Page 356 of Devil’s Disciples

My softly spoken words were the last straw. Together, as if connected by something more than our bare flesh, we reached the pinnacle of sexual climax as one.

Oh. My fucking. God.

“Oh my God,” I breathed.

As he came, his chest pressed against my back. His hands, pinned between me and the dash, continued to knead my flesh.

When it ended, I collapsed against him, completely stripped of my strength.

“That was fucking amazing,” he murmured.

“That’s the first thing we’re going to agree on,” I said with a laugh. “It was.”

“Your pussy is perfect.”

“So’s your cock.”

He let out a breath and laughed a light laugh. “Wonder if our food’s cold.”

I glanced toward the diner. The car’s windows were fogged so badly that seeing through them was impossible.

Denial of what we’d done to anyone who’d bothered to pay attention would be impossible.

I didn’t care.

I’d finally got what I was after.

128

Goose

Despite the popularity of motorcycles in Southern California, the distinct sound of Harley-Davidson’s Shovelhead engine was something rarely heard. As the replacement for the unreliable Panhead engine, the now outdated and underpowered Shovelhead was produced from 1966-1984.

Hardcore bikers outfitted their motorcycles with the engine for reasons unknown to modern-day wannabes who chose to ride their machines with multi-colored metal-flake paint schemes to Starbucks every other Sunday for a cup of overpriced coffee.

Upon recognizing the distinct sound, I peered over the edge of the roof. The low idle speed and the unmistakable exhaust note each time the approaching motorcycle came to a stop was an all too familiar sound.

Shovelhead’s ran like a striped-assed ape and sounded like absolute shit. They were beautiful and grotesque at the same time.

Baker pulled into the driveway and shut off the engine. I pushed my shears into my back pocket, stood, and surveyed the morning’s work.

“I’m up here!” I shouted.

The sound of his boot heels against the concrete drive confirmed he’d traveled alone. As soon as he stepped onto the roof, I knew something was amiss. His long face and tired eyes warned me not to bother asking. He sauntered toward where I stood.

I could count Baker’s solo trips to my home on one hand. Each one brought with it a unique revelation. He never stopped by “just to talk”.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” I said, turning away. “Beer or tea?”

“Whiskey,” he replied. “Something smooth.”

Whiskey at ten am on Sunday. I didn’t like the sound of it. Nonetheless, I returned in a few moments with a bottle of Macallan single malt and two glasses.

After pouring two shots of mind-numbing size, I set the bottle aside and handed him one of the glasses. “You look like hell.”

He held the glass beneath his nose and drew a breath. “I’ve got a cop’s head in one of my saddlebags. It’s not a good feeling.”

He downed the shot.