“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.
Chapter Forty-One
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 just 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 e
choed 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.”
He handed Cholo a beer. “Here.”
With his eyes locked on me, Cholo took a drink of the beer, and then shook his head. “Hijo de la chingada. You hired this bitch to be your Pop’s nurse? The one who wrecked your shit?”
It sounded much worse than it was. I glanced at Crip, and then looked at Cholo. I was being attacked from both sides and none of it was called for. I wasn’t planning on fucking anyone.
Eventually, I knew I would, that was just how I rolled.
I downed my beer, tossed the bottle, and held up my hands.
“Hold on fellas,” I said. “Let’s get one thing straight.”
Crip raised both eyebrows.
Cholo rubbed his bald head with the palm of his hand, and then took a drink of beer.
“This bitch is five foot two and maybe a buck and a nickel fully dressed. Maybe. And she’s built like a porn star. If I fuck her, and it’s a damned big if, it ain’t gonna be me showing her a good time. It’s gonna be me getting a little get back for what she did.”
“Little bitch, huh?” Cholo asked.
“She’s so small, if I shoved her full of cock she’d double in size.”
Cholo chuckled. “You’re gonna tap that ass, pull it out, and give that bitch a dirty Sanchez, huh?”
It sounded like a pretty good plan. I nodded. “Uh huh.”
He swung his open palm in my direction. I met it mid-air with mine.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” he said as he pulled me into him and patted me on the back. “Fuck that bitch in the ass.”
It was time to change the subject before Crip started in on me again. I motioned toward my bike. “So what do you think?”
He crouched down and looked it over. “You want the same paint?”
“Just like it was.”
“Same pegs and shit?”
“Just like it was.”
“You see the back fender? It’s got some light scratches on it.”
My bike was spotless, always. I knew where each imperfection was prior to the wreck, and there were two. After the wreck, each piece of sheet metal on it was scratched, as was a lot of the chrome.
The thought of my bike being in the shop was gut wrenching. “Yeah, I saw it,” I said through my teeth. “Fix ‘em.”
He stood up and took a drink of beer. “Two grand.”
“No shit? That’s a damned sight cheaper than the insurance company said.”
“I told you I’d hook you up, Brother,” he said. “Spook’s got most of the shit in his shop.”
“How long’s it gonna take?”
“Week.”
My heart sank. “A fucking week?”
“A day to take it apart. A day to strip it and sand it. A day to prep. Paint it the next day, and then put it back together.”
“A fucking week.” I shook my head. “When can he start?”
“He said any time.”
“You can ride that Sporty for a week,” Crip said, fighting to keep from laughing as he spoke.
The thought of riding a bike that was meant for someone who weighed 150 pounds and was five foot five was laughable.
And aggravating.
“My fucking knees will be up to my ears on that little fucker. I can’t stretch out on a Sporty.”
“Guess you can walk.” He chuckled a low laugh. “Or ride in a fucking cage.”
I stared blankly at my scratched up bike. My previous thoughts of fucking Tegan over an operating table faded and were replaced with ones of tying her up and making her my sexual slave.
I fixed my eyes on the shitty little bike sitting in the corner of the shop. It had been sitting there collecting dust for years. There was no doubt if I chose to ride the Sportster, the entire club would be laughing at me the entire time.
But I had no other options.
“I’ll ride the fucking Sporty,” I fumed.
But someone’s going to pay for it.
Dearly.
Chapter Forty-Two
Tegan
Marcus lived next door to me. He was a southern California native, extremely petite, and gay. He was very animated, and his personality could only be described as flamboyant. I found him as entertaining to watch as he was to listen to. We hit it off as soon as I moved into the apartment complex. Within a few months, we were best friends.
He worked as a waiter at an upscale restaurant, and spent most of his earnings on clothes. I’d never seen him wear the same outfit twice. He was dressed in brick-red skinny jeans, a blue V-neck tee that fit him as if it were custom tailored, and gray sneakers. His ensemble added some much-needed color to my otherwise dull kitchen.
Although he’d been aware of my wreck since it happened, I had just shared Pee Bee’s clubs name with him. Now sitting across from me at the kitchen table, he frantically searched the internet for any information he could find.
He swept his thumb across the screen of his phone every sixty seconds or so. After five minutes – and a wide array of facial expressions – he looked up and met my curious gaze.
His mouth flopped open. The phone slid from his hand, fell into his lap, and then bounced onto the floor.
“Oh. My. Gawwwwwd,” he said, acting like he had no idea the phone had fallen.
“What?”
“You are soooo not a girl.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Really?” His eyebrow arched. “Who meets a big bad biker that has Filthy Fuckers on his leather and doesn’t Google it? Tell me. Who?”
“My phone was turned off. I couldn’t.”
He stood up and pointed his slender finger at my purse. “You can now. You could have yesterday.”
“I guess I didn’t care. And I don’t care.”
He shot me a sideways look. “Case in point, T-girl. Case in point. You didn’t care. Girls care. They’re curious. You’re an anomaly. A glitch in the otherwise curious world of women. You’ve got a fucked up chromosome or something.”
“Whatever. Why’d you say oh my god?”
“I use it like a conjunction. Be more specific.”
“When you dropped your phone. You said oh my god, and then you dropped it.”
“Oh, then. Well…” He flopped down into his seat, leaned toward the center of the table, and looked me in the eye. “They’re trouble. Big trouble.”
“Who?”
“Them. The filthy Fuckers.”
“Why do you say that?”
He widened his eyes comically. “Let’s see. Extortion. Money laundering. Firearms. Arson. And, oh my god. Murder.”
“Murder?”
He straightened his posture, pointed his index finger at me, and then wagged it once at the instant he spoke. “Murder.”
I shrugged. “Obviously, it wasn’t him, or he’d be in prison. That’s what they do with criminals, they put them in prison.”
“You’re so optimistic it makes me sick. Not sick enough to rid myself of that chicken you just fed me, though. Oh my god. That was soooo good, by the way. Did I tell you that? If I didn’t, I’m sorry. Anyway, see how you do that? Your optimism diverts my thoughts,” he said in one breathless sentence.
“Slow down.” I said with a laugh. “You were talking about--”
“I was talking about your lack of participation in all things feminine.” He relaxed against his chair back and crossed his legs. “Any normal girl would say oh my god, who’d they murder?”
“Stop it. I’m normal.”
He looked me over, and then let out a sigh. “You stop it. You’re adorable, but that’s where the similarities between you and a woman cease to exist.”
“I have no interest in him. I’m caring for his father.”
“What if he comes home with a chainsaw and cuts off your arms?”
“He was a dick, but not that kind of dick.”
“And you know this how?”
“Women’s intuition?”
He coughed out a laugh. “If you were a woman, maybe.”
“I’m sure if one of them did something, he got locked away. If Pee Bee’s out roaming the streets, he’s not a murderer.”
“For what it’s worth, none of them are in prison. They’re suspected of those things, but none of them have been proven. Yet. Their little gang is listed on the federal OMG website. That’s where I got the information.”
“The federal government has an OMG website?” I laughed. “OMG.”
“OMG as in Outlaw Motorcycle Gang. Not the conjunction.”
“Oh.”
“That’s it?” His face contorted. “No more questions?”
“I don’t care,” I said. “His dad’s kind of funny, and it’s a great job.”
“His father probably helps hide the bodies.”
I laughed out loud. “He’s confined to a chair. He can’t even walk.”
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