“Unacceptable behavior,” I responded.
He looked me up and down. “Killing a man is acceptable behavior?”
“Yep.”
“But cutting him up isn’t?”
“Nope.”
“I’d like to hear this.” He laughed a dry laugh. “Explain it to me.”
Crip was a good leader of men. His MC was a testament to that fact. He was, however, a little on the arrogant side. His opinion was right and anyone who opposed his thoughts was wrong.
Opinions were nothing more than that. Opinions. Not fact. Not specific knowledge. Just a personal view. Every man is entitled to his opinion, including me.
“If killing a man is justified, it’s justified,” I explained. “There’s no need to dwell on it, think about it, or try and understand it. It is what it is. But, once they’re dead, there needs to be a little decency. That’s all I’m trying to say.”
“Killing the man in the first place isn’t crossing a line?” Crip asked.
“If I was just walking around town shooting random fuckers in the face, it’d be wrong. Shooting a man in self-defense isn’t.”
He lifted his chin and looked down his nose at me. “So, as long as you can justify the killing in your mind, it’s okay?”
“My mind is all that fucking matters,” I insisted. “It’s not my responsibility to justify my actions in the minds of others. Arguing with hard-headed fuckers like you about what’s right and what’s wrong gets on my nerves.”
“Well, I’m of the opinion that hacking a man into pieces once he’s dead isn’t a big fucking deal. Ever carved a fucking turkey?”
I gave him a look of disbelief. “Don’t even try to compare carving a turkey to cutting a man into pieces.”
“Cutting up a body is cutting up a body.”
“It’s a fucking turkey!” I argued. I looked at Pee Bee. “How the fuck do you live with this on a daily basis?”
He shrugged. “I kind of like arguing.”
“Well,” I shifted my gaze to Crip. “I don’t.”
“Didn’t mean to get in your feelers, Reno,” Crip said, his voice mimicking a whine. “In the world of a true outlaw, sometimes things get ugly.”
“Oh, I’m not a true outlaw? I’m a wannabe, huh?”
“If it wasn’t for knocking off a bank from time to time, you and that group of fuckers you run with would be nothing but a bunch of do-gooders. You’re goddamned sure not an MC in my book.”
I glared back at him. “I’m a do-gooder?”
He nodded. “Pretty much.”
“I just shot two dope dealers in the parking lot of a taco joint on a Tuesday.” I cocked an eyebrow and cleared my throat. “That doesn’t get me any outlaw points?”
“Not even one,” Crip said dryly. “By your own admission, it was self-defense. Self-defense doesn’t earn you shit. You’re a fucking do-gooder.”
I glared at him for a moment, looked at Pee Bee, and exhaled an exaggerated breath. “Fuck. I can’t win with this prick.”
Crip slapped his hand against my shoulder and barked out a laugh. “I’m just fucking with ya. Here’s what I’m getting at, Brother. I’d like for you to become an outlaw for real. It’s time you jump the fence.”
“What fence?”
“Join our MC,” he said. “We discussed it at last week’s meeting. You wouldn’t have to prospect or anything. Just show up, take an oath, and you’re in.”
“I’m fucking flattered, but I already took an oath. I’ve got a Devil’s Disciples tattoo on my chest to prove it.”
The Devil’s Disciples didn’t wear colors on their leather vests. They had a tattoo on their backs to indicate their allegiance to the club. My back was covered in a colorful tattoo before I joined the club, so my insignia was tattooed on my chest.
“Well, when you’re ready to make that change, we’re ready to have you.”
I loved riding with Crip and his club, but I desperately needed to be involved in the criminal activities of the MC that I was presently in. The thrill the Devil’s Disciples offered kept my adrenaline elevated, and the income fed my gambling habits. If I was in the Filthy Fuckers, I’d be doing nothing more than killing drug dealers and fucking random MC groupies.
“Appreciate it.” I gestured toward the only remaining piece of evidence to the night’s crime. “What about the truck? What are we going to do with it?”
“Curly’s brother has a scrap yard. I’ll have him crush it. You can take the two grand. I’m keeping the notepad. It’s filled with a bunch of hand-written notes. None of that shit makes sense to me, but it might come in handy at some point.”
“Written in Spanish?” I asked. “If it is, I can read it.”
“No. It’s in some kind of code. A bunch of letters, over and over.”
“Tito can figure it out.”
He laughed. “The Brainiac?”
Tito rode with the Devil’s Disciples. His expertise was computers, but his knowledge was endless. He knew everything about everything.
“If that note pad is filled with some kind of code, he can break it.” I considered what might be written in it, and then gave Crip a look. “What the fuck’s in there that you want?”
“Never know,” he said. “But I’ve got a hard time believing we’ve killed two members of the Tijuana Cartel and that nothing’s ever going to be said or done about it.”
I hated the thought of the night’s events not being over, but Crip was right. The cartel might not give a shit about losing two members, but they’d sure investigate the loss of a million in cocaine.
“What about the dope?” I asked. “What are you going to do with it?”
“Not sure,” he replied. “It’s a million bucks worth of uncut coke. Somebody’s going to want it back. Might keep it for a bargaining chip. In case this ever turns into a pissing contest with the cartel.”
“Good idea.”
“Yeah, until I get caught with that shit.” He scratched the scruff on his jaw. “I’ll think about it.”
I glanced around the shop, and realized I needed a ride to get my bike. “Fuck. I need a ride back to Chula Vista.”
“That’s one loose end I don’t like,” Crip said. “Our Mexican waitress knows what happened. I don’t get a warm, fuzzy feeling about that.”
“I don’t think she’ll say a word.”
He cackled a laugh. “Based on what? When neither she or the two dip-shits return to Mexico, the first goddamned place El Alacrán is going to look for his dope—and for his thugs—is at that restaurant. After he cuts off a few of that bitch’s fingers, she’ll scream ‘Filthy Fuckers’ faster than you can say ay, chihuahua!”
167
Carma
Slumped in a booth at the far end of the dining room, I stared blankly at Reno’s motorcycle. On Monday, my biggest worry was remembering to pay my cell phone bill. By Tuesday night, things were vastly different.
In the four hours’ time that I waited for Reno to return, the reality of him killing El Pollo sank in.
People were going to die. There was no denying it. Angel would avenge the murders of the two men. He would spend whatever time and money he must to find out where his drugs were.
My life had gone to utter hell and there was nothing I could do to alter the course. Before the weekend arrived, my headless corpse would be hanging from the bridge by its ankles. Children for years to come would have nightmares at my expense.
Headlights brought me out of my daze. My eyes shot to the window. Reno got out of a Jeep, thanked the driver with a nod of his head, and sauntered across the parking lot. Nearly immobilized by the weight of the situation, I shuffled across the dining room and unlocked the door.
He came in, glanced at his motorcycle, and then looked me over. “Damn, your mood went to shit, huh?”
“I hate enclosed spaces.”
He glanced around the dining area. “Ought to be happier than fuck, then. This place is huge. Especially when there’s no one else in here.”
&
nbsp; “Never mind,” I murmured.
“What the fuck are you talking about, then?” He looked at me like I was crazy. “Enclosed spaces?”
I lowered my head. “My funeral.”
“What?”
“Caskets. I don’t want to be stuffed in a casket. Small spaces freak me out.”
“You know something I don’t?”
“I know Angel is going to come looking for his drugs.”
“I’m one step ahead of him.” He grabbed the handlebars of his motorcycle and kicked up the stand. “Mind getting that door for me?”
He seemed overly cheery, considering he’d likely be dead before me. Angel would keep me alive long enough to rape me a few times before he cut off my head and suspended me from the bridge. Reno, on the other hand, would be killed quickly.
Fueled by a glimmer of hope that Reno had the solution to our combined survival, I pulled the door open. “What do you mean?”
His biceps flared as he maneuvered the motorcycle past me. He guided it into the door’s opening and hesitated. After fidgeting with the handlebars and spouting a few choice cusswords, he pushed it onto the sidewalk.
“Are you going to tell me what you’re talking about?” I asked.
He situated the motorcycle and kicked the stand down. He wiped his palms on his worn jeans and faced me.
“I wasn’t planning on it,” he said dryly.
“Why not?”
“Because.”
He sat on the motorcycle and draped his muscular arms over the handlebars. “The less you know, the better off everyone will be.”
He looked remarkably attractive for four in the morning. Nevertheless, I didn’t agree with his desire to keep me in the dark, and I planned to tell him about it.
“I’m wrapped up in the middle of this mess,” I argued. “I should know what’s going on, especially if my continued existence is dependent upon Angel not knowing that I played a part in the death of his men and the disappearance of his drugs. I have no idea how long El Pollo has been watching me, or what Angel knows or doesn’t know. The more I know about what’s going on, the better off we’ll both be.”
I exhaled dramatically and waited for his favorable response.
He gave me a quick once-over. His mouth twisted into a faint smirk. “You don’t talk like a Mexican.”
Either my ears were deceiving me, or Reno was a damned fool. I cocked my hip. “Do you spout random racist comments from time to time, or are you just stupid?”
He seemed offended. “Excuse me?”
“That comment you made,” I snapped. “I don’t talk like a Mexican.”
“You don’t.”
“That’s the most stereotypical racist shit I’ve ever heard.” I looked him over and then met his wide-eyed gaze. “Oh, wow. You’re not rich and pretentious like most white guys. What’s up with that? I thought all white guys were pretentious pricks.”
Now, he really seemed offended. He lifted his leg over his motorcycle and stood between it and me.
His eyes narrowed. “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, nothing.” I took a step back and shrugged. “It’s just that most white people in Southern California are rich and pretentious. You know what that means, don’t you? Pretentious? Probably not, because you’re a biker, and most bikers are uneducated drunks. It means being ostentatious or showy. Exaggerating your talents or knowledge to make yourself seem more important than you are.”
His glare went cold.
“Oh, sorry,” I said. “Did I speak over your head? Want me to dumb it down?”
In a flash, he pushed me against the door. While I was trying to figure out what the hell happened, he reached beneath my skirt. Before I could object, the web of his hand bumped against my crotch.
I sucked an uneven breath. It felt sooo good to have his hand against my pussy.
Seeming satisfied with the positioning of his hand, he looked me up and down. “You’re a sexy little bitch.”
My past experiences with being pushed around sexually always left me ripped apart both physically and emotionally. I was dazed that Reno’s forceful touch flipped a switch of sensuality in me I had no idea existed.
“Thank you,” I murmured.
“Unless you object, we’re going to copulate right here on the sidewalk.” He tugged against the crotch of my panties. “Do you know what that means, or do you want me to dumb it down?”
Too shocked to respond, I stared back at him like a confused child.
His unshaven cheek pressed against mine. “Cop-u-late,” he breathed into my ear. “It means I’m going to stuff my cock in here.”
He shoved two fingers into my soaking wet folds.
A satisfactory grunt shot from my lungs. Any lingering thoughts of Angel, dying, or racist comments vanished completely.
While he fingered me with one hand, he flicked his knife open with the other.
Upon hearing the blade click into place, I stopped breathing completely.
After cutting my panties in two at each hip, he lifted them from beneath my skirt and tossed them aside. Seeing them flutter onto the sidewalk shouldn’t have been a turn-on, but it was.
My face flushed.
Sexually, I’d been with one man. Angel. Allowing Reno to have his way with me on the night we met seemed ludicrous.
But.
I was so turned on there was no turning me off. I’d had sex countless times in the past, but I’d never been aroused to the point I was dripping wet. Now that I knew what truly being stimulated was like, denying Reno sex wasn’t something I was willing—or able—to do.
Considering that we’d both be dead in a week—and that he was knuckle-deep in my wet pussy with at least two fingers—I mentally shrugged and blindly reached for his crotch. I cupped his swollen girth in my hand. Overcome with anticipation, my eyes fluttered, and then fell closed.
While I was lost in the fascination of stroking his stiff cock through his jeans, he turned me to face the window.
I opened my eyes.
He frantically fumbled to unbutton my uniform. A few seconds later, my shirt was open and hanging at my sides. I gazed at my reflection in the glass. He yanked down my bra. The instant my boobs burst free, he pushed me against the door.
“Your tits are fucking perfect,” he breathed against my neck.
My aching nipples pressed against the cold glass. A tingling ran through me, nearly causing my knees to buckle. The sound of his zipper teased me as to what was next.
My heavy breathing clouded the window.
He fumbled and cussed while he sheathed his rock-hard length in rubber. As soon as the complaining stopped, he flipped my skirt around my waist. I felt pressure against my folds. Then, inch after inch, his length pushed deep into my wetness.
“Jesus,” I muttered under my breath. “That…feels so…good.”
It was nowhere near what I was accustomed to. Instead of gritting my teeth and praying for it to end, I was spreading my feet as wide as I could and praying it could somehow last forever. Overcome by a carnal sense of joy, I arched my back, pressed my hands against the window, and offered myself to him completely.
He gripped my waist firmly. Then, without so much as a thank you, he took what I offered, fucking me like I was paying off a debt.
For several minutes, his hips slapped against my bare ass, each stroke a reminder that what I was experiencing was nothing more than sex.
Our grunting and moaning muffled the sound of the distant morning commuters traveling north on the freeway.
After pounding my deprived pussy into a heightened state of appreciation, he buried himself inside of me and paused. His heartbeat pulsed through the shaft of his cock. The tip of his finger found my clit.
My heart raced.
I let the feeling of him being inside of me envelop me, leaving me with no other sensation to muddy my crystal-clear sexual waters.
His breathing quickened, as did mine.
I embraced
the heavenly feeling of having him inside of me. My pussy contracted. I shuddered. My toes curled.
An orgasm rushed through me like a tidal wave, taking my mind with it. I had no idea sex could be so…
Everything.
When I returned to earth, I gazed at his reflection in the glass. His pleasure was undeniable. The low moan that crept from his lungs confirmed my belief.
I watched his likeness in the window until he grew flaccid and pulled himself free.
In my heightened state of bliss, I knew little about what my future held. One thing, however, was certain.
If Angel didn’t kill me, I was going to have a hell of a time quitting Reno.
168
Reno
The Devil’s Disciples clubhouse was in downtown San Diego, located in a three-story building that overlooked a bar district. The upper floor was the club president’s business office, the second floor was used as his residence, and the first floor was our clubhouse.
The top-floor office was as a front for the business that was used to launder the money we took in from robberies. The club president, Baker, was also the president of the LLC, which managed local carwashes. The men in the MC worked at the carwashes, and were paid through the LLC, making the income from the criminal acts we committed legal.
The club originally consisted of five men who were friends since childhood, and me. Ghost, our getaway driver; Goose, our weapons expert; Tito, our computer hacker; Cash, our hot-headed muscle; and me. After Ghost was killed by a drunken driver, we allowed a woman into the club. Goose’s Ol’ Lady, Ally, was a former race car driver, a safe cracker, and damned good at planning a robbery.
Now, with five men and a woman, the Devil’s Disciples were capable of planning and implementing any robbery imaginable.
It had been eighteen hours since the incident. Baker was sitting on a barstool facing the rest of the group, who were all seated together at the sectional.
Glassy-eyed and sleep deprived, he glanced at each of us. “I’m open for suggestions, people.”
“I say we kill the bitch,” Cash spouted.
Devil's Disciples MC Series- The Complete Boxed Set Page 89
