Loving the Devil Dog

Chapter One: The Sonoran

SABRINA

When I pull into an old, somewhat rundown gas station in the desert, the very first thing I notice are the missing persons posters plastered all over the wall.

"Hello?" I call out.

The place is strangely empty, and I have to walk around a little to find an old man sleeping in a creaky old rocking chair.

"Hello, sir?"

I feel a little bit bad when he startles awake, but my van needs refueling, and I'm sure he'd rather be woken up than have me just help myself to the gas pump.

"My god." He clutches his chest as he takes a moment to calm down. "Girlie, you just about jump started this ol' ticker for the last time."

"Sorry about that, but, uh, could I get twenty on pump one?"

"Mhm," he hums. "But you're going to want to get right back in your van and go back the way you came. This side of the Sonoran is Devil Dogs territory, and that hunk of junk sounds like it's already running on borrowed time."

I offer a polite smile. "Thanks for the advice."

I know damn well the old buzzard is full of shit—after all, he was sleeping pretty deeply when I found him—but if there's one thing I've learned over my years on the road it's that there's no point in wasting time arguing with people I'll never see again.

"I'm serious, when the Devil Dogs ride in, people who go into that stretch of desert don't come out," he warns, and I shake my head.

"I'm not afraid of bikers," I scoff. "I've dealt with big burly dudes on Harleys before."

"Not like these, you haven't." His eyes were full of fear. "When the Devil Dogs come a'calling, you'll know you're not dealing with any normal men."

"I think you might have had a little too much of the shine." I roll my eyes, gesturing toward the glass jar sitting beside his chair. "Because that's ridiculous."

"Suit yourself, girlie." He shrugs, picking up his seemingly forgotten drink. "But you'll find out—they always do."

I let out a long exhale through my nose. It's obvious that this guy's just like every run of the mill superstitious yokel—every rural area has them. The smaller the population the more people let the shadows play tricks on their minds.

In my life, I've met plenty of shitty people, and a real-life person who wants to do me harm is way scarier than any imaginary monster could ever be.

That said, the missing persons posters felt a little more personal on my way back to the van.

Maybe the Devil Dogs weren't monsters, and maybe bikers were usually just big tough guys who think they're hot shit, but these numbers don't lie.

My eyes flit across all the names and faces—there doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to the missing; no common denominator that ties all of them together, and my heart races as I wonder if I might end up seeing his name, or maybe his face.

Would I even recognize him after these past few years? Would he have changed his name?

The telltale roar of motorcycles snaps me out of my introspection, and before I can think about it my head swivels in the direction of the loud noise—metal music blaring from the speakers on the leader's bike.

I accidentally lock eyes with him as he comes to a stop, and even though I mentally kick myself for staring, I can't seem to look away.

He'd be absolutely irresistible, if he didn't come off as such a fucking try hard.