better to do than become a hero.”
“Two thousand what?” he asked.
“People.”
“Two thousand people and a hotdog cop?”
I nodded. “Correct.”
Cash set his beer bottle on the table. “We’ll have too much weight to haul in backpacks. We need something that’ll haul the six of us and an extra thousand pounds.”
“Thousand pounds of cash?” Goose looked at Cash and then at me. “That’s what, a hundred million bucks?”
“Forty-five,” Tito said. “Twenty-two pounds a million, if it’s hundreds.”
Ghost’s eyes went wide. “The six of us, plus a thousand pounds? Or is Cash smoking weed again?”
“Thousand pounds is a possibility,” I said.
His nose wrinkled. “I thought we were robbing a shit-hole jewelry store?”
“Rumor has it that this guy might have a considerable amount of gold,” I said. “Gold bars, not rings and necklaces. Like I said, this has the potential of being a big haul.”
“I’ll talk to the guys at EAS in Anaheim. They had an X5M I was looking at. If they’ve still got it, I’ll just buy it, and we can use it. Only problem is the color.”
“What’s an X5M?” Reno asked.
“BMW SUV,” Ghost said. “It’s got a twin turbo V-8 with seven hundred horsepower. Zero to sixty in about two and a half seconds, and a top speed of a hundred and seventy. It’ll haul five of us and two thousand pounds, no problem. We’ll just need to take one bike. I say we put whatever cash we haul out of there on the bike, and the gold in the SUV. We can race back to the clubhouse.”
Ghost typically planned the escape routes, serviced our bikes, and made sure we were in good hands when it came to transportation to and from a job. His idea to use an SUV and one bike didn’t seem like a bad one.
“I like that idea,” I said. “Do you think you can get this SUV?”
“It was for sale a week ago. If they’ve still got it, I’ll get it bought. I was considering it anyway. Now, I’ve got a reason.”
“Tell me it’s not arrest me red,” I said with a laugh.
He gave an apologetic shrug.
I had a thing about using red vehicles as getaway cars, and Ghost knew it. Black, white and silver blended in better than anything. Red did the exact opposite.
He hadn’t answered me. I cocked an eyebrow.
“It’s red as fuck, Bake,” he said.
I shook my head. “Forget it.”
“Wrap it in silver vinyl,” Tito said. “Then, peel the shit off after we’re done.”
“Problem solved,” Ghost said.
Wrapping a vehicle with a vinyl film that was in complete contrast to the original color was a popular thing to do, especially in Southern California. It wasn’t uncommon to see a once silver Lamborghini that had been wrapped in neon yellow, tangerine orange, or lime green.
“Get it wrapped in something other than red. Preferably flat black. It’ll be almost invisible in the dark. If you do that, I’m okay with one bike and the SUV. We need to have Andy create a diversion on the other side of town anyway. He’ll ride the bike.”
Ghost’s eyes went thin. “Who the fuck’s Andy?”
I’d fucked up, and I knew it. Regardless, I tried to cover up the mistake. “What?”
“You said Andy,” he said. “Who the fuck’s Andy?”
I shook my head. “I said Reno.”
“You said Andy,” Reno said.
“Sure did,” Goose chimed.
I shot each of them a glare. “I said Reno.”
“Said Andy,” Cash said dryly.
“Look around the fucking room.” I spread my arms wide. “You see anyone named Andy?”
No one said a word.
“Well?” I asked.
Ten eyes stared back at me.
“That’s what I thought,” I said in a stern tone. “Reno will ride the Panigale. We’ll take the BMW, as long as the fucker’s not red. We’ll need a diversion on the far side of town, just to make sure the cop doesn’t show up. Reno, you’ll need to go up there with me and look the place over.”
He rubbed his hands together. “Got it, Bake.”
“A little more planning, and this is going to come together,” I said. “Thanks to Brother Cash, this could be our best haul to date.”
“To Brother Cash,” Ghost said.
Each of the men raised their beer bottles in toast. “To Brother Cash!”
Our club didn’t have dissention in the ranks. There were no cliques, nor was there much variance in opinion. We did bicker and fight at times, but not over anything that really mattered. We were as close as six brothers could be.
I watched as they each took a celebratory drink. The thought of lying to them about Andy churned in the pit of my stomach like a bad plate of Thai food.
It was time for me to make a change.
I simply needed to decide how to do it.
10
Andy
The door swung open. Even though I heard Mort coming up the stairs, I acted like I had no idea he’d opened the door.
After pecking at the keyboard for a few seconds, I looked up. “Oh, crap. You scared me. I’m so used to that door being kicked open that I didn’t even hear you come in
.”
He pushed against the door, and then gave a slight nod as it went closed. “New door’s quieter’n a mouse pissin’ on a cotton ball.”
I smiled. “That’s pretty quiet.”
“What’d that set us back?”
“The door? I got a guy from Chula Vista to do it. He had a bunch of used doors advertised on Craigslist. I got the door for a hundred. Installation cost two.”
“Shit. The other fucker cost me nine. We’ll keep this quiet, or Kale might end up firing me for being spendy. He’s as Jewish as Challah bread.”
I laughed until I started coughing. When I caught my breath, I shook my head. “What?”
“Kale. He’s tight-fisted with his money. Makes sense, him being Jewish and all.”
I didn’t know he was Jewish. It didn’t matter, but I nodded, nonetheless. “I’ll keep it hush-hush.”
“Sorry I’m late. Been a bitch of a day.” He sat down and then let out an exaggerated sigh. “So. How goes it?”
“Pretty uneventful, really. The guy in 2-A heard some noises coming from 3-A, but I didn’t see anything when I looked the apartment over.”
“The skinny little fag?”
“Oh wow,” I gasped. “You don’t like him?”
“He’s polite as hell. Always pays his rent on time.” He said cheerily. “I like him just fine, why?”
It disappointed me greatly that he’d called Stephen a fag. As with anything that I took exception to, leaving it alone would be impossible. I consciously lowered my tone to keep from being too abrasive.
“Why did you…Well, why did you call him a fag?”
“He’s as queer as a football bat, that’s why. Hell, he doesn’t even try and hide it. See’s that kid that lives upstairs from him. Why, did you think he was cute or something? Gonna try and get him to switch teams?”
I glared at him just enough that he knew I meant business. “Calling someone a queer or a fag is like using the n-word to describe an African American. It’s derogatory, or whatever. It’s insulting. And, to be honest, it’s beyond rude.”
He scratched the sides of his head and gave me a confused stare. “Since when?”
Devil's Disciples MC Series- The Complete Boxed Set Page 7
