He laughed. “Whatever.”
We nibbled at our cones and exchanged glances. He seemed happy about his friend, smiling each time he looked at me.
I wondered what he was thinking, and took another bite of my cone. My teeth clanked against something. I lowered the cone and pressed my thumb to my teeth.
“That was weird.”
I looked at the cone. Teeth impressions were left where I’d bitten into it. It felt like I’d hit a rock.
I raised the cone, looked at the spot where I’d bitten, and poked my finger at what appeared to be a piece of shiny metal covered in ice cream.
Idiots.
After pulling the chuck of funk from the cone, I wiped at it with my fingertip.
He tossed his cone in the trash, looked at me, and grinned. “What did you find?”
I found it odd that he’d tossed his cone, and wondered if he bit into something, too. I handed him the wad of ice cream covered metal. He looked at it, shrugged, and then poked it into the cup of water. After swishing it around, he raised his hand.
My heart shot into my throat.
I looked at the ring, and then at him. “P--Per—Percy…”
He reached for my chin with his free hand. He lifted it slightly, and looked me in the eyes.
“I was going to give this to you to let you know that I was committed to you. But, the more I look at you, the more I realize I can’t imagine living a day without knowing that you’re mine. That you’re as committed to this relationship as I am.”
He released my chin, got down on one knee, and held the ring between us. “Joey, will you marry me?”
My lips quivered against one another. My throat tightened to the point of choking me. I couldn’t respond. I wanted to terribly, but my mouth wouldn’t follow my mind’s thoughts.
So, I did the only thing I could.
I made a fist, held it between us, and nodded eagerly.
He pressed his knuckles to mine. “We got a deal, then?”
My head bobbed up and down. My lips parted slightly. My heart raced.
Then, somehow, I managed to speak five simple words.
“Yes,” I said. “We’ve got a deal.”
Epilogue
We rolled past exit 53, and I couldn’t help but laugh to myself at the portion of the image that remained on the billboard. My photoshop skills weren’t stellar, but they were good enough to merge the picture of Percy’s dick into the open mouth of an ATF agent’s wife. It looked much better that the beer bottle that was in the original picture.
The agent that had been held captive not only held true to his word, but he also helped resolve an issue Percy had with giving his word, and not keeping a promise.
As we turned onto the street that led to our home, Crip and Peyton were pulling out of the driveway. Upon seeing us, they turned around and parked.
We pulled up to their side, and Percy shut off the engine.
“Hey Joey,” Peyton chimed. “Love those jeans. They make your butt look sexy.”
I was wearing jeans that were too tight, and a sleeveless top that looked much better on the rack than it did on me. I smiled nonetheless. “Thanks, but I don’t feel very sexy today.”
“Well, you look it,” she said.
I pulled off my helmet. “You’re sweet. What are you guys doing?”
Crip offered a sharp nod. “Growing old waiting on you two idiots, that’s what.”
“Pleasure seeing you, too,” I said.
He smiled and gave a nod. “Smudge.”
I climbed off and gave a sharp nod in return. “Crip.”
“I want you two to look at something before it goes to print,” she said. “My boss has approved it, but I don’t want to do it without you guys seeing it first.”
Peyton was an award-winning reporter for the San Diego tribune newspaper. I wondered what she might have that she needed my opinion on, “What is it?”
She opened Crip’s saddle bag, pulled out a thin newspaper, and motioned toward the house. “Want to go inside?”
I heard Percy open the garage door.
“No,” I said. “I’ll just sit here on the lawn chair.”
Percy must have read my mind, because he showed up with four chairs. After unfolding them in a row, I sat down.
Peyton handed me the newspaper. “It’s two pages. The front page is the article, and the second page is the photo that I’d like to put with it. It’ll be a front-page piece if you like it.”
The headline was catchy.
SOCAL COMES FULL CIRCLE
Peyton paced the driveway nervously. As Percy tinkered in the garage, Crip sat down at my side. I unfolded the newspaper and began to read the article.
In 1848, the California Gold rush started. There were no laws regarding property rights at the time, and the prospectors staked claim to their land. Out of respect, that claim of territory was honored. Two years later, California became a state. A state filled with men who lived their lives respecting the territorial claim of others.
The gold miners were dreamers who sought freedom in a country that was free. They came to California hoping to live a life in a state that was filled with men who gave respect. When a man gave his word, you could trust that he would honor it. His loyalty was proof that he’d meet your expectations.
A century and a half passed. Times changed. Ideals changed. Men changed. Today, the men of California still dream. They seek freedom in a country that is free.
They do so not from horseback, but from the seats of their American V-Twin.
Today, SoCal Outlaw Motorcycle Clubs battle over turf, willing to die for what they believe they’re entitled to. As difficult as it may be for the layman to digest such behavior, doing so only requires understanding the meaning of one simple word.
Respect.
If one club respected the other, they’d never attempt to claim the right to territory that had already been spoken for.
No differently than their horse riding counterparts, out of honor, they’d provide respect.
Twenty years ago, a man stood for these old-school values. He attempted to change minds, and in turn, change processes. He lost his life while trying to defuse a war that was brewing between his club and a rival club.
His memory, and his processes, live on today through his daughter and the Motorcycle Club she proudly rides with as an Ol’ Lady of a patched member.
Respect. Loyalty. Trust. Honor. The men who rode in the motorcycle clubs of yesteryear lived by these words. In the next four weeks, we’ll learn how this SoCal Motorcycle Club is changing minds and processes back to the ideals of yesteryear.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. I glanced at Peyton. She paused and raised her eyebrows.
“Done?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Turn the page,” she said.
I turned the page.
Holy cow!
Seeing the two black and white photos caused me to go numb.
On the left was the photo of my pregnant mother and my father that Percy had purchased the rights to. On the right was a photo of Percy and me. I recognized the clothes I was wearing – I’d worn them two weeks prior during a poker run to Los Angeles – but I had no idea anyone had taken a picture of us.
It was apparent, however, that Percy did.
Through tear-filled eyes, I gazed at the photo. I found it hard to believe it could even exist.
It was further proof that I was where I belonged.
“What is it?” Percy peered over my shoulder. “Holy shit.”
Holy shit was right.
Percy’s right hand rested on the ape hangers. His left arm was extended straight out, toward whoever held the camera.
His middle finger was extended high in the air.
Unware the photo was being taken, I sat behind him, resting my head against his shoulder. My baby bump was pressed tight to his back, and my eyes fixed on the horizon ahead.
I wiped my tears with the heel of my palm, and
stood.
Peyton stopped pacing and turned toward me. “Well?”
With the newspaper gripped tightly in my hands, I rested my forearms against my protruding belly. I held photos of two generations of soon to be families, both of which were clinging to a system of beliefs, and seeking freedom.
I turned to face Percy. I needed his approval, but it was clear that he couldn’t speak any better than I. We were both an emotional mess. The article, and the photos, were perfect.
He wiped his tear-filled eyes with his forearm.
I clenched my fist and held it between us, waiting for a yes or a no.
He didn’t make me wait long.
As his knuckles pounded against mine, Peyton screeched.
“It’ll be the front page of Sundays paper,” she said. “That edition is color, but the photos will be black and white.”
A nod was all I could offer her.
Standing in the middle of the driveway, I was a quivering ball of pregnant emotion. Nonetheless, I tilted my head back, looked up, and gave credit where credit was due.
Billy junior will be born in a few months. If he’s half the man you were, and half the man Percy is, maybe he’ll be able to fix this mess.
Until then, keep the shiny side up and the dirty side down.
Tell mom I said hi.
I love you both.
Then, I clenched my fist and held it to the sky.
Dedication
To the real Madden and Turner. I told you when I got where I was going that I was going to write a book. Well, guess what? I wrote forty of them. A cop’s a cop, unless it’s either of you. Then, and only then, a cop’s a damned fine example of mankind.
Be well.
To the real Tink. Snitches get stitches, even in the book.
Because some things never change.
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.
THICK 1 Edition Copyright © 2017 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 [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
Cover model: Jacob Wilson
Photographer: Wander Aguiar
Cover design by Jessica: www.JessicaHildrethDesigns.com
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Prologue
I peered through the living room’s ceiling-height window and fixed my gaze on the horizon. The ocean had always been my place to find serenity, but it seemed no matter how long I stared, I remained as apprehensive as the moment I started looking.
I turned around, wearing my best example of a stoic expression. “There’s always what we desire and what we’ll settle for. Historically, these two are measurably different. In this case, however, they’re so close to one another it’s scary.”
Seated at his futuristic turquoise leather sectional, he sipped his scotch. “Scary? I don’t like the sound of that. We’ve been in negotiations for a year, Mr. Reynolds. A year. Niches come and they go. All I can do is hope this one remains longer than it takes us to reach an agreement. If not, we’re both screwed.”
“Which would you prefer?” I asked. “My desire or the bottom line? The bottom line isn’t negotiable.”
He set his scotch on the end table and met my gaze. “Give me the bottom line.”
He was in his mid-sixties and wore his shoulder-length gray hair slicked back against his scalp. His feet were bare and tanned, as was his face. Dressed in off-white linen pants and a light blue button-down linen shirt, he looked the part of the eccentric billionaire that he was.
I was wearing faded jeans, weathered leather boots, and a new wife beater. My thirty-year-old Harley was parked aside his Guards Red Porsche GT3 in front of his twenty-foot-high stone fountain, leaking two drops of oil with each passing second.
I’d been to prison twice, killed more men than he had standing guard at the front of his mansion, and rode with what was quickly becoming recognized as SoCal’s most notorious outlaw motorcycle club.
Yet.
A simple negotiation with him had my stomach in knots.
I clenched my jaw and shot him a stern glare. When he broke my gaze, I knew I had him right where I wanted.
“Three and a half million, seven percent of revenue, a 1971 SS Chevelle, and a place at the--” At a loss for words, I wagged my finger at him, hoping the week’s clutter escaped me before I made a fool of myself. “Whatever you call that thing. The opening. At the opening. A place at the opening for all fellas and their Ol’ Ladies.”
He chuckled a dry laugh and reached for his scotch. “Did you say a 1971 Chevelle?”
“An SS Chevelle. There’s a difference. And not some rust-bucket. It’s got to be restored. With a big block and a four speed.”
He lifted the rim of the glass to the tip of his nose and inhaled a shallow breath. After closing his eyes for a few seconds, he opened them and stood. “Non-negotiable?”
I folded my arms in front of my chest. “I won’t budge.”
He sipped his scotch, transferred the glass to his left hand, and extended his right. “You’ve got a deal, Mr. Reynolds.”
I shook his hand. “I was sure we’d reach an agreement if we took time to meet.”
“I had my reservations,” he said. “A year’s a long time in this industry.”
“I apologize for the delays. It’s been hectic for the last nine months.”
“I can only imagine.” He arched an eyebrow. “Color preference for the car?”
“Red. With white stripes.”
“And, how many tickets? I have a gut feeling it’ll be a packed house.”
“Twenty-four.” I no more than spoke and I had to correct myself. “Make it twenty-three. We just buried one of our men.”
“I heard.” He lowered his chin. “My condolences.”
“He was a good man.”
“I’m sure he was.”
“Is it too late to add something?”
His mouth twisted into a smirk. “Depends on what it is.”
“Can you mention him? You know. At the beginning? Or the end?”
“It would be my pleasure.”
I offered him a nod of appreciation.
“I’ll have a contract for you to sign as soon as it makes it through legal. Let’s say 30 days.”
I shrugged. “Handshake’s good for me.”
He shook his head and then chuckled lightly. “You’re one of a kind, Mr. Reynolds.”
“No,” I said. “I’ve got a handful of brothers that are like carbon copies. You’ll meet them at that thing. The opening.”
“I look forward to it.”
I glanced at my watch. “Well, I’ve got to get. Last thing I need is to get one of LA’s finest on me for not having working turn signals. It’s an hour and a half back to Oceanside.”
He extended his hand. “I’ll have Trent show you out.”
I shook his hand and turned toward the door.
After I’d gone half the distance to where Trent was standing, Freeman cleared his throat. I paused and glanced over my shoulder.
“A premier, Mr. Reynolds. It’s called a premier.”
Chapter Two Hundred Six
Bobbi
I unlocked the hinged food slot and released it. The heavy chunk of iron swung open and slammed against the jail cell’s steel door with a loud bang. After slid
ing a tray through the opening, I pushed the meal cart to the next cell and repeated the process. For the inmates who were still sleeping, the disruptive sound from my morning’s duties cut through the silence of the institution like an irritating alarm clock.
My interaction with the prisoners during my morning routine was almost nil. Being a female Federal Corrections Officer in an all-male holding center was an oddity. It brought a tremendous amount of attention my direction, not all of which I found desirable or flattering.
I peered through the wire-reinforced glass window and into Tate Reynolds’ cell. Wearing prison issued khakis and a wife beater, he was dressed like everyone else in the prison. The similarities, however, stopped there.
He was polite, kind, and respectful. His ability to maintain a consistently calm demeanor throughout his incarceration intrigued me. I often imagined what my life would be like if I was on the other side of the cell door. Calm and polite weren’t traits I suspected I’d have.
I unlocked the slot and carefully lowered it to the open position. “Reynolds, it’s time for breakfast.”
On the floor of his cell doing pushups, he rose to his feet and turned to face me. A handsome man with colorful tattoos, short brown hair, and a muscular build, he was easy on the eyes.
Wearing a slight smirk and glistening with sweat, he sauntered toward the door. “I was hoping for oatmeal and hard-boiled eggs. What’d you bring me?”
I pushed the tray into the slot and grinned. “Oatmeal, coffee, and two hard-boiled eggs.”
He paused a few feet from the door and crossed his tattooed arms over his broad chest. “Who says dreams don’t come true?”
A member of a notorious Southern California motorcycle club who was arrested while trying to break up a bar fight, he’d been incarcerated for several months while waiting on his hearing. Although I’d been trained not to make eye contact with the inmates – or to show emotion – refraining from those things in his presence wasn’t an easy task.
Filthy F*ckers: The Complete Series Box Set Page 99