Page 228 of Devil’s Disciples

“What’s his…” He twisted his mouth to the side, seeming uncertain of how to continue. “Condition?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “He didn’t want to talk about it. We were discussing faith in the higher power, and he didn’t want to talk about that, either. But, he was really nice. I mean, we rode to Borrego Springs and back, and he never hit on me. Not once. And, he had no idea who I was, so that’s a plus.”

His eyes widened a little. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” I assured him. “He doesn’t believe in social media. He thinks it’s dumb.”

“So, what’s your plan?” he asked.

I scrunched my nose and shrugged one shoulder. “Eat two more pancakes and see what I think?”

“Bring him in here,” he said.

It sounded like more of a demand than a recommendation. Mentally, my head shook vigorously. Outwardly, I tried to remain calm and seem unaffected by his request.

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” I said, using caution to keep my tone emotionless. “Not yet.”

“Bring him in here.” He slid out of the booth and stood. “I want to meet him.”

I had my doubts Porter would show up to the next meeting. He lacked interest in sharing with the group. I suspected his attendance was mandated by his insurance company, and not driven by his desire.

“Let me see if he even shows up to the next meeting.” I offered a smile. “We’ll go from there.”

“Bring him in here.” He folded his arms over his chest. He did it when he was frustrated, and by my count, had already done it twice since sitting down. “That’s three times, if you’re keeping count.”

I gave him an innocent look. “Three times?”

“I said bring him in here three times.” He unfolded his arms and tugged against his apron. “Four, including this one.”

I mouthed the words I’m sorry. “If he comes back, I’ll see what I can do.”

“A fucking biker,” he murmured as he walked away.

The instant George was gone, Lawson set my plate in front of me. After George’s interrogation I expected to be drawn to the steaming hot plate of goodness like a great white shark to a bleeding surfer. Instead, I looked at the Frisbee-sized discs of fried batter with disgust in my eyes. According to my lack of appetite, I wasn’t stuck in the middle any longer. My decision was made.

Without so much as a moment’s thought I pulled my phone from my purse. I scrolled through my contacts and found Porter’s name. When I started to type him a text message, I noticed I had received one that I wasn’t aware of. It was an hour and a half old, and it was from Porter.

I opened it.

Ghost Porter-Porter: Have time to talk?

I was instantly overcome with the same giddy excitement that filled me when Trent Rothchild asked me to senior prom. I fidgeted in my seat to thoughts of riding on Porter’s motorcycle, and of wrapping my arms around his muscular torso. I closed my eyes and tried to resurrect his scent but fell short, relying solely on a mental image of his handsome face and muscular physique as fuel to make me squirm.

I wondered if he had questions about the meeting, about cancer, or if his interests were more along a personal level. Hoping his concerns were minimal and his interest in me was vast, I opened my eyes and typed a quick response.

I’m eating a late breakfast. Other than that, I’m free all day. What did you have in mind?

Instantaneously, my phone beeped. I glanced at the illuminated screen.

Ghost Porter-Porter: Want to meet for lunch?

My heart stammered. Short of a day dream, I’d shared no intimate moments with Porter. Nonetheless, I felt I was battling a premature teen crush.

I searched the diner and found George standing fifty feet away, talking to a young couple I didn’t recognize. There’d be plenty of opportunities for him to meet Porter whenever I felt it was necessary. To do so now would have been awkward. When he looked up I flashed him a quick grin, feeling slightly guilty for not wanting to bring Porter to the diner.

With my phone hidden in my lap, I typed my response.

I’d love to. How does sushi sound?