Devil's Disciples MC Series- The Complete Boxed Set

by Scott Hildreth

  “I don’t get out much.”

  It seemed like a reasonable response. Hard to believe, but reasonable. “You spend your time at home?”

  “Most of it.”

  I wondered why. Southern California’s population typically spent their idle time in the sun. The weather was perfect for outdoor activities and was the reason most of the people lived here in the first place. It certainly wasn’t because the commute was easy or that housing was affordable.

  I gazed blankly at him, trying to decide which direction I wanted to steer the conversation. He claimed to be a homebody, but the tone of his skin suggested otherwise. His glowing tan wasn’t achieved from watching television or reading a book in his living room.

  The mysterious cloud that surrounded him thickened.

  I cleared my throat. “You didn’t get that tan from binge watching Netflix.”

  “I manage self-serve carwashes,” he explained. “A motorcycle’s my mode of transportation. I spend the workday in the sun.”

  Managing self-serve carwashes was miles away from where my mind had taken me. I’d conjured up images of him working as a security guard for a famous female pop star, being the muscle for a criminal motorcycle club, or working in waste management.

  I looked at him like I’d caught him in a lie. “You manage carwashes?”

  “From here to Oceanside,” he said with an affirmative nod.

  “Have you seen the Sopranos?” I asked. “The show about the mafia with James Gando-whatever?”

  “I have.”

  “When Tony Soprano was asked what he did for a living, he always replied he was in waste management. It was a play on words. He killed those who stood in the way of his criminal enterprise, and then disposed of the bodies. So,” I cocked a suggestive eyebrow. “Do you manage carwashes, or do you clean up messes?”

  The skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled. A faint smile formed. “You’ve got quite an imagination.”

  He looked innocent when he smiled.

  I wasn’t fooled. Even so, I smiled in return. “I come about it naturally.” I pushed my menu to the side and locked eyes with him. “You didn’t answer the question.”

  Still wearing the slight grin, he pushed his menu to the side mockingly, held my gaze, and leaned forward. “I manage car washes. It’s a simple job that allows me to work alone—at my own pace—and it pays well.”

  His responses were sincere, and without the telltale ticks of an expressed lie. He was either a great liar, or he was telling the truth. I gave a nod of approval. “I’ll accept that.”

  He relaxed against the back of his chair and rested his forearms on the worn wooden armrests. “How did you come about your imagination naturally?”

  Listening to my father’s theories regarding his cases while we ate dinner fed my imagination as a child. Admitting that to Tito wasn’t high on my to-do list. In my early years of dating, my father had managed to scare away several of my potential boyfriends. Finding out I was the daughter of a cop seemed to make men uneasy, regardless of their reluctance to delve into criminal activity.

  Wishing he hadn’t asked, I reached for my water glass. “I grew up with a parent who was always putting together scenarios that were based on theory instead of fact. My exposure to him and his ideas caused my imagination to blossom.”

  “Mother or father?” he asked.

  “Father.”

  “What was his profession?”

  “A detective.”

  “Currently or retired?”

  “Currently.”

  He feigned indifference, but his flushing face gave away his true feelings. He took a drink of water and struggled to swallow it. “Oh, really?”

  I wasn’t prepared to allow my father’s career choice to become the wedge driven between me and the one-night stand sitting across from me.

  “Yeah,” I said. “As far as cops go, he’s pretty cool, though.”

  He looked away. “Is he?”

  I’d hoped for a light dinner followed by a heavy dose of dick. His interest in me was fading and fading fast. Hell, I’d be lucky to finish my glass of water and get a goodnight hug. I needed to recover and do so quickly.

  “He’s employed by the Sheriff’s department, but he specializes in organized crime,” I explained. “He works hand-in-hand with the DEA, ATF, and FBI, trying to catch people who operate criminal enterprises. Gangs and stuff. Nothing you need to worry about.”

  All the color drained from his face. “Sounds like interesting stuff.”

  “Welcome to Sandy’s,” a weathered voice said from behind me. “Have you had time to look over the menus?”

  I glanced over my shoulder. My grandmother’s doppelganger tapped the tip of a mangled golf pencil against her notepad.

  “Can you give us a minute?” I asked.

  “Sure,” she said with a crooked smile. “I’ll come back in a few minutes.”

  “Thank you.”

  As she shuffled away, I looked at Tito and let out a sigh. “You don’t manage car washes, do you?”

  He wiped his brow with his forearm. “I do.”

  “You seem nervous,” I stated. “Really nervous.”

  “The general population distrusts police officers,” he argued. “They fear corruption.”

  “According to who?”

  “A recent survey I read.”

  I coughed out a lungful of disbelief. “You’ve recently read a survey about police corruption?”

  He nodded. “A few weeks ago.”

  “Why?”

  “I found it interesting.”

  “Do you fear the police?” I asked.

  He cleared his throat. “I believe there’s corruption in some departments, albeit a small percentage. With people being eager to plaster their bad experiences on social media and much less willing to share their positive encounters, I think the general public has become biased in their opinions of law enforcement. Despite those observations, I don’t fear them, personally. If you noticed a change in my demeanor when you revealed your father’s occupation, it was shock, not fear.”

  His little speech regarding law enforcement was clear, concise, and well thought out. I gave him a look of disbelief. “You sound educated.”

  “You seem surprised.”

  “It’s just. It’s not what I expected from a biker.” As soon as the words passed my lips, I wished I could retract them.

  His gaze narrowed. “That was a little prejudicial, wasn’t it?”

  He was right. It was prejudicial. It wasn’t surprising, though. My mouth often delivered comments before the dab of common sense I possessed could stop it.

  At the rate I was going, sex with Tito was nothing but a pipe dream. Realistically, I would end up spending what was left of my Saturday night in a wine-induced dance around a backyard bonfire while Mel tossed the few articles of clothing my ex left behind into the flickering flames.

  My shoulders slumped in defeat. “It wasn’t meant to be.”

  “I’ll try not to take it as such.”

  I offered him an apologetic look. “Can we start over?”

  “Sure.” He looked away for a moment, and then met my gaze. “I’ve got a friend that’s pretty savvy on matters of human nature. He told me you were planning to use me. In his opinion, infidelity ended your relationship, and you were intending to use me for sex to get back at your ex. Is there any truth to his belief?”

  My face flushed with the warmth of embarrassment. I could deny his claim, but there was no sense in it. My beet-red cheeks told the truth, even if I wasn’t willing to.

  Attempting to own the mortified look I was undoubtedly wearing, I grinned a guilt-ridden smile. “I’d say he was pretty accurate in his assumption.”

  “Might not be a bad idea to eat before we get started.” He raised his menu until it obstructed his face. “You’re going to need the nourishment.”

  Nourishment?

  I blinked. “Huh?”

  “I don’t need you crampi
ng up in the middle of an all-nighter due to some deficiency in your diet,” he said from behind the menu. “Let’s eat before we get started, shall we?”

  I hadn’t had an all-night sexual romp since my sophomore year in college. The thought of it was frightening. For an instant, anyway.

  I swallowed against my tightening throat. “An…an all-nighter?”

  “If I have one shot at this.” He lowered the menu. “I’m going to make it worth my while.”

  214

  Tito

  Reggie was a bundle of nervous apprehension when I picked her up and had remained that way throughout the night. She finished her first glass of wine in an instant. Now half-way through her second glass and waiting on our food to arrive, the nervousness she possessed was diminishing. Relaxed in her seat and grinning permanently, it appeared her protective walls were coming down.

  “What made you nervous about riding on the motorcycle?” I asked.

  “Oh. My God. What didn’t? It’s definitely not what I expected. I can tell you that much.” She flipped her braid over her shoulder and chuckled. “I’m just glad we made it here alive.”

  “Do you feel safe in a car?”

  “If I’m the one driving?” She studied her wine glass. Apparently dissatisfied that it was almost gone, she lowered it to the table. “Sure. Sometimes when I’m riding with others, not so much.”

  “Did you feel unprotected? On the motorcycle?”

  “It’s hard to explain.” She traced her thumb around the edge of the glass. “Vulnerable. I felt vulnerable.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  “It’s just. I had expectation of loving it. Girls rave about them,” she said. “I don’t know how many times I’ve heard how awesome it is to ride on a motorcycle. No disrespect, but if I make it home alive, I’ll probably never get on one again.”

  At least she was honest. I wondered how many of the women who regularly rode on the back of a motorcycle truly enjoyed it. My guess was they were there because the man riding it wanted them to be.

  “Do you suppose the women you’re speaking of—the ones who claim it’s awesome to ride on a motorcycle—are lying?” I asked.

  “They’re either lying or they’re stupid,” she said dryly.

  “They’re certainly not for everyone, but motorcycles are both fun and safe. If they’re ridden with respect, that is.”

  “The federal government mandates that cars must comply with safety standards,” she said. “They have regulations that vehicles must pass. Did you know that?”

  I did but chose not to admit it. “I didn’t realize that, no.”

  “Those regulations prevent Joe Schmoe from putting a V-8 engine on his leather recliner and driving it down the freeway.” She leaned toward the center of the table, as if preparing to tell me a secret. “A motorcycle provides about the same amount of protection to the rider as a V-8 powered recliner.”

  I mentally laughed at the thought of some hillbilly driving a Barcalounger down the freeway. Feeling compelled to defend bikers in general, however, I tried to do just that. “I think most people get in their cars, buckle their seatbelts, and leave for their destinations with the understanding that they’re safe. Subsequently, they drive carelessly, under the false impression that the vehicle will protect them from harm. Most experienced motorcycle riders, on the other hand, are extremely defensive in their manner of riding. They must be. They’ve got to deal with the careless drivers. The motorcycle might not provide the structural protection that an automobile does, but a cautious rider makes up for it in his ability to avoid the situations that the driver of a car won’t even notice.”

  “You’re saying drivers of cars are less attentive than motorcycle riders?”

  “Generally speaking? Yes.”

  “I disagree.”

  “Based on what?” I asked.

  “Based on the fact that I think you’re mistaken.” She leaned against the back of her chair and gave me a look like she didn’t believe a word I’d said. “I don’t know where you get your facts, but I see motorcycle riders doing dumb shit all the time. Splitting lanes on the freeway. Riding wheelies. You name it. I’ve seen it. Then when I see a guy squashed on the freeway, I just shake my head and say, it was only a matter of time.”

  I cleared my throat. “I said a ‘cautious rider’ avoids accidents.”

  “Is there such a thing? A cautious rider?” She laughed. “That’s an oxymoron, isn’t it?”

  I wasn’t going to convince her to like motorcycles. As I contemplated which direction to divert our conversation, the waitress approached the table with a plate in each hand.

  “The fish special for you,” she said, carefully placing one of the plates in front of Reggie. She turned and handed me the other plate. “And the grilled octopus and shrimp for you.” She glanced at each of us. “Anything else?”

  Reggie started to speak, and then took pause.

  “Bring each of us a glass of wine, if you would, please,” I said. “Whatever she’s drinking is fine.”

  “I’ll be right back,” the waitress said with a smile.

  Reggie eagerly gulped down what was left of her wine and reached for her fork. “Sorry I went on that tirade. I just. I don’t know. I really don’t care for the entire motorcycle thing like I thought I would. I’ve never been one to sugar-coat my responses, either. I’m like the first base umpire. I call ‘em like I see ‘em.”

  “Are you a baseball fan?”

  “Not really,” she said. “That’s just a phrase my dad always said, and now I find myself saying it.”

  “The police officer?”

  “Detective,” she said, correcting me. “He investigates all reports of bikers riding wheelies on the freeway.”

  “I don’t ride wheelies.”

  Smirking ever so slightly, she cut off a section of fish and lifted it to her mouth. “You’ll stay out of his crosshairs, then.”

  I tried the octopus. Pleasantly surprised at the smoky flavor, I pierced another section and paused. “Is your father a baseball fan?”

  “The biggest,” she replied. “When he’s not ridding San Diego County of wheelie-riding scumbags, he’s watching baseball.”

  “Who’s his team?”

  “The Padres. His father was an original season ticket holder. He started watching them in the 1960’s. He took my father to all the home games. He fell in love with baseball, and his home team. Now, when the Padres are out of the playoffs, he’s done watching for the season.”

  “Sounds like a real fan.”

  “He is,” she said. “Believe me. He lives and breathes baseball.”

  “What does he do in the off-season?”

  “He watches golf.” She acted as if she were vomiting. “The most boring sport in the world.”

  The waitress delivered our wine. Reggie and I continued our conversations throughout the meal and well beyond, focusing on nothing in particular.

  It was not what I expected. It was, however, exactly what I hoped for and everything I needed.

  She tilted her half-empty wine glass in my direction. “How were the octopi?”

  “They were much better than the shrimp,” I responded. “Not that the shrimp were bad. The octopus was fabulous.”

  “Did you know octopodes is the correct plural term? No one uses it, though.” She shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe it’s because it sounds weird.”

  I found it interesting that she knew the Anglicized Latin plural term, octopi—which was acceptable in the English language—was grammatically incorrect. The word octopus is Greek, not Latin, leaving the only true acceptable plural term as octopodes.

  “How do you know things like that?” I asked.

  “I retain useless information.” She swirled the wine in her glass. “I have no idea why. Things just stick in my head. From school. Reading. Studying.”

  “The American people assumed the word was Latin,” I explained. “Because it resembled words like syllabus and alumnus. So,
they used what would be the Latin plural term, octopi. The word octopus, however, is of Greek origin.”

  She drank her wine, studying me the entire time. Apparently, she wasn’t accustomed to men who retained as much useless information as she did. When she finished her wine, she leaned toward the center of the table.

  “Come here,” she said.

  I moved close enough to taste the sweetness of her wine-laced breath. “Yes?”

  “Let’s go to my place,” she whispered.

  “You’ve had quite a bit to drink,” I said. “You sure you’re up for this?”

  “Three glasses?” She leaned away and gave me a stink-eyed look. “Pfft. That’s nothing.”

  215

  Reggie

  A six-ounce glass of wine is said to be standard. Even so, some establishments serve a five-ounce glass, allowing them to pour five glasses per bottle instead of four. The seafood restaurant we ate at offered what I guessed to be an eight-ounce glass.

  The bottom line? I drank an entire bottle of wine. I had no idea how drinking that much would affect most people. For me, it was a huge problem. I was what women described as a lightweight, and men described as a cheap date.

  I was drunk.

  Drunk, and ready to fuck.

  Calm on the outside, but mentally frantic to rid Tito of his tight jeans, I fumbled to get the key in the lock. The warm evening air wafted a hint of his cologne into my nostrils.

  Instantly gratified beyond measure, my eyes fell closed. My mind drifted to the idea of a night filled with earth-shattering sex. Three sexual positions into my sexual daydream, I lost grip of my keys.

  They landed at my feet with a clank!

  Tito knelt and picked them up. “Here, let me help you.”

  He wedged himself between me and the door and opened it, bringing us one step closer to my goal. I stepped inside and glanced around the living room. In a few nights, half of the furniture I possessed would be burned at a celebratory bonfire. For the time being, however, each piece was a potential platform for sex.

  I weighed the benefit of sex in a comfortable bed versus being fucked on every one of the pieces of living room furniture.