HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  “Both incidents are a perfect example of the risks associated with the choices we make.”

  I looked at him in disbelief. “So, he shouldn’t be a biker because of the risks it brings?”

  “I didn’t say that. Regardless of who he might be, a good portion of society will always look at him with jaded eyes. They’ll see him as the biker that’s portrayed on the news. The one who shoots up the other bikers in a bar fight or manufactures dope for a living.” He reached for his coffee. “Does he have a job?”

  I laughed. “You’ll love this.”

  “He’s an aeronautical engineer?”

  “No, better.”

  “A hairdresser?”

  “Almost. He’s a romance novelist.”

  Midway through a sip of his coffee, he coughed the drink into his cup and then looked at me no differently than if I’d just told him I was going to have triplets. “He writes romance books? Like your mother used to read?”

  Until the day she died, my mother always had a paperback in her hand. She read while she cooked, while she watched television, and while she rode in the car on the vacations we took as a family. It was her love of reading that prompted me to follow in her footsteps at such an early age.

  They were a little more graphic than the novels my mother read, but for the sake of conversation, I agreed. “Just like mom used to read.”

  “He sounds like an interesting fellow. Is that why we’re having this conversation? Because you find him interesting?”

  “We talked every morning for the entire time he’s been in there. Then, when they dropped his charges, Perry walked him out without telling me. He took him out the back, and I know he did it just so he couldn’t say anything to me on his way out.”

  “I’m sure he did.” He scowled at his coffee cup and pushed it aside. “And, you’re upset because you didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. Is that it?”

  He gazed across the kitchen table and waited for my response.

  It wasn’t exactly why I was upset, but it was part of it. After reading two dozen of his books, I couldn’t help but wonder exactly who Tate Reynolds was, and just what might become of our friendship.

  I dropped my gaze to the table. “Kind of. Yeah.”

  “You’re wanting to get to know him a little more?” he asked. “Is that it?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Have you read any of his stuff?”

  I looked up. Despite my struggle to prevent it, my face went flush. “Twenty of them.”

  “Damn. How many has he written?”

  “Forty-something.”

  “Jesus. He’s been busy, hasn’t he?” He gave a few nods of approval, and then looked at me. “Pretty salty stuff?”

  “It’s really good, actually. Why?”

  “Well, from that look on your face, you’ve enjoyed it to the point you’re embarrassed. I doubt they’re like those Harlequin novels your mother used to read that had Fabio on the cover, are they?”

  “Not exactly.”

  He pushed his chair away from the table, and then looked me over. “What’s the problem, Bobbi?”

  He could tell something was troubling me. There was not much sense denying it, so I decided to own it.

  “He’s really a nice guy,” I said. “It bothers me that we didn’t get to talk before he left.”

  “Your buddy Perry saw to it that he didn’t get a chance to say anything to you.”

  My gaze dropped to the table. “I know.”

  “There’s more to it than that, though. Isn’t there?”

  There was. I couldn’t decide just how much I wanted to tell him, though. I couldn’t lie to him, but that didn’t mean I had to tell him the complete truth, either. Not unless he asked, anyway.

  I looked up and met his gaze. “I’m just. I don’t know. I want to see him again. I want to talk to him. You know, without the restriction of having a steel door between us.”

  “Now that things are different.” He raised both eyebrows. “Things might be different.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  He reached for his coffee. While he sipped it, he studied me. “I’ll go back to my original question. What’s the problem, Bobbi?”

  In short, the answer was easy. So, I gave him the short answer. “I miss talking to him.”

  It was true. I did. It may have seemed inconsequential to most, but short of Andy and my father, I talked to no one. Talking to Tate for 5 minutes a day over the course of two months was a significant achievement. It was more interaction with the male species than I’d had in the last three years combined.

  My father rested his chin in his hands and looked me over. “You’re quite resourceful. I’m sure you can find him if you want to. But. I don’t think that’s what you want right now. I think you’re hoping that those books give you an insight to just who the man on the other side of the cell door was.” He arched an eyebrow. “Am I far off?”

  I chuckled. “Probably not.”

  “Your reading pace is what? A book a night?”

  “Pretty close.”

  “Well, here in a few weeks, you’ll have read everything he’s put out there. If you still think you need to talk to him when you’re done, I’m sure you’ll figure something out. If you wanted me to tell you I think you shouldn’t have interest in a biker who stands up for what he believes in, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  He didn’t tell me much, but he said what I needed to hear. I glanced at my watch, and realized the morning had somehow escaped us.

  “I think I’m going to go. It’s almost noon.”

  He smiled. “Keep me posted?”

  I nodded. “I will.”

  “Everything that’s meant to be, will be,” he said.

  I’d heard that phrase so many times, I’d come to believe it. “I know.”

  My fear was that my relationship with Tate had run its course.

  Chapter Two Hundred Fifteen

  Tate

  Crip was sitting on his motorcycle at the far end of the shop. With his hands draped over the handlebars and his head hanging low, it seemed something was deeply troubling him.

  I rolled to a stop and shut off the engine. “Where is everyone?”

  He cocked his head to the side and looked at me. “Out dicking around. Smoke’s got another job in La Jolla. Cholo’s with him. Pee Bee hasn’t made it in yet, and who knows where P-Nut is.”

  I hung my helmet on the bars and got off the bike. As I walked toward the fridge, he began to chastise me for my recent absence.

  “Speaking of someone’s whereabouts, where the fuck you been lately? Since you got out, you’ve been pretty God damned scarce.”

  “Just been trying to make ends meet after paying that fucking attorney thirty grand.”

  He coughed a sarcastic laugh. “Editing your ass off, huh?”

  I grabbed a beer. “Yeah. Something like that.” I glanced over my shoulder. “Want one?”

  “Appreciate it.”

  I reached for another beer and turned around. He got off his bike, walked to the work bench, and leaned against it. Using the toe of his boot, he kicked black scuff marks onto the surface of the concrete floor.

  “So, what the hell’s going on?” I asked.

  He looked up.

  I handed him a beer and then took a drink of mine. “You look like someone shit in your aquarium.”

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and then gave me his typical stern glare. “We’ve got a little problem.”

  “From the look on your face, I’m going to guess it’s not little. Satan’s Savages causing problems again?”

  “Shit.” He took another drink. “I wish it was that simple.”

  “Never ran into anything yet that we couldn’t fix.”

  “I’m not saying we can’t fix it. I’m saying it’s going to be a pain in the ass. I can assure you of that.”

  “Care to elaborate?”

  He nodded his head toward the shop
door. “Notice that new paint on the front of the building?”

  “Didn’t notice it. Smelled it when I came in, though. I wondered what you fuckers have been painting.”

  “MS-13 tagged this fucking building. Cocksuckers have been going around tagging shit and claiming it. When the owners don’t give it up, they slaughter ‘em and take it. Then, they post up in it selling dope until they get run off. Their name isn’t on the lease, so they just leave and start fresh somewhere else.”

  Southern California was littered with gangs, but none were as ruthless as MS-13. Basically, the Mexican drug cartels had sent their hitmen to Southern California to sell drugs and kill anyone who opposed them, women and children included. They were fearless and lived by no moral code.

  My eyes slowly widened. “They’re heavy hitters. We sure this wasn’t just some kids dicking around?”

  “That fucking cop that told us Tank was an ATF agent? The same prick that arrested me? Well, that asshole came by here while we were getting ready to paint over the graffiti, and he told us about MS-13 tagging places from Chula Vista to LA. Said if we didn’t move out, they’d slaughter us and our families just like they have in other cities.”

  The MC had several members that talked a lot and did very little. There were also members that talked very little and were quick to volunteer to do the club’s dirty work.

  I was one of those people.

  I wasn’t about to sit back and let MS-13 – or anyone for that matter – threated the club, the men in it, or the families of the men I considered to be my brothers. “These are the same cocksuckers that kidnapped Cholo?”

  He tilted the neck of his beer bottle toward me and gave a nod. “Same bunch.”

  “We need to make a bold statement on this one, Boss.”

  He exhaled heavily. “I’m well aware.”

  “Whatever it is, I’m in.”

  “I’m not asking you to be in on this, Meat. Hell, you just got out of jail. I’m just explaining--”

  “Any time we’ve had to make a stand, I’ve volunteered,” I said boldly. “Why in the fuck would you think for one minute that I wouldn’t do so now?”

  I took offense to his statement. I’d been involved in the club’s dirty work since earning my patch ten years prior. The only to two members who had more time in the club than me were Pee Bee and Crip.

  “I didn’t say you wouldn’t. I said I didn’t expect you to.”

  “Well, prepare for a fucking surprise, then. I’m in on this deal.”

  “I’m planning on taking out however many of these pricks we can find, Meat. There’s a place over by the old ball diamond that they’re supposed to be using as a dope house. We’re going in, killing every last one of them, and beatin’ feet. I can’t have these pricks threatening my men.”

  I finished my beer and then spread my arms wide. “I’m in.”

  “Appreciate ya.”

  “How many of them?”

  “From what I hear, about ten.”

  “How many of us going?”

  “The six of us, plus whoever else will volunteer.”

  “You going to be calling a meeting about this?”

  “Was planning on having it tonight,” he said. “I was going to call that shitty little flip phone of yours and let you know.”

  “I hate thinking you were going to do this deal without me.”

  “I wasn’t,” he said. “I was going to give you a ring. No shit. You and about sixteen other motherfuckers.”

  “Like I said. I’m in.”

  “I’ll count on it, then. I’m sure we’ll have plenty of volunteers. We always do.”

  I didn’t care who else was coming in on the raid of the dope house. All that mattered was that I was there, and that I was one of the first men through the door. “You know damned good and well that this is the only family I’ve got. Can’t have people threatening my family, Crip.”

  “I’m well aware, Brother.” He slapped his hand against my shoulder. “Appreciate ya.”

  There was no doubt we’d be met with force in the raid. MS-13’s men would be up all night, high on dope. Catching them sleeping wouldn’t be an option, regardless of what time of day we chose to go.

  There was one thing I needed to get resolved before we went. I tossed my empty beer bottle in the trash and turned to face Crip. “Let me know what time the meeting is. I’ve got to get something done before we go. If I don’t answer, just tell me what time I need to be here.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Just have to finish a job I started. Just in case I don’t make it back.”

  He folded his arms over his chest and clenched his jaw tight. “We’ll make it back.”

  I’d researched MS-13’s activities for some of the books I’d written. I knew any encounter with them would be a blood bath. Keeping that bloodbath one-sided would be near impossible.

  “Appreciate the nod of reassurance. I know who the MS-13 is, brother. This isn’t going to be a fucking picnic. Let me get this thing knocked out, and a few things in order, and then I’m in.”

  “Do what you need to do.” He said with a nod. “When we go to take care of these motherfuckers, I’ll do what I need to do to make sure we all make it home.”

  If there was a man in our midst that could make that promise, Crip would be that man. A former Navy SEAL who wouldn’t hesitate to put his life on the line to save the lives of the men he loved, Crip was much more to me than a president.

  He was not only one of my best friends, he was my older brother, and my mentor.

  I slapped my hand against his back as we embraced in a hug. “Appreciate it.”

  As we broke the embrace, he looked me over. “Glad your back, Brother.”

  My focus had been elsewhere for the few weeks that I’d been out of prison. I worked best under pressure, and now that I had no alternative but to finish writing the book, I’d certainly do just that.

  Being done with it would leave me with no further obligation other than taking care of the family I’d sworn an oath to be loyal to.

  As my mind raced with the thoughts and activities of the characters in the book, I sauntered to my bike. After I lifted my leg over the seat and sat down, I reached for my helmet, and then met Crip’s gaze.

  “Filthy Fucker Forever.”

  He lifted his chin slightly. “Forever Filthy Fuckers.”

  Chapter Two Hundred Sixteen

  Bobbi

  There weren’t many patterns that Tate followed in the stories he wrote, but there were a few he seemed to follow in structure. His male characters were very family oriented. If there wasn’t blood family in the hero’s life, he always had a close bond with someone else that he considered family.

  The heroines, however, all seemed to have suffered some type of loss and were left to live with that loss. Be it a parent, a friend, or even a sibling, they all suffered significant loss. In the end, the heroines had the hero to act as their foundation for a solid future. I wondered if the heroines expressed loss was indicative of Tate’s belief that women made sacrifices in life that men didn’t.

  In real life, a woman’s sacrifice in a relationship was lifelong. In the absence of a man cheating or becoming an entirely different person, a woman rarely – if ever – divorced her spouse.

  A man, however, seemed to be willing to leave his respective other at the mere thought of something existing that might better serve his needs or desires. The woman always got the short end of the stick in real life.

  Always.

  It seemed Tate not only recognized that as being true, but expressed it in the background and backstories of his heroines.

  His heroes didn’t cheat. They were all faithful to their heroines, protective of them, and never abused them. From what had become the norm in romance writing today, it was a refreshing change to see heroes be just that, true heroes.

  I set my Kindle aside. His men – all his men – lived by a moral code that every man could benefit from adhering
to. Through their course of travels in the books, if they encountered others who seemed to have lost their moral compass, they redirected them, often using violence or the threat of such as leverage.

  The real world would be a better place if it were filled with the men of Tate’s books. I couldn’t help but wonder if the men in Tate’s life – the men he rode with – were similar to the men he wrote about. Intrigued by the thought of such men existing, I gazed at the ceiling and considered the notion.

  After a few moments, I decided it was wishful thinking. Real-life men didn’t actually possess such qualities. The books were fiction for a reason. They were nothing more than fairy tales for adults. It was nice to think about such things, but the heroes in many books were custom-tailored for the stay at home wife that had nothing better to do than read and dream.

  A dull thud of a knock my door brought me out of my subconscious slumber. I gazed across the room and grinned.

  “I’m coming.”

  I peered through the peephole. Holding a plastic bag in each hand, Andy rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet.

  Wearing a grin, I opened the door. “Good afternoon.”

  He ducked underneath my arm and headed straight for the kitchen. “It’s still morning. I wanted to get here before lunch,” he said. “To make sure you had plenty of points.”

  “I’ve only used five, so far.”

  “We’re going to use seven, and you’re going to love it.”

  I closed the door and turned toward the kitchen. “Seven, huh?”

  He nodded. “I looked it up.”

  Considering his sweet tooth, I was curious as to what he had planned. He had only good intentions, but his snack suggestions often left me telling him no due to the caloric content.

  “What are we going to have for seven points?” I asked.

  He waved his hand toward me and then brushed the bags to the side with his other arm, as if to hide them. “Go sit down. Don’t bother trying to peek in here, either. This is a surprise.”

  I gave him a look.

  “I’ll tell you when I’m done,” he said.