Filthy F*ckers: The Complete Series Box Set

by Hildreth, Scott

  I looked at dancing differently than most people, and while doing so, compared myself to an actress. When I was on stage, I was playing a part. The people who came to watch me were no different than those who flocked to see the latest installment of the Fifty Shades movies.

  I opened the car door, got one foot out the door, and doubled over in pain. Drowning my sorrows in an all-you-can-eat Thai buffet wasn’t a terrible idea, but the hole in the wall I chose to do it at wasn’t one of the best decisions I’d ever made. When the pain diminished, I stepped out of the car and ran toward the back door.

  I knocked on the door three times, paused, and then knocked once.

  Craig pulled the door open, saw me, and smiled. “Out of breath, as always.”

  I pressed my hands to my knees, gulped a breath, and grinned. “Hey.”

  “How’s it going?”

  I wedged myself between his massive thigh and the door frame. “Not good. I ate Thai food at Thai-cos last night.”

  He stepped to the side and wrinkled his nose. “The place that sells tacos on one side and Chinese food on the other?”

  “It’s Thai, not Chinese. Thai-cos, get it?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t partake.”

  “It won’t happen again. I’ve been sick all day.”

  Craig was one of the bouncers, and was also a close friend. He was tall, muscular, and looked like a professional wrestler. His head was shaved, he wore a neatly-trimmed goatee, and his skin was as smooth as glass. As with all the bouncers, he was gay, which was one of the owner’s prerequisites for male employees at the bar.

  According to the owner, it eliminated the drama between the dancers and the male staff members. The owners only other rule, no boyfriends allowed in the club, was strictly enforced. This left the club drama reduced to the arguments with the dancers.

  But it was enough drama to satisfy even the most dramatic of the drama queens.

  “Starla didn’t make it,” Craig said. “And Neveah’s still sick. So, we’re short staffed tonight. Might need you to stay ‘till close.”

  I’d been exhausted for the last few days, more than likely the result of slight depression. Nothing would help me get my mind off Smoke more than working until I was exhausted even more.

  “That’s fine,” I said. “I can use the money.”

  He glanced at his watch. “I rotate to the stage in a few, so I’ll be on the floor when you’re up.”

  I shouldered my bag and peered toward the dressing room. “Good. I’ll see you in a few.”

  If there was a drama free zone in a strip club, the dressing room wasn’t it. Boyfriend problems, girlfriend problems, baby daddy problems, missing tip money, babysitter problems, and lap dances gone bad were some of the typical concerns. The discussions were never simple, and always seemed to either turn into an argument or a fight.

  After three years, it was getting old.

  Sitting at the vanity preparing for her shift, Nikki glanced over her right shoulder. “Hey, Texxxas.”

  I smiled. “Hey.”

  Diamond turned to face me and widened her eyes comically. “Guess what George did? After you left last night?”

  I tossed my bag on the vanity. “Uhhm. I don’t know, what?”

  She cocked her hip, shot Nikki a shitty glare, and then looked at me. “Tipped me $500, and then asked me out.”

  “Any guy will ask you out if you jack him off in a booth,” Nikki said without turning around.

  Nikki was one to talk, she gave her regulars blowjobs when she could get away with it. I looked at her and then at Diamond’s reflection in the mirror. “Are you going to go out with him?”

  “Yeah.” She gave Nikki another glare, and then looked at me. “Do you know what he drives?”

  I had no idea, and I really didn’t care. I did my best to feign interest and shrugged. “Uhhm. No. What?”

  “Mercedes.”

  “A twenty-year-old Mercedes,” Nikki chimed.

  “She’s jealous,” Diamond said. “Can you tell?”

  Nikki spun around. “I doubt he tipped you more than $10. Form what I hear, your hand jobs suck. And, jealous of what?”

  “Jealous of the $500 tip, and because he asked me out. What do you get? $20 for a blowy, right?”

  Nikki turned around. A strip of eyelashes dangled from the tip of her finger. “No, I get a grand, a ride in a new Mercedes, and a lobster dinner.”

  Diamond picked up her sweats, waved her free hand toward Nikki, and rolled her eyes. “Jealous bitch.”

  “A fifty-year-old surfer let you give him a handy, and then asked you out while you were wiping the cum off his disgusting gut. What is there to be jealous of?”

  “He’s not fifty. And he owns a construction company.”

  Nikki leaned forward, pressed the eyelashes in place, and then fanned her face with her hands. “He’s probably a janitor, and he looks fifty.”

  Diamond cocked her hip. “He’s not fifty. He’s got a teenage dick, and a Mercedes.”

  “Give it a rest, Theresa.”

  “Don’t call me that,” Diamond hissed.

  Nikki picked up another strip of eyelashes and then glanced over her shoulder. “It’s your name.”

  “We’re not supposed to use our names, and you know it. Mark will have your ass, you spiteful bitch.”

  My stomach knotted, and I bent over in response.

  “Are you okay, Tex?” Nikki asked.

  After a few seconds, the pain went away. I looked at her and shook my head. “Bad Thai food.”

  “Nothing’s worse,” she said. “Where?”

  “Thai-cos.”

  “Oh my God. Why?”

  “All you can eat. I was in a mood.”

  “A mood for food poisoning.” She nodded her head toward my waist. “You’ll pay for it.”

  Diamond pulled on her sweats, slipped her arms through her hoodie, and then zipped it up. “I guess I’m out of here.”

  “Only reason you stuck around was to brag to Texxxas,” Nikki said. “Go.”

  She grabbed her purse, shot Nikki a look, and then turned toward the door. “Bye Texxxas.”

  I waved. “See ya, Diamond.”

  Nikki leaned forward, checked her makeup, and then looked at me. She batted her lashes a few times.

  “They look good, as always,” I said.

  She smiled. “You’re so sweet.”

  “You always look good.” I said. It was true, she looked great, she just didn’t look her age. She was 21 years old, and looked like she was 35. A really hot 35-year-old, but 35, nonetheless.

  She shook her head lightly, and then looked in the mirror. “You come in here, put on your outfit, and walk on stage. No one else here can think about doing that. We’ve got to work for it.”

  “I’m just a take me or leave me kind of girl,” I said. “That’s how we are in Texas.”

  I wasn’t really from Texas, but none of the girls knew it. I was from New Mexico. The daughter of an alcoholic mother who had a second job as a drug addict, and a father who decided he’d had enough of her when I was six, I left when I was thirteen and went to live with my aunt and uncle.

  When I was seventeen, I graduated high school. I thanked them for their hospitality, loaded my belongings into my Volkswagen, and left. Hoping to land a job as an actress, I made my way to Southern California. Upon arriving, I realized I was no different than the other 40 million people who lived there. Disappointed, but not defeated, I got a job as a waitress, saved my money, and bought a set of boobs.

  “Well, I’m from the SD,” she said. “It’s competitive in SoCal.”

  I laughed at the thought of her and Diamond arguing about the $500 hand job. “It sure is.”

  As I was changing, I noticed a little spotting on my panties. After cleaning up and getting my outfit on, I turned toward Nikki. “It’s the 22nd, right?”

  “21st. Why?”

  I shook my head. “Just wondering.”

  She looked me over. �
�That outfit is on point. Can’t go wrong with a school girl get up, that’s for sure.”

  “We’ll see,” I said.

  I looked at my reflection in the mirror. I was dressed like Britney Spears in the Hit Me Baby One More Time Video. I cleared my head of thoughts of Smokey. Then, I prayed to see right through whoever happened to be on sniffers row.

  The music stopped, and then I heard the DJ dismiss Rose.

  I took a deep breath and waited.

  “Here’s what you’ve been waiting all night for. Gentlemen, the one and only. Standing five foot seven, and only 114 pounds, she’s got a set of natural double D’s that are the envy of the industry. Give it up, motherfuckers. This. Is. Texxxas!”

  As Buckcherry’s Crazy Bitch began to blare over the sound system, Texxxas walked out onto the stage no differently than a Victoria’s Secret model walks up the runway.

  When she did, she left Sandy in the dressing room.

  Where she was safe from everyone and everything that Texxxas didn’t have the common sense to fear.

  The men shouted and cheered. Money rained onto the stage. And, she danced like it was the last time she’d ever have the chance.

  Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Five

  Smokey

  I rolled past the gate, across the narrow strip of asphalt, and through the open doors of the shop. As my bike came to a stop beside Pee Bee’s bagger, I whacked the throttle twice. After making sure Crip was pissed off, I shut down the engine, pulled off my helmet, and stepped over the seat.

  “How many fucking times have I told you not to rev that piece of shit up in the shop? Motherfuckers in Los Angeles can hear that loud son-of-a-bitch,” Crip complained.

  Crip was the president of the club, a former Navy SEAL, and a pain in my respective ass. He wasn’t arrogant, but he was damned fucking close. His don’t rev your engine in the shop rule was one of the many rules he had that I didn’t like, or respect.

  Bikers revved their engines.

  Especially in confined spaces.

  I pulled my vape from my pocket, took a long pull, and exhaled it in his direction. “My bad, Brother. Shit, I forgot.”

  “You always fucking forget.”

  I shrugged. “I can’t remember shit.”

  He glared at me, and then folded his arms across his chest.

  I considered folding my arms in a similar fashion just to piss him off, but realized if I did, I wouldn’t be able to blow smoke in his face. So, I decided not to.

  The club’s Sergeant-at-Arms, Pee Bee, was leaning against the workbench with a bottle of beer dangling from his fingertips. Standing 6’-8” and solid muscle from head to toe, he was an intimidating motherfucker, but his heart was made of gold.

  I glared at Crip until he broke my gaze, and then gave Pee Bee a nod.

  “What’s shakin’, motherfucker?” he asked.

  “Just trying to make enough money to buy a new set of cams,” I said. “Cholo whipped my ass the other night, and I’m sick of it. How’s things?”

  He shrugged. “Things are good.”

  I looked at Crip. “So, what’s the emergency, Crip?”

  “No emergency. Just need to figure something out.” He glanced at my vape and then shook his head. “Ought to make a rule against those motherfuckers in the shop.”

  I raised my vape. “Against this?”

  He nodded.

  I pressed the fire button, inhaled for as long as I could, and exhaled a flume of vapor so large that it encompassed them both. “Let me know when you do, I’ll turn in my kutte.”

  He waved his hands, frantically trying to clear the air in front of him. “That shit’s going to end up killing us.”

  I folded my arms over my chest and shot him a glare. “And you pricks getting drunk and riding in the front of formation will end up killing the entire club.”

  “That’s different,” he said. “I’m serious.”

  “I’m serious. Make a one-beer limit. Then, add something against farting and fucking to the bylaws. And loud noises. Oh, and leaving oil spots on your precious fucking concrete floor. Make a rule against scratching our nuts, too. Outsiders might see it as pretentious. They’d see us as the big cocked biker club. Hell, that’d be the end of us.”

  He crossed his arms, looked me up and down, and then met my gaze. “I’m about sick and fucking tired of that attitude, Smoke.”

  Shielded from Crip’s view, Pee Bee cocked and eyebrow and grinned. He knew the remark would irritate me, and was obviously waiting eagerly for my response.

  “I’m about sick and fucking tired of you being an arrogant prick,” I said.

  He flexed his biceps. “Come again?”

  “You heard me.” I lifted my chin slightly and waited for his blood to boil.

  His face went flush. He inhaled a shallow breath and jutted his chest out. I coughed out a laugh and nodded toward the SEAL tattoo on his upper arm. “What am I supposed to do now? Lower my head and tell you I’m sorry?”

  He took another short breath, and I was sure a response was coming, but I didn’t give him a chance to speak. I waved my hand toward Pee Bee. “Peeb here can’t do wrong in your eyes, and Cholo’s pretty close to the same. Rowdy could come burn this shop down, and you’d help him clean up the fucking mess. Me? I smoke my vape and rev my motor, and you’re ready to crucify me. You treat P-Nut the same fucking way. Always on his ass. Consistency, motherfucker. I want consistency. Equality--”

  His hands shot to his hips. “You fucking done?”

  I shook my head. “Did I sound like I was done? You fucking interrupted me. That’s what I’m talking about. Give and get, asshole. Give respect. You’ll get it back.”

  “Jesus, Smokey. I treat you with respect. I treat all the fellas with respect. You’re a prick most of the time, and I act accordingly.”

  I shrugged. “And you’re a prick all the time, and I act accordingly.”

  He exhaled heavily, and then shook his head. “You’re tough to take, Smoke. You pissed?”

  I took a pull on my vape, and then grinned. “Nope.”

  “Irritated?”

  I tilted my head back, blew the smoke toward the ceiling, and then looked him in the eyes. “Nope.”

  “You think I’m a prick?”

  “Nope.” I grinned. “I know you’re a prick.”

  “God damn it,” he snapped back.

  “But I can live with it,” I said. “I signed on for this shit, and you were a prick on that day, so I knew what I was getting into. What’s up? Why the meeting?”

  “Peeb’s here because Peeb’s always here. I wanted to talk to you about Tank.”

  “The prospect? The Marine?”

  “Yep.”

  “Don’t know the kid. What about him?”

  “Meathead got locked up over the weekend for a firearms charge. He was in LA over the weekend, got in a fight in a bar, and pulled a pistol on some prick in the parking lot. Someone called the cops, and must have given a pretty good description, because the feds picked him up this morning on a firearms violation. There’s no bond set, and it sounds like they’re going to railroad his ass. He’ll do a dime if he does a day.”

  I wasn’t sure how Meat being in jail affected me, and as much as I didn’t want to hear Crip’s explanation, I felt compelled to ask anyway. “Sucks about Meat, he was good people. How do I fit into this, though?”

  “Wantin’ you to take his prospect.”

  I spit out a laugh. “Shit there for a second I thought you said you wanted me to take that prospect to raise.”

  He didn’t so much as crack a smile. He simply raised his eyebrows and waited.

  “I’ve got one kid, Crip.” I shook my head and chuckled another laugh. “Don’t need another.”

  “I’m serious, Smoke. I need you to take this kid. Show him the ropes. He’s a good kid. He’ll make a good patch.”

  “I ain’t even been here two years. And, I didn’t vouch for that prick, Meat did. Peeb’s been here for what? Te
n years? Give him to Peeb.”

  “You’ll make a better mentor,” he said. “You never ride drunk, you don’t take any shit, and you’re not afraid to stand your ground. You’ve got a sixth sense when it comes to threats, and that’s not something anyone else in this club has. Short of me, that is. You’re rigid in your beliefs, Smokey. And, as much as you might disagree, I respect you for it.”

  “As a biker, in his beliefs, or in bed, there’s only one way for a man to be,” I said dryly. “Rigid.”

  Crip gave a nod.

  I looked at Pee Bee.

  He raised his bottle of beer and gave me his signature smirk. “It’s only eight months.”

  “Eight fucking months.” My eyes fell to the floor. “Jesus.”

  “It’ll pass quick.”

  I shifted my eyes to Crip. “What if I say no?”

  “I’ll be disappointed. Kid might not make it. Then again, he might make it, and end up being a turd because Fat Larry or Buck takes him.”

  “Give him to P-Nut.”

  He shook his head. “P-Nut’s inconsistent, and he’s nuttier than a fuckin’ fruitcake.”

  He was right about the Nut, but the last thing I wanted to do was mentor a war-torn Marine who was seeking a place to expel his aggression. “God damn it, Crip. I’d rather not. Kid’s probably got PTSD. If he flips out on me, I’ll put hands on his ass.”

  “I’m sure he does have PTSD. Get to know him.” He shrugged. “Part of being a mentor. Talk to him. Find out who he is. Show him the ropes.”

  “I’ve got plenty of other shit to--”

  He nodded toward my bike. “Have him put cams in your bike. Have him help you with tile work. Use him up.”

  I was an asshole, there was no denying it. I’d been one my entire adult life, and for good reason. If people’s perception of me was that I was a complete prick, they didn’t attach themselves to me emotionally. And, if we left feelings at the door, I didn’t have to worry about being hurt by another rotten cold-hearted bitch.

  Truth be known, deep down inside, I wasn’t a prick. It was a façade. A mask. Something I wore to protect me from the throngs of people I was sure were destined to cause me harm.