BAKER (Devil's Disciples Book 1)(31)

“Sierra,” I said. “Her name was Sierra Simon.”

She gave me a condescending look and then turned toward the window. “Yeah. Sierra. Fucking bitch.”

Holly placed blame for the affair on the waitress, saying that she should have had enough common sense not to fuck a married man. She set up fake accounts on every social media platform imaginable, and friended her on Facebook while posing as another person. After a few years of stalking her, she eventually let it go.

But she never found fault in Hank’s actions.

I, on the other hand, viewed it no differently than I viewed my father’s decision to cheat on my mother. He had a responsibility to be faithful to her, and he didn’t meet it. He made a conscious decision to crush her belief that he loved her and her alone. I viewed the aftermath, entirely, as being his fault.

It wasn’t a matter of if a man would cheat, it was a matter of when. For men, it seemed lying was second nature.

“Hey!” Holly shouted. “Is this him?”

Her voice brought me back to reality. I wiped my watering eyes as I walked toward the window. “Huh?”

She pointed toward the glass. “Is this your guy?”

The faint sound of a motorcycle running grew louder as I approached her. I stepped to her side and looked out the window. A man with crazy hair was seated on a motorcycle that was parked at the curb in front of the adjoining building. Standing on the sidewalk beside the man’s motorcycle, was Baker.

“Oh wow. Yeah. He’s the one on the sidewalk with the beard and tattoos.”

Holly pressed her forehead against the glass. “That guy on the motorcycle took off his helmet, and I was like, holy crap.”

I looked at her. “What?”

“He’s sexy.”

I took another look at him. His long hair hung in his face, and his arms weren’t completely tattooed, like Baker’s. Instead, they were spotted with small pieces of illegible artwork. “He looks like a thug.”

“So does that other guy.”

“Whatever.”

Baker seemed nervous. Every few seconds, he glanced over each shoulder. After a moment, the man on the motorcycle nodded and put his helmet on. Then, Baker turned toward the building, and the man rode away.

Holly took a step back and looked at me. “Looks like they were doing something shady.”

“Looked to me like two friends talking.”

She made a face as if she’d swallowed a worm. “Your guy looks sketchy.”

“Not as sketchy as that ex-con on the motorcycle.”

“He kept looking over his shoulder, like he thought the cops were coming.”

“Who? The ex-con?” I asked, although I knew she meant Baker. For some reason, I felt the need to defend him.

“No. Your guy.”

I gave her a cross look. “His name is Baker.”

“He looks sketchy. He acts sketchy. I say he’s sketchy.”

I tossed my hands in the air. “He might be,” I said. “I don’t care. I’m not married to him, I’m just riding his dick.”

As much as I told myself that was the case, the spasm in the pit of my stomach said otherwise.





EIGHTEEN - Baker





Our MC had several rituals, most of which were a result of my superstitious beliefs. For one, on the eve of every job, we went out to eat as a group. Our choice for the night was Hunter Steakhouse. A no-frills dive with a small seating area and large portions, it was known for mouth-watering Prime Rib.

Unlike most motorcycle clubs, we didn’t wear colors. In our opinions, donning a leather vest with a patch stitched on the back wasn’t enough of a commitment. Additionally, the vests drew unwanted attention to the group, making the members a target of the local, state, and federal authorities.

We chose to have the MC’s patch tattooed on our backs. In the club’s eyes, joining the MC was a lifelong pledge; therefore, the patch should be a comparable commitment.

We rode our motorcycles side-by-side, and equally spaced. That formation was maintained regardless of speed, and our speed was ever changing. Cash and I set the pace, as we were in front. If we sped up, the group sped up. If we slowed, the group slowed.

Although we had many choices, we rode our Harleys when riding as a group. A mismatched group of bikes that spanned four decades in age, their only common theme was loud exhaust pipes.

Cash twisted his throttle back and held it in place. I accepted the challenge without question. The high speed would test my body’s ability to absorb the imperfections of California’s roadways.

In half a mile, the group was veering in and out of traffic, changing lanes three at a time, and speeding past vehicles that were moving much slower than the MC’s one hundred miles an hour. The sound from the motorcycle’s exhaust was close to deafening, and stood as a warning against anyone considering getting in our path.

When our headlights illuminated the exit sign to Highway 8, Cash let off the throttle. The laughter and shit-talking started as soon as the sound of our exhaust cackled to a dull roar.

As we rolled into the restaurant’s parking lot, Reno shouted at Cash. “I had mine about half-throttle. Might want to get that ‘Glide checked out. Probably needs a set of rings.”

“Motherfucker doesn’t need rings, asshole,” Cash retorted.