Page 185 of Devil’s Disciples

“It’s not okay,” I said. “But it’s how it has to be.”

“You need to get some sleep. You’re delirious. Good thing that douche wasn’t over here, because if he’d have said that shit in front of me, you’d be asking me to leave.”

“With you, it’d be a one-time thing. With him, it’s standard procedure.”

“How do you know that?” she asked. “You’ve known him for a month.”

“In a month, this has happened twice. Tito has his jaw wired shut to prove it. If I was just ‘fucking’ him, it’d be one thing. But I’m not. It’s more than that. I’m falling in love with him.”

I cleared my throat, and then began to cry. “I was falling in love with him.”

72

Cash

It had been a week since I’d spoken to Kimberly. The text messages I’d sent had gone unanswered, and the hand-written note I’d left asking her to call hadn’t produced a response.

The thought of losing her consumed me. I ached, but I tried no to show it. The men in the MC may not have been my only love, but they were my first. It was time for me to focus on something other than my heartache.

With Reno still in recovery, and us incapable of changing the window of opportunity, we voted to raid the drug dealer’s home with the five remaining men.

Although he was only a month into his six-week recovery time, Tito refused to participate in the robbery without being able to speak. Much to the surprise of the club, and to his doctors, he chose to remove the wires that tied his mouth shut.

Left with a series of steel fittings fixed to his teeth – but with the ability to speak clearly – he looked like he had braces. He was yet another reminder of the bad decisions that caused my relationship with Kimberly to fail.

Using a glass cutter, Goose scored a section of the sliding door’s glass, affixed the suction cup handles, and nodded toward Baker. While we huddled under the pool deck’s canopy, Baker tapped the glass lightly with a plastic mallet. On the third strike, the four-foot round section pulled free.

As Baker set it aside, Tito went through the opening. After double-checking the security system’s output on his phone, he gave the nod of approval. I followed, and the remaining men trailed in one by one, after me.

Ghost sat watch in the driveway, with the SUV ready for a quick getaway.

I glanced around the gaudy mansion. Luckily, the owner had left random lights on throughout the home, making it easy for us to see our way without drawing attention to the fact we were there.

Gold-framed oil paintings of unrecognizable men – undoubtedly mentors of the home’s owner – were on every viewable wall. Ornate furniture, most of which appeared to be hand-carved, filled what portions of the travertine floor that weren’t used as a means of perusing the mansion.

The blueprints of the home that Tito obtained through the county’s records department were spot-on. Knowing what rooms were where, however, gave us no idea of where the eccentric heroin dealer kept his valuables.

Wandering aimlessly through a ten thousand square foot six-bedroom home – hoping to find the safe, strong box, or a hideaway – had my butthole cinched so tight it could have crushed a walnut.

“This place is insane,” I whispered.

“Nice artwork,” Goose joked, motioning to a painting of a man holding a gold-plated AK-47.

More nervous than a nun at a penguin shoot, I walked gingerly through the home, hoping to see something.

As per Baker’s instructions, each of us went to the bedroom we were assigned. After traveling up the stairs, Tito took the master bedroom, and I went to the bedroom described as number two.

The remote home sat on a large lot that was a little more than five acres in size, most of which was covered in trees. The portion that wasn’t tree-lined was a shielded from view by the mountain the home had been built against.

I stepped into the dimly lit room and turned on my flashlight. The room was almost as large as my entire home. A quick check of the obvious places: under the mattress, beneath the dresser and night stand drawers, and beneath the throw rug, produced nothing.

The closet had no hidden openings, and no safe.

The two pictures that hung on the walls concealed nothing, nor did the toilet’s tank. I pointed my light directly at each of the screws that affixed the heating and air vents in place, hoping to see signs of tampering, but each one appeared to be unaltered.

Frustrated, I walked to the next room. Baker was finishing his survey. He looked at me with hopeful eyes. “Anything?”

“Nothing.”