HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  The door opened.

  “Something I can do for--”

  I swung a straight right hand as hard as I’d ever thrown one. The punch caught him off guard – and directly in center of his face.

  His nose splattered beneath my knuckles, undoubtedly broken by a punch he had no idea was coming.

  I had no intention of beating him and walking away.

  None whatsoever.

  My plan was to beat him, educate him on matters of moral behavior, and then beat him a little more.

  As he stumbled to catch his footing, I stepped into the house and pulled the door closed behind me.

  He lowered his hands.

  Blood dripped past his lips and down his chin. For an instant, he appeared to be confused. Then his fight or flight instinct kicked in.

  He raised his hands and took a step toward me. It appeared he was choosing fight over flight.

  It wasn’t a wise decision on his part. I inhaled a quick breath, leaned back, and then drove the top of my head into his face with every ounce of energy I could gather.

  What little of his nose had survived the first punch had no chance of making it through the impact of my hard head.

  His hands shot to his face, and he stumbled against the wall.

  Two successive blows to the nose had rendered him senseless. Regardless, I was far from finished. He’d done the unthinkable to one of the few women on earth I cared about, and I wasn’t going to go easy on him.

  Not at all.

  I raised my right foot, planted it against his chest, and kicked him to the floor. He tried to stand, but in his semi-conscious state, his brain and his legs were having a difficult time communicating.

  I reached into my back pocket, removed the roll of electrical tape I’d taken from my garage, and before he could provide much resistance, pulled his hands behind his back and taped his wrists together. Now hillbilly handcuffed and sitting on the floor, he looked up at me with confused eyes.

  He blinked a few times. “You’re the neighbor, right?”

  “Yep. That’s me. Name’s Welsh. Percy L. Welsh. When we’re done, you can call the cops if you’d like. That is, if I don’t kill you.”

  I looked around the living room. A chair in the corner of the room was only a few away. I leaned against the arm of it and looked at him.

  I raised my right foot off the floor a few inches. “If you try to get up, I’m going to plant the toe of this size 12 Doc Marten on your face. Get comfortable.”

  His eyes darted left, and then right.

  Then, he tried to stand.

  I slid off the edge of the chair, raised my right foot, and kicked him in the face as hard as I could.

  Although I’d promised to give him the toe of my boot, his squirming caused my heel to catch his upper cheek. The soft rubber sole gripped the skin of his cheek and tore through it like a knife, leaving a four-inch gash.

  On his back moaning like the little bitch he was, he began to realize I wasn’t there to be nice.

  “What the fuck?” he bellowed. “Why in the fuck--”

  “Shut up,” I said. “Or I’ll give you the boot again.”

  He looked like he’d narrowly escaped death in a bare knuckles MMA fight. Despite his curiosity, he inched toward the wall behind him and leaned his head against it.

  “What are--”

  “What did I tell you?” I asked. “I’m not in the mood to listen to you.”

  I leaned against the chair, let out a sigh, and looked right at him. “Listen to me.”

  One eye was swollen shut, and what little of his nose remained was distorted so bad it was difficult to tell what it was. Regardless, he appeared to give me his full attention.

  “Don’t agree, don’t disagree, just listen. Got it?”

  He nodded.

  I slid off the arm of the chair and began to pace the small living room. “A man has a responsibility on this earth. Respect his parents. Don’t lie to anyone but the cops. Don’t take things that aren’t yours. And never, no matter what, raise your hand to a woman.” I locked eyes with him. “You failed on at least one of those responsibilities.”

  His only available eye fell to the floor in what I suspected was shame.

  “If you ever, and I do mean ever, come near Joey again, if I don’t kill you tonight, I can promise you I will the next time. If you think you want to try something slick, and do something to me, or to my bike, think again. You’ll have the entire MC over here on you so fast you won’t have time to blink. When I leave here tonight, count your losses, realize you’re a piece of human shit, and learn to live with it. Any form of repercussion will only earn you a one-way ticket to meet your maker.”

  He looked up.

  “You think you’re going to come in my house and--”

  I planted my boot against his chin. The impact knocked his head into the wall behind him.

  “Shitty feeling, being beaten when you can’t defend yourself, isn’t it?” I asked. “Now you know how she felt. Defenseless.”

  Saying it caused my blood to boil. The thought of him hitting Smudge hard enough to swell her eye closed sickened me.

  I kicked him again, and again, and again.

  When I came to my senses, I realized he was unconscious.

  I walked to the kitchen, dug through the cabinets, and found a large bowl. After filling it with a few pounds of ice and some water, I carried it into the living room.

  I poured the freezing water on his face.

  He snapped to life. After spitting blood on the floor for a moment, he tilted his head upward. I had my doubts as to whether he could see me or not, but at least he was trying.

  “We in agreement here?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  A puddle of blood had pooled on the floor. The wall behind him was covered in blood splatters from my kicking him.

  The living room and adjacent hallway wall looked like a mass murder crime scene.

  As much as I wanted to continue, I realized beating him any more would be the death of him. He’d require a hundred or so stitches, having his nose fixed, and he surely had a few broken ribs.

  He spat on the floor and looked up.

  I grinned at my handiwork. Dental implants. He’d need a few of those, too.

  As he fumbled to get to his feet, I shook my head and turned away.

  “I meant what I said,” I said over my shoulder. “Don’t come near her. Not for any reason. You lost the right.”

  I opened the door, paused, and then turned around.

  Standing a few feet in front of me with his hands still secured behind his back, he was truly defenseless.

  Just like his stepdaughter was when he beat her.

  I swung the toe of my right boot directly into his nuts.

  He coughed out a mouthful of blood and crumbled to the floor.

  That one was for Smudge, asshole.

  Chapter One Hundred Seventy-Three

  Joey

  It had been a week since Josh got his education. With Percy in Vista looking at a baseball card collection, I’d taken it upon myself to cook dinner.

  I couldn’t decide whether to set the table or not, and then chose against it. I didn’t want him to think I perceived the meal as romantic, or that I looked at him that way. I simply wanted to show my gratitude for what he’d done for me, and cooking for him was the only thing I could think of.

  As soon as I pulled the bread from the oven, I heard his motorcycle coming down the block.

  While I adjusted my placement of the food I’d prepared, the front door opened.

  He stepped inside, tilted his head back, and inhaled a long breath through his nose.

  “God damn,” he said.

  Good god damn, or bad god damn?

  “What?”

  “Something smells good as fuck. Did you order Italian? I’m starved.”

  “I uhhm. I cooked Italian.”

  “With what?” His brow wrinkled. “There’s nothing here to cook.”
r />   “I bought some stuff.”

  “You bought stuff and cooked dinner?”

  I did a half-assed curtsy. “I did.”

  He looked at the food I’d placed on the countertop. “What is it?”

  “Lasagna, homemade bread, a tomato and mozzarella salad, and some sautéed broccoli.”

  “Is it ready to eat?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  He rubbed his hands together. “What are we waiting for?”

  Having him express such excitement over a meal was fantastic. Even if he hated my cooking, his eagerness to at least try it was reward enough.

  I opened the cupboard and handed him a plate. “Here.”

  “You first.”

  I grabbed another plate and filled it. He followed right behind me.

  I set the plate down at the table and glanced over my shoulder. “What would you like to drink?”

  “Beer’s fine with me.”

  I poured myself a glass of water, and grabbed him a beer. When I returned to the table, he was sitting across from me with a plate filled to the point it was spilling over the sides.

  Wow.

  I smiled and handed him the bottle of beer. “Long day?”

  “Ran all over southern California. Chula Vista, San Diego, then Vista. Shit, rode about 200 miles, splitting traffic the whole way.”

  “Does that make you nervous?”

  “Does now.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since one of the fellas was going 80 down the 5, and some chick flung her door open and crashed his bagger.”

  “Oh my God,” I gasped. “Is he okay?”

  “He’s fine. And guess what else?”

  “What?”

  “He’s marrying the chick that wrecked him. Long story. I’ll tell you later.” He looked at his plate and then at me. “Can we eat?”

  “Oh. Sure. Sorry.”

  He cut the corner off his lasagna and lifted the fork to his mouth. I looked at my plate, hoping to seem uninterested in his expression, although nothing at that moment was more important than his opinion about what I had prepared.

  “Dear fucking God,” he gasped.

  I looked up. “Too hot?”

  “No.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Wrong? Nothing’s wrong.” He swallowed. “This shit’s the fucking bomb.”

  “You like it?”

  “Best fucking lasagna I ever ate.” He cut off another huge bite. “Better than my mother’s, but don’t tell her that.”

  I grinned. “I won’t.”

  He pointed his fork toward a tomato. “What’s in this salad?”

  “Mozzarella cheese, tomatoes, basil, balsamic vinegar--”

  “Sounds complicated.”

  “It’s not.”

  He pierced a mozzarella ball and a tomato in one stab, lifted them to his mouth, and took a bite. “Jesus fuck.”

  “Bad?”

  He swallowed what was in his mouth and then shook his head. “Why are you working at the Harley dealer? You ought to have a fucking restaurant.”

  His compliments filled me with pride.

  “Thank you.”

  He reached for a piece of the bread and chuckled. “Probably made the bread, too, huh?”

  “Actually, I did. It sucks kneading it by hand, but I didn’t get all that stuff from the house when I left.”

  “What stuff?”

  “My mom’s cooking stuff. Sorry, my cooking stuff.”

  “I’ll get it,” he said.

  He took a bite of the bread, looked at the uneaten portion he held, and then stuffed it into his mouth. “You can sure cook, Smudge.”

  “Thank you.”

  It was awfully nice to have someone appreciate what I’d done. I didn’t have self-esteem issues – other than my leg – but receiving praise was something I sure enjoyed.

  “You mother died when you were what? Ten?”

  I shrugged. “Nine.”

  “Who taught you to cook?”

  “Same person that taught me about Harleys.”

  He wrinkled his nose.

  “I taught myself,” I said. “I use the internet.”

  “Well, you’re a damned good cook.”

  “Thank you. Again.”

  He shoveled more lasagna into his mouth and then looked at me. “What about your pop?”

  “My dad?”

  He nodded. “Yeah.”

  “What about him?”

  He took a bite of lasagna. “How old were you when. You know. When he passed. You’ve never said much about him.”

  “I was really young when he died.”

  “I was just wondering. You’ve told me a lot about your mom,” he said. “But you’ve never really said much about your pop.”

  I never talked to anyone about my father. Having a high degree of admiration for a man I never knew seemed silly to me. Nonetheless, I clung to the stories my mother told as if they were my own.

  “I never really knew him. Not that I remember anyway.”

  “Your mom never told you anything about him?”

  “Oh. She said a lot. She loved him. Not like Josh. She really loved him. He was like you.”

  His brow furrowed. “Like me?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was a biker. He’s the real reason I like Harleys and stuff.”

  He laughed. “I thought I was the reason.”

  “I mean. You are. Kind of. But I think hearing the stories my mom told about my dad started it all. I grew up admiring him, and heck, I never really knew him.”

  “That’s cool. What did you admire about him? What’d your mom tell you?”

  “he was the most kind, caring, loving man on earth. Yet. He didn’t take crap from anyone. My mom said no matter where they went, she felt safe. She said no one ever messed with her, or gave her a cross look, they knew better. He had a moral code that he lived by. He didn’t lie, his word was as good as gold, and he’d stand up for anyone that couldn’t stand up for themselves.”

  “Sounds like a good man.”

  “He was,” I said, my voice thick with pride. “He died trying to protect one of his brothers.”

  “You’ve got an uncle?”

  “No. Not that kind of brother. One of his brothers in the club.”

  He grinned. “He rode in an MC?”

  “Yeah. One of the big ones.”

  “Which one?”

  “I can’t remember the name of it, but it was one of the big ones.”

  “I’ll be damned. Last name was McGovern?”

  “No. That’s Josh’s last name. He adopted me, so I’ve got his name. I want to change it back to my old name. When I can afford it.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a weird one. Don’t laugh.”

  “Okay.”

  “Schreiber.”

  His head cocked to the side. “Spell it.”

  “S. C. H. R. E. I. B. E. R.”

  His mouth fell open. “Did your pop die about ’98 or ’99? In a bar in SD?”

  A chill ran along my spine. A barely audible uh huh passed my lips.

  His eyes shot wide. “Billy The Snake Schreiber?”

  Snake was what they called him. It was his road name. My fork hit the plate with a clank! “Oh my God. You know him?”

  “Know of him. Hell, everyone does. Man’s a god damned legend. He rode with the red and white. Holy fucking shit, you’re The Snake’s daughter?”

  I realized I was standing. Initially filled with excitement, I was now slightly confused. “Red and White?”

  He nodded. “Hells Angels.”

  “That’s the one,” I screeched. “Hells Angels.”

  Now, he was standing.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” he said excitedly. “That’s crazy. He was the president’s right hand man. He was the club enforcer, and the second in command. They were in a bar in San Diego, and an Outlaw pulled a knife on the president. Snake
stepped in to protect him. He saved the president, even took the knife from the guy. Later that night, one of them came in and cracked him with a pool cue. It was that fight that started a war between those two clubs. Still going on today.”

  “Oh wow.”

  “Your Ol’ Man is a legend, Smudge.”

  My eyes started to well with tears at the thought of him being the man I always believed he was.

  I fought against the tears. “That’s nice to hear. Do you. Do you uhhm. Do you know any other stories about him?”

  “I don’t,” he said. “But I know a man who will.”

  “Can I meet him some day?”

  “Depending on what he’s doing, you might be able to meet him tonight.”

  “Holy cow. Really?”

  He raised his index finger. After pulling his phone from his vest, he made a call.

  “Nothing much. Hey, I got one for ya. You’ll never guess who I’m having dinner with. No. No. Just hold on.”

  He looked at me, smiled, and then began to pace the floor. “Billy The Snake Schreiber’s daughter. Yep. Nope. Twenty-one. Hey, brother. Can you do me a solid? Yeah. She wants to know if you’ve got any stories to tell her about her Ol’ Man.”

  He glanced at me and gave the thumbs up. “Right now, if you’re not busy. Oh, one other thing. You eat yet?”

  He gave me another thumbs up. “Come hungry. See you in a few.”

  “Well,” he said. “We better eat while we can. When Bama gets here, he’ll eat whatever’s left.”

  My heart was racing. I was way too excited to eat, but I sat down nonetheless. Attempting to hide my excitement, and probably failing miserably, I looked up from picking at my food.

  “So, he knew him? This Bama guy? Like knew him?”

  “Bama’s been with the red and white for 30 years. Yeah, he knew your Ol’ Man.”

  My mouth curled into a smile.

  While Percy ate, I poked and picked at my food. I was far too nervous – and way too excited – to eat. After a few minutes, I realized I was simply staring at the wall behind Percy. When he stood from his seat, I came out of my daze.

  “Thank you for calling him,” I said.

  “Least I could do. Thanks for cooking dinner.”

  “Least I could do,” I said mockingly.

  “I’m going to get another plate before he gets here.”

  “There’s plenty,” I said with a smile. “Help yourself.”