HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  I looked her over. “Well, you look great for not having slept all night.”

  She seemed embarrassed, but managed a smile. “Thank you.”

  “You have questions?” I asked. “About the books?”

  “I do.” Her gaze fell to the floor. After a moment, she looked up. “Are the stories based on anything?”

  I often based character’s personalities on people I’d met, or someone I knew. Their experiences in the books, however, were nothing more than my mind’s imagination at work. It seemed I had an endless supply of tales to tell, none of which were like the last.

  I shook my head. “Not really.”

  Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Not really, or not at all?”

  I stepped closer to the door and then leaned against it. “The stories are made up. Every one of them. Some of my characters are modeled after people I’ve met. I’ll use their mannerisms and features, but the similarities stop there.”

  “What about Crip’s crazy sex scenes?”

  “What about them?”

  “Are they…you know. Are they real?”

  It was a question I was often asked in email messages I received from readers. It seemed women authors were given a dismissive wave when it came to sex scenes. Readers assumed they were simply the author’s fantasies. A male author, however, was believed to be writing a description of his previous night’s sexual antics. Nothing could be further from the truth.

  I played dumb. “Real? What do you mean?”

  “Are the sex scenes fantasy, or reality?”

  “I suppose they could be either.”

  “The sex on a motorcycle,” she said. “Was that based on personal experience?”

  I chuckled. “No. That was sheer fantasy.”

  She turned her head to the side, let out a long breath, and then looked at me. Her face was beet red. “That was the hottest sex scene I’ve ever read.”

  “A lot of people said that in their reviews. It was a fun scene to write, that’s for sure.”

  She glanced in each direction, and then looked at me. “One more quick question. Is the series finished?”

  “They’re all stand alone novels. There was one more I wanted to write. You know, to kind of wrap everything up.” I shrugged at the thought of finishing the book in five years when I got out of prison. “Going to be tough in here, though.”

  “That sucks. Well, enjoy your breakfast. I can’t wait to read about Bones. He was so funny in the first book.”

  The character was modeled after my MCs very own Pee Bee, the club’s Sergeant-at-Arms. A monster of a man who stood 6’-8” and normally had the temperament of a teddy bear, he was a very comical man even on his worst days.

  “He was a great character,” I agreed.

  “Is he based on anyone? Who’s that tall, anyway?”

  “Pee Bee.”

  “Who be?’

  “Pee Bee. It’s an acronym, kind of. The letter P and the letter B. It stands for Pretty Boy. One of the fellas I ride with is 6’-8” tall, and he’s pretty, so we called him Pretty Boy. Pee Bee for short. Bones’ character is based on him.”

  “Is Pee Bee funny?”

  “He’s pretty quick-witted, yeah.”

  “I can’t wait to finish it.” She rubbed her hands together and grinned. “Three o’clock can’t come fast enough.”

  “You should stop with that one and get some sleep,” I said jokingly.

  “I will.” She glanced down the cellblock and then looked at me. “Okay, I better go.”

  She pushed the cart past my window. Before I turned around, she stepped in front of my window again.

  “Couldn’t you write it from your cell? The last book? With a pencil and paper? If you tell me what to do, I’ll help you get it to an editor or whatever.”

  I found the thought of writing a novel on a notepad with a golf pencil unnerving. I was going to have an inordinate amount of spare time, but not all of it was going to be spent in the facility I was housed in. More than likely, I’d be shipped out in less than two more months. Her offer to help would mean I’d have to complete the hand-written manuscript in a matter of four weeks or so. A real-world possibility from my desk at home, but I had my doubts I’d be able to produce anything remarkable from my prison cell.

  “I appreciate the offer. I’ll think about it.” I stepped away from the door and chuckled. “After you read a few more of those rags, you might not want to continue.”

  “I doubt that’s the case,” she said. “You’re a very talented writer.”

  I clenched my teeth and gave a nod, hoping to hide the pride that was filling me. “Thank you.”

  “Okay.” She smiled. “That’s it. I’m leaving now. For real.”

  I watched as she disappeared from my field of vision. After hearing two more bean slots slam open, I flushed the oatmeal down my toilet, rinsed the bowl in the sink, and peeled one of the eggs. While I nibbled at the egg and sipped my tepid coffee, I considered how much my life had changed in the last six weeks.

  I needed to embrace my incarceration, but it wasn’t coming easily. Having been locked up once before gave me an insider’s look at what was to come, and there wasn’t anything about it that I found appealing.

  Writing novels with a pencil and a scratch pad could very well be my answer. I finished my egg, set the other aside for later, and grabbed my notepad. Beneath the tip of my pencil, the story began to come to life.

  Becker Wallace was the next character in line for a book. When he was eighteen, his parents died in a car crash. An only child, he turned to the MC for comfort, guidance, and a sense of belonging.

  He found that – and more – within the ranks of the club. A humble man with a thirst for simply living life, Becker adhered to an old-school philosophy that had been taught by his father, who was forty-nine years his senior.

  I wrote a chapter, and then another. With aching fingers, I continued to scribble my thoughts onto the paper pad. Soon, the morning vanished. Before I knew it, a key turning my cell door’s lock caused me to divert my attention toward the metallic sound.

  Much to my surprise, the bean slot didn’t open. The door did. Wearing a look of contention, Perry stood outside my cell door.

  “Grab your shit,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Grab all your shit, Reynolds,” he barked. “You’re leaving.”

  I was sure he’d devised a way to send me to the SHU. More than likely based on one of the other inmates claims that I’d committed an act of extortion for forcing them to give me their hard-boiled eggs in trade for protection on the yard.

  “Your wife going to meet me up in the SHU? Give me a handy through the bean slot? Tell me she’s got soft hands. I love a soft hand stroking my cock, as long as it’s not mine.”

  He let out a heavy sigh. “Prosecution dropped their charges. You’re going home.”

  My heart faltered. “Excuse me?”

  “Prosecution dropped their charges. Bad evidence or something. Your attorney’s in the cage, and he’ll explain everything on your way out.” He motioned toward my notepad. “Grab your shit.”

  “You’re serious?”

  He raised his empty hands. “See any shackles?”

  Every time we were taken anywhere, we were handcuffed and shackled. Yet, Perry stood before me with his hands at his sides and his eyes on my hand-written masterpiece.

  I looked at him in disbelief. “They dropped their charges?”

  “I’ve got a prison to run, asshole,” he said with a laugh. “Grab your shit. You can talk to your attorney about it. Yeah, you’re free to go.”

  There were many things that should have been running through my head, but only one came to mind.

  Officer Madden.

  “Is Officer Madden still here?” I asked.

  Her shift ended at three thirty, I thought. I didn’t know the specific time, but it wasn’t noon yet.

  “She’s busy with court,” he said. “Grab your shit.”
>
  There was only one thing I needed. I turned toward my table, picked up the stack of letters Stretch had sent me, grinning at the fact that he’d sent them under a false name.

  One hand-written letter, every Wednesday, for each week that I was locked up. He’d done it the first time I was locked up, and this time as well.

  He was one hell of a man, and an even better friend.

  I looked at the name in the upper left-hand corner of the envelope and grinned.

  G.F. Yurself

  I smiled at the prison’s stupidity, and turned to face him. “Can you give her a message for me?”

  “The guards aren’t allowed to interact with prisoners.” He shrugged. “Sorry, Reynolds.”

  “I’m not a prisoner. I’m a civilian, now.”

  “You’re a convicted felon.”

  He was right. I was. More than likely there was something in the prison’s bylaws that prohibited guards from colluding with criminals. For as long as I lived, my decision to admit guilt to inciting the riot would loom over my head.

  “Just tell her to read book six,” I said. “Can you do that?”

  His eyebrows raised slightly. “Read book six?” He shrugged. “Sure. I can tell her that.”

  I’d spoken to her every day for several months. Although I wouldn’t have suspected it, leaving her wasn’t something I was prepared to do. The thought of never seeing her again choked me from making any further comments. Putting a message in the book was the only way I knew to contact her. Hell, I didn’t even know her first name.

  I looked at him and gave a nod of appreciation.

  Now, all I needed to do was write it.

  Chapter Two Hundred Ten

  Bobbi

  The second book in Tate’s series was infused with comedic banter between the hero and heroine, and between the heroine and the hero’s father. The romantic element of the story built slowly over the course of the book. The sexual tension – my sexual tension – was through the roof. Considering the hero was a hardened biker, I expected the pace was realistic. I enjoyed the book much more than the first, primarily because I could easily see myself as the heroine.

  I began reading at a young age, and enjoyed every moment that I could immerse myself in a story. As I matured, my desire to read increased. For me, it was a means of escape. I could become a girl who fought against armed rebels to save her country from oppression – using nothing more than a pocket knife and a compass. A crime-solving detective with a prosthetic leg and a drug sniffing poodle. Or, a billionaire’s object of desire who lived in a penthouse overlooking Central Park.

  Thanks to Tate, MC Romance was my new subgenre of choice. Becoming the Ol’ Lady of a man who wanted nothing more than to be free of society’s reach was my newfound desire. A perfect mixture of intrigue, suspense, and action filled the pages between the romantic plot, making the read a fast-paced race to the happily ever after finish.

  After finishing the second book, I ate, exercised, and got some sleep. Living on the high created every time I finished a good book, I went to work feeling refreshed. Ready to talk to Tate about his ability to create a well-crafted story, I eagerly filled the food cart with the men’s meals and pushed it down the corridor toward the cellblock.

  I wanted to be a police officer for as long as I could remember. There were two things that prompted me to choose it as a profession. First, I’d always enjoyed helping others. I saw law enforcement as an occupation that would allow me to measure my successes in doing so. Secondly, I was fascinated with people. A career in law enforcement would give me a broader understanding of cultures, beliefs, and human nature. Meeting all the different people would be my reward.

  My weight prevented me from being accepted into the academy. As much as I tried to make changes to alter that fact, I was eventually forced to accept it. So, I owned it and became a prison guard. My second choice of professions fed one of my desires, however.

  My fascination with people.

  I pushed the food cart to the first cell. Jerry Porter Price created a collection of videos depicting sexual acts with young boys, all of which clearly displayed his active participation. The videos were then sold to other men who desired to view such disgusting filth. As the electronic files crossed Tate lines when they were emailed, the crime became a federal offense.

  He was confined to his cell twenty-four hours a day. Prosecution realized if he was released into population, that retaliation for his crimes by the other inmates would be swift and deadly. There were other ways, however, that the inmates chose their own means of justice.

  I unlocked the steel slot, let it slap against the door, and smiled when the sound caused him to jump from his sleeping state.

  His tray was specially prepared by the cook, who was an inmate incarcerated for a six-month stint on bankruptcy fraud. It wasn’t merely society’s belief that Jerry Porter Price was a vile human being, it was the belief of the staff and the inmates as well.

  I had no idea what was in his food, but I knew it wasn’t good. I pushed the tray into the slot – satisfied that he was at least getting a portion of what he deserved. As he rose to his feet and began to speak to me, I turned and walked away.

  He lost his right to have any meaningful interaction with me when he touched the first boy.

  The second cell housed Tracey Tillman. A meth cook who lived in a camper in the middle of the Mojave Desert, he was facing life in prison for the amount of drugs he sold an undercover DEA agent.

  I couldn’t fathom the amount of lives he had ruined with the drugs he manufactured. The lives lost. The families that had been torn apart. The innocent people affected by the actions of the addicts who took desperate measures to obtain the drugs they were dependent upon. It made me sick to think about it.

  I opened the slot, allowed it to slam against the door, and shoved his tray through the slot. He began to speak to me, but I turned away before he made eye contact. Pleased that I once again escaped a moment of interacting with him, I pushed the cart to the next cell.

  James Grossman. After two years of unemployment, and a few hundred missed job opportunities, the thirty-seven-year-old father of three robbed a bank. Using nothing more than a note, he obtained $1,200 from the teller.

  Before he escaped, he was caught by an off-duty officer who happened into the bank.

  I turned the key, lowered the slot to the open position, and pushed his tray through the opening. “Time for breakfast.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  I smiled. “You’re welcome.”

  It saddened me to think about his children growing up without him. I realized what he did was wrong, but sentencing a man who wanted nothing more than to feed his family to ten years in federal prison seemed extreme.

  After a few cells of sleeping inmates, I pushed the cart to cell number twenty-four. Surprised that Tate was sleeping, I unlocked the slot and let it bang against the door, hoping to wake him. As he stirred, I grabbed his tray and pushed it into the slot.

  “Reynolds, it’s time for breakfast,” I said.

  A stranger turned to face me. “No one named Reynolds here.”

  My face went flush with frustration, and then disappointment set in. I turned away, grabbed the handles on the cart, and pushed it forward – but not to the next cell. Standing between the two cells, I slowly filled with anger.

  The way Perry treated the men was uncalled for.

  Certain that he took Reynolds to the SHU for some minor infraction, I decided after my distribution of the meals that I’d let him have a piece of my mind. Senior officer or not, he needed to know that his actions and attitude did nothing but encourage the inmates to react unfavorably toward him.

  I passed out the remaining meals, trying the entire time to hide my disappointment. After returning the cart to the kitchen, I stormed into the observation station.

  Peering toward the cellblock while he twirled his ring of keys by the chain that connected them to his belt, Perry looked the part o
f a warden at one of yesteryear’s second-rate institution.

  I barely made it through the door before I unleashed on him. “You took Reynolds to the hole?” I snarled. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He turned to face me. His mouth twisted into a half-assed smirk.

  I glanced at the blur of swinging keys and then met his gaze. “Quit swinging those God forsaken keys and answer me,” I seethed.

  His eyes narrowed.

  “Well?” I asked. “What did he do? Have enough guts to challenge one of the snide remarks you always make?”

  “Shouldn’t get attached to the inmates, Madden.”

  “I’m not attached to anyone,” I snapped back, although it was a lie. “We were in the middle of a conversation about something.”

  He stopped twirling his keys. After crossing his arms and looking me over, he arched an eyebrow. “What were you talking about?”

  I doubted he knew anything about Tate being an author. I wasn’t about to enlighten him on the matter, either. “Nothing, really. We were just talking.”

  He chuckled a laugh. “Well, that’s a conversation that’ll never go anywhere.”

  “What did you do?” I asked, my voice thick with anger. “Pepper spray him and take him to the hole?”

  He looked me up and down. “You better change your tone, Madden.”

  I pressed my fists against my hips. “Answer me.”

  “He shipped out.”

  There was no way he’d gone to court, been convicted of his crime, and then been assigned to a prison since we last spoke.

  I cocked a hip. “Excuse me?”

  “Prosecution dropped the charges. He’s a free man. Shipped out yesterday. Sheriff gave him a ride to impound to get his bike. He rode out of here like a rocket.”

  My throat tightened at the thought of never seeing him again. “He left?”

  “Scurried his ass out of here like a rat from a sinking ship.”

  He didn’t have any idea what manner he left in. There was no way he could have seen him. He was trying to get under my skin, and as much as I hated to admit it, he was doing just that.