Page 61 of Devil’s Disciples

“Ghost made a good point. We’ve got to set emotions aside, and look at our two options. One is to leave it alone, and the other is to kill her. Killing her brings with it the high probability of being caught. Being caught means life is over.” I glanced at each of the men. “Leaving it alone, at worst, brings a ten-year hitch. And, that only comes if she figures out who we are. That time and date will only come if we tell her. It’s easy to say, let’s kill the bitch. Doing it and getting away with it is improbable.” I raised my flattened hand. “I vote we leave it alone. I’ll make the sacrifice to continue fucking this bitch on as as-needed basis for the time being.”

“Leave it alone.” Tito’s hand shot skyward.

Goose raised his hand. “Same.”

“No brainer,” Ghost said.

“Still think the sharks were a good idea,” Reno said. “But I’ll side with the consensus.”

I looked at Cash. He glared at each of the men. “Fucking pussies.” He looked at me. His eyes thinned. “I think this deal smells like bullshit. I’ll vote with the club, but under…”

His gaze lowered to the floor.

“Under protest,” Tito said.

Cash looked up. “Yeah. Under protest.”

I scanned the group. “So. We’re unanimous?”

Each of the men nodded.

“Well,” I said. “I guess I’ll need to get close to this bitch and see what I can find out.”

24

Andy

I looked at each of the pictures. They were perfectly straight and evenly spaced. Baker had taken the time to measure the room, center the pictures on the wall, and hang them with anchors that he set in the concrete mortar joints.

The sideboard was positioned underneath them, and had a large decorative vase at one end, and a small one at the other. In the center, a miniature decorative easel displayed the building’s only announcement. My Gala Christmas Bash.

The door opened slowly. Much to my surprise, it was Baker. Seeing him twice in three days was unusual, but welcome.

He was wearing tight-fitting jeans, worn Chucks, and a white tee shirt with a heather gray vest over it. On his head was a cool gray hat with a purple feather in the side. He looked like a walking commercial for a hipster bar, not a biker.

I smiled. “Good morning. I like the fedora. It’s a nice look on you.”

“It’s a porkpie.”

“Huh?”

“It’s not a fedora.” He took it off and tipped it toward me. “It’s a porkpie.”

“Well, whatever it is, I like it.”

He scooped his hair away from his face and put it on. “Thank you.”

While I was busy trying to come up with a good reason to keep our relationship a non-relationship, he sat down and glanced over his right shoulder. I studied his tattooed hand as he stroked his beard. His hands were sexy. Too sexy, to be honest.

A man’s hands were a weakness of mine.

A man’s hands and his dick.

And, his beard. And clothes. And eyes. Oh God, yes. His eyes.

Baker’s eyes were impossible to describe. It wasn’t the color or the shape that made them unique. It was what happened when he looked at me. His intentions seemed to be scattered about in the iris, which often left me staring into them in hope of learning his thoughts.

“I like the decorative touch,” he said.