Page 132 of Devil’s Disciples

Cash

Our MC’s clubhouse was on the first floor of a three-story building that Baker’s LLC owned. The bars, restaurants, and swanky lofts surrounding us acted as a camouflage, making it appear to outsiders that we were nothing more than a bunch of tattooed businessmen who enjoyed riding motorcycles together.

Unlike most motorcycle clubs, we didn’t wear leather vests, jackets, or other articles of clothing that identified us as a group. Our MC’s colors were tattooed on our backs.

During our meetings, we didn’t sit around a table and listen while Baker pounded a gavel into a wooden block to maintain our attention. We sat on a couch, drank beers and ate snacks, and discussed what matters needed attention at that particular point in time.

Our club was unconventional, we were unconventional, and our clubhouse was equally unconventional.

Baker’s business office was on the third floor, and he lived on the second floor. Somewhat of a loner – and cautious about who he exposed himself to – he rarely left the building. Although I often wished the arrangement was different, it wasn’t, and I knew it would never change.

The entire MC – less Baker – sat on the ultra-comfortable sofa and waited for the meeting to start. While I picked the pretzels out of my handful of Chex Mix, he loomed over me. At the instant that I tossed them back into the bag, he cleared his throat.

“How many times have I told you not to do that?” he asked.

“They’re fucking gross.” I passed the bag to Goose. “They should make this shit without ‘em in it. Sell a pretzel-free version and give a man the option of choosing whichever he wants.”

“Well, they don’t.” He glared at me. “And, nobody wants to eat those things after you’ve been finger fucking them. It’s anyone’s guess where your hands have been.”

I raised my cupped hand to my face and shook half the mix into my mouth. “My hands are just as clean as anyone else’s.”

“Throw the little fuckers in the trash if you don’t want to eat them.” He motioned toward the bag, which was now in Ghost’s hands. “I’m gonna quit buying that shit if you can’t eat it right.”

“Jesus, Bake.” I shot him a glare. “There ain’t a right way and wrong way to eat fuckin’ Chex Mix.”

“There’s a right way and a wrong way to do everything on earth,” he insisted. “Throw ‘em in the trash or that’ll be the last bag of that shit I ever buy.”

The world Baker lived in was black and white. In many respects, having him as the President of the MC was a good thing, as the rest of us were a bunch of miscreant misfits who liked nothing better than to drink, ride hard, and fuck women.

His ‘my way or the highway’ manner of running the club left us no alternative other than following his rules. In the end, it was all good, but I didn’t make it easy for him. Bucking his rules and regulations was my way of keeping him on his toes.

I glanced at Ghost, who had already handed the bag to Tito. “Do you like the pretzels?”

He chewed what was in his mouth, and then washed it down with a drink of beer. “Don’t care for ‘em, no. I eat ‘em because they’re in there.”

My eyes shifted to Tito. “What about you?”

“I’ll eat them, but they’re not my favorite.”

I looked at Reno and raised my eyebrows. “Brother Reno?”

“I don’t fuck with pretzels,” he said. “They taste like dirt.”

I gestured toward his snack-filled hand. “What do you do with ‘em?”

“I’m sneakier than you. I leave ‘em in the bag, but I don’t get caught.”

My eyes thinned. “Nobody’s sneakier than me.”

He opened his palm. It contained nothing but the brown pieces of toast, little bread sticks, and Chex. He glanced at his hand and then met my gaze. “See any pretzels?”

I took another look at the contents of his hand. Miraculously, it was pretzel-free. “Nope.”

He carefully picked out one piece of the Chex and popped it into his mouth. “When I get a handful, I feel around, find the pretzels, and then drop ‘em back in the bag before I pull my hand out. Baker never sees me tossing ‘em in the bag because I never take ‘em out.”

I looked at his hand. It seemed no different than mine in appearance. Nonetheless, it had to be wrapped in a far more delicate skin if he could discern the difference between a pretzel and a miniature piece of Melba toast without looking at it.

I gestured toward his delicate digits. “Your fingers are more sensitive than mine if you can feel the difference between a pretzel and a piece of Chex mix without looking at it. I’ve got to get ‘em out and have a look just to make sure what they are.”