Devil's Disciples MC Series- The Complete Boxed Set

by Scott Hildreth

  “Get his wallet and his keys out of his pocket,” Andy said. “Push the door lock button on his key fob and you’ll find his car. Then you can search it. Maybe that’ll help you find out. Find his phone, too. They’ll be doing a trace on it.”

  “God damn,” Cash said with a laugh. “Is your night job being a hit woman?”

  She wiped the back of her head, and then looked at her blood-stained hand. “I watch a lot of Netflix. At least I used to.”

  Cash searched the man, found his keys and wallet, and shoved them in his front pocket. Then, he reached over my shoulder with a bloody hand. “We haven’t officially met yet. Name’s Brock, but everyone in the MC calls me Cash.”

  She shook his hand. “Andy. Andy Winslow. Nice to meet you, Brock.”

  He released her hand and cleared his throat. “Call me Cash.”

  40

  Andy

  “Seriously,” Baker said demandingly. “You need to take a shower, lay down, and get some rest. We’ve got a medic that I can have come by here and--”

  “Remember that asshole I told you I used to date?” I asked from my seat at the bar. “The one that beat me?”

  His jaw muscles flexed. “Yeah.”

  “What he did to me was ten times worse than this. I’m fine,” I assured him.

  “Leave her alone,” Cash said from the kitchen. “Girl says she’s fine, she’s fine.”

  They’d covered the dead cop with a blanket and rolled him up in a rug. I stared at it for some time, thinking about what my father had gone through. No differently than me, he’d been held hostage by my mother the night she shot him.

  My perspective on the entire event changed. I no longer felt hatred toward him. Nor did I cherish her the way I had for all those years. A decision was made, and in an instant, lives were forever changed. Not just theirs, either. The repercussions of such an event ripple outward, touching everyone in their path until there’s no one else to touch.

  I shifted my eyes from the dead cop to Baker. “He was looking for something. Around the bar. That’s where he was when I came out of the bedroom.”

  Baker searched the bar and found a small listening device tucked into the molding that surrounded the brass railing used as a footrest.

  He walked into the living room and looked at the rolled-up blanket. “That motherfucker.”

  “I’m going to guess by the way he was acting, that he’s not on the up and up,” I said.

  Cash barked out a laugh from behind me. “You think not?”

  Baker flushed the device in the toilet, and returned after a moment. He looked me over and shook his head. “What about some rest? How about getting some rest?”

  I needed a shower, but there was no way I could sleep. “I just woke up,” I said in protest.

  “You need a shower.”

  I was still wrapping my mind around what happened. I’d gone from making a bed to seeing a cop murdered, and it wasn’t even noon. There was no doubt in my mind that if Cash hadn’t shot the man, I would have been the victim. It wasn’t easy to accept, but it was the truth.

  Grateful for what happened, but angry that I had to spend a lifetime carrying the baggage, I stood. “I’m going to take a shower.”

  “Some of the fellas are coming to help out with things,” Baker said.

  “I’ll be gone right after I clean up.”

  He raked his fingers through his hair, pulled it away from his face, and paused. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “I’m going to shower.”

  “Take your time.”

  I went to the bathroom. As if I was traipsing through hip-deep mud, I dragged my feet across the floor. Each step grew more difficult than the last. Once in the bathroom, I all but collapsed on the floor.

  I stared at the shower’s drain as the blood washed away. In a short period of time, the water ran clean, giving no hint that there was anything else to clean up. I stared blankly at the drain for some time, mentally arguing with the message it was trying to send. I felt filthy. I wondered how they did it. How they coped. If time would make it easier to accept.

  I turned off the water. Like a blanket of anger, the steam hung thickly in the air. I wiped the mirror with my hand, and looked at my likeness in the mirror. I raised my hand to my neck, touching the discolored skin where he had choked me.

  It was easy to joke about the dead man in front of the men. They seemed unaffected by the event, entirely. I, on the other hand, wasn’t so fortunate. I feared the memories would haunt me for a lifetime.

  I lowered my hand and turned away.

  Wearing nothing more than a towel, I stumbled to the bed. I needed to take time to digest everything. To find a way to make it all seem sensible. Making sense of such a morbid act wasn’t going to be an easy act.

  When I woke the first time, it was dark. Baker was at my side. I got up, waking him when I did. Silently, I apologized.

  I walked to the living room, turned on the light, and scanned the room. There was no blood. The rug had been replaced. It smelled not like gunpowder, but like a hospital.

  I flipped out the light and turned toward the room. Baker stood in the doorway. As I walked past him, he draped his arm over my shoulder.

  I nestled against him on his side of the king-sized bed that night. In his arms, I slept until morning came. As the sun’s light filled the room, we both woke at the same instant, naturally.

  He rolled to the side and looked me in the eyes. “I love you, Andy.”

  His eyes told me they weren’t simply words. He meant what he said. My eyes welled with tears, and eventually a few of them escaped. Not because of what had happened. Or because of what he’d said. The tears were those of gratitude. I knew the only way I could get back to normal was to make the trip with him. With love in his heart, he could guide me through anything life had to offer me.

  I kissed him, knowing that in time, everything would be fine. “I love you, too.”

  41

  Baker

  My life hadn’t been plagued with death, but I was no newcomer to how it smelled. We found out the cop wasn’t a cop, he was a private detective. He’d either been hired to look into my life, or was simply someone who believed there was something valuable to find in my condo.

  He’d been disposed of, as had his car, phone, and all his personal effects. I was confident that they’d never find enough of him to perform a DNA test. Remnants of his car were in Arkansas, crushed into a ball of steel no bigger than a kitchen stove.

  His cell phone was in the front yard of his El Cajon home, right beside the driveway. They’d find it wiped clean, and with a dead battery. Our resident Brainiac, Tito, had performed a deep search of the device, finding no indication that he’d talked to anyone about me, the club, or his investigation.

  I was confident the mess had been cleaned up, but my life would forever be stained from the events of that day.

  The sound of the bell echoed beneath the mall’s concrete canopy.

  Ding, ding, ding. Ding, ding, ding. Ding, ding ding.

  Wearing a surf shop hoodie, I walked toward the red Salvation Army donation bucket. When I passed, I stepped in front of the bell toting woman, blocking her view of my intended offering.

  I pulled my hand from inside the hoodie’s pocket, and dropped four five-ounce gold coins into the red canister. As they hit the bottom with a clank, she looked up.

  “God bless you,” she said with a smile. “And, Merry Christmas.”

  I gave a nod and ducked through the door. After making the same donation at each of the mall’s entrances, I drove to another location, five miles away.

  Each holiday deposit would provide the recipient with roughly thirty thousand dollars. It wasn’t much, but by the end of the night, I would rid myself of close to a million dollars in gold.

  It was never from the club’s take. The donations always came from my personal funds. The club’s take was to shield the men from prosecution, pay attorneys fees, and give them something
to retire on when that day arrived.

  It was a holiday ritual of mine. One that I’d done soon following my arrival to Southern California. Each holiday season I spent an entire day casting the coins with a mold and stamp I’d purchased in Monterrey, at an antique shop.

  My charity didn’t right my wrongs, nor did I expect it to. But it was the main reason I did what I did. Over time, things somehow got out of whack, and our means and methods changed. I’d get back on track, somehow. It was going to take time and considerable planning, but it could be done.

  Until that day came, I’d live with the knowledge that the swath of my scythe was wide.

  42

  Andy

  My Gala Christmas Bash was a flop. I learned a good portion of the tenants left to see family for the holidays, and many others simply weren’t as festive as I was. In summary, Stephen and Michael came by, Mort and Mister Greene paid a visit, and Viktor from 1C brought a bottle of vodka and stared at my tits for half an hour.

  It was scheduled to end at midnight, but I had my doubts I’d be able to make it until then without throwing in the towel. About the time I was going to call it a night, the door opened. Holly walked in with a bottle of wine in one hand, and a bottle of champagne in the other.

  “Becky finally called me back. She’s staying with the kids until whenever.” She raised the wine. “Do you have an opener?”

  “I have everything. Well, everything except for people.” I handed her the opener. “Let’s get drunk.”

  She set the champagne aside and then tore at the foil covering. “Amen, sista.”

  She had ditched the plaid for the night, and was wearing a red dress that fit her quite well. Her massive boobs boiled out of the low-cut top, leaving little to the imagination. Had Viktor stayed, it may have been an interesting night for her.

  She poured a glass and handed it to me. “Four more days.”

  “It’s been a weird year. It doesn’t seem like Christmas.”

  “We can’t afford to go visit,” she said, pouring her a glass of wine as she spoke. “Maybe next year.”

  “It ought to be a good one for the kids this year. I got the little fuckers some pretty good stuff.”

  She shot me a glare. “They’re not little fuckers.”

  “They are. But, it’s okay.”

  “Where’s Baker?”

  “He should have been here by now.” I sipped my wine. “I don’t know.”

  “Christmas never seems like Christmas here. It’s never cold. I like the weather here, but I like the Christmases back home.”

  I did, too, but I’d never admit it. California had become my home. The beaches, palm trees, and warm weather lured me there. During eleven months of the year, I was satisfied I’d made the right decision. December left me feeling void of the joy that seemed to come with the cold weather, snow, and homes that were littered with ridiculous amounts of multi-colored lights.

  Knock, knock...knock.

  I turned toward the door. “Come in, Baker.”

  He pushed the door open and stood there, grinning. Wearing black skinny jeans, black Chucks, a bright red blazer, and a red felt pimp hat with white fuzzy trim, he looked ridiculously cute.

  “Hi, Holly,” he said with a tip of his hat. “Merry almost Christmas.”

  He faced me and rolled the brim of his hat through his fingers, and then flipped it onto his head. “My dear.”

  I raised my wine glass. “I like your outfit.”

  He looked at Holly. “Coming, or going?”

  She gulped her wine. “Just got here.”

  “How long had you planned to stay?”

  “Depends on how drunk I get.” She reached for the wine. “My babysitter can stay until tomorrow. Why?”

  He adjusted his hat, pulling the brim a little lower. “Care to accompany us?”

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  He gave me a playful glare, and then looked at Holly. His brows raised. “Well?”

  I looked him over. Dressed in his little red outfit, he looked adorable. What I was missing about Christmas wasn’t fixed, but seeing him sure helped. As he waited for Holly to respond, I fell a little more in love with the man who cared enough about Christmas to make a fool of himself.

  There were times when I found it extremely difficult to believe Baker was a biker. He was different than any other biker I’d ever meet, that much I was sure of. I wouldn’t want him to be any other way, though. He was perfect just the way he was.

  Holly drank half her glass in one gulp, fearing commitment. It was just like her. She was sheepishly afraid of everything that wasn’t etched in stone.

  “She’ll come,” I said. “Where are we going?”

  He looked at me. “For a ride.” He looked at her. “Care for company?”

  She looked at me, and then at him. She downed what remained in her glass and coughed as she tried to swallow it. “One of your friends?”

  “The Goose,” he said with a nod.

  “Is he nice?”

  Baker grinned. “He is this time of year.”

  “Is he cute?”

  Baker looked at me.

  I nodded. “He is.”

  She nodded eagerly. “I’ll go.”

  Her hair was twisted into a cute bun, leaving its lack of body and box-color dye job a mystery. I didn’t know Goose well, but my guess was that he’d be pleased with how she presented herself.

  “Expecting any more tenants?” he asked.

  “Nope.”

  He tipped his hat, turned around, and hooked his thumb against his belt. “Shall we?”

  With my arm hooked through his, and Holly at our side, we walked to his parking garage. A white minivan with fuzzy reindeer antlers mounted above the doors waited by the elevator.

  Leaning against it, dressed in a top had and long-tailed tuxedo, Goose smoked a cigarette. I burst into laughter. “What’s going on?”

  “Christmas lights,” Baker said.

  “There’s no good Christmas lights in San Diego,” I said sadly.

  Baker turned to face me. “You just need to know where to look.”

  He waved his hand toward the van’s side door. Automatically, it opened. I gawked at it in awe.

  “Cadillac of minivans,” Goose said.

  Baker helped me get in, and then turned to Holly. “Holly, Goose. Goose, this is Andy’s cousin, Holly.”

  He tipped his hat. “Pleasure is mine, ma’am.”

  “Sit up front,” Baker said.

  He pushed a button and the door closed.

  “Pretty awesome automatic doors on your sleigh, mister.”

  “Only the best for my lover,” he said, relaxing into the passenger side seat.

  Nestled in a bucket of ice, a carton of eggnog sat on the floor between us. On the seat, two thin booklets marked Let’s Go Caroling.

  I picked up one of the books. “Are we--”

  He gave a nod. “We are.”

  I loved caroling. My parents went every year. Holly’s mother took us, too, and I went every Christmas until I left to go to college. Some people grow out of Christmas, but I wasn’t one of them. In my mind, the spirit of Santa Claus was real.

  I filled with nervous anticipation as I picked up the book and flipped through the pages. It included all my favorites.

  “This is awesome,” I said. “You have no idea what this means to me.”

  “I do it every year,” he said.

  I looked at him in disbelief. “Really?”

  “He’s not kidding,” Goose said as he pulled out of the garage. “Has since he was a kid.”

  If doing so was even possible, my heart melted a little more for Baker. I laughed to myself that we’d gone about everything all wrong, fucking before we dated, and admitting our love with each other the night a man got murdered.

  No matter, I wouldn’t change it if I could.

  We drove to La Jolla, through an area I had no idea existed. The homes were mansions, and they were covered with the
craziest displays of lights, decorations, and mechanical displays. It put Syracuse to shame.

  Their wrought iron gates were open, inviting season onlookers the ability to come in and enjoy their displays of festive spirit.

  The first home was complete with a fountain in front, and had a grand entrance that looked like something even the Kardashians couldn’t afford. After parking the van, we walked to the door, booklets in hand.

  Baker knocked with the knocker. In a moment, the door opened.

  A handsome man in his early forties stood pencil straight. He gave a nod to each of us. “Good evening. Happy Holidays.”

  We burst into song, singing one of my all-time favorites, Oh Come, All Ye Faithful. Halfway through the song, a man, a woman I assumed was his wife, and two small children came to listen.

  After singing O Little Town Of Bethlehem, Baker tipped his hat. “A Merry Christmas to you.”

  “Thank you,” they said in unison.

  We went house to house, visiting the last home just before midnight. No one complained, and no one refused our offerings. After we finished singing at the last home, for an elderly couple that I feared we woke from a night’s sleep, the man – dressed in red pajamas – stepped onto the porch.

  He cupped his shaking hand to his mouth and cleared his throat. “Thank you!” he shouted. “We look forward to this, every year. Last few years, a tattooed boy has come by. Haven’t seen him yet this year, though.”

  I realized Baker was wearing a long-sleeved blazer.

  Baker patted him on the shoulder, and then gave a nod. “Have a Merry Christmas. Maybe he’ll be by in the next day or so.”

  The man gave a nod and yelled his response. “Sure hope so! He’s got a set of pipes!”

  It was the first Christmas since my arrival that I felt festive. The caroling gave me a sense of holiday spirit that I’d been missing for years. I couldn’t help but admire Baker for doing it, and wondered what drove him to do so year after year.