HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  I took a drink from the bottle, and then poured the glass full. As I watched the bubbles come to the surface, I considered how I wanted to start the conversation.

  I’d spent the last hour and a half feeling a wide range of emotions. Initially angry, my anger soon changed to fear. Then, I felt content. Happy. Somehow, I became satisfied that I could handle the situation. Throughout it all, though, there was one constant.

  I was alone.

  I picked up the glass and gazed into it. “I’ve got myself into a situation.”

  “I’m sure we can figure it out. Want to enlighten me a little more?”

  I nodded, but didn’t immediately respond. I didn’t know if I could. There was a big difference between silently accepting my pregnancy and speaking about it.

  “I uhhm.” I looked up, inhaled a deep breath, and then gave the news. “I’m. I’m pregnant.”

  He smiled and raised his glass. “Congratulations.”

  Of all the things he could have said, he said that. At first, I was shocked. Then, I was grateful. He knew I’d been out of a relationship for a few months, and I would have expected his reaction to be one of shock. His immediate acceptance was reassuring, but seemed out of place.

  “Thanks,” I said, my voice thick with sarcasm.

  “You don’t sound happy.”

  “Should I be?”

  “I think so.” He sat up straight and locked eyes with me. “Do you know how many people it takes to make a difference in this world?”

  “Uhhm. I don’t know. A lot. Why?”

  “It takes one.”

  Our conversation had taken a left turn, and I wasn’t prepared. I wanted to talk about my pregnancy, and it seemed he wanted to talk about something totally different. I lowered my glass and blinked a few times. “Huh?”

  “William Shakespeare. Nelson Mandela. Charles Darwin. Albert Einstein. As individuals, they each made a contribution that changed the course of history. God has given you an opportunity to raise a child. Someone that very well could be the next Martin Luther King. You should be grateful. It was his gift to you.”

  It was an interesting concept, but I had hoped for a less philosophical approach. I set my glass on the coffee table and let out a sigh. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Be responsible. Do the right thing.”

  I didn’t want him to tell me what to do, I wanted him to tell me what not to do. “What would be the wrong thing?”

  He shrugged. “Neglect?”

  Once again, not what I was after. Frustrated, I shook my head and then looked right at him. “The father has a grown kid, and he doesn’t do relationships. Well, she’s kind of grown. She’s seventeen.”

  He scrunched his nose. “He was absent in the child’s and the mother’s lives?”

  “No. The mother left when the baby was born, and he raised the baby. She lives with him. But, she’s not a baby. Not anymore, anyway.”

  “Single father?”

  I nodded. “Yep.”

  “Has he always been single? Since the baby was born?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Is he nice looking? Does he have a good personality? Is he a good person?” he asked, extending one finger with each question.

  “He’s gorgeous. And he’s got a great personality. From what he’s shown me so far, I think he’s a good person, but I don’t know him that well. I met him a month ago, and we had sex twice. He’s had a vasectomy, and I’m on the pill. Imagine that.”

  “He doesn’t sound like someone who doesn’t do relationships. He sounds like someone who wants to protect his child from heartbreak.”

  I hadn’t looked at it that way, but after he mentioned it, it made perfect sense. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “So, what did he say? When you told him?”

  “That’s just it. I haven’t told him.”

  His eyes went wide. “What? You’re not serious?”

  “That’s why I’m here. I need to decide what to do.”

  He cocked his head to the side, and did the eyebrow thing. “Are you considering not telling him?”

  My eyes dropped. “Uh huh.”

  He wagged his finger at me as if scolding me. “You didn’t conceive this child alone. You owe it to him – and to the child – to tell him.”

  His response made sense. It wasn’t what I’d hoped for, but I couldn’t argue his with his logic.

  “Okay. I’ll see if he’ll meet me and have a talk.”

  “Is everything friendly between you two?”

  “Well,” I said. “That’s where things get sticky.”

  Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Seven

  Smokey

  I started riding a motorcycle when I was 18 years old, and never looked back. I found it satisfying for many reasons, the main one being the sense of freedom I felt when I had the wind in my face. Having been charged with the task of mentoring a prospect changed everything. In one afternoon, riding went from an escape to being a pain in my ass.

  We rolled into the shop and came to a stop, with Tank parking twenty feet ahead of me. I pulled off my helmet and hopped off the bike in fluid motion.

  Tank pulled off his helmet, and turned to face me. “I don’t understand--”

  I took a few steps in his direction. “That’s the problem, prospect. You don’t fucking understand. You’re a prospect. You want to be an outlaw biker, but you’re not one. I am. You listen to me. Like it or fucking not, I’m in charge of this clusterfuck, and you’re along for the God damned ride.”

  He lifted his leg over the tank, brushed his hands against the thighs of his jeans, and looked at me. He did a pretty poor job of hiding his regret, but I didn’t give a fuck. I wasn’t going to let up on him one bit.

  Not now, not ever.

  If it was my job to train him how to be a Filthy Fucker, he was going to be the best the club had to offer when he went from prospect to patch.

  “I’ll quit fucking around. I’m sorry.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Crip approaching. He stopped behind my bike, crossed his arms, and waited. After taking a few more steps toward Tank, I paused. I took a long hit off my vape, stared blankly at him while I savored the taste, and then blew the cloud to the side.

  “When you were in the Corps, did you march like a fucking slob, going wherever you wanted, while the rest of the Marines marched in formation?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “No, Sir.”

  “What would have happened if you did?”

  “I’d have been written up.”

  “Called on the carpet, and then punished, right?”

  He nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

  “When there were two of you going somewhere, did you have a procedure, or did you just nonchalantly walk?”

  I knew the answers to the questions I asked, I was the son of a Marine. Knowing allowed me to ask the right questions, make valid points, and not sound like an idiot in the process.

  “If there were two of us, we walked everywhere in step.”

  “You walked side by side. His left foot went forward, your left foot went forward. His right, your right, correct?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “In the army, they walk around with their hands in their pockets. One soldier walking at one speed, and the other just slobbing along at another speed. Did you know that?”

  He nodded. “I’ve seen them.”

  “Which looks better?”

  “The Marines.”

  “They look organized, right? Side by side, going everywhere at the same pace. They look like they’re marching, even if they’re walking to the store.”

  He nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

  “We do the same fucking thing here, prospect. It makes us look organized. When there’s two of us, we ride two abreast. Always. Any more of that hotdogging shit will get your ass written up. Believe me, I’m keeping track.”

  “It won’t happen again.”

  “Did Meat let you do that shit?” />
  He didn’t respond. Hell, he didn’t need to. I could tell by the look on his face that Meat didn’t give a shit. At least Tank wasn’t the type to snitch Meat out.

  “You’re not riding with him anymore,” I said, my tone stern. “I won’t put up with an ounce of your shit, understand?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  I shook my head. “How long you been out of the Marines?”

  “A little over a year.”

  “How long was your basic training? The amount of time it took you to go from civilian to Marine?”

  “Thirteen weeks, Sir.”

  “Thirteen weeks?” I nodded as if he’d revealed something I was unaware of. “Well, guess what? Your training here is 52 fucking weeks. That ought to give you an idea of how cautious we are of letting the wrong motherfucker wear our patch. Our training is longer than the Marines, and we spend most of that extra time weeding out the fucktards, understand?”

  He gave a sharp nod. “Yes, Sir.”

  “That’s another thing. Call me sir again, and I’ll put a bullet in your thigh. We’ll change your name from Tank to Gimp. Got it?”

  “Yes, S--” His eyes fell to the floor. He let out a sigh, and then he looked up. “What do I call you?”

  “Smoke. Smokey. Or, Boss.” I grinned at the thought of him calling me Boss. “Yeah, let’s go with Boss. I like that. Forget the other two. Call me Boss.”

  “Yes, Boss.”

  I liked the sound of it.

  “I thought I was the boss,” Crip said from behind me.

  I glanced over my shoulder. “You’re the boss of all patched members. He’s a fucking prospect, and damned poor one at that. I’m Boss, as far as he’s concerned, until I say otherwise.”

  Crip gave a nod. “Fair enough.”

  “Got a minute?” Crip asked.

  I lifted my chin slightly, and made eye contact with Tank. “Go count the fence posts out in the parking lot, prospect. Twice.”

  “Yes, Boss.”

  As Tank walked toward the parking lot, Crip turned toward me and chuckled. “See? All that shit you were asking him? It’s shit he can relate to.”

  “Gotta speak a subordinate’s language,” I said. “Just like talking to a child. You gotta speak to ‘em in a language they can understand.”

  He watched Tank saunter toward the fence, and then looked at me. “Why were you riding his ass? What was he doing?”

  “We were coming up the 5 from Encinitas, and the dipshit kept riding out ahead of me. Hell, I was going 90, who fucking knows how fast he was going. Lost sight of him a few times.”

  “What the fuck?” His eyes thinned. “You need to put a stop to that shit.”

  I shot him a sideways look. “Motherfucker, did you just listen to our conversation? I did put a stop to that shit.”

  “I’m not pissed off at you, I’m just pissed.” He swung the toe of his boot against a pebble, and kicked it across the shop floor. “Just got off the phone. They indicted Meathead.”

  “Bad?”

  “Felon in possession. Firearm in furtherance of a crime. Gave him the RICO act with the last charge, which was some bullshit about the guy being black. Said it was a hate crime.”

  “That’s bullshit,” I said. “White, black, brown, or yellow. Meat hated all motherfuckers equal.”

  “Agreed. The ATF brought charges against him. Impossible to fight those pricks.”

  “Motherfucker.” I took a hit off my vape and shook my head. “And, I thought my day was going bad.”

  He pointed toward my bike. “Phone’s ringing.”

  I turned away. “Probably Cholo. Got three jobs coming up.”

  Surprised to see it was Sandy calling, I considered not answering, then swiped my thumb across the screen and raised the phone to my ear. “This is Smokey.”

  “Smokey, this is Sandy. We need to uhhm. We need to talk.”

  The tone of her voice alone made my asshole pucker. Visions of her telling me I needed to go get a Z-Pak to cure something came to mind.

  “Whatever it is, you can say it over the phone.”

  “No. We need to talk in person.”

  “Anything you need to say can be said over the phone.”

  “We need to meet in person, really.”

  I hated to be a prick, but I had to. I enjoyed her company too much. If I met her in person, it’d be a matter of minutes and I’d be fucking her – or wanting to, anyway. I knew me well enough to know if I started again, stopping would be impossible.

  “Not gonna happen. You can either say what it is you have to say, or I’m going to hang up.”

  She sighed into the receiver. “Fine. I hope you’re on stable ground.”

  Prepared to learn what strain of disease I needed to prepare to rid myself of, I cocked my head to the side, made eye contact with Crip, and waited.

  “I’m pregnant. And, I know what you’re going to ask, so I’ll answer it first. Yes, it’s yours.”

  “Hello?”

  “Hello?”

  “Smoke? Are you there?”

  Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Eight

  Sandy

  My throat went dry on the way to answer the door. I reached for the knob, paused, and pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth. Satisfied I’d at least be able to say hi, I pressed my eye against the peephole, even though I knew it was him.

  A fish-eyed view of his handsome face and broad shoulders caused my stomach to sink. Talking to him wasn’t something I wanted to do, it was something I must. It was what was right.

  But it was going to hurt.

  I pulled the door open.

  He stood in the breezeway with a plastic bag hanging from his left hand, and his right thumb resting against the top of his belt. His mouth slowly curled into a smirk.

  I must have stared for longer than I thought, because he cleared his throat and reminded me that I hadn’t invited him in or stepped out of the doorway.

  He took half a step back and looked at me. “I might have been confused. You wanted me to come here, right?”

  “Uh huh.”

  He nodded his head toward me. “You want me to duck under your arm, or are you going to move?”

  I released the door handle and stepped to the side. “Come in.”

  He walked past me. With each step, the plastic bag swung wildly – a result of his bravado swagger. I looked him up and down as he sauntered toward the living room, wishing for that fleeting moment that everything was different between us, but knowing it never would be.

  He sat down on the couch as if it was something he’d done a thousand times. He lifted the bag to his lap, and as he fumbled to get something from it, the girl in me interrupted his plan.

  “What’s in the bag?”

  He paused with his hand buried deep in the bag, and chuckled. “Couldn’t wait another fifteen seconds, could you?”

  I sat down on the loveseat across from him. “No.”

  He pulled out a book, stood, and extended his hand. “A book.”

  Surprised, I reached for it nonetheless. “You brought me a book?”

  “What to Expect When You’re Expecting,” he said. “Best book there is for a pregnant woman.”

  It wasn’t at all what I expected. I figured he brought a sandwich, some bananas, or maybe an ice cream. A box of condoms as some sick joke seemed his speed, but not something motherly. I looked at the tattered cover, opened it, and quickly realized as I thumbed through the dog-eared and highlighted pages that the book was well-used.

  I met his gaze, all the while struggling to contain my emotions. “Thank you.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you take care of it.” He waved his hand toward the book. “It’s got sentimental value.”

  “Was it yours?”

  He relaxed into the seat and nodded a few times, lightly. “It is mine. I’m letting you read it.”

  I felt offended and privileged at the same time. “Oh.”

  “It was Christine’s.”

  Gre
at. He’d given me the book that his former skank had before she gave birth and then took off. I set it to the side, and then pushed it as far away as I could. “Uhhm. Thanks.”

  He gazed down at his lap. While I prepared to begin what was sure to be a long conversation, he beat me to the punch.

  “We’d read it every night. Probably read that damned thing half a dozen times if I read it once. I highlighted the important stuff, but don’t just read what I’ve got marked, it’s all useful.”

  “She’s your ex? Christine?”

  Still staring into his lap, he nodded. “Eddie’s mom. Yeah.”

  “Where is she now?” I asked, my tone almost snide.

  “She died.”

  I seemed to do a pretty good job of making myself out to be an idiot in his presence. I cleared my throat, swallowed hard, and then offered an apology. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah, me too. I know at some point you’ll ask, and I don’t ever want it brought up in front of Eddie, so I’ll just tell you now.” He lifted his gaze to meet mine. “She died of a heroin overdose the day we got home from the hospital. She was clean the entire pregnancy, but didn’t last a day after Ed was born. Never did figure out where she got it, but it doesn’t matter much.” He shook his head, and then his eyes fell to his lap. “Addiction’s a bitch.”

  I felt sick. “I thought. She uhhm. Wow. I’m sorry. Really.”

  He shrugged, but didn’t speak.

  “You said you had a daughter, right?”

  He looked up. “Yeah. Her name’s Eddie.”

  “Is it short for something?”

  “Short for Eddie Cassandra Wallace.”

  I smiled. My first name was Cassandra, but I wasn’t going to tell him. At least not yet. “I like it. A lot.”

  His eyes widened just a little. “Which part of it?”

  “All of it.”

  He smiled a dimple producing smile. Seeing it all but melted me.

  I was on a roll, so I pushed on. “What’s your name?”

  “Grayson Edward Wallace. Middle name’s my father’s. First is his father’s. It’s a family thing.”

  “I like it. So, you named your daughter after your father?”