HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  Convinced I looked good enough to lie my way out of any inquiries, I washed my hands and meandered to the parts counter.

  “Damn,” Blane said as soon as I walked in. “What happened to your eye?”

  “Bee stung me.”

  “On your eye?”

  “My cheek.”

  He winced. “Damn, that sucks.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Not so much anymore.”

  He took another quick look. “That’s cool.”

  It was that simple. He didn’t dispute my claim, stare, or ask any other questions.

  Throughout the course of our busy morning, a few of the customers asked, but that was it. Upon hearing a bee stung me, they all replied in the same manner.

  It was unfortunate.

  As I watched Percy walk across the sales floor, my heart initially raced. And then, it sank. Lying to him about my eye wasn’t going to be as easy. And, he wasn’t going to be near as gullible.

  He stepped up the counter, leaned forward, and looked me over. “How’s it going?”

  “Good.”

  His eyes remained fixed on my cheek. “Didn’t see you all weekend. Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Everything’s great. Why?”

  He shifted his gaze to meet mine. “Just wondering.”

  “What brings you in?”

  He took another look at my cheek and then dropped his eyes to the counter. “Looking for a one-piece dash. Got to be H-D, not an aftermarket fucker. I’ve seen an aluminum one. Polished. It’s got flutes that run the length of it. Baseball card deal went well, and I want to give the old chrome on a toss.”

  “Your tank isn’t stretched, is it?”

  I knew it wasn’t, but I asked anyway.

  “No.” He looked up. “Standard tank.”

  “Hold on a sec,” I said.

  I pulled up the color catalog, went to the page of dashes, and turned the monitor so we both could see it.

  I pointed to one of the polished aluminum custom dashes that Harley-Davidson offered. “This one?”

  “Like that one, but fluted.”

  I looked at the three on the following page, none of which were fluted. After a quick check on the internet, I determined the dash he wanted was discontinued.

  I clicked on a Google image, enlarged it, and then pointed to the screen. “Like that?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Discontinued.”

  “What the fuck for?”

  “Hard saying with Harley. Could have been a great seller, and they pulled it because they wanted to introduce something else. Might not have sold well because of the cost. It could be anything. Want me to see if I can find one in stock somewhere?”

  “What’s it cost?”

  “$229.30”

  “Shit. I figured it’d be $500. Fuck yeah. See if you can find it somewhere.”

  A search of dealer stock in our area produced nothing, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t eventually find it.

  I let out a sigh. “It might take me a day or two. Let me see what I can find out. Anything else?”

  “That ought to do it.”

  “So, the baseball card deal went well?”

  “Too well. Checked over my shoulder on the way out of there a couple times, thinking it was a set-up.”

  “That’s good. Good that it went well. And, that it wasn’t a set-up.”

  “Hell, when I’m done selling these fuckers off, I might be able to afford a new couch.”

  “Is your old one in bad shape?”

  “Pretty sad. Bought it for $50 when I moved in. I hate spending money on furniture, so I’ve never done anything about replacing it. Don’t mind spending money on my sled, though.”

  I cocked my head and shrugged one shoulder. “A man has got to have his priorities straight.”

  He folded his arms in front of his chest, lifted his chin slightly, and looked me over. “You going to be around tonight?”

  “Always.”

  “I’ll be in the garage this evening. If you see me in there, stop by.”

  I tried to hide my excitement. “Okay.”

  “Want any beer or anything to drink?”

  “No thank you.”

  “How old are you?”

  I wagged my eyebrows. “Twenty-one.”

  I wasn’t, but I was close enough to claim it.

  “Hot damn,” he said.

  “Hot damn?” I chuckled. “Why’s that?”

  “Old enough to do anything this world has to offer. Rent a car, buy a drink, vote, military. There’s nothing you won’t be able to do, now.”

  In my mind, being twenty-one didn’t change much of anything. My finances were still going to be the same.

  “I suppose so.”

  He clenched his fist and held it over the counter. “See ya, Smudge.”

  I grinned and pounded my fist into his.

  As he walked away I realized the entire time he was talking to me I hadn’t worried about my shirt. Somehow, my cleavage and I had become completely comfortable in his presence.

  I’d always been more comfortable around him than anyone, but I found it fascinating that I’d talked to him for fifteen minutes at work and never once considered where my shirt was, how much cleavage was showing, or if one of my nipples managed to escape the pushup bra I wore, but didn’t necessarily need.

  “Why’s he call you Smudge?” Blane asked.

  It’s none of your business.

  I looked at him and shrugged.

  “I have no idea.”

  Chapter One Hundred Seventy

  P-Nut

  With my ass in a folding lawn chair and a beer in my hand, I sat in the driveway and waited for Smudge to get home. Seeing me enjoy a cold one in the drive wasn’t an uncommon sight for my neighbors. In fact, it was rare that I drank beer in the house.

  I felt free when I was outdoors. The walls of my home – or any home for that matter – made me feel confined. As far as I was concerned, a home was a shelter to sleep under and nothing more.

  I didn’t feel accountable for Smudge as if I was her parent. As a man, and as her friend, however, I felt responsible for her well-being. That feeling of responsibility had me worried about what might have happened to her eye.

  She rolled past the house at 10 miles an hour, and waved. She drove like an old lady, always overly cautious of her surroundings.

  When she needed her first car, I volunteered to help her find one. I found the old Camry on Craigslist, and went with her to buy it. After some negotiating and a few crazy-eyed stares, we got the car for $600.

  She’d saved $300 from babysitting, and I loaned her the other $300, which she paid back promptly.

  The car was ugly as fuck, but served her well.

  After pulling into her drive, she paused, and then backed up. She then turned toward my home, drove the sixty or so feet, and pulled into my drive.

  She got out of the car and grinned. “How’s it going?”

  Out of her Harley uniform and wearing her trademark hoodie, her appearance was a far cry from what she looked like at the dealership. I was relieved to see that she’d changed clothes, seeing her in her Harley gear brought on a string of mixed emotions I wasn’t prepared to deal with.

  I tapped the empty lawn chair on my right and raised my bottle of beer. “Going good, as always. Have a seat.”

  She flopped into the chair. “What’s tonight’s project?”

  “Relaxation.”

  She looked at me. “Not going to tinker on your bike?”

  “Nope.”

  She scrunched her nose. “Just going to sit and stare at Roman’s porch?”

  “Is that his name?”

  “The guy across the street?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah. Roman Aguilar. He’s nice.”

  I shrugged. “He seems okay.”

  I purposely put her chair on my right, so I could get a look at her left eye as
we talked. After a few glances in her direction, I finished my beer and set the empty bottle on the drive.

  “Been knowing each other for some time now, huh?”

  “Us?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You and me.”

  “Almost eight years.”

  “I want to ask you some questions. If you think I’m out of line, just tell me. If not, I’d appreciate an honest answer. I think we’re beyond lying to each other, aren’t we?”

  “Oh, I don’t lie. What...” She looked at me. “What’s wrong?”

  “Tell me what happened to your eye and your cheek. I want to know if there are bruises anywhere else, too.”

  She looked across the street. After a few seconds, her eyes dropped to the drive and she let out a sigh.

  “Do you really want me to tell you?”

  “Yep.”

  She let out a long sigh and then looked at me. “I got smacked.”

  Warmth washed over me. Anger followed right behind it. My fists clenched, and I consciously struggled to keep my temper in control.

  “I’m guessing it wasn’t by a door or some flying piece of debris?”

  Her eyes dropped to her lap. “No.”

  I turned to face her. “Was it a man?”

  Her lower lip began to quiver, and she bit into it. After a moment, a tear rolled down her left cheek.

  She wiped the tear with the heel of her palm and sank into her seat. “Yeah.”

  Mother fucker.

  My jaw clenched.

  I shuffled my chair across the two feet of concrete that separated us, and wrapped my arm around her.

  “I’m going to make sure this doesn’t happen to you again.” I pulled her shoulder against mine. “But I’m going to need you to do a few things for me.”

  “Okay,” she muttered.

  “First, I need you to tell me who he is, and where he is.”

  She tilted her head toward her house. “It was him.”

  I released her shoulder and stood. “Him? Your stepfather?”

  “We got in an argument about me moving out.” She wiped the tears from her cheeks. “He’d been drinking. It got out of hand.”

  Every muscle in my body tensed as the anger filled me. The thought of anyone hitting a woman caused my blood to boil. Her stepfather should be comforting her, supporting her, and protecting her from harm.

  I took a long breath, held it, and clenched my jaw.

  I exhaled through my nostrils and then looked at her. “There’s no excuse for putting a hand on a woman. None. There’s nothing you did – or could ever do – to deserve that.”

  “Okay.”

  “Was that the first time it happened?”

  She stared at her feet.

  It was all the response I needed.

  His truck wasn’t in the driveway, but I asked anyway. “Is he home now?”

  “Not until late. No.”

  “Go get your shit. Whatever you need to get by for a while. Until we can figure something out.”

  “I don’t. I don’t have anywhere to stay. I haven’t got--”

  “You’ve got me,” I said. “And, you can stay here.”

  She looked up. “Seriously?’

  First, I needed to get her away from him. Then, I could take care of what needed to be taken care of.

  I reached for her hand. “Come on,” I said. “We can go get your stuff together.”

  Chapter One Hundred Seventy-One

  Joey

  I wasn’t excited to be staying with Percy for the reasons one might think. The satisfaction I felt about being there wasn’t sexual. I was grateful that his offer wasn’t simply an offer. It was more of a demand.

  He truly cared.

  I hadn’t felt that anyone cared about me since my mother passed.

  I looked around the sparsely furnished – but very tidy – home. There wasn’t a single thing out of place.

  On the far wall, a television sat atop a console. Beside it, a wooden display case with a glass front was filled with various baseball memorabilia. Flanking the console were two low back fabric chairs. Directly across from it, a well-weathered couch sat.

  I motioned toward the display case. “Is that you’re personal collection?”

  “Some of it. The good stuff.”

  I knew how much baseball cards meant to him. Heck, it was how he made a living. I walked to the case, peered through the glass, and admired the neatness of the display.

  Everything was perfectly placed, centered, and in plastic protective cases. Four autographed baseballs in glass cubes, and more than two-dozen cards, one of which was in its own little shrine.

  “What’s the special one here on the top?” I asked.

  “Mickey Mantle #311,” he said.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It’s a 1952 Mickey mantle card. He played for the Yankees. It’s a pretty sought after card. It’s been in my family since 1952.”

  “Oh, wow. That’s impressive.”

  “That’s why it’s on the top.”

  I turned toward him. “I need a hobby.”

  “You’ve got one already,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Finding parts for Harleys.”

  “That’s not a hobby,” I said adamantly. “I’m going to make a career of it.” I looked at my pile of random clothes and the suitcase I’d filled with my belongings. “Where do you want me to--”

  “Second door on the left. It’s a guest room. Smoke stayed in it once, but other than that, nobody’s ever slept in there. Don’t worry.” He chuckled. “I washed the sheets.”

  “Okay.” I glanced down the hallway. “You just want me to put my stuff in there?”

  “Until we figure something else out, that’ll be your bedroom,” he said. “While you’re here, it’s yours. No one will go in there, including me.”

  “Wow. Okay. Thanks.”

  “Smoke and I knocked the wall out when we remodeled the bathroom, so there’s a door that goes into the hall bath. If you’re in there, lock the door.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Do you cook?” I asked.

  He gave me a look. “Me?”

  I nodded.

  “Toast. Maybe an egg from time to time. Other than that, no. Why?”

  I loved to cook. When I was younger, before Josh started his violent fits, I used to cook for him every night.

  “Do you mind if I do?”

  “Not much here to cook, but I don’t give a shit.” He shrugged. “Whatever flips your switch.”

  I motioned toward the bedroom. “I guess I’ll put my stuff up.”

  “I ain’t much on hanging out in here.” He looked around the house nervously. “I’ll be in the driveway staring at that Hernandez guy’s place.”

  “Aguilar.”

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “That’s what I meant.”

  As he turned toward the front door, I carried my things down the hallway and opened the bedroom door.

  The gray bedding and overstuffed pillows wasn’t what I would have expected Percy to choose, but then again, he was different than anyone I’d ever met. After I hung my clothes in the closet and put everything away I looked around the room.

  The bed and two nightstands were along one wall. A matching dresser was positioned against the wall at the side, and three large framed black and white photos of vintage motorcycles were hung in the center of each open wall.

  The hardwood floors were polished to perfection. At the foot of the bed, and at the left side, throw rugs were placed.

  It resembled something out of a magazine.

  I pressed my hand against the comforter. The mattress gave some resistance, but not like the hard one I’d been accustomed to sleeping on.

  I turned and fell onto the bed.

  It was like lying on a cloud. I closed my eyes and let out a sigh.

  A knock on the door startled me. I jumped to my feet, and looked around. Confused for a second as to where I was, my mind
eventually caught up with me.

  “Come in.”

  The door opened. Percy stood in the hallway with his hand resting on the doorknob. He wasn’t wearing his leather vest, which I found odd.

  Dressed in a white tank top, jeans, and a pair of lace-up boots, he looked intimidating as hell.

  “Stay in here. No matter what, don’t come out until I come tell you it’s okay. You can come out of the room, just not the house.”

  I swallowed heavily. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. Shithead’s home. I’m headed over there.”

  “Are you uhhm. Are you going to tell him I’m staying here?”

  He barked out a laugh. “I ain’t gonna tell him shit. He’ll see your car sooner or later, though.”

  “I’ll uhhm. Okay.”

  “If the cops come and haul me away, shut the garage door, and lock the house when you leave. I’ll be back sooner or later. Either that, or Smoke will come by and let you know what’s up. Set of keys on the kitchen table for you. One fits the front door, and one fits the back. The little key locks the garage from the outside.”

  “You’re not going to kill him, are you?”

  His face was expressionless. “Depends on how things go, I suppose.”

  He extended his clenched fist.

  I swallowed hard, walked to the door, and pounded my fist against his.

  “See you in a bit, Smudge.”

  I bit against my quivering lip and gave a sharp nod.

  He pulled the door closed behind him.

  Then, it hit me.

  I yanked the door open. “Be careful. He’s uhhm. He’s a former Marine.”

  “A former Marine?” He glanced over his shoulder and let out a laugh. “Well, I’m currently the meanest son-of-a-bitch I know, so this ought to be fun.”

  Chapter One Hundred Seventy-Two

  Percy

  If a man raises his hand to a woman, he’s earned an ass whipping. But for a man to raise his hand to one of his children, especially his daughter, he’s earned far more than a simple ass whipping.

  I told myself as I walked across the yard that killing him wasn’t the answer, but despite my mind’s thoughts, my soul struggled to accept anything short of burying him in the backyard.

  I stepped on the porch, checked over each of my shoulders, and then knocked on the door.