Filthy F*ckers: The Complete Series Box Set

by Hildreth, Scott

  The elevator doors opened. The men hurried toward the double doors at the end of the corridor. The prison’s final guard, standing post at the doors that separated Becker Wallace from freedom, pressed the button on the wall and opened the electric doors.

  Becker’s eyes fluttered open at the feeling of the warm humid air as it rushed past him.

  Fifty yards ahead, a fueled airplane waited, running.

  Becker closed his eyes.

  “Mr. Wallace. We’re going to push you up the ramp.”

  Becker opened his eyes.

  At the top of the ramp, a woman stood. With her blonde hair pulled into a bun, she raised a shaking hand and waved.

  Becker, weakened from the night’s happenings, managed to do nothing but blink in disbelief. After convincing himself his eyes weren’t deceiving him, he parted his dry lips. “Allis…Allison?”

  Overcome by emotion and incapable of speaking, she simply nodded. Her dream, at least in part, had come true.

  “How?” His thought swirled in his head. “What…what happened?”

  She smiled at the thought of it all. “I cashed in my retirement account. I hired an attorney, and I’ve got doctors waiting in the best cancer center in the United States,” she blurted. “It’s in Houston. They’re expecting you.”

  The attendants pushed him up the ramp. As he rolled past her, he raised his hand. She reached for it, folding her fingers gently over his.

  Although they had touched each other’s hearts, this was the first time they had touched one another physically.

  “They say they can help you,” she said.

  He swallowed heavily, feeling ill from the morphine that had been administered while he waited outside his cell. The best he was able, he gripped her hand in his and said the only thing that came to mind.

  “I think it may be too late.”

  With those words, Becker Wallace’s eyes fell closed.

  I threw my Kindle across the bed.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I shouted.

  I couldn’t take it any longer. If Becker died, I’d hunt Tate down and choke him until he passed out.

  A story of a prison guard and an inmate falling in love simply felt too real. Too close to home. Too relatable. I wondered if Becker was going to die, and if his death was a message for me to forget I ever met Tate. The prison guard and the inmate in the book parting to suggest the parting of the inmate and guard in real life.

  If that’s what he wanted, he should have said something. He shouldn’t kill Becker to make a point.

  I had fifteen chapters to go, and decided he wouldn’t spend fifteen chapters killing the hero. Becker had to live. He simply had to.

  I looked at my watch. It was well past midnight. I needed three hours to finish the book. If I didn’t spend all my reading time in tears, that should be enough.

  I flipped through the chapters, taking the book in one paragraph at a time. The three hours passed as quickly as the chapters, and before I knew what happened, I had finished it.

  Amazon’s prompt to review the book came up.

  In tears, and suffering from a book coma, I typed my first book review. Convinced the book was the best book I’d ever read, I gave praise where praise was due. The book was a masterpiece, and nothing less.

  After posting my review, I read some of the others, making note that all 421 reviews were five-stars.

  I scrolled to the bottom of the page.

  The book’s ranking was number one. At first, I was elated that Tate had written a best seller in Romance, and then it dawned on me that the ranking wasn’t in a genre, it was out of all books – millions of books – that were available to purchase.

  I refreshed my Kindle, and looked again.

  Number one.

  Holy crap.

  Proud to have met the man who wrote the number one book out of all books in existence, I relished in the recollection of the discussions Tate and I had over the months that he was incarcerated.

  While I wallowed in memories, I realized in my rush to read the book that I had failed to read the dedication. Tate’s dedications were almost as good as his books.

  Using the index, I zoomed to the dedication.

  Madden, I don’t know how I could have done it without you. With a swollen heart and tear-filled eyes, I hereby dedicate this book to you. Thank you for everything. Wish I could have seen you before I left. If you’d like to grab a cup of coffee or go for a ride, I’d be honored.

  If so, multiply the number of my residence times 184,318,033. Then, round up. Call or text me at the number you obtain.

  If not, I understand.

  Holding my breath in anticipation,

  TD Reynolds.

  I coughed out a ball of emotion and then reread the dedication.

  Number of my residence?

  His cell number was twenty-four. I did the math on my Kindle, and the result was an Oceanside, CA telephone number.

  I called it. Without ringing, it went to voicemail.

  This is Tate. Leave a message.

  Hearing his voice caused me to blubber another emotion-filled wad from my throat. After regaining my composure, I left a message.

  “Tate, this is Bobbi. Bobbi Madden. You can call me at 213 383 9199. I want the coffee and the ride. Yeah, I’m selfish like that.”

  I no more than finished, and his phone beeped, indicating the message had been accepted. Convinced he was riding down the coast, I hung up and tossed my phone to the side.

  My mouth curled into a smile.

  If I was lucky, I’d get two hours sleep. I didn’t care. At least Tate wasn’t going to see me when I went to work.

  Chapter Two Hundred Twenty-One

  Tate

  If a man had spent so much as one day in prison, he lived every moment of freedom that followed with the lingering fear that one day he’d return. Everyone I knew that had done time, me included, felt that way.

  The thought of going back to prison haunted me for five years. Then, my fear became reality when I was arrested for the firearms charge. Being released after the charges were dropped was truly a miracle. Volunteering to go back to prison weeks later would seem ridiculous to most.

  It seemed ridiculous to me, too. Yet. There I was, gazing through the thick glass of my cell door’s window, wondering which cell Gravy was in.

  The sound of jingling keys gave warning of a guard walking his post. As Officer Turner marched past, I pounded my clenched fist against the door twice. “Turner!”

  He paused, turned around, and then peered through the window. “Hell, I almost didn’t recognize you. Didn’t stay gone long, did ya?”

  “Missed the scenery,” I said. “And the oatmeal.”

  “Bullshit.” He stepped away from the window. “What do you need?”

  “Can I get a couple pencils? Tooth brush? Tooth paste? Soap. And some paper?”

  He folded his arms over his chest and looked me over. “You didn’t get that shit in admissions?”

  I shook my head. “Wouldn’t be asking if I had.”

  Truth be told, I’d received all the items. But if they searched my cell, and I was sure they eventually would, I wanted them to find everything they’d given me. What he was going to bring me would be used, and later entered into the prison’s evidence room.

  If the issued toiletry items were missing from my cell, I’d be a suspect. If they were accounted for, I wouldn’t.

  “Who’d you see in admissions?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “All you guys look alike.”

  “Lazy bastards. Half the time they forget to give new admissions their fucking pillows.”

  “I got shower shoes, a pillow, sheets and blanket.” I waved my hand toward the bunk. “That’s it.”

  “I’ll drop it off on my next round.”

  “Appreciate it, Boss.”

  Having been transported from a county jail through the institutions receiving center once before, I knew they didn’t X-ray the inmates prior to admissio
ns. They were required to go through a metal detector, but the device only alerted them of large pieces of metal, not miniscule ones.

  So, while the cop that wasn’t a cop waited, I bought a package of disposable razors, removed the foil blades, and wrapped them in masking tape. Then, I put them in the only place I knew they wouldn’t look. Writing a few dozen biker romance books caused me to do tremendous research on crimes and prisons, this was an opportunity for me to put all the research to work.

  An hour later, I had everything I needed to prepare myself for the following day.

  First, I needed to start a fire. Then, I would use the fire to melt the toothbrush handle. The molten plastic would allow me to insert the flimsy razor blade into it. Once cooled, the plastic would harden. In doing so, it would cause the razor blade to be as rigid as the plastic.

  The makeshift knife would be as sharp as Becker Wallace’s straight razor, and much easier to hide.

  I unrolled ten feet of toilet paper, and then rolled it into a tight length of toilet paper rope. Two other squares of the tissue were torn and then fashioned into a loose ball.

  Then, I carefully split two of my pencils lengthwise with one of my razor blades. After removing the graphite strips of ‘lead’, I poked one in each side of the electrical wall outlet. Using the scraps of wood, I positioned the two pieces together until the tips of lead touched each other.

  The spark created each time the two pieces contacted one another was used to ignite the loose wad of toilet paper. Using that piece of flaming toilet paper, I lit the end of the rope I’d fashioned.

  With the flaming toilet paper acting as a rudimentary candle, I melted the toothbrush handle until it was pliable. After inserting the two razor blades into the molten plastic, I carried it to my sink and cooled it with running water.

  A quick check of the instrument proved it was sturdy enough to do the job. I then carefully fashioned another just like the first. When I was done, I flushed all the remaining evidence down the toilet.

  I placed the two razor knives under my bunk’s rubber mat, and then searched the cell one last time for any clue as to what I’d done. Convinced everything was in order, I climbed into my bunk and fell asleep.

  * * *

  The sound of bean slots being banged against the cell doors filled me with apprehension. My guess was that I’d have one opportunity to take care of Gravy. If I didn’t succeed during our first visit to the yard, the Savages would recognize me, and any further opportunity would be lost.

  The banging sound moved closer. Nervously, I stood a few feet from the door with my hands in my pockets.

  My bean slot opened with a bang, and a tray of food was shoved through the opening.

  My heart raced at the sight of her. I pounded my hand on the door twice. “Madden!”

  She bent down and gazed through the window. Her eyes thinned. Upon realizing who I was, they shot wide. “Reynolds? I didn’t recognize you.”

  I was relieved that she didn’t realize who I was. While the cop waited, I shaved my head with a pair of battery-powered clippers in the CVS parking lot. I still wore the beard I’d grown while I wrote my book, which was an oddity for me. I hoped the change in appearance would allow me to sneak up on the Savages without being identified as a Filthy Fucker.

  I rubbed my beard. “I haven’t shaved since I left here. It’s a ritual when I write. And, I cut my hair yesterday.”

  “It looks different.” Her face washed with worry. “What happened, though? Why are you back?”

  “Bullshit charge,” I said. “Hopefully I’ll be out of here as soon as my attorney meets with the DA.”

  “What happened?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  “Rode to Chula Vista to clear my head yesterday morning. After I got done eating, I went to a little independent coffee shop. Their tea was awesome, so I bought a big bag of it. You know, the loose-leaf stuff. On the way home, I got pulled over for an illegal lane change, and the cop said he ‘smelled something funny’. He searched my saddle bags, found the tea, and thought it was pot. Because of my association with a motorcycle gang, and the amount of ‘dope’ he found, it’s a fed charge. As soon as they have the lab test it, it’ll prove it’s nothing more than tea. So, I’m in here for being a tea-drinking hippy.”

  She laughed, revealing the same smile that brightened each of the shit days I had during my first round of imprisonment in the same shit-hole. Embarrassed, she covered her mouth with her hand. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “That’s worse than Becker Wallace’s charges.”

  I was excited that she’d at least started reading it. “You got it already?”

  “Finished it last night.”

  I wondered if she enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it. “What did you think?”

  “Best book I’ve ever read. Ever.”

  “It’s good, but it’s not that good.”

  “It seems everyone disagrees with you on that.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s number one.”

  I chuckled. “Best smut out there.”

  “Best book out there,” she said. “It’s number one out of all books. It was number one last night, and it was still number one when I got here. I keep checking.”

  I couldn’t believe it. “Number one?”

  She smiled and nodded. “Number one.”

  I gawked. “Holy shit.”

  “I know, right?”

  “Where’s my fucking breakfast!” someone screamed. “What the fuck, bitch?”

  Bitch?

  She lowered her face even with the bottom of the window. “There’s a bunch of other bikers in here. That one is an asshole.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Darin Wheatland.”

  Darin ‘Gravy’ Wheatland. Him calling Madden a bitch was enough reason for me to do what I had planned.

  “Never heard of him,” I said.

  “Well, he’s a jerk.” She grinned. “Becker Wallace would give him what he deserves.”

  I’d modeled Becker’s character with myself in mind. She was right. Becker would do just that.

  “Too bad Becker’s nothing but a character in a book.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “It is. I really liked that guy.”

  “Me too.”

  “Glad you’re back,” she said with a sly grin.

  I didn’t want to keep her any longer, but she hadn’t mentioned the dedication. I wondered if she’d read it. “Did you see the dedication?”

  Her smile rose into the middle of her cheeks. “I did. I left you a message.”

  “You fat bitch.” Gravy beat his hands against his cell door. “Where’s my fucking food?”

  My blood pressure shot through the roof. “Don’t listen to him. He’s--”

  “I better go,” she said.

  I clenched my jaw and gave a nod. If everything worked the way I had it planned, Gravy would get what he had coming to him soon enough. For now, I needed to play it cool.

  “Thank you for the meal.”

  She nodded in return. “You’re welcome.”

  * * *

  The sound of keys unlocking cell doors gave warning that the time had come. I remained in my bunk, nonetheless.

  My cell door opened. “Time to go play outside, inmate,” the guard said in a sarcastic tone.

  For one hour each day, we were free to go to the yard or wander the cellblock. In no order, we filtered out of the cellblock and through the door that led to the outside. After an hour of wandering around and exercising, we were brought inside, returned to our cells, and counted.

  Gravy, a man of less than average height with graying hair and a lengthy full beard, walked past with his three rapist friends. Telling a story as he sauntered toward the door, he made no note of me sprawled out on my bunk as he passed by my cell.

  I lifted my bedding, picked up the makeshift kniv
es, and slipped them into the pockets of my khakis.

  Once on the yard, I made note of the cliques of inmates. A group of blacks gathered just outside the door. The Hispanic population was spread out along the fence that separated the yard from the field behind the prison. Non-affiliated whites were loosely scattered in the center of the yard. The handful of Savages stood beside them on the left, and much larger group of Arian Brotherhood’s men stood on the right. I recognized the leader of the AB group as being the same man who was in charge when I paid my last visit.

  So far, everything was going as I had hoped.

  If there was one man that no one respected within the walls of a prison, it was a rapist. A rapist had two choices once he got behind the walls. He could either ‘check in’, which would mean that he asked the guards to lock him in the SHU for his entire sentence. Doing so would all but ensure his safety, but he’d spend twenty-three hours and forty-five minutes a day locked in his cell, alone.

  Or, he could take his chances in general population.

  In general population, he would be shanked, set afire, or beaten to death.

  The problem with the Savages was that they hadn’t been tried or convicted. No one knew what their actual charges were. When asked, they probably lied, and said their crimes were either meth or murder, both being socially acceptable in prison.

  With my head hung low, I sauntered toward the group of Arians. Once beside the group, I looked up and made eye contact with their leader, Tink. In his latter forties with a shaved head, prison-made Arian tattoos, and a goatee, he looked the part he played.

  The vast majority of bikers weren’t white supremacists, but they received respect from the men who were. Personally, I didn’t believe any race was superior, but for the time being, my only ally was the group of men who stood before me.

  I tilted my head to the side. “Got a minute?”

  He and his next in command stepped away from the group.

  “Shit.” He looked me over. “Didn’t even recognize you, Meat. Catch some more charges?”

  I stepped as close to him as I could, hoping to hide from the Savages, but not so close that it made him uncomfortable. “I’m here to do a job,” I said. “Got a bullshit charge, and ought to be out of here tomorrow. I need to take care of someone first.”