THICK (Biker MC Romance Book 6)

by Scott Hildreth

  “In the book, she didn’t. It’s because the intended audience doesn’t like to have their books muddied with such filth. They’ll read about murder, and graphic scenes of torture, but cussing is a no-no.”

  “And your intended audience likes men with a big Johnson?”

  “The masses do, yes. Or, at least they like to fantasize about it. Not to say a book about a guy with a three-incher wouldn’t sell well, but it would have to be presented carefully. There’d have to be a reason for it. It’d work in the right book.”

  If I read a book about a couple that I liked, and the guy pulled out a three-inch dick, I suspect I’d giggle. In real life, a three-incher beat a no-incher. In the book world, things needed to lean toward my fantasies.

  And, in my fantasies, guys with three-inch dicks didn’t exist.

  “Like the Elephant Man,” my father said.

  Tate’s eyebrows raised.

  “The man was a horrific looking soul, but he had a heart of gold. In that book, everyone felt compassion for someone they’d normally be repulsed by. You’d have to give your readers a reason to like the three-inch fellow. No differently than every book couldn’t have an Elephant Man, every book can’t have a three-inch man. Am I on track?”

  Tate laughed. “Yes, Sir.”

  “Tell me about your riot.”

  Tate looked at me.

  I pulled a Tate, and shrugged. “I tell him everything.”

  Tate took a drink of his coffee and then set his cup aside. “Well. I was riding down the street, and I saw people marching halfway up the block. When I realized what they were protesting, I joined in. Someone handed me a sign, and I marched right along with them for a few blocks. A couple kids got in an argument with some people on the street, and the next thing you know, bottles and rocks started being thrown. Windows got broken, and few fires were lit, and then the cops showed up. I deserved to be arrested. Hell, we all did. My tattoos and kutte made me a target, so I was charged with inciting a riot. They were talking about giving me the RICO act for being in a gang and starting a riot, so my public defender suggested a plea deal. The sentence was to be probation. I swallowed my pride, realized the risk I was taking in being part of the MC, and plead guilty. When it came time to sentence me, the judge wasn’t thinking probation would teach me anything. So, he sent me to prison.”

  “That’s a damned shame. That case made me mad enough to throw a rock or two. By the grace of God, I didn’t. Let me ask you something. What race were the majority of the people in the march?”

  “Black.”

  “Not many whites?”

  “I think I was the only one.”

  “White biker with tattoos normally doesn’t fit in with a big group of blacks. Did it bother you that they were black?”

  Tate shook his head. “I’m colorblind.”

  My father’s eyes thinned a little. “Your actually colorblind, or your color blind?”

  “Both,” Tate said.

  My father nodded and reached for his cup. “You’re a good man, Tate.”

  I reached under the table and squeezed my father’s left hand.

  His eyes shot to me. “What? He’s an outlaw biker who has a penchant for big-dicked men, he’s been to prison three times, is covered in tattoos, has pieces of pipe in his earlobes, and he encourages blacks to throw rocks. What’s not to like?”

  I chuckled. I’d received my answer.

  And, my father’s blessing.

  Chapter Thirty

  Tate

  I poured a few inches of ice into the bottom of saddle bag, tied the top of the plastic grocery bag tight, and dropped it on top of the ice. After pouring the remaining ice over it, I tossed the empty ice bag inside and closed the lid.

  Fifteen minutes of hard riding later, and I was at Bobbi’s apartment complex. I parked the bike at the street, got my groceries, and sauntered toward her building.

  After going up one flight of steps, I walked down the landing to apartment 203. With a grocery bag dangling from my left hand, I rapped the knuckles of my right against the door.

  It swung open.

  Andy’s eyes went wide at the sight of me. “Tate. What a surprise,” he said, meaning every word of it.

  The look on his face warned me that he had no intention of inviting me in. I didn’t want to cause him any more grief than I already had, so I made my purpose clear.

  I hoisted the bag in front of me. “I’ve got Halo Top and some peaches. I thought we’d celebrate Bobbi getting her cookbook published. Want to join us?”

  “Let me grab the brown sugar,” he said excitedly. “I’ll be right back.”

  “I’ve got it in the bag.”

  “What about the fat free Cool-Whip?”

  “Got it.”

  He stepped onto the landing, and then reached for the door handle, using his shirt as a makeshift glove.

  “I’m so proud of her,” he said. “She did that on her own, you know.”

  “I know. I hope it sells well.”

  “I’m going to tell everyone I know about it.”

  “I’ll do the same. Most of the people I know don’t care about calories, though.”

  “By the time they realize they should, it’ll be too late.”

  “You’re probably right,” I said.

  We went up the next flight of stairs, and to apartment 302. Andy stepped in front of the peephole, kicked the door twice, and grinned.

  Bobbi opened the door. The smell of fresh flowers wafted onto the landing.

  Dressed in sweats and a sleeveless tee, she had her hair pulled into a ponytail. She looked surprised, embarrassed, and, above all, adorable.

  “We came bearing gifts,” Andy said, ducking beneath her arm as he spoke.

  She smiled. “Come in.”

  Andy went straight to the kitchen. “Bring it all in here, Tate.”

  “Sorry,” I whispered. “I had to.”

  “What’s in the sack?”

  “Bag.”

  She scrunched her nose. “Huh?”

  “It’s a bag, not a sack.”

  “What’s in the bag?”

  “Celebratory ice cream.”

  “I can’t have ice cream.”

  “It’s Halo Top.”

  Her eyes shot wide. “You got Halo Top?”

  “Three flavors.”

  “You’re sweet.” She leaned forward and kissed me lightly. “What’s the celebration?”

  The taste of her lipstick made me smile. “Your book.”

  “Oh. Thank you.” She let out a heavy sigh. “That was exhausting. I don’t know how you do it.”

  I carried the bag to the kitchen handed it to Andy. Ten minutes later, we were sitting around the kitchen table eating ice cream and peaches like a bunch of starving idiots.

  Andy didn’t have so much as a morsel on his face. Neither did Bobbi, for that matter. I, on the other hand, had it from one end of me to the other.

  “This shit is good,” I announced.

  “Isn’t it?” Andy asked.

  “It’s definitely not like the rest of low-cal snacks.” I looked at Bobbi. “Is it in your book?”

  “It is.”

  “What else?”

  “The yogurt parfait.”

  “How many points is it?”

  “One.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “Low-fat Greek yogurt, strawberries, and blueberries. You can crumble a Nature Valley bar on top of it for a little fiber, but it adds four points.”

  “I bet this book sells well.”

  “Not as well as yours. You’re still in the top ten.”

  “I read it,” Andy exclaimed.

  I looked at him in disbelief. “What?”

  He shoveled another massive bite into his mouth without getting anything on his face, and then nodded. “Bobbi said it wasn’t erotic, so I gave it a try. I cried like a baby. It’s a very good book, Tate.”

  “Thank you. It was the last book in the series, and making it an
erotic novel just didn’t make sense. Not for those particular characters.”

  “Well, it was a great way to end any series.”

  “It was a good close to that one, that’s for sure.”

  “What’s next?” he asked.

  “Another biker series. They seem to be well received.”

  He scraped his bowl with the edge of his spoon. “Tattoos, muscles, guns, and knives?”

  “I think this one will be more about looks and brains. A bunch of guys that think before they act. A little less testosterone, and a few more brains.”

  “Sounds interesting.”

  “Hope everyone else thinks so. Maybe the fast pace will hook ‘em.”

  He looked at Bobbi. “How long has it been available?”

  “The book?”

  He pushed his bowl to the side and nodded.

  “A couple of hours.”

  “This is so exciting,” he said. “You’re a cookbook author!”

  “I wrote down some recipes, and added a few pictures. I’m far from an author.”

  “Well, you’re both authors in my book.”

  The MC had eighteen members, total. I was as close to those men as I’d ever been to anyone, yet I rarely felt proud of them. As strange as it seemed to admit, pride wasn’t on the list of feelings I typically felt as a result of my exposure to them.

  Acceptance, trust, and admiration were common, but pride wasn’t.

  Feeling prideful toward another wasn’t a common thing, and it didn’t come easily. At least not for me.

  I viewed pride in one’s own actions or accomplishments to be akin to arrogance. Pride in another person’s choices or actions was a matter of expressing praise. Caring enough about someone to allow myself to harbor such feelings was new to me.

  But I wasn’t about to argue with how I felt.

  I finished my ice cream, waited until Bobbi finished hers, and then collected the bowls. After placing them in the sink, I returned to the table.

  I pulled the card I’d bought from my kutte and handed it to her.

  She looked at the crumpled envelope and grinned. “What’s this?”

  “It’s just something I got for you.”

  “Can I open it now?”

  “That’s why I gave it to you.”

  “I was just checking, grump.”

  She ran her nail along the edge of the envelope, opened it, and pulled out the card. After reading it, she set it aside and stood.

  She didn’t speak, but she didn’t have to.

  I stood, wrapped my arms around her, and held her close. As she lowered her head to my shoulder, I whispered into her ear.

  “I’m proud of you, Baby.”

  Saying those five words was much easier than I ever would have expected.

  And far more rewarding.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Bobbi

  A large delivery of flowers arrived, marking the passing of yet another Wednesday. It had become a weekly occurrence, and one I hoped would never stop. As I drove to Oceanside, the thought of sitting in my tiny apartment caused me to smile.

  Tate was different. So much so that I was beginning to wonder if he viewed me as sexually attractive, or simply attractive. He was the absolute opposite of any other man I’d met, but being on the other end of the sexual spectrum wasn’t everything I’d hoped it would be.

  I was undoubtedly attracted to him sexually, and had hopes he felt the same way. As much as I trusted him, and as much as I’d grown to love how he made me feel, I was slowly sinking into the pit of reality regarding my weight.

  Real men didn’t want to fuck fat girls.

  I parked my car in the drive and walked to the front door. As soon as the doorbell went ‘ding’, he pulled the door open.

  “I heard you two blocks away,” he said.

  An apron.

  He was wearing a fucking apron.

  “What in the world are you wearing?”

  He looked at it as if he’d forgotten he had it on. “Oh. An apron.”

  The home smelled like Italian food. Italian food I knew I couldn’t eat. A plate of spaghetti alone would exceed my daily points allowance. Anything else of the Italian variety would be in excess of spaghetti, and end up putting me in the points total for a week.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m cooking, and I don’t want to get my new wife beaters dirty. Do you have any idea what these things cost for a 6-pack?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m sure you can afford it.”

  “I can’t afford to be ruining them. That’s for sure.”

  He pushed the front door closed, kissed me, and turned toward the kitchen. “I like that dress.”

  “Thank you. It’s another LuLaRoe.”

  “I like it. It looks awesome,” he said over his shoulder. “We’ll eat in just a few.”

  The smell of garlic and tomatoes and basin caused my nostrils to flare. My mouth salivated and my tongue swelled at the thought of what he might be cooking.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Italian.”

  “I can’t--”

  “Be careful what you say, oh ye of little faith.”

  “Alright. What is it?”

  “I told you, Italian.”

  “Specifically.”

  “Lasagna.”

  I sighed. “I can have a tablespoon of it.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Not of my lasagna.”

  What’s in it?”

  “No noodles. I used zucchini, instead. Low-fat mozzarella cheese. I made sauce with fresh garlic, fresh tomatoes, fresh basil, and no oil. No salt, and a little pepper. Oh, and no sugar. The meat is a mixture of chicken breast, sausage, and turkey. And, I weighed it. From what I’ve calculated, and I included everything, it’ll be about 6 points for a pretty healthy slice.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. The only points in it are the meat and the cheese, and that skim milk cheese is one point a quarter cup. Include this motherfucker in your next cookbook.”

  He pulled the oven door open and removed the casserole dish. The smell filled the room and made me recall the days when my mother was alive. I used to eat her Italian food like there was no tomorrow.

  “It smells wonderful.”

  “I hope it tastes wonderful.”

  As the food cooled, we sat at the kitchen table. “How many points do you have left?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Good. We’ll have wine.”

  A glass of wine sounded good. Almost as good as the lasagna.

  “One glass.”

  He rested his chin in his hands and looked right at me. “We’ve talked about relationships, love, work, flowers, murder, the MC, books, food, and about cars. Hell, we’ve even talked about God, the ocean’s magic, and life after death. But one thing we haven’t talked about, is sex.”

  I coughed on nothing. I swallowed and offered an apologetic grin. “Okay.”

  His eyebrows raised. “What are your thoughts on it?”

  “On sex?”

  “Yeah. Sex.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you like it?”

  “I love it.”

  He looked off to the side and nodded. “So do I. I’m just weird about it.”

  You sure are.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, sex in real life isn’t like an erotic novel, nor should it be. You know, if I write a book, and wait until eighty-five percent to have the first sex scene, people bitch about it. They complain, saying that they had to wait until the book was damned near over to have a sex scene. I think that’s fucking ridiculous. The characters warrant the commission of the act, and if the characters are like you and me, sex isn’t going to come at fifteen percent, or even twenty-five percent, it’s going to come at eighty-five percent.”

  But it’s going to come, eventually, right?

  “Are we talking about book sex or real-life stuff?”

  “Both.”
>
  I stared at him with a confused look on my face. “What’s the question again?”

  “What do you think about it?”

  “About sex?”

  “Yeah. Sex.”

  “In real-life?”

  “Either one.”

  I didn’t care about book sex. At least not at that moment. I was fairly interested in the real thing, though.

  “I think sex is an important part of a relationship.”

  “So do I.”

  I chuckled. “I’m glad we agree.”

  “If we were writing a book about our relationship, where do you think we’d be?” he asked.

  I had no earthly idea of what the answer should be. But. He mentioned eighty-five percent earlier, so that’s where my mind went. “Eighty-five percent,” I said. “Maybe eighty-six.”

  “I’d say we’re pretty close,” he said. “Maybe not exactly eighty-five.”

  I began to think about his statement and where our book would be if we were writing one. If we were at eighty-five percent, it would mean our story was almost told. We were at the end of the book. I wasn’t ready to be at the end of the book. I wanted a happily ever after, and we hadn’t even eaten lasagna yet, or had sex.

  “I’m glad that’s settled,” I said with a laugh.

  “Me, too.”

  He stood, got the lasagna, and placed it in the center of the table. After pouring two glasses of wine, he got the salad out of the refrigerator. “I got all the vegetables at the farmer’s market, not the supermarket. I know it doesn’t matter on points, but they’re supposed to be better for you.”

  “It looks great.”

  He put a healthy scoop of lasagna on my plate, and gave me a separate plate of salad, some sliced peppers, and a glass of wine.

  “Here goes nothing,” he said.

  I took a bite of the lasagna. It might have been that I hadn’t eaten it in ten years, or that I really wanted it after we’d talked about it. It very well could have been that what he cooked was insanely fantastic.

  Whatever the reason, I went bug-eyed after my first bite. “Holy crap. This is good.”

  He took a bite. After he swallowed, he wagged his eyebrows. “That is pretty good.”

  “Pretty good?” I gave him a stern look. “It’s great.”

  We ate our wonderful dinner, laughed about being on diets, and discussed how food had become such an important part of everyone’s lives. After we finished our wine, we moved to the couch and relaxed.