HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  I gave up on adjusting my shirt, and watched him as he walked straight to where I stood. He glanced at me, paused to ogle my tits for a split-second, and then looked at Blane. No differently than most of the parts counter patrons, he wanted to gawk at me, but preferred to talk to someone else.

  My coworker was a 19-year-old wannabe biker. He was hired because he was the son of a motorcycle salesman, and probably because he bought a Harley right out of high school. His desire to learn the business was nil, and he had a shitty the world owes me attitude.

  I was sure I was hired in part because I had nice tits, a curvy butt, and a great smile, but I hoped at least some of the reason was because I loved Harley-Davidsons. Nevertheless, I was a good salesperson, and I knew it.

  For the time being, it was only the two of us working, as the manager had a fractured vertebra from a swimming pool accident that I guessed was alcohol induced.

  The man with the beard stepped in front of Blane, pressed his massive forearms against the edge of the counter, and leaned forward. “Need a set of tank emblems.”

  He shook the computer’s mouse back and forth while he gazed at the monitor. “What year, and what model?”

  “2002 Heritage Softie,” the man said. “But I want old-school Panhead emblems.”

  “Panhead emblems?”

  He nodded. “Yep.”

  The Panhead was an engine that Harley manufactured from 1948 through 1965. The motorcycles manufactured through that era were simply referred to as Panheads. I doubted that Blane knew what the man was talking about.

  I watched as he scrolled through the catalog, obviously completely lost as to what it was he was looking for. Strangely, I had looked for the exact same emblem a few weeks prior. From what little research I had done, fitting the old-school emblem on a newer model’s tank was a common modification, and gave a new bike an old-school nostalgic look.

  I grabbed my computer’s mouse and cleared my throat. “The type that look like they have a four-pointed star in the center of a circle?”

  He shot me a look of surprise. “That’s the one.”

  I glanced at my monitor, clicked through a few pages, and quickly found the part.

  “61776-61T,” I said. “Fuel tank Nameplate 1961-1962.”

  He looked at me and grinned. “Are they available?”

  I turned the monitor to face him. He looked at the photo of the part and nodded. “That’s it.”

  “They’re not in stock, but we can have it tomorrow from LA for $48.95. That’s a pair, one for each side. It includes the mounting kit, which you’ll need to screw the emblem to. If you want to wait a few more days, we can sell it for $43.06 and get it from the factory.”

  “I’ll take it tomorrow. Five bucks isn’t going to kill me”

  “Special order has to be paid in advance. You okay with that?”

  He reached for his wallet, pulled out a fifty-dollar bill, and tossed it on the counter. “Yep.”

  “Second guy in the last month to buy a set of those.”

  He squinted. “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  “Saw a scoot in San Diego with ‘em on it. Thought it’d make mine look a little retro.”

  “Have you got apes on it?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Twenty-four inchers.”

  “Whitewalls?”

  “Yep.”

  “21-incher up front?”

  “Yep.”

  “Fishtails?”

  “Not yet, but that’s next.” He leaned away from the counter and gave me a look. “You know your shit, don’t you?”

  “It’s easy to know what you love.” I smiled. “The more they’re modified, the more I like them.”

  He nodded. “Fishtails look good on a Heritage, that’s for sure.”

  “We have the 39” Samson pipes on sale for $1,050, and the 42” for $1,200. Both are in stock. They’re true duals, and they sound badass.”

  “In stock?” He cocked an eyebrow. “No shit?”

  I pushed my hands into my back pockets and cocked my head slightly. “No shit.”

  He inhaled a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then let it out. “I’d hate to spend that much right now.”

  I shrugged. “Up to you. Sale lasts until the end of the day on Sunday.”

  He glanced at the many random pieces of custom chrome we had on display behind the counter, and then began to stroke his beard. It was obvious his mind wasn’t made up. At least not yet. He was thinking.

  I was paid hourly, but also made a commission on sales if I exceeded my sales goal. I never wanted to be perceived as pushy, but I also needed to make as much money as possible. Hoping he didn’t perceive me as being overbearing, I gave him a little nudge.

  “There’s probably six black Heritages for sale outside. I bet there’s at least a few thousand of them on the freeway at any given moment. And, you know what?” I shook my head. “They all look the same. I’m glad I don’t ride one of them. Hell, I’d come out of the bar and probably get on the wrong one. Can’t tell ‘em apart if they’re not modified. Is yours black?”

  “Sure is.”

  I raised my eyebrows and dropped my gaze to the floor.

  He reached for his wallet. “Take American Express?”

  I looked up. “Does a shark shit in the ocean?”

  He chuckled. “You’re one hell of a sales–what do I call you? Sales girl? Woman? Lady? Person?”

  “Call me Joey,” I said.

  He handed me his credit card. “Well, Joey. Ring up the 42” ones before I change my mind. I’ll pick ‘em up tomorrow when I get the emblems.”

  I rang up the sale, handed him the receipt, and smiled. “With the emblems, apes, whitewalls, and those fishtails, you’ll have the gangster Harley thing going on. For what it’s worth, that’s my favorite look for a Harley. When you get a wild hair, you should take a look at the Shotgun Shock. One shock sets ride height, and the other is used for dampening. You can raise and lower it to whatever height you want with the flip of a switch. The air compressor mounts under the frame, right by the transmission. They’re made in the USA, right here in California.”

  “It’s already on the list,” he said.

  “Bring it by when you get the pipes on it,” I said with a smile. “I’d like to see it.”

  “I’ll do that.” He gave a nod, dragged his hand along the length of his beard, and then turned away.

  As he walked toward the door, Blane looked at me and shook his head. “I hate you.”

  I shot him a playful glare. “You bought a Harley, and you think that makes you a biker. I love Harleys, and most of the people that ride them.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You make sales because you’re a girl.”

  “I made that sale because I knew what he wanted. I knew what he wanted because after another guy wanted it a few weeks ago, I went home and researched the Panhead model. You can talk shit all you want, but you had no idea what he was after.”

  He gave me a dismissive look. “You made the sale because you’ve got tits.”

  “Yeah, that guy walked right up to me, looked at my tits, and then talked to you. Guys don’t want to deal with a girl when it comes to their Harley. You’ve got muscles, a tattoo, and a dick. You fit right in.”

  “You don’t even ride,” he said. “I don’t know why you work here. You don’t fit in.”

  “You ride a Sportster.” I forced a dry laugh “That’s a girl bike.”

  “Bullshit. Sportsters are fast as fuck.”

  “A 1200 can be. You’re on an old 883. It’s a turd,” I said. “They’re for girls and wannabes.”

  “You calling me a wannabe?”

  “Assuming you’ve got a dick, that was the only other option, right?”

  “At least I ride,” he scoffed.

  “I might not ride, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy riding on the back of one. Rode on the back of a 1%er’s bike the other day.”

  “Bullshit.”

  I sh
rugged. “Baddest club in SoCal.”

  “Hells Angels?”

  I shook my head.

  “Mongols?”

  “Nunya.”

  His brow wrinkled. “Nunyas? Never heard of ‘em.”

  “No,” I said with a laugh. “Nunya. Nun ya business.”

  He rolled his eyes, extended his forearm, and admired his six-week-old Budweiser tattoo. It was well-made, but I found it ridiculous that he’d have it tattooed on his forearm.

  “What are you going to do when you discover you like PBR more than Budweiser?” I asked. “Get the PBR logo on your other arm?”

  “Budweiser is the only beer as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Tried them all, have you?”

  He rubbed his thumb along the center of the tattoo, stretching it out of proportion as he looked at it. “Don’t need to. King. Of. Beers. Enough said.”

  I glanced at the ridiculous bowtie-like banner, coughed a light laugh, and turned toward the sales floor.

  I found tattoos fascinating – if they were the right tattoos on the right person. Percy’s tattoos were interesting, and he had no product branding on him, at least not that I could see. I wondered what percentage of tattooed men had beer – or other similar product tattoos – and if I was out of line in my thoughts.

  After searching my memory for anyone else with a beer tattoo and coming up with nothing, I decided Blane’s tattoo was, in fact, ridiculous.

  “You know, I really like Noxzema Skin Cream, but I’m not going to get their logo tattooed on me.”

  “Must not like it as much as I like Budweiser.”

  “I guess it’d either be that, or I have more common sense than you.” I shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “Definitely not the common-sense thing,” he said flatly.

  “Yeah” I slumped my shoulders and gazed down at the floor. “You’re probably right. Girls have smaller brains than men. It stands to reason that we’d have less common sense.”

  He looked up from admiring his King of Beers tattoo. “Seriously?”

  I gazed beyond him, and blinked a few times, and then met his wondrous gaze. “It’s true, I read a study. Girl’s brains weigh, on average, 25% less than a man’s. It’s sad.”

  His eyes slowly widened. “Doesn’t surprise me.”

  I was hanging shit on him, and he was too dumb to figure it out. It was no wonder I wasn’t attracted to guys anywhere close to my age. Although they were technically men, they were really nothing more than boys who could legally vote and buy cigarettes.

  I desperately needed a real man in my life.

  But. I had no idea where I was going to find one.

  Chapter One Hundred Sixty-Two

  P-Nut

  Wearing a two-button blazer, a navy skirt, and navy heels, my mother looked like she could be headed to a business meeting. She hadn’t worked a day in her life, and even if she had, she was well into the age of retirement. She was dressed no differently than she’d dressed her entire life, and neither her age nor her deteriorating mental state prevented her from continuing that tradition.

  She sat in her recliner with her eyes glued to the most recent episode of Lauren Lake’s Paternity Court. It was one of the many shows she insisted upon watching daily, and her doing so seemed to keep her mind occupied.

  I carried the tomato soup and grilled cheese into the living room and set it on the tray beside her. “Time for lunch.”

  “It seems like I just had breakfast.”

  “You eat lunch with Lauren,” I said.

  “I know that,” she snapped. “It seems like I just had breakfast. This day has just flown by.”

  It saddened me to see her in her current state. In so many ways she was still the mother that raised me, and in others, she was slowly becoming less and less like her former self.

  She glanced at the tray and then at the television. “Tomato?”

  “Tomato soup and grilled cheese.”

  With her eyes fixed on the show, she swiveled the tray over her lap. “My favorite.”

  During the week, she ate the same thing every day for lunch. Each day, she acted like it was a huge surprise. On the weekends, a woman stopped in to help out. Oddly enough, on those days, she was openminded enough to eat anything she was given.

  “That’s why I made it, ma. I know how much you like it.”

  “I haven’t seen your brothers for days,” she said. “I wonder what they’ve gotten themselves into?”

  My three brothers lived a few thousand miles away, and hadn’t seen her in years. Too busy was the standard response, but I don’t care anymore seemed to be closer to the truth.

  I was born when my mother was 42, and although I wasn’t a mistake, the pregnancy that preceded her menopause wasn’t planned, either. I often wondered if it was the difference in age that kept me close to home, or if it was the fact that I simply cared more than they did about the welfare of my family.

  In my eyes, nothing was more sacred than family. Be it my birth family or my MC brethren, my heart – and my life – was devoted to their safety and wellbeing. Most of them, anyway.

  As I wandered around the room, moving things back to where they belonged, I let out a sigh. “Hard saying.”

  She dipped the corner of the sandwich into the soup, held it in place, and stared at the television. Lauren asked the bailiff to produce the DNA tests for the two parties. As the bailiff turned away to retrieve the files, the show broke to a commercial.

  She lifted the sandwich and bit off the corner. “I think he’s the father.”

  I switched the couch cushions to their correct places, and then sat on the loveseat across from her. “We’ll find out in a minute.”

  “He’s got those eyes.” She wagged the index finger of her free hand toward the television. “Lying eyes.”

  “I wasn’t paying attention,” I said. “I’ll trust your opinion.”

  She turned her focus to her lunch. “Your father didn’t make it home last night. I thought his shift ended yesterday?”

  My father, a former pilot for American Airlines, had been dead for ten years. Some days it seemed she realized he was gone, and on others, she clearly didn’t.

  I gazed at the photo of him that sat on the mantle. “I’m not sure when his shift ends.”

  She took another bite of the sandwich. “Maybe it’s tonight.”

  The television switched from a commercial to the show. The judge studied the DNA evidence, lowered the folder, and peered over the top of it.

  “In the case of James versus Walters, the test by DNA Systems supports that you, Mister Walters, are the baby’s father.”

  “I knew it,” my mother said. “The eyes don’t lie.”

  “They sure don’t,” I said.

  She poked the remaining piece of the sandwich half into her mouth, chewed it, and wiped the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “When will you have time to clean the birds out of the yard?”

  My eyes moved to the window. “I’ll get them when I leave.”

  When I arrived, she insisted that there were dead blackbirds in her yard, but the lawn, as always, was spotless. The meticulous landscape was a tradition that began as a result of my father’s hard work, and was undoubtedly one of his life’s pleasures. I maintained the shrubbery, trees, and the lawn no differently than he had, primarily because I knew he’d appreciate it.

  She looked up from her bowl of soup. “When are you going to give love another try?”

  I flipped through the magazines that were sitting on the end table. “Leave it alone, ma.”

  She lowered her spoon and gave me a look. “You’re still riding that thing, and you’re not married. When a man becomes an adult, he finds a job and a woman, and then he gets married. It’s been that way since the beginning of time. You’re out of school and you’ve got a job. What’s the next step?”

  “Just like I said. Leave it alone, ma.”

  She set the spoon beside her bowl, crossed her arms, and let out a
sigh. “I will not.”

  “I haven’t found anyone.”

  “Are you looking?”

  If fucking women qualified as looking, I would be on a full-fledged mission. But, it didn’t, and I wasn’t.

  I was the MC’s stray sheepdog, the silent protector who constantly kept the wolves away from the flock of sheep. I didn’t trust many men, and the only woman I trusted was sitting across from me. The thought of having a woman in my life on a permanent basis made my skin crawl.

  With her arms still crossed and her eyes fixed on me, she cleared her throat. “Percy. I asked you a question.”

  I looked up. “I’m nosing around.”

  “Nosing around?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “You need to go to church. The nice girls are in church,” she said. “If you’re nosing around, I’m sure it isn’t in the right places.”

  My single status wasn’t a result of where I looked, because I was always on the prowl. The reason I wasn’t in a relationship was because I chose not to be. The decision was a conscious one, and one that I was sure was necessary for me to continue living the life I chose to live.

  A life where I could silently lurk in the shadows, provide assistance as I felt was necessary, and measure my means of success by the lack of problems that existed in my life.

  All concerns in my life were nipped in the bud, and never lasted much longer than it took me to identify them. Adding a woman to the mix would undoubtedly guarantee problems would linger like a dark cloud over my very existence.

  If I thought for one minute that a woman existed who would put up with my way of living, never complain about my involvement with the club, satisfy my sexual desires, and be trustworthy, I’d be a fool not to accept her into my life.

  But. No such woman existed, and I was sure of it.

  “I’ll have a look next time I go to church,” I said.

  “Thank you.”

  It wasn’t a lie. I hadn’t been to church in twelve years, and had no plans on attending service anytime soon. If I did, I’d peruse the congregation for a mate, and provide my mother with the outcome.

  I stood. “I better get to work.”

  “Still working at the pier?”

  “Yeah, ma. Still at the pier.”