CHEAP SMUT: Four Erotic Romance Novels (Boxed Set)

by Scott Hildreth

  CHEAP SMUT

  (Otis, HUNG, Money Shot, and Karter)

  Scott Hildreth

  OTIS

  Scott Hildreth

  DEDICATION

  My first introduction to a motorcycle club was over a decade ago. In a short period of time riding with them, it was apparent why men chose to become members of such clubs. The camaraderie within the ranks of the MC was indescribable. To call the men brothers would be an understatement at best.

  A young man who was a Prospect for the club was denied his patch when his probationary period was over. Immediately following the denial of his patch, he committed suicide at home in front of his wife.

  Ranger, this one’s for you.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  THIS BOOK IS A WORK OF FICTION.

  All names, locations, club names, and incidents in this book are a figment of the author’s imagination, and are depicted in a work of fiction in all regards. Any likeness to fact is pure coincidence. The club depicted in this book does not exist; it was created for this book. Lastly, the colors depicted in the cover and described in this book are a creation of graphic artistry, and are not actually the colors for any Motorcycle Club known to exist by the author.

  COPYRIGHT

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, are coincidental.

  OTIS 1st Edition Copyright © 2015 by Scott Hildreth

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at designconceptswichita@gmail.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Covert art by Jessica www.creativebookconcepts.wordpress.com

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  PROLOGUE

  A man dressed in a dark blue well-fitted suit walked methodically toward the edge of the conference table. After exchanging glances with the ATF agents seated on the opposite side of the room, he hesitated. As he adjusted his tie, he exhaled an audible sigh. Filled with hatred for all Outlaw Motorcycle Gangs, his hands began to shake from anticipation of the pending arrests he believed his branch was certain to make. Eventually, to stabilize his hands and disguise the shaking, he placed them flat on the surface of the table as he leaned forward.

  After clearing his throat, he spoke.

  “Special Agent Pintler, the Grand Jury testimony is paramount to the prosecution of this case. How much additional time is necessary?” he asked.

  Pintler, dressed in jeans, boots, and a leather vest adorned with a Selected Sinners patch, straightened his posture as he raised his hands to the sides of his face. Now rubbing his temples nervously with the tips of his fingers, he inhaled a deep breath, sighed, and fixed his gaze on the Director of Operations.

  “A few more weeks, a month at most,” Pintler said as he lowered his hands to the thighs of his faded denim jeans.

  The Director of Operations released the edge of the table from his grasp and took a step back. Clearly frustrated, he placed his hands into the pockets of his slacks. As he fumbled to find his 1-year sobriety coin he had recently received from his Alcoholics Anonymous group, he bit into his lower lip slightly.

  “I want this OMG, the Selected Shitheads - or whatever they’re called - out of the picture, Pintler. These sons-of-bitches are an up-and-coming group of outlaws that is certain to be a huge threat if left to their own devices. Need I remind you of your responsibility not only to the bureau, but to the branch, and to the citizens of the United States of America?” he asked as he nervously rubbed the coin between his thumb and forefinger.

  Pintler stood from his seat as he continued to press the palms of his hands against his thighs.

  “I don’t need a reminder. I’m well fucking aware of my responsibilities, Sir. You know as well as I do, as well as everyone else in this room, and everyone in the God damned division for that fucking matter, that not having all of the facts of the case in order will lead to a jury finding a not guilty verdict. Hell, a judge would throw this fucking case out of court if we tried to prosecute it right now. I’m currently putting pieces together for the murder of one of their own by the current Sergeant-At-Arms and the President, Todelli and Bishop. I didn’t directly witness the killing, but there have been inferences made that lead me to believe…”

  Pintler paused as he tugged at the bottom of his leather vest. As he released his vest he crossed his massive arms in front of his chest and continued.

  “The local LEA declared it a suicide, but there’s been some discussion it was tied to the sale of the firearms to the Hispanic gang listed in my report earlier this spring; April or May, I don’t remember. I believe it was possibly retaliation for an insider - a Sinner - setting up a robbery during the sale.”

  “This field investigation is currently the longest in ATF history, Pintler. It’s becoming painfully obvious your mind and judgement are clouded. You’re acting as if a murder is…” He paused and shook his head as he continued to rub his thumb against the coin.

  The director pulled his hands from his pockets and narrowed his gaze. “You’re acting as if murdering someone is just another day in the life of agent Pintler. You’re becoming one of them. You’ve been inside this group too damned long. I’m afraid your vision has become blurred. Your allegiance and alliance are with the men and women of the United States, the ATF, and the Department of Justice. Remember that.”

  It bothered Pintler how the director spoke of the group as if the Selected Sinners weren’t members of the United States, but outsiders. Frustrated, and without consciously deciding to do so, Special Agent Pintler began walking toward the exit. As the director continued to speak, he slowly walked toward the door, uncertain of the closing remarks the director made.

  As Special Agent Pintler reached for the door, he glanced over his shoulder. “Is that all?”

  “I want arrests, not excuses,” the director barked.

  Pintler opened the door, hesitated, and turned to face the director. After studying him for a short moment, he turned and walked through the door. As the resentment within him mounted, he silently walked to the elevator, inserted his key into the switch located beside the button pad, and turned it to the right a quarter of a turn. He pressed the button leading to the basement parking and stared down at his boots. In a matter of thirty minutes he was expected to be in attendance for an emergency meeting with the Selected Sinners MC. The ride to the clubhouse would normally take him forty-five minutes. As the elevator door opened, he methodically checked the basement for any onlookers. After a quick survey of the parking floor reserved for US Marshals and ATF agents revealed nothing out of place, he sighed and walked to his motorcycle.

  While the sound of the motorcycle’s exhaust echoed through the concrete basement, Special Agent Pintler checked his watch.

  Eighteen minutes until two o’clock.

  As he squeezed the clutch lever in his hand, the pit of his stomach filled with worry. In each and every meeting he attended with the Selected Sinners MC, he was at risk. He knew if the group of men ever determined he was an Agent with the ATF, or even suspected it for
that matter, he would be killed.

  It was a risk, at least initially, he was willing to take. Considering the amount of time he had been in the field, and his ever growing understanding of the depth of the brotherhood of the MC, he was beginning to second guess if he would be able to testify against the men who had accepted him as a brother.

  Pintler released the clutch and sped out of the parking garage. His mind filled with wonder over who his loyalties were currently aligned with. Over the years, he had become two separate people with two clearly different agendas. He was an agent with the ATF who had taken a vow to protect the United States from certain types of criminals, and he was a fully patched member of the Selected Sinners MC. When push came to shove, he would be required to take a stand on one side or the other.

  Time, he decided, would tell. For now, he knew as soon as he rode from the confines of the garage, he became a Sinner. And a Sinner he would remain until he returned to the ATF offices.

  OTIS

  Axton crossed his arms, flexed his biceps, and clenched his jaw muscles as he surveyed the group of men. He was as predictable to me as any man could be. His telltale signs were clear - at least to me. He was aggravated with something, and wanted everyone in attendance to realize his level of disgust. A much more emotional man than me, Axton believed in the value of intimidation. Personally, I was more reserved than most of the Selected Sinners, and preferred to act over speaking in an authoritative manner. To me, Axton was easy to read. To the other members of the club, he was an unpredictable God. The fact he was president of the MC elevated him by everyone’s standards, and his intimidating nature placed him even higher in the eyes of some men. I stood quietly with my arms crossed and waited for him to speak.

  “Well fellas, we’ve got a clear fucking mess on our hands. The Bandidos and the Cossacks are at war, and the ATF is coming down on MC’s hard all over the country. Right now, they’ve got 200 men in jail on charges of conspiracy to commit capital murder, and I suspect they’ll arrest many more. As I’ve said over and over.” He paused, uncrossed his arms, and rolled his shoulders back.

  “We need to keep our shit wired tight. These sons-of-bitches will make any connection they can to tie us up and charge us under the RICO act. As long as we’re not dealing in illegal arms, we’ve got nothing to worry about. Now I’m not trying to get into your business as individuals, but if you’ve got illegal firearms in your personal arsenal; unregistered machine guns, short barreled rifles, silenced weapons, sawed-off shotguns, or fucking rocket propelled grenades, leave those fuckers at home. I don’t want ‘em here or on your bikes, and I don’t want the club exposed to the problems they create. Understood?”

  Most in attendance either nodded or gave an audible acknowledgement of some sort. After he glanced over his shoulders and slowly studied the group, his eyes became fixed on Pete, who began to grumble expletives from the rear of the group.

  Axton craned his neck and gazed toward the rear of the group.

  “There a problem back there I need to know about, Pete?” Axton growled.

  Pete pulled against his long beard with his right hand as he seemed to consider his response.

  “I ain’t saying I do, and I ain’t saying I don’t, but let’s say a fella has a couple of illegal firearms like you’re talkin’ about. As long as they’re his property, and not club property, what’s the problem?” Pete grunted as he released his beard from his grasp.

  “Listen up, fellas,” Axton shouted as he raised his hands in the air.

  “Pete asked a question. He wants to know how a fella having illegal weapons becomes a club issue, and why it doesn’t remain one of personal nature. Here’s the thing. If you get in a pinch with the law, and you’ve got illegal weapons when they search your house, they can’t make a tie between what you’ve got at home and the club. But, if you’re with the club, or on club property, and you’re in a position to be searched and the weapons are found, you immediately put the club at risk. They’ll be able to say you possessed the weapons while acting as a club member, and they’ll say the weapons were going to be sold by the club, or that they were club property. They call it constructive possession. It’s different than active possession, which is actually having physical possession. Believe me, I don’t like it any more than you do, but all I’m asking is that you leave your illegal weapons at home. If they’re legitimate, do as you please. I’m asking that regardless of whether or not you think you’re going to get caught, to leave your bad boy toys at home, out of respect for the club. Am I making fucking sense?” Axton asked.

  “Fucking cops,” Pete grunted.

  Axton nodded his head. “That’s right, Pete. Fucking cops.”

  Axton looked around the room. All members in attendance nodded their heads.

  “So what exactly happened in Waco, Texas? We alright down there?” Mike asked.

  Axton sighed as he crossed his arms in front of his chest. “The Texas Sinners are fine. As you know, we have permission to wear our Texas rocker, and we pay our dues faithfully. I’m not here trying to knock another club, and this is mostly rumor, but it’s a pretty solid rumor. We all know Texas is a Bandido state. The Cossacks were initially paying their dues to the Bandidos to wear the Texas rocker, but either out of pride or sheer stupidity they stopped. They thought they were big enough and bad enough to go up against the Bandidos. A few weeks later, a group of Bandido’s saw a Cossack riding through town and forced him off the road. They hit the fucker in the head with a hammer and took his cut. A few weeks after that, six Cossacks saw a lone Bandido, forced him to the side of the road and stole his fuckin’ bike. After a few more weeks, a quarterly coalition meeting was scheduled to discuss legislative issues, and they rented the outside portion of the Twin Peaks restaurant to have the meeting.”

  “Having a quarterly meeting at a breastaurant. Now that’s what I’m talking about. Titties, beer, and brotherhood,” Biscuit chuckled.

  Axton raised his hand to silence Biscuit.

  “So, on the day before the meeting, Cossacks started posting pictures of their colors on Facebook, showing the Texas rockers they’d sewn on their cuts. Without a doubt they had called the Bandidos out by flying the rocker, and the Bandidos had to act. When the Cossacks showed up at the meeting with the Texas rocker sewn to their cut, the war began,” Axton explained.

  “Disrespectful pricks,” Biscuit said.

  “That’s right,” Axton said. “It’s about respect. People don’t understand it, but that’s what it boils down to. It was blatant disrespect toward the Bandidos. Cops are trying to make it sound like MC’s are waging war on cops or even on society, but we know better. Hell, you don’t go into a gay bar and scream I hate fags without expecting a fight.”

  He paused and turned toward Toad.

  “And you don’t walk into a room full of Marines and call ‘em dumb fucking jarheads. Nor do you ride in Texas, a Bandido owned state, wearing a Texas rocker without either paying your tax or having Bandido permission. It’s all about respect. That’s as much as I know. Are there any other questions about that?”

  “How many dead?” Fancy asked.

  “Nine, most are probably dead at the hands of the returned fire from the cops. Ballistics aren’t in, but mark my words, when it’s over, it’ll be the cops that killed most of ‘em. Roughly 200 are in jail, and charged under RICO on capital murder charges,” Axton responded in an authoritative tone.

  Toad turned toward Axton and shrugged his shoulders. “Talked to A-Train yesterday. He said Ripp and Dekk got pulled over and questioned yesterday morning when they were riding to the gym, and they’re not even 1%ers.”

  Axton nodded his head in agreement. “That’s what I’m talking about. Most city cops don’t know the difference, and the news is saying MC’s are waging war on cops in retaliation. It’s just more proof of how the media uses the news against all of us. Hell, they love this shit. Now, if there aren’t any other questions on that, I have one other issue we need to discuss.�
��

  Axton looked around the room. After absorbing the few seconds of the silence, he inhaled a shallow breath and continued.

  “As you know, the trial for your Sergeant-at-Arms’ future brother-in-law is coming up next week. He’s been in prison for quite some time, and has been awarded a new trial on appeal. I’ve got mixed emotions about how to handle this. It’s a case with the ATF, and there will be ATF agents in court testifying, observing, and just being the assholes that they are. We need to show support to this man and have a presence, but I’m wondering just how many of us need to attend the trial?”

  “Fuck them pussies with the ATF. I say every available man needs to show up. It’s my God given right to attend,” Biscuit howled.

  Axton nodded his head once. “It certainly is. But we don’t want to sway the jury one way or another. A large presence, considering what happened in Waco with the Bandidos, just might work against him.”

  Biscuit shook his head in clear disagreement. “And having just a couple of the fellas there makes it look like nobody gives a shit about him. Hell, if the court room’s empty, the jury will think he’s a piece of shit. I say we have every available body in attendance, and we do intimidate the jury. Intimidate them into thinking if they don’t find him not guilty, we’ll do right here in Wichita what the Bandidos did in Texas. Shoot the courtroom into a big piece of Swiss fuckin’ cheese. Let ‘em think whatever they want to. Hell, they can wonder if we’re going to show up at their houses afterward and burn them to the fuckin’ ground for that matter.”

  I considered what Biscuit said about intimidating the jury. There was no doubt if the jury saw a tremendous presence, they’d be intimidated. Hell, anyone seeing a huge presence of 1%ers in their cuts was intimidated. Subconsciously, they would probably lean toward a not guilty verdict for fear of retaliation alone.