Page 332 of Devil’s Disciples

He struggled not to smile. “Thanks.”

“So, what did you realize?” I asked. “A minute ago? When you said you realized something?”

He gestured toward the street with a nod of his head. “I’m leaving that car here. I need a ride to get my bike.”

“You’re leaving it here?” I screeched in disbelief. “Out there on the street?”

He swallowed heavily and then cleared his throat. “It was Porter’s car. In his will, he left it to the owner of this place. One of the stipulations was that I had to drive it here. Deliver it, or whatever.”

“George?” I asked excitedly. “He gave that car to George?”

“You know him?”

“He’s the best. He’s got a pretty cool car, too. A Mercury Marauder. Porter built it for him. George talks about him all the time. I guess they were pretty close.”

“I didn’t know they were close.” Sadness clouded his James Dean-esque features. “Explains why he left him the car, I guess.”

I reached for his hand, but paused before touching him. “I’ll take you to get your bike. But the ride’s conditional.”

He smiled a crappy little smile. “On what?”

“Give me a ride on your motorcycle afterward.”

He smiled. This time for real. “You’ve got a deal.”

120

Goose

Being in a motorcycle club made succeeding at a relationship a difficult task. Being in the Devil’s Disciples Motorcycle Club made doing so impossible.

I was a biker from head to toe, and always had been. From the time I was old enough to balance myself on a minibike, I’d been riding. In my early teens, while escaping the often-violent grasp of my alcoholic parents, I realized the feeling of freedom one could obtain on two wheels.

At that moment, I was hooked.

I later decided cars were for people who were satisfied with simplicity. Riding a motorcycle 365 days a year isn’t an easy task. If it was, everyone would do it. Only those who were willing to make sacrifices could claim to be a hard-core biker.

Although I was a hard-core biker, a criminal, and a professional thief, I wasn’t an asshole. I left that task to the club’s resident prick, Reno.

I knew how to treat a woman. I knew how not to treat a woman. I had a good understanding of what a woman wanted from a man. By any means of measure, I should make a good husband, boyfriend, or fuck buddy.

When it came to relationships, the problem wasn’t me.

It was the club.

Protecting the club, the club’s activities, and its members was my priority. Over everything. Part of that protection required hiding the club’s ongoing criminal activity. A woman’s natural curiosity caused late-night outings and weekend-long club ventures to become matters of contention. Lying was the only way to conceal the truth.

Based on experience, I knew that lying in a relationship was a one-way ticket to failure.

Simply giving a woman a ride on my motorcycle, however, wouldn’t require me to lie, be manipulative, or be deceitful.

So, that’s what I agreed to do.

A simple ride.

We’d ridden up Mission Boulevard, through La Jolla. I got on the 5 after going through Torrey Pines. Now exiting the freeway at Encinitas, we’d been on the road for over an hour.

If I hadn’t seen Ally get on the bike myself, I wouldn’t have known she was back there.