Page 218 of Devil’s Disciples

I swallowed heavily. “What did you say your name was?”

“Abby. Like the Beatles album, Abby Road.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a small weathered notepad. “Is this your first meeting?”

“It is,” I admitted.

“It’s weird,” she said, flipping through the pages as she spoke. “Before you come through that door, you feel helpless and alone. You push it open and walk in, hoping for answers. To find someone that you can hold accountable. Then, you find out all that’s available is a roomful of compassion, a little experience, and a lot of understanding. You know what, though?”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“It’s all we need.” She handed me the notepad. “Look at number thirty-two.”

I smiled again, even though I told myself not to. Her energy was undeniable. I glanced at the small sheet of paper. Eight hand-written items were on the page, seven of which had been crossed out. The one that remained, take a ride on a motorcycle with a real biker, was number thirty-two.

She extended her arm, holding her open hand over my lap. I glanced down, and in doing so, checked the status of my stiff dick. Relieved that I wasn’t going to embarrass myself, I gave her the notepad.

“What is it?” I asked. “A bucket list?”

“It’s a to-do list,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “I’ve hand it since I was thirteen. I’ve added things to it over the years.”

I tilted my head toward the notebook. “How many things are in there?”

She folded it closed and then dropped it into her purse. “Hundreds.”

I was fascinated. I wanted to know things about her. Everything. Why her skin was so pale. If her lips were natural, or if she’d had them injected with collagen. Why she wore sneakers with a dress. Why she had two four-inch squares of gauze taped to her legs. What the other one hundred and ninety-nine items on her list were.

“How many have you completed?”

She beamed with pride. “All but six.”

I wondered if I took the time to make such a list what it may include. The thought of it satisfied and scared me at the same time.

She leaned close enough to kiss, and then looked me in the eyes. “Are you a real biker?”

Her outspoken nature would normally cause me tremendous grief. For some reason, however, I found it intriguing. The problem with my dick slowly began to resurface.

“Who says I’m a biker?”

“I heard one pull up earlier. I know the sisters didn’t ride it, and I’m pretty sure Larry didn’t, either. That leaves you and me. The bike I rode had pedals and didn’t have an exhaust so loud it shook the windows.”

“Yes,” I said, quickly going back to thoughts of her dress being hiked over her hips. “I’m a real biker.”

She leaned against the arm of the loveseat, crossed her legs, and then looked me up and down. When she did, her hair fell into her face. “So, Ghost Porter-Porter.” She swept her hair behind her ear. “When do you want to go for that ride?”

I chuckled. “Are you always so blunt?”

Her eyebrows raised. “I haven’t got time to be anything but blunt. I’ve got a busy schedule and beating around the bush is dumb.”

Taking women for rides on my motorcycle wasn’t on my to-do list, and it never had been. Considering the circumstances, I decided to make a minor adjustment to my standard policy.

“How about after the meeting?” I asked.

“Sounds great,” she said with a smile. “If you want to ride to Borrego Springs, we can cross another thing off my list.”

If things like going to Borrego Springs were on her list, it made taking a ride with a real biker seem like not that big of a deal. Suddenly, I felt unimportant and easily replaced.

“A trip to Borrego Springs? That is on your list?”

“Not Borrego Springs, specifically,” she said. “But holding a live rattlesnake is, and that’s the closest desert.”