Page 82 of Devil’s Disciples

When their bullet-riddled bodies were laid to rest, I was in Montana, developing a palate for Malt-O-Meal. No one cried, no one cared, and no one attended the funeral. My first birthday was celebrated three months later with a big bowl of home-made ice cream and a two-layer white cake with chocolate fudge frosting.

When I was a kid, I wondered if I was destined to follow in his footsteps. As I grew older, I learned there were no genes for intelligence, and that the mutations that lower intelligence in mankind were non-specific, and idiosyncratic.

In short, my father was one of a kind.

Consequently, so was I.

I got out of the shower, wrapped a towel around my waist, and walked into the living room. My morning trip to the window revealed another sunny San Diego sky. A black Dodge Charger was parked across the street, Alfredo’s truck was at the curb, and the bookstore that doubled as a hipster coffee shop was preparing to open.

It was almost seven in the morning, and Andy was still sleeping in my bed. Making the decision to have her stay the night wasn’t as easy for me as it should have been.

My life didn’t have many firsts left in it, and her sleeping over was the first time I’d ever had a woman sleep in my bed. It was also the first time I’d ever been in bed with a woman and not had sex with her.

I didn’t regret the decision. As I admired the lines of her face, however, I was reminded that getting her out of my house would require that she walk past each of the MC’s men. It was something I’d realized before asking her to stay, but not something I was eager to deal with.

I turned away from the window and walked into the bedroom. “Andy,” I said softly. “Wake up.”

She turned from her back to her side. After a moment, she opened her eyes.

“Good morning,” I said. “How’d you sleep.”

She smiled. “Good.”

I smiled and nodded before I turned toward the bathroom. “It’s six forty-five, you should probably get up.”

I took four steps before she said something. I had doubts I would have made it that far.

“Whoa. Stop. Hold on a minute,” she said, her voice dry and coarse from the night’s sleep. “What’s that deal on your back?”

I tensed. It was something that had to be done. It didn’t make doing it easy. I glanced over my shoulder. “It’s a tattoo.”

“No shit. Devil’s what? What’s it say?”

I turned around. “Disciples. Devil’s Disciples.”

“What is that?” She sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Are you in a gang?”

“No. I’m in a motorcycle club.”

“Oh wow. Like Hells Angels?”

“Kind of.”

“Why didn’t you just put it on one of those little leather vests? Like all the other motorcycle gangs do?”

“Club. We’re a motorcycle club. And, I didn’t do that because I’m not like everyone else and this club’s not like anyone else’s.”

“What makes it different?”

I walked to the edge of the bed and sat. “Most motorcycle clubs are filled with men that need the club for one reason or the other. They didn’t have enough attention paid to them when they were kids. Their parents got divorced. Someone took their lunch money in school. They tried to join the police force and couldn’t pass the psychiatric exam. Whatever it is they wear their colors on their vests proudly as a deterrent to outsiders. That patch says, don’t fuck with me, I’m a badass, and I’ve got a hundred brothers that will kick your teeth in if you don’t believe me.”

“And this Devil’s Disciples club isn’t like that?”

“Not at all. We’re not in it for recognition. Actually, quite the opposite. We’ve got the tattoos to prove our loyalty to one another. To prove our lifelong commitment.”

“So, it’s a forever thing?”

“It is.”