Page 327 of Devil’s Disciples

Ally

I’d eaten at Abby’s Place every day since my arrival in San Diego. Reminiscent of yesteryear’s ‘greasy spoons’ that once peppered the interstate from coast to coast, it differed from similar establishments in that the owner opted to use ingredients that were free of preservatives and chemicals.

The diner’s offerings were truly made fresh to order. When the day’s ground beef supply diminished to nothing, there were no more hamburgers offered. After they cracked their last egg, omelets and pancakes were stricken from the menu.

Eating there allowed me to consume a stack of Frisbee-sized pancakes without feeling overly guilty that I’d stuffed myself full of things I was incapable of pronouncing.

As a teen, Doritos, corndogs, and Hostess Ding-Dongs were my staples. My father dying at the age of forty-two caused me to rethink my way of living life – and my diet.

Lawson slid the two plates of food across the table. “Watch anything good last night?”

“North by Northwest,” I replied. “I’m not a big Carey Grant fan, but that’s a great show.”

He seemed bewildered. “Haven’t seen it.”

I spent most of my idle time watching classic movies. North by Northwest was one of my all-time favorite thrillers.

I situated the plates into their proper places. “I can loan you the DVD if you want.”

“I might take you up on that.”

I spread my pancakes with a film of butter. After smothering them in pure Vermont maple syrup, I lifted my fork.

Lawson continued to hover over me.

I gave him a good once-over. “Is there a problem?”

He folded his arms across his chest and peered down his nose at the two plates of food. “Who eats a double burger with cream cheese, bacon, and jalapenos and has a short stack for a side? No woman I’ve ever met, that’s for sure. You eat like this every day. I’m surprised you don’t weigh five hundred pounds.”

“I’m surprised at a lot of things, but if I take time to tell you what they are, my food’s going to get cold. Come back in ten minutes, when I’m done. I’ll give you my opinions on government corruption, the lack of depth in modern-day movies, and the overutilization of high fructose corn syrup by the sugar-pushing snack industry that preys on America’s youth.”

He chuckled. “I’ll catch the highlights on that speech when you’re done. Sadly, it probably will be only ten minutes.” He put his hands on his hips and gave me a nod. “Enjoy. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

I lifted my fork and smiled. “Thank you.”

Midway through my mountain of flapjacks, the diner’s windows began to shake. As my butter-laced knife buzzed across the hard surface of the table, my gaze shot toward the street. I fully expected an extraterrestrial invasion to be well underway.

Instead, I was treated to the sight of a Pepper Gray 1967 Shelby GT500. Its earth-shaking horsepower brought me to the brink of climax from one hundred feet away.

I steadied my knife and gawked at the gorgeous sight. Taking it for a few laps at Lime Rock Park, which was one of the nation’s three oldest race tracks—and my father’s favorite place on earth—would be a dream come true.

While the other girls played with Barbies and primped their hair, I walked to the library and devoured the current issues of Road and Track, Car and Driver, and Motor Trend.

I didn’t consider myself a tomboy. I hated the thought of dirt under my fingernails. Nevertheless, the sound of loud exhaust pipes and the vibrations caused by high-profile camshafts did far more than make my butter knife buzz.

The exhaust notes of American muscle cars lulled me to sleep at night as a child and kept me awake with anticipation as a teen. After my father’s death, I was forced to accept my silent evenings and weekends as being what my future held.

Brimming with excitement, I blindly cut sections from my pancakes and forked them into my mouth as I admired the body lines of the fifty-year-old work of art.

Much to my clit’s dissatisfaction, the car’s engine shut off.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. Just as I turned toward my food, I caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye.

I spun to face the window.

Holyfuckingshit.

With my mind in the gutter and a mouth filled with pancakes, I watched as he got out of the car and stepped toward the curb. The contrast of his deeply tanned skin against the sleeves of his stark white shirt did for me what washboard abs did for most women.