BAKER (Devil's Disciples Book 1)(50)

There were no walls. The world was my window. The road ahead an open door. For once in my life, I was truly free.

We spent most of the night riding to nowhere. Had we been in a car, it would have seemed mindless. On the motorcycle, I viewed it as one of life’s true blessings. Biker gangs who wore matching vests and rode in large groups along Southern California’s highways were no longer something I feared. Their fellowship made perfect sense to me now. In one sense, at least, I felt I had become one of them.

A person addicted to the freedom of riding.

Just past midnight, we pulled into the alley behind Baker’s building. As we approached the ramp that led to the parking garage, the door opened automatically. Once inside the concrete enclosure, I closed my eyes and allowed the sound the echoing exhaust to massage its way into my soul.

We came to a stop amidst a massive collection of motorcycles and cars. Baker secured the motorcycle, hung his helmet on the handlebars, and turned around.

He patted the fluff from his beard with the palms of his hands. “So, you liked it?”

I nodded eagerly as I fumbled with the helmet, unsure how to get it off. Baker grinned, reached for it, and unstrapped it.

“It’s not as easy as it looks,” he said.

“Show me.”

He lifted the nylon strap, poked it through the two metal rings, and threaded it back under one of the rings. “Just like that.”

“Okay. Next time, I’ll know.” I lifted my gaze to meet his. “There’ll be a next time, right?”

“If you want to.”

“I want to.”

He got off, and then reached for my hand. “Addictive, isn’t it?”

I stepped over the seat and stumbled when I tried to stand. I steadied myself against his chest. “I don’t even know…if I said what I’m thinking, you’d probably think I was crazy.”

“You might be surprised.”

I looked at the motorcycle. It’s black and yellow paint was polished to perfection. Sleek and powerful looking, its appearance alone was an invitation to get a speeding ticket. I shifted my eyes to Baker. “It’s all I want out of life right now.”

He coughed a laugh. “To go for a ride?”

“Uh huh.”

He folded his arms over his chest and gave me a look. “Why?”

My response was gibberish, but it came easy. “Nothing matters out there. There is nothing else. It just. It’s cleansing. I feel like I had an orgasm, got a manicure, pedicure, massage, and had a hot bath all at the same time. And, the wind. The wind washes all of life’s bullshit away.”

He put his hands on my shoulders. “That’s a pretty solid answer.”

“So. We can do it again?’

“We will.”

I was giddy with excitement. “Tomorrow?” I blurted.

He turned and draped his arm over my shoulder. “You want to go tomorrow?”

I liked how he put his arm around me. It was sneaky, but cute. Two weeks prior, it would have seemed out of place. On that night, it seemed perfect. I nestled up to his side as we walked to the elevator.

“I want to go every day.”

“Every day might be tough, but we can go as often as it makes sense.”

I rested my cheek against his shoulder. “Okay.”

We walked to the elevator in silence. The smell of oil, gasoline, leather and his familiar cologne merged into one sweet-smelling scent. I matched his walking pace, and allowed it to filter into my nostrils, and my memory.

It was something I never wanted to forget.

With his arm still holding me at his side, we got on the elevator. As the doors closed, he turned to face me. His eyes smiled.

And then, he kissed me.

His arms wrapped around me, pulling me so close I could feel his heart beating against my chest. It wasn’t a powerful kiss in an aggressive sense. It was soft, meaningful, and extremely pleasing.

The passing of time paused, allowing the kiss to seem to last forever. I felt my heart being tugged closer to his as our tongues danced to a song that he and I seemed to somehow both be listening to. At some point, the elevator came to a stop.

As the doors opened, our lips parted.

I studied his face. He was feeling what I felt. The proof was sprinkled throughout his steel-blue eyes.

He brushed my hair away from my face and looked at me intently. I wanted to ask what was wrong, but those same eyes answered me before I could speak.

There was nothing wrong.

Everything, on that night, was right.





THIRTY-TWO - Baker





Goose finished washing the dishes, inspected each of them for imperfections, and put them in their respective places in the cabinets. After the kitchen was as tidy enough for him to accept it, he poured a cup of coffee and sat down.

“I don’t know how you can drink that shit black,” I said. “You’re going to have ulcers before you’re forty.”

“Coffee doesn’t produce ulcers.” He took a sip. “It’s therapeutic.”

I lifted my cup of cream and sugar laced java. “If it’s doctored up.”

“Adding cream and sugar to coffee is like adding cinnamon to a chili recipe. It ruins it.”

“Who the fuck puts cinnamon in chili?”