Page 510 of Devil’s Disciples

Reno

Proud that the poker run was a huge success, and that the Devil’s Disciples played a part in organizing it, I held my head high as we entered the highway.

Riding north out of Oceanside on our way to San Clemente, the motorcycles stretched for as far as the eye could see. Open to anyone on any style, make, or manufacturer’s motorcycle, the colorful line of chromed steel machines included everything from old-school Hondas to new Harley baggers.

Each of the Filthy Fuckers in attendance that had an Ol’ Lady had her on the back of their bike. The Devil’s Disciples, short of Tito, had an Ol’ Lady on the back of theirs, too. In watching Tito enter the highway ahead of me, I felt a tinge of sorrow that he hadn’t found someone to at least attend the event with him, even if it was only for one day.

The day was typical of Southern California in the late winter. Gorgeous, sunny, and no wind whatsoever. With the sun warming my back, and Carma’s hands resting against my hips, we headed up the highway at a pace slow enough to enjoy the view, and just fast enough to keep from falling over.

The exhaust note from the three thousand motorcycles made a rumble that warmed my heart and caused the hair on my arms to stand on end.

“You alright back there?” I asked.

She pressed her chest against my back. “I’m perfect.”

“Enjoy the ride,” I said. “It’ll speed up here pretty quick.”

In no time we were two abreast at double-digit speeds suitable for highway travel. Passersby either stared straight ahead or gawked at the sight. Some took pictures.

Others cringed.

I’d been fascinated with motorcycles—and bikers—since childhood. Texas, like California, was suitable for riding a motorcycle year-round. As such, the weather lured men from some of the biggest—and most notorious—outlaw motorcycle clubs in the nation.

Seeing the bikers traveling in groups, the riders’ faces plastered with a fuck you smirk, and hearing the deafening sound of the exhaust as they sped past left me feeling that there was no other place I’d love to be than on one of the magnificent machines.

When I turned eighteen, I bought my first Harley. Since that day, it had been my primary mode of transportation.

Therapy on two wheels.

We stopped in San Clemente, at an apparel shop, to get our card punched. The twenty-minute ride took just over an hour.

I swept the kickstand down and shut off the engine. “What did you think?”

“About?”

“The ride,” I said.

“I loved it.” She scanned the parking lot. “We stop four more times?”

“Yep. It’ll speed up a bit after this. Some of these guys will wait here for a bit before they take off. It’ll thin out into groups.”

“I like the sound of it,” she said. “It’s, I don’t know, intimidating and calming at the same time.”

I hung my helmet on the handlebars and took hers from her. “Better go with the girls to piss, we won’t stop again until Huntington Beach. Probably an hour.”

She got off the bike, kissed me, and scurried away, joining Kimberly, Andy, Ally, and Peyton at the edge of the building.

While they giggled and messed with their ponytails, I stepped to Baker’s side. “Weather’s perfect.”

“Nice day for it, that’s for sure,” he replied as he strolled toward the building’s entrance. “How’s your girl holding up?”

“Carma.” I gave him a look. “Her name’s Carma.”

He chuckled. “How’s Carma holding up.”

“She’s doing just fine. Doesn’t even need to piss. What’s funny?”

“You’re funny.”