HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  “I bet he knows things.”

  “He’s his father, I’m sure he does.”

  He lowered his eyes to the table. After a few silent seconds, he let out a gasp and his eyes went wide. “Ask him.”

  “Jesus. Settle down. Ask him what?”

  “Ask the invalid father about the murdering son.”

  “Where do you come up with this stuff?”

  He shrugged. “I have no idea. Are you going to ask?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you have an adventurous bone in your body?”

  I did. But, I gave people the benefit of the doubt. My perceptions were solely based on my experiences from what I saw or experienced first-hand, not on what others said. So far, Pee Bee had been nothing more than an asshole. Considering what I’d done to his motorcycle, I wasn’t surprised.

  “I don’t care enough to ask. I’m sure I’ll find out plenty just by being there.”

  He let out a dramatic sigh, and then glanced at his watch. An ear-piercing shriek shot from his mouth and he jumped up. “I’m going to be late. Bye.”

  I stood. “Date?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “Brian. The one with the dick like a banana.”

  “I thought--”

  “So did I.” He opened his arms. “But, I’m a sucker for a dominant male.”

  Brian was an old boyfriend that had been abusive to Marcus. After several months of the offensive behavior, they split up. Or so I thought.

  “Be careful,” I said, hugging him as I spoke.

  He kissed my cheek. “Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  He walked to the door, pulled it open, and looked over his shoulder. “And stop taking the hormones, or I’m going to have to find another friend.”

  “Goodbye, Marcus.”

  “I was kidding about the hormones.” He laughed. “Toodles, T-Girl.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Pee Bee

  I pushed the door open and stepped inside. His scowl met me the instant I entered the living room.

  He exhaled and sank into the recliner. “What a letdown.”

  “What the fuck, Pop?”

  “It’s six-forty-fucking-five in the morning.” He looked at me as if I had no business in his home. “What the fuck, me? What the fuck you. What the fuck are you doing here?”

  “I stopped by to check on you,” I said. “See if you needed anything.”

  “Check on me?” He struggled to sit up straight. “I’m not some pre-pubescent teen that’s home alone. I’m sixty-fucking-seven years old, and if I wasn’t all bandaged up, I could still kick your ass. I don’t need checked on.”

  “Well shame on me for giving a fuck,” I said as I walked across the living room floor. “I came by to see how things were going. I’ll make you some breakfast.”

  “We eat at 7:30.”

  His response caught me off-guard. I stopped in my tracks. “We?”

  “Tegan and I. She gets here at 7:00, we eat at 7:30.”

  “She eats here? With you?”

  “You’re dumber than you look,” he said. “Be kind of counterproductive if she left to eat, wouldn’t it? Hell, you fired the last girl who left.”

  He’d eaten breakfast alone for as long as I could remember, while he read the newspaper. Four days with Tegan surely didn’t convert what a lifetime with me was incapable of.

  “You eat breakfast alone. Hell, even when mom makes you breakfast on the weekends, you eat alone.”

  “You rubbed me the wrong way with all the dumb questions, so I ate alone. I didn’t like your company. At least not so early in the morning.” He wagged his eyebrows. “But, as Bob Dylan said, the times they are a changin’.”

  “So, you eat with the nurse? Why? What does she--”

  “That’s exactly what I was talking about. Enough already with the barrage of fuckin’ questions. Listening to you makes me itch, and I’m too bandaged up to scratch. And, what are you doing riding that mini-bike? You look like the fuckin’ circus clown that rides a tricycle in Barnum and Bailey’s traveling show. I saw you ride that little piece of shit in the driveway and about pissed myself.”

  He was right, I felt like a circus clown riding it, but I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of agreeing with him. I sighed and collapsed onto the edge of the couch. “Bike’s in the shop.”

  “Aggravating, ain’t it?”

  It was. I waved it off as if it was no big deal. “Kind of.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “It’s aggravating as fuck.”

  I shot him a half-assed glare. “How would you know?”

  He swung his cast in my direction. “You’re stroking your beard. You do it when you’re trying to calm yourself down. I raised you, remember?”

  He was right, but I didn’t let him know it.

  “You look like a fucktard on that little piece of shit, Son. You really do. You’re aware of that, aren’t you? That you look really fucking ridiculous on that junk little fucker?” He started laughing. “Hell, your knees are at your ears.”

  He was trying to make me mad about what Tegan did, but I wasn’t going to fall prey to his tricks.

  “Fuck you, old man. It ain’t that bad. And, the little fucker’s pretty fast.”

  “Be a lot faster if it didn’t have to haul your fat ass around.” He chuckled out a low laugh. “Go get on it and ride off real slow, so I can get another good laugh before I eat.”

  “Fuck you.” I pushed myself up from the couch and headed for the kitchen. His early morning assault was a bit much, especially on an empty stomach. “Mom got any jalapenos left?”

  “You know good and god damned well that whatever was in there the last time you were here is still in there. You’re the only one that eats those nasty fuckers.”

  “I’m gonna make an omelet.”

  “Don’t stink up the kitchen,” he said.

  As the eggs started to change from liquid to something a little more edible, I heard the door open, and then close. I fought the urge to peek into the living room, and finished my masterpiece.

  “What’s that smell?” she asked.

  “He’s making a jalapeno omelet.”

  “Who?”

  “The circus clown. Did you see that cute little bike he’s riding? You should wait ‘till he gets ready to leave, and pull out in front of him. I’d tell you to throw your door open so we could watch him topple over the handlebars, but you don’t have one.”

  “Keep it up, and I’ll make your bacon bouncy.”

  “My apologies,” he said. “I don’t know what got into me.”

  Tegan cleared her throat. “Let’s start over. Good morning, Bradley.”

  “Morning, kid.”

  “Sleep well?”

  “Like a rock. How was dinner with Marcus?”

  “Entertaining, thank you. Do you need anything before I start breakfast?”

  “Catheter needs to be dumped afterward. It’s fine for now. Fill my water?”

  She came around the corner with his cup in her hand and very little emotion on her face. Without speaking, she walked past me. I slid the omelet onto my plate and turned around. She stood at the sink rinsing his cup. Her little round ass was inviting, but not enough for me to say – or do – anything in my parent’s kitchen.

  I unintentionally brushed against her as I placed the skillet in the sink. She looked up, lips pursed, and gave a shitty little closed-mouth grin.

  “Mornin’,” I said.

  “Good morning.” She looked in the sink, and sighed. “I’m his nurse, not your maid. Can you please rinse your dishes and put them in the dishwasher?”

  “Are you fuckin’ kidding me?”

  She filled his cup with ice, and then glanced over her shoulder. “No, I’m not.”

  I grabbed a fork from the silverware drawer and shoved it in my pocket. “This isn’t your fuckin’ house.”

  “No, it’s not. But, my duties include
cleaning up after myself, and after your father. Not you.”

  She walked past me and into the living room.

  You little bitch.

  Aggravated, and ready to start an argument, I took off after her as soon as I got over the initial shock of her remark. When I came around the corner, she was on her way back to the kitchen.

  I paused in the doorway. “Hold on a fuckin’ minute.”

  A few feet from where I was standing, she cocked her hip and forced out a sigh. “Yes?”

  “Use that skillet to cook your eggs. You’re still washing only one. Problem. Solved.”

  “Rinse off your skillet, dip shit,” my father barked. “I’m not eating jalapeno residue.”

  I stood firm in the middle of the doorway. “She can rinse it.” I reached for my fork and started eating.

  “Rinse the god damned skillet, shithead. Don’t be a complete asshole. I raised you better than that.”

  Being attacked by my father was nothing new. I’d spent a lifetime trying to gain his respect. Although it was a slow process, I eventually succeeded, but not without getting a constant earful of his opinions during the process.

  Having him chastise me in front of Tegan, however, was irritating.

  “I’ll rinse the motherfucker after I eat.”

  She motioned behind me with a nod of her head. “Excuse me.”

  With my plate in one hand, and my fork in the other, I stepped to the side. Leaving an opening between my hip and the side of the doorframe almost big enough for her to pass through, I waited for her to walk by.

  She wedged herself between me and the doorway, thrusting her hip against me as she passed by. “I said excuse me.”

  “Jesus. You don’t have to be a--”

  I caught myself before I said it.

  I didn’t bother turning around, I could feel her eyes burning holes into my back. Plate in hand, I walked to the living room, sat down, and shoveled a forkful of eggs into my mouth.

  My father pressed the button on his chair’s remote control and tilted it forward. As it reached the end of its travel, he lowered his chin and locked eyes with me. “If you want to take her on a date, I’d suggest tossing that attitude,” he whispered.

  I coughed, almost losing my mouthful of eggs in the process. “What? I don’t want anything to do with that little bitch. She irritates me.”

  “You remind me of Tom Blakenship. In second grade he decided he liked this little blonde girl, Karen. So, he walked up to her and pushed her down while we were on recess. That was his way of telling her. You know why little kids do dumb shit like that?”

  I swallowed my food. “I suppose you’re going to tell me.”

  “Because they don’t know how to communicate,” he said. “You’re either a damned sight dumber than I’m giving you credit for, or you’re just plain stupid.”

  “I don’t like her,” I said. “Not even a little bit.’

  And, I didn’t. I just wanted to buttfuck her for what she did to my bike. And, if things went well, I’d come on her pretty little face. After the dirty Sanchez, that is.

  “Keep telling yourself that,” he said. “The last time you were here at 6:45 in the morning, you were in tenth fuckin’ grade. You telling me you rode that little turd of a scooter over here from Oceanside to check on me? What’d it take you, an hour to get here?”

  I finished my omelet and then looked at him. “Forty minutes. I told you the little fucker was fast.”

  He pressed the button on his remote and reclined the chair until it was almost flat, and then tilted his head to the side.

  “You come here to check on my well-being or to try and sweet talk my nurse?”

  “Check on your well-being,” I said, almost believing it.

  “Good.” He reached under his robe and pulled out his catheter bag. “Dump this, then.”

  I looked at the opaque bag filled with piss. I once cut off a rapist’s cock with a straight razor and it didn’t bother me, but the thought of dumping a bag of day-old urine made me feel ill. Jalapeno flavored bile rose in my throat. “She’ll be here in a minute, she can--”

  “Show me you love me. Dump the bag, Son.”

  “You know I love you, Pop.”

  “I know you’re full of shit.”

  Tegan stepped into the room with a plate in each hand. I knew him well enough to know if I didn’t dump the bag, he’d make a huge production of everything. When he did, it’d give Tegan the wrong impression about why I was there.

  I swallowed hard, stood, and shot him a glare.

  As he lifted the bag of piss, his mouth curled into a smirk. With the top of the bag clenched in his hand, he shook it, causing the previous night’s urine to sway back and forth.

  My stomach churned, but I did what any good son would have done. I set my plate down and reached for the bag. As I switched the valve and pulled on the hose, it burped piss out onto my hand.

  The urine ran down my forearm and dripped off my elbow. My belly full of early-morning jalapenos rumbled in protest. I struggled to hold them down, but it wasn’t easy.

  Bag of piss in hand, I swallowed the rapidly rising hot pepper-infused bile.

  My father, aware I had a weak stomach for things like a leaking bag of urine, looked at me. My head started spinning. He grinned, raised his clenched fist to his mouth, and began faking like he was barfing.

  Repeatedly.

  I took a step toward the bathroom, and met Tegan’s gaze.

  She grinned.

  And, I puked.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Tegan

  I stared down at the battered board, blinked, and then looked at Bradley. “Are you serious?”

  He rested his arm on the side of his wheelchair and nodded toward his achievement. “Challenge it, you little shit.”

  I stared at the five letters that he’d placed on the tattered board alongside an existing M.

  M-U-Z-J-I-K.

  “It doesn’t look like a word.”

  “Challenge it, or close your gob,” he said.

  “I said it doesn’t look like a word. It doesn’t.”

  “I don’t have to tell you shit, but I will. Word of the day, muzjik. A muzjik is a Russian peasant. Mark me down for forty-eight. Your turn.”

  Following a lengthy discussion, Bradley and I agreed to alter his schedule. After lunch, we added a game of Scrabble to our daily routine. His lifetime of reading left him with a tremendous vocabulary, and competing with him was equal parts frustrating and rewarding.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll remember that.”

  After marking down his score, I looked at my options. I had a P, R, a blank tile, D, T, I, and an A. After a few seconds, I placed my letters on the board, using the Z in muzjik, which was spelled vertically.

  “P-I-Z-Z-A. I get twenty-five for that. Ha!”

  “You kids and pizza. That shit’s not fit to eat.”

  “I don’t eat it. But it doesn’t mean I can’t spell it.”

  He looked bewildered. “You don’t eat pizza?”

  “Not unless I have to.”

  “What would make you have to?”

  “If someone served it to me,” I said. “I’d be polite and eat it. But, I’d never eat it by choice.”

  “What’s your favorite food?”

  I thought of my mother’s Swedish meatballs. I hadn’t eaten them in ages, and absolutely loved them as a kid. It was one of the things I truly missed since her passing.

  “Swedish meatballs,” I said.

  “Good solid choice.” He nodded a few times. “So, you like caring for others, you’re almost bearable to be around, and you’ve got manners. Must have been raised somewhere other than in this state.”

  “Nope. California born and raised.”

  “By good parents, obviously.”

  “Parent. Singular. Yes. She was a saint.”

  “Was?”

  “Yes, she passed my freshman year of college. Someone robbed her at gunpoint while
she was at a stoplight. The caught him, though.”

  “I’m sorry. What about your father?”

  “He left when I was four.” It was a sore subject, so I kept my response short. “No comment.”

  “Some people are shitheads. Remember that.”

  “More knowledge from Bradley’s vault of wisdom?”

  “I’ll try and give you a slice of good advice every day. That’s today’s.”

  “I’ll cherish it.”

  He smiled a sarcastic smile and then situated his letters on the board. Using the K in muzjik, he spelled K-A-U-R-Y.

  “Gimme eight.”

  “Hold on a minute,” I said. “Kaury? Really?”

  Although I was sure he’d never cheat, I wanted to challenge the word anyway. Doing so would be the highlight of his day. He’d probably even tell his wife about it when she got home.

  “Challenge it or stop yapping.”

  “It’s not a word,” I spouted.

  “It sure as fuck is.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “It’s a god damned word, that’s what it is. You want to know? It’ll cost you a turn to find out.”

  “Only if it’s in the dictionary. If it’s not, you’re lose a turn.”

  “I’ve been playing this game for about forty-five years of the sixty-seven that I’ve graced this earth with my presence. Never lost a turn yet.”

  “That’s because no one challenges you.”

  “They know better,” he said dryly.

  I jumped up and pointed to the board. “You, sir, have been challenged.”

  He shot me a laser sharp glare. “Are you shittin’ me?”

  “No. I am not. Prepare to lose a turn. Kaury.” I chuckled. “Sounds like a name for a redheaded kid.”

  “It’s a tall, white, straight-grained tree indigenous to New Zealand.”

  “It’s a lost turn if you can’t prove it’s a word.”

  He glared at me, reached for the box, and pulled out the dictionary.

  “Let me look it up for you,” I said.

  “Sit down, you little shit. I can get by just god damned fine. Prepare to lose a turn.”

  He rested the dictionary in his lap, and then began flipping through the pages with his fingertips. After fighting to keep the book open with one hand, he used his hand that was protruding from the sling to steady the cover of the book and keep it from closing.