Page 275 of Devil’s Disciples

“I’ll be fine.”

“Your hands were a blur. I was just wondering if you were some Kung Fu master or some crap. That was awesome. I don’t hate people, but I come really close to hating Luke, just so you know.”

“He’d be an easy one to hate,” he replied.

Since the incident at the movie theater, Porter seemed sidetracked and incapable of focusing. “Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked. “You seem off, or whatever.”

“I’m thinking.”

I sucked on the straw until my cheeks caved in, gaining another mouthful of the perfect blend of chocolate and malted milk. With the straw resting on the tip of my tongue, I looked up. “About?”

He stared at the entrance for a while, and then looked at me. “I’m not who you think I am,” he said, his voice filled with regret. “Not entirely.”

My heart fell into the pit of my stomach. I pushed the malt to the side. “What do you mean?”

He glanced over each shoulder and then held my gaze. “I need to tell you some things about me.”

I felt sick. The malted milk rose until it tickled the back of my throat.

I swallowed heavily. “Okay.”

“The motorcycle club I ride with is an outlaw club,” he said.

I waited for him to continue, but he didn’t. I’d heard the Outlaw MC term before but wasn’t completely sure what it meant. I didn’t think it was all that bad, though. Not when compared to other things.

“What does that mean?” I asked. “In terms I can understand.”

“Well, it means the members of our club fall within the one percent of riders that aren’t willing to live by the rules of society. But, with us, there’s more to it than that.”

So far, I was relieved with what he’d revealed. There was obviously more he wanted to say, and I wanted to listen to anything he was willing to offer me.

“If you want to explain,” I said. “I’ll listen.”

He nodded. “I can’t go into detail, but I can speak in general terms.”

Anything was better than nothing. His reluctance to continue made me more nervous than anything. His opening statement of I’m not the man you think I am still had my stomach in a knot.

“Okay. I mean, I’d just like to know more about ‘I’m not the man you think I am’. When you said that, it made my stomach do flips.”

His jaw tightened. He looked away, toward the ice cream cooler that was on the far wall. While he stared blankly at it, he began to speak. His voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. It was almost as if he was narrating a movie.

“I had a few run-ins with the law when I was a kid. Nothing much to speak of. Fighting, and riding a scooter through town without a license. I realized at a young age that I liked outsmarting the cops. I liked outrunning them even more. By the time I was a senior in high school, I’d been in a handful of high-speed chases with the cops and had never been caught. I’d stolen an old car from a salvage yard, built an engine for it in shop class, and kept it hidden on my grandparent’s farm, in a windrow of trees. My friends and I would take it out, raise hell, and get the cops to try and catch us. The thrill of outrunning them gave me a high that nothing else could match. Although they tried, they never caught me once. The local cop referred to the guy in the sixty-five Fairlane as a Ghost. The name stuck, and I became ‘Ghost’.”

A sigh of relief shot from my lungs. “That’s cool how you got your nickname. You had me scared there for a minute. I thought there was going to be more to it than that.”

“There is,” he said without looking at me. “Gimme a minute.”

My stomach started churning.

“Four of my closest friends and I moved here after we graduated school, and we started this motorcycle club. We didn’t abide by the law. In fact, we broke the law.” He shifted his eyes to meet mine. “Intentionally.”

I acted indifferent, waiting for him to elaborate. My stone-faced expression allowed him to continue without much pause.

“In our outlaw endeavors, we needed to escape quickly. I was, of course, the driver. Crime after crime, year after year, I never got caught. I became the club’s good luck charm. The getaway driver. The Ghost.” He looked at me. “That’s who I am. I’m a biker, an outlaw, and a getaway driver.”

The thought of him being a criminal was exciting. It also scared the shit out of me. The first question I asked him when we met was if he was a real biker. I didn’t expect him to be a model citizen, nor did I want him to be. I didn’t expect him to be a getaway driver for a group of outlaws, either.

I took a moment to digest what he’d said, and then drew a shallow breath. “Can I ask what kind of things you guys do?”