HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  “I’m going to be late for work,” I said. “If you don’t mind--”

  “I didn’t introduce myself,” he said. “Detective Watson, with the San Diego County Sheriff’s Department.”

  “Okay, detective Watson, I’m going to be late for work.”

  “You’ll be a lot later if I have to handcuff you and take you in for questioning,” he said. “Have you got a minute to answer a few questions?”

  I looked at my watch. “I’ll give you ten minutes,” I said. “Then, I’m leaving. You’ll either have to arrest me or step aside and let me go.”

  He motioned toward the door. “Shall we go inside?”

  I stepped onto the porch and pulled the door closed behind me. “No, you can come in the garage.”

  I checked to make sure the door was locked, and then walked toward the garage. My home was the same as most homes in neighborhood, in that it had a detached garage that was beside – and slightly behind – the house.

  I unlocked the garage, pulled up the door, and stepped inside. After admiring my bike for a minute, he looked at me. “Nice bike.”

  I grabbed a dust rag and wiped the dust off the tank and saddlebags. “You come here to tell me that?”

  His grin disappeared and his face went stern. “No. I came here to talk to you about a murder investigation.”

  “Same shit you were talking about in the shop the other day?”

  He shrugged. “I’ll ask the questions, and you answer them. Not the other way around.”

  I looked at my watch. “Get to asking. You’ve got eight minutes.”

  “The day I was talking to Navarro, a woman left your clubhouse in a little bit of a hurry,” he said. “And, I’m one of those weird OCD types that makes note of everything. So, I couldn’t help but notice as she sped past me that she was driving a silver Chevy Cruze.”

  I shrugged. “Crime now to drive an American made car?”

  He chuckled. “Not yet, no. But killing someone is.”

  I tossed the rag on the workbench. “She kill someone on the way out of the shop, did she?”

  “Like I said,” he said. “I’ll ask, you answer.”

  I looked at my watch. “Seven minutes.”

  He pressed his hands to his hips. “When I left your clubhouse, I went to Lucy Hart’s home to talk to her and her daughter, Alexandra. Alexandra being one of the girls who had been abducted, I felt the need to press her for information about how she got away from her abductors. When I pulled in front of the house, I couldn’t help but notice there was a silver Chevy Cruze in the drive.”

  I didn’t give him the satisfaction of saying one word. After pausing for a few seconds, he continued.

  “I knocked on the door, and when it opened, I’ll be damned if the lady at the door wasn’t the same lady that was at your clubhouse.”

  I cocked an eyebrow.

  He raised his index finger. “I know Navarro’s fucking the reporter from the Tribune.” He raised his middle finger. “And, I know Peanut Butter is engaged to be married to some nurse.”

  He put his hands back on his hips. “So, I doubted she was there to see them. Me being a detective and all, I’m thinking maybe it was you she was there to see. So, I had one of my patrols go by her house a few times to see if any of the FFMC crew show up. This morning I get a report across my desk that has mention of a Heritage Softail parked in the drive that’s registered to you.”

  I looked at my watch. “Three minutes.”

  “What’s your relationship with Lucy Hart?”

  I straddled my bike. “Don’t have one.”

  He took a few steps back and glared at me. “You saying you don’t know her?”

  “That’s not what you asked me.”

  He shook his head then let out a sigh. “Do you know Lucy Hart?”

  “Yep.”

  “You’re not making this easy, Downey.”

  I chuckled. “You’re not asking the right questions, cop.”

  I kicked the bike into neutral and pushed it outside the garage and into the drive. Still standing in the garage, the detective appeared to be growing annoyed.

  I looked at my watch.

  “You’ve only got a minute, so I’ll do you a favor,” I said. “Lucy Hart was my neighbor for ten years. I met her daughter after she was abducted. I’d love to find the cocksuckers who did it, believe me. Sad truth is that she was blindfolded the entire time and didn’t get a good look at them. I’ve asked over and over. Get the same story each time. It’s not a crime to know people, and unless you’re going to cuff me, I’d appreciate it if you got out of my garage so I can go to work.”

  He walked out of the garage and stopped beside my bike. I got off, shut the door, and locked it. With his eyes locked on me, I walked back the bike, got on, and met his stone-faced stare.

  I shoved my hat between my legs, put on my helmet, and looked at him. “Got any more questions?”

  “That little boy saw it all,” he said. “He didn’t want to tell me everything, but he witnessed it. I’m sure of it.”

  “The one who gave you a handy for that lollipop?”

  “Word on the streets is that Calle 18 wants their money,” he said. “And they’re not going to stop until they get it.”

  “Well, if they come here looking for it, they’ll get shot. Might tell ‘em that when you see ‘em next.”

  “If I knew where to find them, I’d be sure and tell them.” He cleared his throat and then met my gaze. “So, you’ve got guns? Do you own a .45 caliber pistol?”

  “Can’t say that I do, detective,” I responded. “Now, if it’s all the same to you, I’m going to go earn a living.”

  “I’ll be in touch,” he said. “I’m sure something else will come up.”

  “I don’t give hand jobs for lollipops, detective. Find someone else to fuck with.”

  I pulled the choke and pressed the start button. As the sounds from the exhaust echoed against the side of the house, he turned away.

  The .45 caliber pistol I used to kill Calle 18’s filth had long since been dismantled and tossed in the ocean, once piece at a time.

  As I pulled out of the drive, I hoped like hell that’s where it stayed.

  Chapter Ninety-Four

  Lex

  I felt awkward. Not a lot. Just enough to make me a little apprehensive. I tried to convince myself being in Adam’s house didn’t make me any more vulnerable than being in my mother’s, but my knee didn’t seem to agree.

  It bounced up and down like a hyperactive teen’s.

  “Coffee, beer, tea, anything?” he asked.

  I forced a smile and shrugged. “No. I’m okay.”

  “Still not hungry?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  He sat down beside me and put his arm around me. It felt different. I wanted to be back at home, but, then again, I didn’t.

  I hated that things had changed. That the former me had all but vanished, leaving a shell of a woman that was afraid of someone or something that had done nothing to deserve the fear. I pressed my hand against my knee and stopped it from bouncing, making eye contact with Adam at the same time.

  “Let’s go outside,” he said.

  “Outside?”

  He stood. “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  He pushed his hands into his pockets and shrugged. “It’s nice out there.”

  I stood. “Okay.”

  I followed him outside and into the garage. He motioned toward his motorcycle. “Get on.”

  “Without you?”

  “Get on like you’re going to ride it.”

  “I don’t want to tip it over.”

  “You won’t. It’s on the stand. Just get on.”

  I did as he asked, and got on the motorcycle. His portion of the seat was wider and much more comfortable than where I sat.

  I wiggled back and forth in the plush seat. “It feels nice up here.”

  “Like riding a marshmallow,” he said. He motioned toward the h
andlebars. “Grab the handlebars.”

  “They’re too high.”

  “They look higher than they are. They’re called ape hangers. You’ve got long arms, you’ll reach just fine. Grab ‘em.”

  I reached for the handlebars.

  Sitting in his seat with the handlebars in my grasp made me feel powerful, but I didn’t say anything. It seemed silly, but I liked that he let me sit there.

  “Just relax,” he said.

  He reached for a switch in the center of the gas tank. “This is how you turn it on.”

  He pointed to a glowing green light. “And this light tells you if it’s in neutral.”

  “If it’s on, and it’s in neutral, you push this button to start it.”

  He pressed his thumb against a button on the handlebars marked start.

  “What are you doing?” I asked as the engine cranked over.

  The engine came to life and started rumbling out the exhaust. Along with it, the motorcycle began to vibrate, shaking me back and forth in the seat.

  “Adam, it’s running. I’m not--”

  “Just sit back and relax,” he said.

  The muscles in my arms were tense and my knees were shaking.

  He rested his hand against my knee and grinned.

  After a moment of the motorcycle vibrating between my legs, I felt like I’d been hypnotized. With each passing second, I became a little more relaxed. Soon, I was actually enjoying myself.

  I watched as my hands shook violently from having the handlebars in my grip.

  “Guess how many people have sat where you are?” he asked over the sound of the exhaust.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Two,” he said. “You, and me.”

  “You don’t let other people ride it?”

  He laughed. “No, I sure don’t.”

  “Your right hand is the throttle,” he said. “Close your eyes and twist it back a little bit.”

  I closed my eyes, listened to the sound of the echoing exhaust, and found that it had a rhythm. In no time, it seemed to envelop me, almost rocking me into a comfortable state of bliss.

  I realized my knee had stopped bouncing.

  I twisted the throttle a little. And then, a little more.

  The sound from the exhaust bounced off of everything behind it, making me feel like I was controlling something powerful and manly.

  I revved it one more time, and smiled at the result.

  I opened my eyes and glanced at Adam. “You can turn it off now.”

  “You sure?”

  “Uh huh.”

  Although he flipped the switch, my muscles continued to vibrate long after the engine was shut off.

  “That was awesome.”

  “Relaxing, isn’t it?”

  “It’s weird. It seems so, I don’t know, violent. But it’s a violence you can control. With your eyes closed, it’s hypnotic,” I explained.

  “Are you relaxed?” he asked.

  I would have expected just the opposite, but surprisingly, I did feel relaxed. “I am.”

  He held out his hand.

  I reached for it, and with his help, climbed off the motorcycle.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “We all need that from time to time. You looked like it was time.”

  I didn’t say anything, but I liked the fact that he noticed. I wasn’t standing in wait for him to screw up, nor was I one of those people who sabotaged relationships, but I did expect at some point he’d do something stupid or inconsiderate.

  So far, however, he hadn’t.

  He reached in his pocket and pulled out his key ring. After fumbling with hit for a few minutes, he extended his cupped hand. “Here.”

  “What?”

  “Open your hand.”

  I did as he asked.

  He dropped a ring with two keys on it in my hand.

  I looked at the keys, and then at him. “What…”

  “One is a key to the garage, one is a key to the bike. If you ever need to relax, feel free to hop on and escape to wherever your mind needs to take you. Just lock up when you’re done, okay?”

  “But…”

  “Keep them.” He nodded toward my hand and then grinned. “I trust you.”

  It seemed ridiculous, but I felt like crying. “Are you sure?”

  He reached for my hand. “Yep.”

  He led me to the porch, and we sat down side by side. It was still early in the evening and the sun had yet to set, so sitting outside was nice.

  “The detective stopped by this morning,” he said.

  I spun to the side and gasped. “Oh shit. What did he say?”

  “He asked me the same questions you said he asked you. Then, he asked how I knew you and your mother. I told him we were old neighbors, and that I met you most recently after the abduction. I said I asked you what they looked like, but that you said you were blindfolded the entire time, just like we discussed. He left happy.”

  I looked at him in disbelief. “That was it?”

  He nodded. “Easy, peasy.”

  I glanced across the street. A young boy was working on an old car that didn’t have any wheels on it while one of his friends talked to him.

  “Can we go inside?”

  He stood. “Sure.”

  We went inside and sat down on the couch. As he relaxed into the cushion, he let out a sigh and draped his arms over the back of the couch. Before he had a chance to do or say anything, I straddled his thighs.

  He seemed shocked. I felt, at least for that moment, that I was in control. I rested my arms over his shoulders and smiled.

  Then, I closed my eyes. “Kiss me.”

  Softly and slowly, he complied, kissing me full on the lips. I returned the kiss, being slightly more aggressive than he was.

  I needed to find my new limit.

  His fingers raked through my hair as we kissed. Soon, my hands were plastered all over his body, attempting to feel each and every inch of his muscular physique.

  His arms felt like steel beneath my grip, and his chest, stone. I slipped my hand beneath his shirt, and lightly rubbed the tips of my fingers along the surface of his stomach muscles.

  I felt his finger trace along the edge of my jaw, around my chin, and up the other side. Having him touch my face while we kissed was comforting and sensual at the same time, and the combined feeling drove me insane.

  I continued to kiss him, anxiously waiting to see what was next. The sensation from his touch gently followed a path along my neck, to my shoulders, and then the length of my arm.

  I ground my hips against him lightly as we continued to kiss. When I finally reached a point that I knew I couldn’t go any further without having sex, I stopped and opened my eyes.

  He smiled.

  I kissed him lightly and smiled in return.

  “You make me comfortable,” I said.

  “You make me nervous,” he replied.

  “I feel like I’m fourteen.”

  He kissed me. “I feel like I’m in heaven.”

  “Me, too.”

  I rolled to the side, took a deep breath, and then sighed.

  He stood. “Want something to drink?”

  “Coffee?”

  He nodded. “Coffee sounds good.”

  “It’ll just take a second,” he said. “I’ve got one of those machines with the pods.”

  “Okay.”

  “Cream and sugar?”

  “Please.”

  While he was away I closed my eyes and tried to count the number of days since we had kissed the first time, but quickly became lost. Then, I tried to count the amount of times we had kissed. Again, in a matter of seconds, I was convinced I was forgetting something.

  “Here,” he said.

  I opened my eyes and reached for the cup. “Thank you.”

  He nodded and sat beside me.

  I took a drink of coffee, and then another. I turned to the side and smiled. “I think I’m okay.”

 
He lowered his cup to his lap. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m comfortable with you.”

  “Good,” he said with a laugh. “You’re okay, and I’m far from it.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “What do you mean?”

  He took a sip of coffee. “You still make me nervous.”

  “Good.”

  His eyes narrowed slightly. “Why is that good?”

  “Because you’ve got plenty to be nervous about.”

  “Thanks.” He chuckled. “That made it worse.”

  There were a lot of things that could have entered my mind as we sat drinking coffee together. But only one did.

  Adam wasn’t put in my life to hurt me.

  The way he entered my life was a perfect example of who he was.

  He slayed monsters.

  And, on that night, he slayed what little remained of mine.

  Chapter Ninety-Five

  Cholo

  I don’t know what it was, and I suppose I never will, but something woke me up from a sound sleep.

  I fumbled to find the button on the side of my watch and then pressed it, illuminating the face.

  2:14.

  I cocked my head to the side and listened for any strange sounds, barking dogs, or late night auto repairs across the street. A dull humming sound from the kitchen stood as proof that my 30-year-old refrigerator was still operational.

  At the same instant I thought I heard the floor creak outside my bedroom door, it flew open, hitting the wall with a bang!

  Instinctively, I rolled to the side and reached for the nightstand.

  “Don’t do it, pendejo. I’ll put a bullet in jer leg,” a raspy voice said in a thick Hispanic accent.

  My eyes shot toward the voice. The silhouette of a man holding a pistol was enough to reassure me I needed to follow his demand. At his side stood two more men, each of which held assault rifles.

  I released the drawer and clenched my fist.

  Fuck.

  After my eyes adjusted, I could see that the two men with him had bandanas over their faces. He, however, did not. They pointed the barrels of their rifles at my chest, and he walked to the side of my bed wearing a shitty grin.

  As he leaned over the edge of my bed, I noticed the number 18 tattooed on the front of his neck.

  “I want my mahney and my chiva,” he said through his teeth. “And jer gonna geev it to me.”