Page 501 of Devil’s Disciples

“Doesn’t matter how good she can slob your knob, or whether or not she can put her heels beside her ears, I can tell you that much. What matters is how she makes you feel when you’re not fucking her. When she’s gone, if all you can think about is sex, she’s probably not going to last. If all you think about is being with her again, and you can’t explain why, she’s a keeper.”

I handed him my cup of coffee. “Thanks for the advice, Brother. Dump that shit in the trash, would ya?”

He gave me a funny look. “Where the fuck you going?”

“To Chula Vista,” I said.

“What the fuck for?”

I was already halfway to my motorcycle. “Can’t explain it,” I said over my shoulder.

It was the truth.

I couldn’t even begin to explain it.

183

Carma

Since the day I met Reno, I’d seen him several times a week. Although we’d ridden his motorcycle along the coast, eaten lunch together many times, and even snuck our favorite deserts into a mid-day movie matinee, I felt I knew very little about what was really on his mind. We talked about everything, except for how he was feeling.

Despite our friends with benefits arrangement, we hadn’t had sex once since making the pact. We talked, kissed, and he’d touched me in ways that only a lover would, but there was not so much as a hint that he wanted to have sex with me. I was enjoying my time with him immensely, but I was thoroughly confused.

“I’m sorry.” I poured his water glass full. “But I’m really busy. I can’t talk until things slow down.”

“That’s fine,” he said with a smile. “I’ll just sit here and eat.”

He’d been in the restaurant for two and a half hours, showing up when we opened, and staying through our early and late lunch rushes. He seemed content and had eaten two meals. I, on the other hand, was frustrated that I couldn’t sit and talk with him.

I wanted to get to the bottom of why he didn’t want to attend the event when he had a free ticket to the show.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,’ I assured him.

He undressed me with his eyes in a leisurely manner, and then smiled. “I’ll be right here.”

Mister Ortiz was seated in his usual spot, in the rear of the restaurant. One of the daily regulars, he came in early, stayed late, and ate the same thing every day—huevos rancheros. While he ate, he read the daily newspaper. When he was finished reading, he left. There was always a three-dollar tip on the table, made up with neatly stacked pocket change.

He drank coffee with his meal, and was a widower, leading me to believe his lunch was actually a late breakfast.

I grabbed the coffee pot and scurried to his table. “How’s your food today, Mister Ortiz?”

He peered over the top of the newspaper. “Good, as always.”

I topped off his coffee and glanced at his plate. His food was half-eaten. “Anything interesting in the news today?”

“In the Tribune, or otherwise?”

“Either.”

He lowered the paper and gestured behind me with a nod. “Looks like someone’s sweet on you.”

I glanced over my shoulder. Reno was giving me an admiring look. I turned toward Mister Ortiz and grinned a guilty smile. “He’s kind of my boyfriend.”

He smiled in return. “Kind of?”

“We see a lot of each other.”

He studied Reno for a moment, and then set his paper aside. He picked up his fork, cut off a piece of his eggs and paused. “When he wants something from you, does he ask, or does he tell?”