HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  It was the first time he’d used his left hand for anything.

  “There. Right god damned there,” he barked. “Kaury. Noun. A Tall timber tree of New Zealand having white straight-grained wood.”

  I peered over his shoulder.

  “Crap!” I stomped my foot on the floor.

  He closed the book and tossed it in the box. “Crap is right. Maybe that’ll teach you to challenge the old man. You fuck with the bull, you get the horns.”

  “More wisdom from the vault?”

  He shook his head. “No, that’s just common sense.”

  “I’ll cherish that one, too.”

  “Now, you can just sit there on your keister while I take another turn. It burns, doesn’t it?”

  “What’s that?”

  “That sinking feeling you get deep down in your gut when you know there’s no way you’re going to dig yourself out of the hole you’re in.”

  “Kind of,” I said, but only to satisfy him.

  Knowing that I played a part in the progress he was making in his day-to-day life was very rewarding. If losing a turn in Scrabble made him feel that his vast vocabulary was useful, it was a small price for me to pay.

  “Guess what, kid?”

  “What?”

  “I’ve only got four letters left.”

  “Too bad you can’t make a word with them. I’ve got seven, and I’ve got my eye on a special spot on the board.”

  “Read ‘em and weep, shithead” He placed the four letters on the board.

  I smiled at his word choice. “C-O-H-O-R-T.”

  He clasped his hands together. “Tally up the score.”

  I gave him the points for the word, and totaled the score. “541 to 324.”

  “Me on top, of course.”

  I nodded. “Of course.”

  “Keeping track of the games played?”

  “Four to nothing. Yes.”

  “Well, keep on keeping track. When you win one, I’ll buy you a pizza.”

  The thought of him buying me a pizza made me laugh – because I knew he’d do it, just to be a shit.

  “Just another reason to continue forfeiting these games to you.”

  “Oh.” He widened his eyes and cocked his head to the side. “Losing on purpose, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  “More therapy for me?”

  I poured the letters into the bag and folded the board. “Something like that.”

  “Well, it’s working. Being around you makes me feel young again. You know, I’ve been playing this game every Friday for damned near fifty years with my wife. It’ll be fifty in a few weeks, anyway. We started when we got married. This game builds relationships, you can remember that, too. And you know what? After fifty years of playing it, I ain’t sick of it – or her – yet.”

  “Wow. Fifty?”

  “The big five-oh is coming.”

  “Have any kids other than the circus clown?”

  “Nope. He’s it. We started late. Complications.”

  “Well, I’m glad you got everything sorted out. He’s…well…he’s uhhm…” I stammered, wanting to say something nice about him, but failed to come up with anything. “He’s interesting.”

  He shook his head slowly as he gazed down at the table. “He’s something, that’s for sure. Love him, nonetheless.”

  I put the lid on the game’s taped-up box, pulled my chair away from the table, and sat down. “I’ve got questions.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Have you always been a jerk?”

  He spit out a laugh. “You always so blunt?”

  “I don’t believe in sugar coating things.”

  “Probably one of the reasons I don’t make an honest effort to hate you. Never cared much for people who didn’t have the guts to say what was on their mind.”

  “I’ve got more guts than I’ve got sense, sometimes,” I admitted.

  “Proved that out on the porch,” he said. “But it seems that’s a subject we’re not allowed to discuss.”

  I grinned. “So, you’re a perceptive jerk?”

  “I can be.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Don’t know that I want to.”

  “Why not?”

  He slumped in his chair, and his gaze lowered to his lap. He rubbed the underside of his nose with the edge of his finger for quite some time, and then looked up. He fixed his eyes on the Scrabble box. He looked defeated. “I’ve always been a prick, but in recent years a little more so.”

  I realized he wasn’t done talking, but felt the need to acknowledge his statement. “Okay.”

  “Figure if I’m an asshole, people won’t care so much when I’m gone.”

  I was afraid to ask why, but after a few seconds, simply had to. He was far too young to be worried about dying.

  “You’re not old enough to be worrying about--”

  He shifted his eyes to me. “We got any kind of confidentiality clause? You being a nurse, and me being a patient?”

  I decided I didn’t want to hear any more. There was a reason he’d made that statement, and I didn’t want to know. I fought to swallow and stood up. “No.”

  “Where you going?”

  “I need to get the game put up, and it’s 2:00. It’s time for your pills.”

  He let out a long breath. “Sit down.”

  I didn’t want to, but I did.

  “You and me. Can we reach an agreement?”

  “I’m sure we can, why?”

  “Haven’t got any real reason to, but I’m going to trust you, kid. What we talk about? It stays right here. You don’t discuss it with the circus clown, or anyone else for that matter. Agreed?”

  My throat had tightened into a dry knot.

  Every man who had entered my life had left, and when they did, they took a small part of my heart with them. If Bradley was going to tell me what I was afraid he was going to tell me, I didn’t want to hear it.

  But he wanted to tell me.

  “Agreed,” I murmured.

  “My heart’s a mess. It’s weak, weaker than anyone, short of me, knows. It started a few years back, and--”

  “Have you had a bypass?”

  “Several.”

  I locked eyes with him and leaned forward. “There’s all kinds of things that they can do to make it--”

  “I’ve got congestive heart failure. That’s what I’ve got to show for thirty years of smoking. I’ve had ‘em all. Bypasses. Angioplasties. Ablations.” He patted his cast against his chest. “Have a defibrillator in my chest to get it going again each time it quits, and lately, that’s been pretty often.”

  I’d only known him for a week, but we’d made a strong connection in that short period of time. The thought of losing him caused my heart to rise into my throat.

  I deeply regretted asking the question. I reached for the Scrabble box. “So now I know.”

  I knew he could see my disappointment. My mother always said I wore my emotions on my shirt sleeve, and although I’d tried not to, I must have failed.

  His face washed with sorrow. “Didn’t mean to piss you off.”

  I pushed myself away from the table and stood. “I’m not mad. I’m just going to put this up.”

  “You know where I’ll be when you’re done.”

  I took a few steps and then turned around. “There’s nothing that can be done to--”

  “Nothing short of a new heart, and no one wants to give an old fucker like me a good heart. Hell, don’t know that I’d take one if I was offered.”

  At that moment, and for every moment that followed, I wished I had two hearts, so I could give him one.

  “I see,” I said.

  I walked to the pantry, slid the game into its place, and gazed blankly at the contents of the shelves, wishing I hadn’t asked the question.

  But I had.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Pee Bee

  I raked my hair away from my face and pulled on
my helmet. “So, who are these motherfuckers?”

  “Not sure,” Crip said. “Sounds like an unorganized bunch. Pete called and said a handful of ‘em stopped in for a couple of beers a few nights back. Now there’s ten of ‘em in there. The Goblins or some shit.”

  “Goblins?” I laughed. “No shit?”

  “Fuck, I don’t know, Peeb. Something like that.”

  “There’s ten of ‘em?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “And you and me and Cholo’s headed over there to whip ‘em? The three of us?”

  “I didn’t say we were headed over there to whip ‘em. I said we were going to scare the shit out of ‘em.”

  “Scare ‘em, huh?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Gonna take some Halloween masks? Jump out from around the corner of the bar when they come outside and yell boo?”

  “Listen, smartass. You’re a big intimidating former college football star. Cholo’s a Chicano thug who used to be a Golden Gloves boxer. I’m a former Navy SEAL. And, in case you forgot, we’re 1%ers. Our presence will scare ‘em.”

  “Settle down, Boss. I ain’t worried about me. I’ll scare my third of ‘em without a mask. You and the Mexican can scare the rest.”

  “Follow my lead on this. I don’t want you going apeshit on anybody like you did that night in Five Points.”

  “No going apeshit,” I said with a nod. “Got it.”

  He locked eyes with me. “I’m serious.”

  “Do I look like I’m joking?”

  “It’s hard to tell, Peeb. Your face has a fuckin’ permanent grin on it. I never know when you’re serious.”

  “Ask me.”

  He shook his head. “You ready?”

  “Ask me.”

  “You give me a headache. Brother Cholo’s gonna join us right before we hit the freeway. He’s sitting at the 7-Eleven waiting on us now. You ready?”

  “Ask me if I’m serious.”

  He let out a sigh, shook his head, and then looked at me. “You serious, Peeb?”

  I grinned. “Yep. Now, remember that face. That was my serious face.”

  “Be a tough one to forget. Looks like all the rest.”

  I tried to formulate a scowl, but ended up grinning in the process.

  He laughed. “You ready, Mr. Serious?”

  “Born ready, Boss.”

  He turned toward his bike. “They see your big ass on that Sporty, and that might be enough to scare ‘em. Either that, or they’ll be bent over in laughter, and it’ll make it easier for us to whip ‘em.”

  The fucking Sportster. I’d completely forgotten I was riding it. One more day, and I was supposed to have my bike back. I made a mental note to ask Tegan about the money she owed me and started the little piece of shit up.

  We rode toward the 5, and picked up Cholo along the way. After ten minutes on the freeway, we exited and pulled up to Pete’s bar. Ten bikes, all Harley’s, were neatly parked in the front of the bar to the left of the door.

  It was a location that we’d claimed as territory, and other than the Savages, no club had ever had the guts – or the lack of common sense – to try and hang out there. Pete appreciated the security we offered him, and we never tore up the place or acted disrespectful.

  If a riding club was hanging out in there, we’d simply explain procedure to them. If it was a 1% club, we’d explain the matter, and ask them to leave. If they refused, there’d be a fight.

  We circled the lot and parked on the right of the door. I shielded my eyes from the afternoon sun and looked down the long line of motorcycles.

  “All American V-Twins. Looks like it might be a 1%er club,” I said.

  “Might be a bunch of college professors,” Crip said. “Fuck, these days, everyone rides a Harley.”

  “De veras,” Cholo said.

  “You ready?” Crip asked.

  Cholo nodded.

  He looked at me. “You’ve got your serious face on, so I don’t even need to ask you, do I?”

  “Told you at the shop. I was born ready.”

  “Well, Mr. Serious, lead the way. I want your six-foot-eight ass to be the first thing they see.”

  “Wouldn’t want it any other way, Boss. We taking our heat?”

  He patted his hand against his kutte. “I’ve got mine, should be enough to intimidate ‘em if that’s where this ends up.”

  I hung my helmet over the bars, straightened my kutte, and walked to the door. “Any one of these fuckers says anything about me on that Sporty, I’m kicking their ass.”

  Cholo slapped his hand against my shoulder. “Get ready to fight, Peeb. No way if they saw you on it they’ll keep their mouth shut. You look like el payaso baboso.”

  I reached for the door handle and then glanced over my shoulder. “The fuck’s that mean?”

  “A retarded clown.” He lifted his chin slightly. “Open the door, payaso.”

  I was the biggest motherfucker in the MC, the Sergeant-at-Arms, and the butt of all the fucking jokes. I pushed the door open and quickly scanned the bar. Ten men in kuttes were standing at the high-top tables drinking beers.

  Fuck.

  “What’s shakin’, motherfuckers?!” I flexed my biceps, stuck out my chest, and cleared my throat. Every one of them turned to face me at the same time. “Any of you dumb pricks know whose bar you’re in?”

  Crip leaned around me and slapped his hand against my back. “God damn it, Peeb. I’ll take it from here,” he whispered out of the side of his mouth.

  “How’s it going, fellas?” he said.

  With all eyes focused on Crip, I studied the men. There wasn’t one of them who stood out as being terribly threatening, but they didn’t look like pushovers, either.

  One, a guy with a slight beer belly and of average build and height, maneuvered to the front of the crowd of men. He wore a scraggly beard, and what portions of his face weren’t covered in hair were weathered from a life spent in the southern California sun. His kutte didn’t have a 1% patch, and my guess was that we’d all be drinking beer together in no more than a few minutes.

  He set his beer on the table at his side, and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he snarled.

  Bad choice, dumbass.

  It wasn’t the first time I was wrong.

  Crip cleared his throat. “I was the guy who tried to address you and your compadres respectfully. Now I’m the one who’s temper’s flaring because you’re a disrespectful fuck.”

  Beard took a few steps toward Crip, and half of his men followed. He nodded toward me. “Big boy called us pricks. You’re just trying to figure out a way to back out of it, now.”

  “Never backed away from a fight in my life,” Crip said. “But, believe me, this isn’t one you want to start.”

  Beard lifted his kutte slightly, exposing a pistol.

  Crip clapped his hands slowly and softly as if he was applauding a 400-yard tee shot at a prestigious golf tournament. “Hot damn, you’re old enough to buy a gun. Either that, or you’re dumb enough to steal one--”

  “I think it’s time you, big boy, and the Mexican leave,” he said.

  “Fuck yeah, it is,” one of them in the rear shouted.

  I took a step forward. Crip reached to the side and planted his hand against my chest. “Not yet.”

  Beard laughed. “Not yet? What? He bullet proof?”

  “There’s two ways we can do this.” Crip said flatly. He glanced toward the bar, nodded once, and then returned his eyes to Beard. “You and your band of merry men can leave and not come back. Or, you can choose to stay. If you choose to stay, it’s going to get ugly. The bloody kind of ugly. It’s decision time.”

  Beard coughed out a laugh and lowered his chin. His eyes darted downward and then came right back up. “It’s loaded. Ready to drop all three of you turds. I ain’t askin’ you again. Leave.”

  My ears began to ring. It was go time.


  I really didn’t want to get shot, but I wasn’t about to let a bearded idiot with a pistol prevent me from protecting the president of my MC from being disrespected. My guess was that I could drop him with one punch before he got the pistol that was wedged between his tight jeans and his beer belly freed.

  Before I had a chance to react, Crip snatched his own pistol from beneath his kutte and held it at arm’s length. With it pointed directly at Beard’s mouth, he took a few steps forward.

  Beard’s eyes went wide.

  “You’re as dumb as you are ugly,” Crip said as he took one more step.

  With his pistol now a matter of inches away from Beard’s face, Crip slowly reached for the exposed pistol wedged in dumb fuck’s jeans.

  “You so much as twitch, I’ll plaster your brains on that fat little friend of yours who’s standing behind you.”

  As my eyes shifted from man to man, Crip pulled the pistol from Beard’s pants with his free hand.

  He handed it to Cholo.

  “Now, I’m going to talk, and you and your buddies are going to listen.” His tone raised slightly. “This bar is claimed property of Filthy Fuckers MC. For the unknowing, that means if any of you come back here, for any reason, you’ll be trespassing on our territory after being warned not to. Believe me fellas, it won’t end well for you.”

  While I continued to survey the men, the sound of Pete hollering caused my butthole to pucker.

  “You! By the jukebox!” he yelled. “Drop the pistol!”

  I didn’t have to turn around to know that Pete had his shotgun pulled. Realistically, shooting it from where he was positioned wouldn’t be terribly effective, but it was an intimidating sight for those standing on the receiving end of the barrel.

  My eyes shot toward the jukebox. A middle-aged man with a long gray beard held a pistol at his side. His nervous eyes told me he wished that he hadn’t pulled it out. I slowly walked in his direction.

  “Shoot this prick if he moves, Pete,” I said.

  “You got it, Pee Bee.”

  I elbowed my way through the group of men and held out my hand as I stepped in front of him. With reluctance, he lifted the pistol, barrel down.

  “Fucker’s registered to me,” he said as I took it from his grasp.