Rough (Filthy F*ckers MC #2)

by Scott Hildreth

  “He weighs two and a quarter. And he’s 6’-5. You’ve got to be able to pick him up from his chair, get him in his wheel chair, and then get him onto the toilet so he can take care of his business.” I shook my head. “You’re not big enough.”

  “I am, too,” she snapped back.

  “You’re a tiny little bitch,” I said. “And--”

  “Listen, mister.” Her lips pursed. The muscles in her jaw flared and her eyes went from those of an innocent nurse practitioner to that of a mad woman.

  It looked like I’d hit a nerve.

  She cocked her hip. “I let you slide the first time you called me a bitch, back at the wreck. I felt like I owed it to you. But if you call me a bitch again, I’ll drop your big ass where you stand.”

  “You couldn’t fight your way out of a wet paper bag, bitch. I dare you to--”

  An ear-piercing shriek stopped me mid-sentence. Her foot shot forward with lightning-fast speed and slammed into my shin. I stumbled a few steps backward as the pain shot through me like an electric shock. While I struggled to figure out what the fuck had happened, she let out another screech and kicked me right in the kneecap.

  Half doubled over in pain, I realized she wasn’t a typical girl. It was obvious, and painfully so, that she knew how to fight.

  She barked out another high-pitched warning, but her feet were too fast for me to react. The heel of her foot bashed into the inside of my left knee. My eyes shot wide. I reached for my knee, which was damaged from an old football injury, and started planning my verbal escape from her fast-footed torture.

  That’s when her knee slammed into my nuts.

  Bent over, and about to barf, I looked at her in sheer shock. Standing a few feet in front of me in some crazed karate stance, she returned an intense glare.

  “Jesus…fuck…stop.” I leaned against the house and fought to catch my breath. “God damn, you little spider monkey. What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

  She lowered her hands slightly and gave me a look. “You jerk. I told you not to call me that.” She shook her head. “Now I’m screwed. I really, really wanted this job. You’re screwed, too. Good luck getting that money now, dummy.”

  I’m sure she thought otherwise, but she’d gained my respect the old-school way. There were only a couple of guys who could even claim to have got a good punch in on me, but that was when I was in my teens.

  For a girl to do what she had done?

  I may not have liked her, but I owed her respect.

  She earned it.

  “Just hold on.” I coughed and struggled to stand upright. My nuts were in my throat and my knee was throbbing. I glanced over my shoulder, made sure the door was closed, and then looked at her.

  She irritated the fuck out of me for a bunch of reasons, the main one being that she’d taken the one thing from me that I loved wholeheartedly.

  My bike.

  But.

  There was no doubt she had all the qualities to make sure my father didn’t run over her with his shitty attitude and demanding personality. Finding another nurse with her drive and spirit would be close to impossible.

  “You can have the job under one condition,” I said.

  “Oh my god. Really?”

  “Yeah, really,” I said with a slight note of sarcasm. “But you can’t tell him what just happened.”

  “I won’t say a word,” she said. “Not one.”

  I extended my hand.

  She grinned and shook it.

  “His name’s Bradley,” I said.

  “And yours?”

  “Pee Bee.”

  She picked up her purse. “Just like on your vest.”

  I wasn’t wearing my vest. She was perceptive, and that quality would come in handy with my father. I nodded and reached for the door. “Not a fuckin’ word.”

  She traced her thumb and forefinger across her lips.

  I pushed the door open and waved my hand toward the living room. “After you.”

  I fought not to limp as I walked through the door.

  Pop sat up in his chair. His mouth twisted into a smirk. “Jesus jumped up Christ. Who’d you hire, Supergirl?”

  I didn’t bother responding.

  He glanced at her, and then at me. “She kicked your ass, didn’t she? What was that about?”

  “She didn’t kick shit,” I said. “We were just fuckin’ around.”

  “I might be crippled,” he said with a laugh. “But I sure as fuck ain’t blind.”

  “Blind enough you didn’t see that banana peel.”

  “I saw the son-of-a-bitch, I tried to kick it.” He raised the only hand he was able and wiggled the tips of his fingers. “Name’s Bradley. Pleasure to meet you.”

  She stepped around me, took his hand in hers and smiled. “Tegan. Tegan Rassini. And, the pleasure’s mine.”

  “So, what was that? Tae Kwando? Karate? Ju fuckin’ Jitsu? Kung god damned Fu?”

  “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” she responded.

  He gave her a look. “I’m crippled, but I can see just fine.”

  “That’s the second time you said that, and I’ve only been here thirty seconds.” She dropped her purse beside his chair and then looked right at him. “Your chart didn’t say anything about memory loss, is that something you’ve just started experiencing?”

  He let out a laugh. “Well, aren’t you feisty?”

  She was a spunky little bitch.

  But I’d never tell her that to her face.

  At least not the bitch part.

  FIVE

  Tegan

  Bradley was big, and based on his size, I guessed that he was very muscular in his younger days. His gray hair was unlike his son’s, and cut short. He was a very handsome man with a face that appeared to be made of stone. His sharp appearance left me wondering what Pee Bee would look like without his beard.

  His attitude, temper, and demanding personality tested every facet of my training, probed the depth of my knowledge of human nature, and offered all-day entertainment. It was day two of me caring for him, and my first full day alone.

  “The bacon’s got to be crisp,” he said dryly.

  Almost to the kitchen, I stopped and turned to face him. “You didn’t specify. That’s how I like it.”

  “It’s not going to work for me.” Pinching the strip of bacon in the middle, he wagged it up and down a few times. “It’s all flimsy.”

  He dropped it onto the plate. “I couldn’t swallow that half-cooked fucker if I had to. Bouncy meat makes my stomach churn.”

  “You asked for two eggs over medium, four pieces of bacon, and two pieces of buttered toast. That’s how I cook my bacon. I’ll gladly prepare it however you like.”

  He looked up as he reached for his fork. “Maybe leave it in the skillet a little longer tomorrow.”

  As he pushed the tines through the side of one of his eggs, I pulled the plate from his tray.

  I grinned. “Be back in a minute.”

  His hand followed the plate as I lifted it. “The eggs were fine.”

  “It’ll just take a minute.”

  I set his food aside, cooked two more eggs, four crisp pieces of bacon, and two pieces of toast. After arranging everything on a clean plate, I carried them both to the living room.

  I held the plate over his lap. “Here you go.”

  He reached for his fork. “Set it down on the tray.”

  I shook my head. “Reach for it.”

  “Just in case you forgot.” He lifted his arm slightly. “My arm’s in a cast.”

  “Your fingers aren’t,” I said. “Reach for it.”

  He glared at me.

  “Your bacon’s going to get cold.” I arched an eyebrow. “Does cold bacon make your stomach churn?”

  He sighed and reached for the plate.

  I sat down on the end of the couch. “It’s called therapy.”

  He picked up a piece of bacon, snapped off the end, and grinned. “I’ll c
all it abuse.”

  “You’ll thank me later.”

  “Doubt it.”

  I normally ate fast. Watching him out of the corner of my eye, I paced myself to finish my food at the same time he finished his. When we were done, I stood, picked up his plate, and carried them to the kitchen.

  “If you don’t rinse them now, the yolk will turn to concrete on that plate,” he yelled.

  I didn’t respond, but I felt the same way. A dirty sink, a pile of dishes, or any other type of clutter drove me insane. After rinsing the plates, I walked into the living room and sat down.

  “So, what do you like to watch on T.V.?” I asked.

  He reached for his tablet and then situated it in his lap. “Nothing. At least not until Vanna comes on.”

  “Vanna?”

  He looked up. “White. Vanna fuckin’ White. Wheel of god damned Fortune. Her and that little shit of a cohost, Pat Sajak. Ever heard of it?”

  “I have.”

  “Well, you were looking at me like I was an idiot, I couldn’t tell.”

  “You don’t watch anything during the day?”

  “Watching the boob tube during the day will turn your brains to mush.” He lifted his tabled. “I read.”

  He’d spent the majority of the previous day talking to his son, complaining, and sleeping. I couldn’t help but wonder if he felt our personalities weren’t compatible for anything more than a caregiver-patient relationship.

  “What are you reading?”

  “Well, if you’d quiet down, I’d be reading…” He swiped his finger across the screen, lifted the tablet, and turned it to face me. “Dune.”

  “Dune?”

  He raised both eyebrows. “Dune.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “Right now, it’s about a boy who’s lost in the desert.”

  “Which desert?”

  “A desert on another fuckin’ planet.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Science fiction, huh?”

  “No,” he said sarcastically. “It’s a true story about a boy who used to live on the planet Krupsor, and escaped during the mutiny of Eposcus’s slaves in the year 2078 when they had the uprising against the king. He flew back in time in a capsule he fashioned out of pancake batter, scrap pieces of aluminum, Hershey bar wrappers, and a little Saran Wrap. When he crashed it in the Atlantic Ocean right off the coast of Rhode Island last year, they found him with nothing more than a few scratches on his hands; but they were from the sixteen-legged snakes he brought back with him. He called ‘em Weedots. They took ‘em to the San Diego zoo for research. You didn’t see it on T.V.? Read about it in the newspaper?”

  I stood up. “You should try being a little less abrasive.”

  His eyes fell to the tablet, and he started to read.

  “Why?” he asked without looking up.

  “We might get along better.”

  “I get along with you just fine.”

  “It’d just be nice if we talked more. But, suit yourself.”

  He looked up. “After you leave here, you can talk all you want.”

  “To who?”

  “Whoever you want. Your husband.”

  “I’m not married.”

  “Boyfriend.”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “My apologies.” He cleared his throat. “Your partner.”

  I laughed. “I don’t have one of those either.”

  He sat up. “You’re single?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Got AIDS?” he asked.

  “What?” I gasped. “AIDS? No.”

  “Other than the fact that your mouth goes ninety-to-nothing all damned day, you’re attractive. I was just wondering.”

  I studied him until he met my gaze. “Do you have any sandpaper?” I asked.

  His brow creased. “What? Sandpaper?”

  “Do. You. Have. Any. Sandpaper?”

  “There’s some in the garage, why?”

  “I want to use it the next time I have to wipe your ass.”

  He laughed. Out loud. After he caught his breath, he turned off his tablet, set it aside, and grinned.

  “Sit down, kid. What do you want to talk about?”

  And, just like that, I wedged my way into his life.

  SIX

  Pee Bee

  Unlike the MCs on television, the Filthy Fuckers spent more time drinking beers in the shop than we did getting in gunfights or running from the law.

  Nick “Crip” Navarro was the President of the Filthy Fuckers MC, and a former navy SEAL. He and I were best friends, but no one outside the club would ever guess it. We were constantly at each other’s throats, bickering and fighting like an old married couple.

  I did it because I was an asshole. Crip did it because he got some odd sense of satisfaction from it. In the end, it was all in fun.

  “Can’t even calculate odds like that,” Crip said. “Fucking astronomical.”

  I took a drink of beer, and then nodded in agreement. “Tell me about it. I stood there and stared at her like she was from another fuckin’ planet. Of all the people that could have shown up, there she was. But let me tell ya. She’s got a banging fucking body.”

  “Now she’s got a banging body? The day she chucked her door into you, you said she was the dumbest bitch on the planet.” He looked at my bike, shook his head, and then took a drink of beer. “The crazy part is that you hired her. I guess now I know.”

  “You know what?”

  “I know why.”

  “I hired her to take care of Pop.”

  “You hired her because she’s got a banging body. Now you’re going to try and fuck her.”

  “I wouldn’t fuck that bitch with Cholo’s cock.”

  “You’re a whore. You fuck everybody.”

  “Ain’t fuckin’ her.”

  He tossed his empty bottle in the trash. “We’ll see.”

  I wasn’t about to tell him that I hired her because she was a tough little bitch. Some things were best kept as secrets. If I made him believe that she could take care of my father, that would be enough.

  “She’s some karate expert or some shit, I don’t know.” I shrugged, turned toward the trash can, and tossed my empty bottle in it. “I hired her because she works out, and she’s strong for her size.”

  “You’re acting like we just met. I know you, remember?”

  I opened the fridge and grabbed two more beers. “What the fuck does that mean?”

  He laughed a dry laugh. “I wish you could hear yourself. I hired her because she works out. What was the other? She’s got a banging body. Sounds like you’re making excuses already for what you’re getting ready to do.”

  I handed him a beer. “Fuck you, Crip.”

  He set the beer on the work bench and held out his hand. “Bet.”

  “What are we betting?”

  “I bet you fuck her.”

  “I’m not going to fuck her. She wrecked my fuckin’ bike.” I waved my hand toward it. Normally spotless and polished to a mirror finish, it looked like it belonged in a salvage yard. “Look at it. Looks like someone kicked it out of a truck while they were going down the highway.”

  “Damned sure does,” he said. “Now shake my hand.”

  I extended my hand, hesitated, and then pulled it away. “I’m not saying I’ll never fuck her. I’m just saying I ain’t planning on it.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “What’s what you thought?”

  “That you’re going to fuck her, dumbass.”

  “Motherfucker,” I said, then let out a sigh three times louder than it needed to be. “I said I wasn’t planning on it, and I ain’t. I’m talking about maybe tossing her a little cock way on down the road.”

  “Ohhhhh.” He widened his eyes. “You mean a couple of weeks from now? Like, if you just happen to slip by your Pop’s place after a couple of beers, and you get there mysteriously just before she packs up her stethoscope and gauze wraps? Then, you might ju
st pitch her some dick, huh?”

  I shrugged. “Something like that. You think she’s got a stethoscope?”

  An image of her wearing her maroon scrubs with a stethoscope hanging from her neck came to mind. The scrubs weren’t the ones she was wearing on the porch; in my mind, she wore another pair with a low neckline, one that allowed her boobs to bulge out.

  Within a few seconds, I was mentally bending her over an operating table and shoving her full of cock while several doctors and a handful of nurses watched in shock.

  Each stroke of my cock took $1.00 off the $3,500 she owed me. After $20 or $30 worth of dick, I’d pull out and come all over her pretty face.

  “You’re an idiot,” Crip announced in a low, gravely tone.

  I snapped out of my daydream.

  He took a drink of beer. “And, who gives a fuck if she’s got a stethoscope.”

  The sound of Cholo’s approaching bike echoed through the shop.

  Cholo had a Hispanic mother and a white father. His father left before he was born, leaving him to be raised by his mother and his half-dozen siblings. Rejected by the Hispanic community as being a half-breed, and looked down upon by the white community for being a wet back, he’d found a place where he fit in perfectly.

  With the Fuckers.

  He rolled through the open doors and came to a stop beside my bike. Wearing his trademark weathered jeans, worn out sneakers, and a clean white tee with his vest over it, he looked like a bald-headed skateboarder more than he did a biker. He stepped off his bike, pulled off his glasses, and glanced at my once glorious machine.

  “What shakin’, motherfucker?” I asked.

  He looked up. “Nada.” He shifted his eyes to my bike, and then whistled a long, low whistle. “Dumb cunt just tossed her door open, huh?”

  “He’s gonna fuck her here in a few days,” Crip said.

  “Gonna fuck who?” Cholo asked.

  “Peeb’s gonna fuck the chick that wrecked his bike.”

  Cholo rapidly punched the air in a shadow boxing expedition. “Fuck her up, maybe.”

  “No,” Crip said as he turned toward the fridge. “She bashed up his bike, and then he hired her to look after his Pop. She’s over there drinking root beers and playing parcheesi right now. He say’s she’s got a banging body, though. Guess that makes it okay.”