BAKER (Devil's Disciples Book 1)(20)
He pulled his hand out of my pants and took a step back. After looking me over, he sucked my juices from his finger, and then turned away.
He opened the door and glanced over his shoulder.
I gazed back at him with the waist of my pants around my thighs, my panties pulled low enough to reveal my soaking wet pussy, and my mouth wide open. I made no effort to collect myself. I simply stared at him as if waiting for his instruction.
Then, it came to me. It was his eyes.
His mysterious eyes. I was being held hostage by them.
He scanned me from head to toe, and then grinned. “Pull your pants up, Andy. You never know when someone might barge in here.”
I zipped up my pants. I wasn’t weak in his presence.
I’d become powerless.
NINE - Baker
I stood at the window and gazed blankly at Andy’s bike. I needed to get rid of her, and I knew it. If any of the men found out I’d fucked the girl from the bank, they’d question my loyalty, and my ability to act as President of the club.
My life’s biggest fear had become Cash seeing and recognizing her. If he did, he’d put a bullet between her eyes. Afterward, he’d cut my throat. The answer was to stop fucking her. It wasn’t going to be easy, but it was necessary. The thought of never fucking her perfect little pussy again troubled me much more than I wanted it to, and had been haunting me since I woke up.
I shook my head, scanned the street, and then turned around.
Our clubhouse looked more like a frat house than it did a motorcycle club’s meeting room. Three 1970’s pinball machines were equally spaced on the left wall. Beside them, a black refrigerator decorated with hand-painted hotrod pinstripes was filled with bottled beer. On the opposite wall sat a pool table that doubled as a ping-pong table. Centered over the pool table, a vintage Lone Star Beer light hung. It was one of the few items Reno brought with him from Texas.
On the farthest wall was a commercial grade kitchen suitable to cook for the entire Naval fleet stationed at Point Loma. Goose demanded that the equipment he used on be of high quality. Considering depth of his menu, I gave no argument. The man could cook like no other, and volunteered to do so for each of our club’s feasts.
In the center of the room, a comfortably worn u-shaped leather sectional capable of seating twelve was where our meetings were held.
Contrary to the beliefs of outsiders, there were no stripper poles, no tables with the club logo carved into the wood, nor were there by-laws or regulations posted on the walls.
The club’s rules were easy to follow and even easier to remember. Getting in the club required that you didn’t lie, cheat or steal. A one-way ticket out was promised if a member killed the elderly, a woman, or a child – unless the act was in self-defense or deemed permissible by a club vote.
That was it.
Professional thieves that took an oath not to steal. Laughable, when one gave it much thought.
Seated at their normal positions on the couch, the men looked like they were preparing to watch a football game. Each of them either held a beer or had one within their reach.
I looked at Cash. “Our next job has the possibility of being our most profitable.” I glanced at each of the men. “It’s highly likely that it goes hell in a hand basket, too. It’ll require each of us give our best, a hell of a lot of planning, and one hell of a lot of luck.”
“Biggest potential problem?” Ghost asked.
“Getting caught,” I said with a laugh. “It’s an hour from here if traffic’s good. We’ll make a quiet escape, but we need to be prepared to outrun some small-town cops.”
Just over six feet tall and muscle from head to toe, Ghost was the best getaway driver in the Western Hemisphere. He split his free time between the gym and the racetrack, where he honed his skills to perfection. There were many times we’d certainly have been caught if it had not been for his skills in evading the police.
“I say we ride the Ducatis and use backpacks for our haul,” he said. “Hell, there’s not a car in SoCal that’ll keep up with a Panigale R model. Quick getaway is why we bought ‘em, wasn’t it?”
The motorcycles he was referring to were Italian superbikes built for racing, but sold to any member of the general public who could afford the near thirty-thousand-dollar price tag. With a top speed of over two hundred miles an hour, Ghost was right. No one would catch us.
Hauling a few hundred pounds of stolen gold in a backpack could – and probably would – prove fatal if one wrong move was made during the escape. Furthermore, six matching black and silver Ducati superbikes at a jewelry store in a town of two thousand would draw more attention than cock in a convent.
“The job’s in Rainbow.” I crossed my arms. “Six matching Panigales would have the cops there in less than five minutes. We’ve got to be in and out in ten.”
“Truck and enclosed trailer,” he said. “Put a vinyl sticker on the truck that says Hector’s Horse Barn. It’ll look legit. We could put the bikes in the trailer, and nobody’d be the wiser. I’ll drive the truck. The five of you could haul out the cash.”
It wasn’t a bad idea, other than a truck pulling a trailer would make a slower getaway than a ’67 VW Beetle. Having any of the men stopped and questioned by police wasn’t a risk I was willing to take.