Devil's Disciples MC Series- The Complete Boxed Set

by Scott Hildreth

  I gestured toward the register. “Over there, where it belongs.”

  “Let’s send him a message.”

  I chuckled. “The two of us?”

  “This could be fun.” He rubbed his hands together. “I’m guessing he’s a closet freak.”

  Raymond claimed to be able to understand someone’s deepest secrets after spending nothing more than a few moments in their presence. It did him little good in sorting through the throngs of men who were attracted to him, though.

  If ex-boyfriends were white rice, Raymond could feed a starving third world country with the men who lay in his wake.

  “Why do you say that?” I asked, my tone sounding more hopeful than I expected.

  “Because. Anyone that demanding about a hat is going to be controlling. Controlling men are freaks. He’s a freak, Believe me.”

  Side by side, we maneuvered through the various displays of the season’s beachy offerings. Once at the register, I retrieved my phone. As I scrolled through my text messages, Raymond snatched the device from my hand.

  “What did you name him?” Upon finding the text he gave me a confused look. “Titt-oh frowny-face?”

  “Tee-toe,” I said.

  “That doesn’t make it any better.” His face contorted. “What an awful name.”

  Raymond was an open book. He did little to hide his opinions, which was often to his detriment. He spoke before he gave much thought to the potential repercussions of doing so.

  “I think he said his name was Taddeo,” I said. “He goes by Tito.”

  His eyes widened. “Taddeo? Oh. I like that. I bet he’s Italian.”

  “I dunno.” I reached for my phone, only to have him quickly retract his hands in denial. I glared. “Don’t send him anything.”

  Holding the phone against his chest, he tapped the index finger of his free hand against his lip. “Let’s think about this.”

  “Let’s think about it together.”

  “Tito,” he said. “Just wondering what I should wear. Panties are undoubtedly out of the question. Is a dress or jeans more appropriate? I could rock either, just say the word.”

  I sighed. “No.”

  He scowled. “Tito. I haven’t heard from you. I assume you’ve lost my number. This is Reggie, the cute girl from the mall. Shall I dress up or dress down for Saturday night?”

  “No. That sounds desperate. And a little pretentious.”

  While scrolling through my text messages, he paced the floor. “Tito. Your brown eyes have been on my mind since the moment you walked out of here. Now that I’ve mentioned yours, what would you describe as my best feature? Hair? I knew it. How shall I wear it on Saturday? Up? Down?”

  “No,” I said. “How about something like this: Just wanted to let you know I haven’t found out anything about the hat yet, but I’m still hopeful. I’ll keep you apprised.”

  “No,” he snapped. “For one, nobody should ever say the word apprised in a text message. And, that doesn’t mention your date. Isn’t that why we’re having this conversation?”.

  “The date goes without saying. For me to mention it makes me look like I don’t have an ounce of self-esteem.”

  “Well, if you’re not going to mention it, you should at least have fun with whatever it is you say. You know, use something with a double meaning. Add a winky face at the end.”

  “Winky faces are dumb. The wink is implied by the content.”

  “People wink,” he argued. “Especially in texts.”

  “I don’t wink.”

  “You should. People can’t see emotion in a text, so a winky face softens the blow of what might be perceived as pretentious, overbearing, or out of line. The winky face emoji is flirtatious and apologetic at the same time.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t wink. In person, or in texts.”

  “Ever?”

  “Ever.”

  “That’s awful,” he said. “I wink all the time. Sometimes without saying a word. I think it’s mysterious.”

  I laughed. “What’s mysterious about a wink?”

  “The reasoning behind it, I guess.”

  While he stared back at me waiting for a response, my phone beeped. He screeched like a startled eleven-year-old girl and tossed it on the counter.

  I exhaled a breath of exasperation and reached for my phone. A text from Tito brought a smile to my face.

  I opened it.

  Reggie. Just wanted to see if you were up for a motorcycle ride on Saturday? We can ride it to dinner if it’s alright with you.

  Without thought, I responded. Depends. Is it a Harley, or a sport bike?

  I have both, he replied. What’s your preference?

  Harley, I responded.

  His response was immediate. Out of curiosity, may I ask why?

  The gods were watching over me. It was my chance to express myself without seeming needy.

  Because, I replied, I was once told that sport bike riders were unpredictable maniacs and that Harley riders were only after one thing. Sex. Although the former might be fun, on Saturday, I’d prefer the latter.

  Harley it is ;) he replied.

  I stared at the winky face, wishing he wouldn’t have sent it. If Raymond’s interpretation of the emoji was correct, it’s existence could mean one of two things.

  Tito was either flirting with me or apologizing for wanting to fuck me.

  Both options made me feel slightly uneasy.

  212

  Tito

  The sound of an approaching motorcycle caused me to snap out of the semi-conscious state I’d slipped into. Troubled by my past and worried about the future, I walked to the window facing the street and peered through the blinds.

  Riding his newly-reassembled hardtail chopper, Goose cleared the hill at the end of the block. His hands were positioned well above his shoulders, gripping the era correct “ape hanger” handlebars he’d fitted the forty-year-old motorcycle with.

  His motorcycle came to a rest in the driveway. After allowing the machine to idle for a moment, he shut the engine off. He stepped over the seat and gave the motorcycle a long look as he hung his helmet on the handlebars. A satisfactory smile was plastered on his face.

  I opened the front door. “Feel good to have it out?”

  “Feels great,” he replied, glancing at the machine over his shoulder. “Nothing beats the rumble of a finely-tuned Shovelhead.”

  “Sounds great.”

  “The cam gave it a decent amount of bottom end,” he said, stepping onto the porch. “The stroke on that crank gives it a ton of top end. That thing flies when you whack the throttle.”

  I stepped to the side. “Come in.”

  He glanced around the modest living room. “Just wanted to see how you were doing. I—”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not,” he insisted, looking at me as he spoke. “I guess whether or not you choose to talk about it is up to you.”

  “I’m doing just—”

  “Your life’s sweater has a loose thread,” he argued. “My fear is that if someone pulls on it, you’ll come unraveled.”

  Lying to Goose was like lying to my mother. It wasn’t impossible, but it wasn’t easy, either. He was far too savvy to be bullshitted into believing something that wasn’t totally true.

  “Do you remember the summer of 2009?” I asked.

  His gaze dropped to the floor for a moment. He looked up, grinning. “How could I forget it? Ghost had that old ’63 Chevy truck with the 409 in it. Damned thing was so fast, it’d spin the tires at a hundred miles an hour. Baker cut off his beard, Cash was fucking that Brazilian chick, and you shaved your head after you lost that bet with the bartender about who could do more pushups. We went to that bike rally in Oceanside, and you brought that chick from the mall. We did that job in Escondido—” Mid-sentence, he paused. His face went stark white. “Oh shit. I’m sorry, Brother. It’s not the hat, is it?”

  I wanted to respond but couldn’t seem to get the words t
o clear my throat. I shook my head.

  “She gave it to you, didn’t she?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Keeping something that reminds you of a loss isn’t always a good thing,” he said. “Like the parents who have a child die in an accident. They might keep the bedroom exactly the way the kid left it for years. It stands as a reminder of the loss. The healing begins once they find the strength to put the things away and turn the room into a study.”

  “What are you saying?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Maybe it’s best that the hat’s gone. Hell, I didn’t put two and two together. Now that I have, I realize you’ve been clinging onto that summer for ten years. It’s not healthy.”

  “Have I been a mental case for the past ten years?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t say that. No.”

  “If I hadn’t lost the hat, would you say I needed therapy?”

  He smirked. “No more than the rest of us.”

  “I’m not unhealthy,” I said. “Mentally, or otherwise.”

  “You haven’t dated anyone since that summer.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s unhealthy.”

  “I asked the store manager out,” I argued. “That’s a huge step. Think about it.”

  “What store manager?”

  “From the Buckle. I went in looking for another hat. One just like it. She’s trying to find me one.”

  His eyes narrowed. “The store where that chick worked?”

  “Shelley,” I said. “Her name was Shelley.”

  “Where Shelley worked?”

  “Uh huh.”

  He glanced around the living room while formulating his thoughts. After a moment let out a long breath. “I could argue that asking her out, considering where she works, is unhealthy. I’d have to think about that one a while.”

  “I think it’s a step in the right direction,” I said. “Might be for the wrong reasons, but it can’t hurt matters, that’s for sure.”

  “When are you going out?” he asked.

  “Saturday.”

  “Day after tomorrow?”

  I realized I had yet to speak to Reggie since meeting her. I nodded. “Guess it’s Thursday, huh?”

  “For about ten more hours,” he said.

  “I should probably say something to her,” I admitted. “I haven’t spoken to her since I asked her out.”

  “When did you ask her out?”

  “Right after I lost the hat. On Sunday.”

  He laughed. “Might not hurt to touch base with her.”

  I retrieved my phone from the end table. After a moment of staring at the screen, I looked at Goose. “Not sure what to say.”

  He extended his hand. “Give me your phone.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll type her a text.”

  “I don’t want you sending her something that’s—”

  “I’ll let you read it,” he said. “You can decide if you want to send it.”

  I handed him my phone.

  “Does she know you ride?” he asked.

  “I didn’t mention it, no.”

  “What’s her name?” he asked.

  “Reggie.”

  “Like Reggie Jackson?”

  “Yep.”

  He nodded in approval. After a moment of typing, he turned the phone to face me.

  Silently, I read the message. Reggie. Just wanted to see if you were up for a motorcycle ride on Saturday? We can ride it to dinner if it’s alright with you.

  “Looks good,” I said.

  He pressed send. Almost instantaneously, the phone beeped. He read the message out loud. “Depends, she says. Is it a Harley, or a sport bike?”

  “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

  “Who knows. Maybe she doesn’t like sport bikes.”

  “Maybe she does,” I said.

  He typed a quick response. “This ought to be a safe response. I have both. What’s your preference?”

  “Send it,” I said.

  He pressed send. The phone beeped. He read her message and let out a laugh. “Well, she passed.”

  “Passed what?”

  “The test,” he said. “She wants you to ride the Harley.”

  “Ask her why she asked the question,” I said. “About the sport bike versus Harley.”

  He typed another message. In a matter of seconds, the phone beeped again. Goose read the message out loud.

  “I was once told that sport bike riders were unpredictable maniacs and that Harley riders were only after one thing. Sex. Although the former might be fun, on Saturday, I’d prefer the latter.”

  I smirked. “Tell her I’ll be riding the Harley.”

  213

  Reggie

  I’d never ridden on a motorcycle before. It wasn’t at all what I expected. I had every expectation of enjoying it. Quite the opposite was true. When we turned corners, I was sure we were going to tip over. When we came to a stop my stomach filled with fear that we’d rear end the car in front of us. Visions of my ragdoll-like self being flipped over the handlebars and into the street—only to be runover by another passing motorist—played over and over, like a scene from a M. Night Shyamalan horror movie.

  When we arrived at the restaurant, I was a bundle of shaking nerves.

  He pulled off his helmet and glanced over his shoulder. “Are you always nervous when you ride?”

  “I’m a motorcycle date virgin,” I admitted.

  He chuckled. “It shows.”

  After convincing myself we were no longer moving, I removed my helmet and handed it to him. “How?”

  “You were tense the entire time.”

  “How often do these things tip over?” I asked.

  “With experienced riders? Providing no one crashes into you, never.”

  “How often does someone crash into a motorcycle?”

  “Per vehicle mile traveled, you’re less likely to be involved in a crash on a motorcycle than in a car,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “Did you just make that up?”

  He stepped off the motorcycle and reached for my hand. “It’s statistical data.”

  “Oh.” I took his hand in mine. “Well, that makes me feel a little better. I was convinced we were going to die before we got here.”

  He helped me off the motorcycle, which I thought was nice. Relieved that we made it to the restaurant alive and that the ride from hell was over, I eagerly followed him across the parking lot. Once inside, I searched for the restroom. A path worn through the dated seashell-pattern carpet marked the way to the bathroom, which was nestled at the end of a narrow corridor just inside the entrance.

  Making a few adjustments to my appearance was going to be in my best interest, especially if I wanted our dinner date to go my way. I smiled at the elderly hostess and then glanced at Tito. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

  “Okay.” He faced the woman, who seemed to have aged a little in the last sixty seconds. “Table for two.”

  In slow motion, she removed two menus from the hostess station, then began to shuffle toward the center of the restaurant. “Follow me.”

  She was adorable. I grinned at the sight, knowing I’d have ten or so minutes to kill while she was escorting Tito to the table. I glanced in his direction. “I’ll be right back.”

  I went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Despite wearing a helmet during our trip, my hair had exploded. I looked like Albert Einstein. If Albert Einstein had tits and a crease across his forehead, that is.

  Across the middle of my forehead a crease remained, marking where the helmet had rested during the forty-five minutes of hell that I’d endured. Frustrated that I hadn’t thought of it before getting on the motorcycle, I quickly braided my hair. I made a few adjustments to my makeup and checked myself in the mirror. Short of the valley that ran from one side of my forehead to the other, I looked presentable.

  I wasn’t going to capture his attention with my looks, that much I was sure of
. My magnetic personality was all that remained. I’d lure him into my sexual web with wit, wisdom, and wanton behavior.

  I glanced in his direction as I walked through the dining area. He was a handsome man, no doubt. It wasn’t his looks, however, that garnered my attention. There was a mysterious cloud of unknown that accompanied his being. I studied him, wondering just what it was that gave off that vibe.

  I’d nearly reached the table before he made eye contact with me. When he did, I wagged my eyebrows playfully.

  Straight-faced, he returned the gesture.

  He had good eyebrows. They weren’t oddly shaped, and they didn’t meet in the middle, which was a pet peeve of mine.

  I sat down across from him and offered an apologetic grin. “Sorry. My hair was a disaster.”

  He looked me over. “I didn’t think so.”

  I smiled. “Thank you.”

  He ran his open palm over his scalp. “At least I don’t have to worry about that.”

  His closely-cropped hair and his eyebrows shared the same overall appearance of neatness. I grinned just a little. “I suppose not.” I took a precursory glance around the restaurant. “Do you eat here often?”

  “This is my first time.”

  The dark-stained wood of the rickety armchairs was chipped and worn from years of use. The high-traffic areas of the outdated carpet had thinned to the point that loose threads were sprouting up like freshly-planted grass. The ceiling was still stained from cigarette smoke that had risen into it thirty years past. Nevertheless, the place was filled with smiling patrons who were shoveling seafood into their eager mouths.

  I shifted my gaze from an elderly man who was dipping crab legs into a tub of butter as fast as his wrinkled hands would allow him to. “What made you pick this place?”

  “Suggestion from a friend.”

  I faced him. “A good friend?”

  “He’s basically a brother. He said, if you like seafood, that’s the place to go.”

  “Do you like seafood?”

  “I do.”

  “If this is the place to go, and the person who told you about it is basically a brother, how did you just find out about it?” I asked. “Why haven’t you eaten here before now?”