Devil's Disciples MC Series- The Complete Boxed Set

by Scott Hildreth

  He was right, burning a person’s belongings in the back yard sounded like insanity, for sure. “The fire? Yeah, that’s crazy.”

  “Not the fire,” he said. “The police. I mean, really? They were in Reggie’s backyard burning Jared’s things. They weren’t hurting anyone, that’s for sure. Police scare me. They’re always too quick to pull the trigger. Luckily, Reggie blurted out that her father’ a detective, and they lowered their weapons.”

  “Why were they holding knives?”

  “They used them to carve up the couch before they lit it on fire. Reggie said it was all slippery and sticky, and she was afraid that it wouldn’t catch fire unless they exposed all the poofy stuff in the cushions.”

  “The green couch?” I asked.

  He tapped my shoulder with the tips of his fingers. “You’ve been there. I forgot. Yes. The green one. Sadly, it’s no more. Personally, I liked it. She, on the other hand, hated it. I think it was a personal matter with Jared loving it. You know, a subconscious thing.”

  “I didn’t think it was too bad.” I shrugged. “Kind of a weird color.”

  “Apple green? It wasn’t for everyone, but I loved it. I’ve got socks that match it perfectly.”

  Reggie stepped behind the counter and was ringing the girl’s purchases up on the register. I looked at her and then at Raymond. “Tell me something about her that you think I should know, but that she’d never tell me herself.”

  “About Reggie?”

  I nodded.

  “She hated Jared long before she made him leave. He was far too timid and compliant. She never complained to him, but she did to me. All the time. If you want to win her heart. Be assertive.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “Not an asshole,” he said. “Assertive. There’s a huge difference. Be nice to her.”

  I laughed. “I will.”

  His face went stern. “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.”

  He straightened a folded shirt and met my gaze. “Thank you.”

  Reggie handed the girl her bag of belongings and offered a smile. The girl smiled in return and waved on her way out. As the girl left the store, Reggie came to where Raymond and I were standing.

  Her hair was up and tied with a leopard print bow. A black sleeveless top showcased her athletic arms. Jeans and leopard print flats topped off the simple—yet remarkably attractive—ensemble.

  “You two looked like you were having fun,” she said with a smile. “What were you talking about?”

  Raymond looked like he’d been caught stealing a pack of gum from the 7-Eleven.

  “We were discussing your hair,” I said. “How good it looks today. Raymond was telling me about all the different styles you wear. We agreed we like it when it’s up.”

  Relief washed over Raymond. He thanked me with his eyes and then took a step away from Reggie. He gave her a slow-motion once-over.

  Reggie reached for her bow, touching it lightly as if to make sure it was still in place. She looked at me, and then at Raymond. “Really?”

  “It looks fabulous,” Raymond said. “I tell you that all the time.”

  “Thank you.” Reggie shifted her eyes to me. “And, thank you.”

  I grinned and gave a reassuring nod.

  “Sorry,” she said. “But I don’t know anything about your hat yet. I haven’t heard back from corporate.”

  “I’m not worried about the hat.” I locked eyes with her. “Does Friday or Saturday work better for you?”

  She seemed embarrassed. “Whaaa—”

  “Friday or Saturday,” I said. “Which is best?”

  A confused look came over her. “For what?”

  “We’re going on another date,” I said. “Which day works best? Friday? Or Saturday?”

  “I uhhm. Well,” she stammered. “I—”

  “I’ll pick you up at six on Saturday,” I said. “At six.”

  The corners of her mouth curled up a little. “At my house?”

  “Correct.”

  “Okay,” she said, checking her watch. “I’m sorry. It’s way past closing time. We need to get started on our inventory.” She glanced at Raymond. “If we don’t get started, we’re never going to get out of here.”

  “I hate Wednesdays,” Raymond replied.

  “Sorry I was tied up with that girl for so long, but I need to lock up,” Reggie said with an apologetic smile. “I guess I’ll see you Saturday.”

  I smiled and turned away. “I’ll see you then.”

  As I stepped out of the store, Raymond pulled the security grille down behind me.

  “What will you be driving?” Reggie asked from inside the store.

  “The motorcycle,” I replied.

  “Seriously?”

  I smirked. “Face your fears.”

  “Believe me,” she replied. “I am.”

  221

  Reggie

  I gestured toward the crumbs on Tito’s otherwise clean plate. “I’m guessing you liked it?”

  “Who wouldn’t?” He dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “That was the best Reuben I’ve ever eaten.”

  “I hoped you’d like this place.”

  South Beach Bar and Grille was on Mission Beach’s boardwalk. It had a “secret menu” of several items that only the regulars knew about, leaving the general public to simply go without knowledge of the tasty items.

  The Reuben sandwich and oysters Rockefeller were two of my all-time favorites, both of which weren’t on the menu. After Tito let me pick our dining establishment for the evening, I felt obliged to force him to try the restaurant’s beloved secret offerings.

  He glanced over his shoulder, toward the ocean. “It’s got a great atmosphere, too.”

  “My friend Mel and I used to come here on Sundays for the all-you-can-drink Bloody Mary’s. I think we’re the reason they quit doing it.”

  “Why aren’t you drinking tonight?” he asked.

  “Seriously?” I found it odd he even felt the need to ask, unless he wanted to rub it in. I glared back at him playfully. “You refused to have sex with me because I was drunk the last time we went out. I’m not going to risk having that happen again.”

  “There was more to it than that.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “It wasn’t just because you were drunk. There was more to it than that.”

  “Like what?”

  “I enjoyed our time together and wanted a second date,” he replied. “That was the biggest reason.”

  “You thought if we had sex—”

  “I was afraid if we had sex, I’d never see you again.”

  “After kissing me like that?” I coughed a laugh. “Seeing you again was inevitable. I had to find out if it was a fluke, or if it was real.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “That was a compliment, wasn’t it?”

  “Uhhm. I suppose.” I grinned. “Yeah. I guess so.”

  The waiter stepped to Tito’s side. “So, what did you think about that sandwich?”

  “It was fabulous,” Tito said.

  He reached for Tito’s plate. “We’re afraid if we put it on the menu, it’d be all we sold.”

  Tito looked up and nodded in agreement. “You’re probably right.”

  “The Reuben may have been invented in New York, but we perfected it here.” The waiter looked at me, and then at Tito. “Can I get you anything else? A drink? Dessert?”

  Tito looked at me, and then the waiter. “Give us a few minutes, can you?”

  The waiter took my plate and offered a smile. “Sure.”

  “It makes me mad every time they say that ‘it was invented in New York, and it was perfected here’ crap,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Because,” I said. “The Reuben wasn’t invented in New York.”

  “Why didn’t you correct him?”

  “I used to correct people all the time,” I admitted. “It make
s me seem pretentious. I’m trying to keep my mouth shut.”

  He chuckled. “I have the same problem.”

  “With what?”

  “Correcting people.”

  “Oh really?”

  He nodded. “Keeping my mouth shut isn’t easy, either.”

  “Do you know where the Reuben was invented?” I asked.

  “I do.”

  I took a drink of water and studied him. His mouth was twisted into a smirk.

  “I don’t believe you,” I said.

  “What’s it worth if I give the right answer?” he asked.

  “A third date,” I responded.

  “Arnold Reuben had a sandwich shop on East 54th Street in New York City.” He rested his forearms on the edge of the table, leaned forward, and locked eyes with me. “He claims to have invented the sandwich in 1941. Coleslaw, ham, turkey, and mustard were his ingredients. Definitely not a Reuben. But, in Omaha, Nebraska, in 1934, the menu at the Blackstone Hotel included a Reuben on the menu. A cook named Bernard allegedly made the first sandwich for a poker player named Reuben. Its ingredients? Pastrami, rye bread, Russian dressing, sauerkraut, and swiss cheese. Therefore, Bernard Schimmel was the inventor of the much-loved sandwich, and he assembled the first one in the coffeeshop of the Blackstone Hotel in Omaha, Nebraska.”

  He was right. My jaw hit my lap.

  I stared at him in disbelief. What biker knew the truth about the Reuben sandwich? Other than me and the granddaughter of the inventor, what person knew the truth about the Reuben? Until that moment, I thought the only living creature who had a mind stockpiled with a mountain of useless information was me.

  Apparently, I was wrong.

  “Wow. I’ll uhhm,” I stammered. “I’ll let you pick the restaurant on the third date.”

  He leaned away from the table and looked me over. His mouth curled into a grin. “Looking forward to it.”

  His smile wasn’t smug. It was almost apologetic. I wondered if for some weird reason he knew about Reuben sandwiches and not much of anything else. The odds of that were staggering but it was a possibility, nonetheless.

  “Are you a sandwich aficionado?” I asked.

  “Not so much, no.”

  I was perplexed. “How did you know that?”

  “I don’t know,” he said dismissively. “Probably just read it somewhere.”

  I desperately wanted him to be the holy grail. A badass biker on the outside, and a nerd’s nerd on the inside. A man who could fight his way out of a barroom brawl, drive home covered in the blood of others, and then watch Jeopardy! after he took a shower.

  I slipped my hand under the table and crossed my fingers. “When was the Sistine Chapel built?”

  He reached for his water. After taking a drink, he let out a light sigh. “1479.”

  My heart raced. “Who painted the ceiling, and when?”

  “Michelangelo.” He took another drink. “He started in 1508 and finished in 1512.”

  I couldn’t believe it. I stared at him like he was a three-headed hippopotamus. If he could fuck like a porn star and fight like a professional boxer, my quest would be over.

  “Have you ever been in a fight?” I asked. “Not like, I don’t know, not like a playground pushing match, but an actual fight?”

  “Bare handed street fight, or in a ring?” he asked.

  It didn’t matter to me. Either would suffice. I shrugged. “Either.”

  “I have.”

  Upon hearing his response, I could feel my heartbeat in my pussy. I crossed my legs. “Which?” I squeaked.

  “Both,” he replied. “My family developed a form of Brazilian Jiu Jitsu. My father and uncles train MMA fighters.” He coughed out a light laugh. “I’ve been practicing martial arts in the ring since I was old enough to walk. And, as much as I hate to admit it, I’ve been in a few fist-fights while in bars with the motorcycle club I ride with.”

  My mouth went dry. “Did you say…” I swallowed against my tightening throat. “Motorcycle club? You ride in a motorcycle club?”

  “Yes. For now, at least. I’m considering walking away from it, though.”

  Ding, Ding, Ding. We’ve got a winner.

  My knees began to involuntarily wag back and forth. There was only one thing left to find out, but it wasn’t anything I could determine by simply asking a question. It required action. Action that would get us arrested if we were in a public place.

  Immediately to my right, the waiter was clearing the flatware from a table. I raised my index finger and cleared my dry throat. “Can we get that check, please?”

  222

  Tito

  When I went to the mall the first time, I was drowning. Grasping for anything that would allow me to break the water’s surface and draw a breath, I asked Reggie on a date. My hope was that her presence would allow me to forget my loss.

  Now on the heels of our second date, I feared that Reggie was what I’d been hoping to find but feared didn’t exist.

  A woman who was intellectual and intelligent, without allowing either attribute define her.

  Throughout my life, I had searched for anyone who was able to garner my attention with their intelligence, hoping they’d follow with intellectual banter. To date, many had proven to be intelligent. A few were intellectual.

  None were both.

  I stood just inside Reggie’s door, feeling somewhat out of place. A normal man would undoubtedly already have his boots unlaced and be reaching for his belt. I, on the other hand, felt the need to determine just who Reggie was before I did anything. Knowing would allow me to decide which path I wanted to take.

  I scanned the sparsely decorated living room and then looked at Reggie. “This might sound weird or out-of-place, but can we talk for a minute?”

  An exhaustive sigh escaped her. Her shoulders slumped. “Not again...”

  “Just for a few minutes,” I said apologetically.

  “Fine.” She glanced around the empty living room, and then waved her hand toward the breakfast table at the edge of her kitchen. “We can talk in there.”

  With some reluctance, I did as she asked. It wasn’t easy, nor was it natural. I ached to touch her, to kiss her, and to explore her, sexually. Before I did anything, I needed to know if I was allowing myself to attach my heart to what remained of our evening or set it aside for safekeeping.

  I sat down at the small table and she took a seat across from me.

  She let out a long, exhaustive sigh and looked up. Her face wore a look of frustration. “What do we need to talk about?”

  “We don’t need to talk about anything. I want your opinion about something.”

  Her interest seemed piqued. “My opinion?”

  “Yes.”

  “About?”

  I pushed myself away from the table. “The hippie movement of the 1960’s.”

  Her brows raised in disbelief. “You want to talk about the 1960’s hippie movement?” she bellowed. “Are you serious right now?”

  “If you must know.” I lifted my right boot and rested it on my left knee. “I know you’re intelligent. I want to determine if you’re intellectual.”

  She huffed out a sigh. “And you want to do this now?”

  “Where we go from here hinges on my findings.”

  “You’re attracted to someone who is both intelligent and intellectual?”

  “Correct.”

  Wearing a smug look, she cleared her throat. “A generation of people whose parents were preoccupied with material objects decided those things didn’t matter—their manner of living life did. Women were sick and tired of being seen and not heard, blacks wanted to put an end to racial discrimination, and everyone began to question authority. Artists, authors, musicians, filmmakers—you name it—they all stood up and said…” She stood from her seat and pointed her index finger at me. “I’m going to do this my way, and I’m not going to allow you to censor me any longer. People listened to the Beatles and the Rolling Stones while lookin
g at Roy Lichtenstein’s pop art, not knowing that it would influence comic books fifty years in the future. Andy Warhol got high and gave away art that no one understood but would later be worth tens of millions. Freedom of speech and freedom of assembly were exercised and met by opposition. People gave their lives for what they believed in, and the world’s eyes opened. The people demanded—and obtained—change.”

  “Personally, I think it was a bunch of bullshit,” I said, straight-faced.

  “Bullshit?” The veins on her neck pulsed in opposition to my remark. Her look hardened. “Are you a racist?”

  “No.”

  She gave me a side-eyed look. “A misogynist?”

  “No.”

  Her hands shot to her hips. “You’re just an idiot?”

  “I like to think not.”

  “That movement gave minorities their much overdue rights,” she fumed. “The handicapped, gays, women—they were all given a voice, recognition, and rights.” She began pacing the floor. “The sexual revolution began, which, by the way, made casual sex an acceptable practice. Birth control became mainstream, and people—for the first time—admitted that fucking was a great recreational activity. One that no longer had to include marriage.” She paused and glared at me. “Bullshit? Censorship was challenged, and subsequently lifted from movies, television, and radio. Everything changed. You can go watch movies like Pulp Fiction and The Purge because those people stood up instead of standing down. Bullshit? Tell that to those who died at Kent State. Bullshit? Tell that to Martin Luther—”

  “I was kidding,” I said, interrupting her midway through her tirade.

  Still glaring, she huffed to catch her breath.

  She was intelligent and intellectual. She was exactly what I needed, wanted, and had spent a lifetime hoping to find.

  All that was left was to see if we were sexually compatible.

  I stood.

  She gave me a quick once-over. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

  “Well, originally I was thinking of bending you over that green couch, but you lit it on fire.” I nodded to the left. “How’s the bedroom sound?”