Page 192 of Devil’s Disciples

“Wanna bet?” she asked.

I was confused. “Wanna bet, what?”

“My father cheated on my mother. My mother shot him. She died in prison.” She arched an eyebrow. “What else you got to talk about?”

I couldn’t believe my ears.

“You uhhm. Seriously? Your parents?”

“It’s true. She shot him, he died, and she went to prison. I went and lived with my aunt.” She gestured toward the living room. “How long you going to sleep on the couch? What? Does the bed smell like him? Can’t stand to sleep in it? Yeah, been there, done that, too.”

I stared back at her with an open mouth.

“You and I are a lot alike,” she said. “Wanna tell me stories about the kids at school that called you names because you’re biracial? Well, guess what? Me, too. My mother was Brazilian. They called me a ‘Spic, a nigger, a Puerto Rican, and some of them called me a Gook. Hell, you and I have a lot we can talk about.”

It wasn’t any one thing that she said. It was everything, combined. Cash, my money, my parents, her parents, losing Cash, loving Cash. It just became all too much. I pressed my back against the counter and lowered myself to the floor.

Within a few seconds, I was crying.

“I love him so much,” I blubbered.

She sat down at my side and put her arm around me. After crying on her shoulder for a while, the tears subsided.

“How about this?” she asked. “When they go out and do things we’re not allowed to know anything about, you can hold me, and I can hold you. Together, we’ll get through it. Just like military wives.”

I wiped my face on my forearm and then looked at her. “Are you afraid that one day Baker might not come home?”

“It gnaws at me every day,” she said. “Here are my choices: I can either be miserable, or I can be with him. There isn’t another option. He’s the one, and he’s the only. Maybe you should ask yourself the question.”

“What question?”

“What are you willing to do for love?”

74

Cash

I twisted the throttle tight and veered into the lane that didn’t exist. Splitting traffic on the freeways of Southern California required a keen eye, a steady set of hands, and a tremendous amount of balls.

With one lane of cars six inches from my left hand, and the other lane six inches from my right, I blew through the traffic jam at eighty miles an hour, splitting the two lanes in the middle. Most states didn’t allow splitting traffic, as it was too dangerous. It was legal in California, of all places, which made no sense whatsoever – their freeways were far more congested than any other state.

One wrong move on anyone’s part, and I’d have to be scooped up with a shovel.

I didn’t care. I had places to be, people to see, and problems to resolve.

Since Kimberly asked me to leave, it seemed I’d thrown caution to the wind. I wasn’t suicidal by any means, but I placed little value on my life. That much was certain.

With my eyes fixed on the vehicles positioned a quarter of a mile ahead, I shot through the non-existent lane hoping that whoever was at my side didn’t toss one of their doors open to get a breath of fresh air or spit the saliva from their chewing tobacco out onto the freeway.

In fifteen minutes I’d traveled the twenty miles without incident and had only five to go. With flashing lights ahead, I released the throttle and coasted to the end of the line of stationary traffic.

Two police motorcycles, an ambulance, and a wrecker marked the spot of the accident. As I crept past, I noticed a plastic sheet covering a body, a sure sign that someone’s clock had ticked its last tock. Beside the body, the remnants of a motorcycle were scattered beneath a tractor trailer.

May God be with you, my brother.

As I cleared the accident, I twisted the throttle as tight as I could. In and out of traffic I weaved, making the last five miles pass in the blink of an eye. One exit later, and I was entering La Mesa.

The mile of access road passed in seconds, leaving me with nothing but two blocks to travel.