HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  I let out a sigh and walked to the living room. “Fine.”

  Facing away from the kitchen as he prepared the snack made the wait a little more interesting. The sound of silverware and pans clanking around only added to my curiosity. Soon, the faint aroma of peaches found its way into the living room. My mouth salivated at the thought of eating a peach. It seemed I’d all but forgotten they existed.

  In five minutes, he walked into the living room holding two bowls. He handed me one of them. “You can thank me later.”

  I looked at his seven-point masterpiece. Ice cream, a halved peach that had been cooked and drizzled with caramel, and a decorative spritz of whipped cream stared back at me.

  Seven points my ass.

  “This is not seven points.”

  He sat across from me and wagged his spoon toward the contents of his bowl. “A cup of Halo Top ice cream. Four points, and it’s infused with protein. Fat free Cool-Whip, 0 points per two-teaspoon serving, but they call it a point if you double that, and I did. So, one point. Two teaspoons of brown sugar, two points. Four, plus one, plus two is seven.”

  He scooped up a bite with his spoon, raised it to his mouth, and ate it. “Dear Lord. This is heavenly.”

  With slight reluctance, I took a bite, making sure to get a piece of peach, ice cream, whipped cream, and the melted brown sugar all at once.

  Upon tasting it, my eyes went wide. I hadn’t tasted anything so heavenly in years. I swallowed it, looked at the bowl, and then at him. “Holy crap.”

  He raised his spoon. “I told you.”

  “What did you do to it? It’s…” At a complete loss for words, I gazed down at the bowl of creamy caramel peach goodness. “It’s…”

  “I halved two peaches, cooked them face down in a skillet for a few minutes, and then flipped them over. Then, I added a little brown sugar. The heat rising from the skillet melts it. Add the ice cream and the whipped topping, and voila!”

  “This ice cream doesn’t taste like it’s good for you.”

  “It most certainly is.” He leaned forward. “One of the editors for GQ went on a ten-day Halo Top diet. He was in his late twenties, and he was physically fit when he started. He ate five pints of ice cream a day, and nothing else. At the end of the diet, he’d lost fifteen pounds, two percentage points of body fat, and an inch and a half off his waist. At the end of the article, he measured his chest, and he’d gained two inches of muscle mass.”

  I took another bite. It was better than the first. “Seriously?”

  “After I read the article, I decided I better try it. It’s good, isn’t it?”

  Previously, I’d starved myself from all sweets on every diet I’d been on. Eventually, my sweet tooth got the best of me. I then binged on them, always gaining three or four pounds in a matter of days. At seven points, I could eat the peach ice cream delight every day and not worry about a thing.

  “It’s better than good.” I lifted my spoon. “This will be my new nightly snack. Seven points of heaven.”

  I savored the fruity ice cream treat, becoming more skeptical of the points total for the dessert with each bite. After I’d finished, I grabbed my phone and walked into the kitchen.

  Using my Weight Watchers points app, I scanned the ice cream’s empty container. Andy was right, a cup was only four points. Then, I scanned the brown sugar. Much to my surprise, Andy was right, again. I didn’t have to look the value of the peach up; unaltered fruit was zero points.

  I decided I was wrong about the heroes in Tate’s books. If the dessert I just devoured could be as satisfying as it was, and only seven points, anything was possible.

  Anything at all.

  Chapter Two Hundred Seventeen

  Tate

  Crip had briefed the entire MC on the raid of the dope house. As we prepared to leave, the detective who had been meddling in the club’s business stuck his head in the shop’s open door and yelled for Crip to come outside.

  I turned toward Smokey. “What in the fuck is that asshole doing here at one o’clock in the fucking morning?”

  “The prick keeps showing up,” he said. “Personally, I think he’s loyal to Crip.”

  I was shocked by the statement. “Why do you say that?”

  He looked at the detective and then at me. “Fucker came by here the other day and was talking to us about MS-13 tagging places, and I noticed he had a SEAL tattoo just like Crip’s. Hell, they might have served together for all I know. Never been one to trust a cop, but it looks like he’s got our best interest at heart.”

  “Crip said it himself,” I said. “A cop’s a cop.”

  “I’m not saying I trust the prick. I’m saying I think he’s loyal to Crip.”

  “He makes me nervous.”

  He shrugged. “If it wasn’t for him, you’d still be locked up.”

  It was a good point. Still, I felt he was sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. “A cop’s a cop.”

  It appeared Crip and the detective were in an argument. Crip’s shoulders were back, his chest was jutted out, and his nose was mere inches from the detective’s. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but I didn’t need to.

  Crip was pissed.

  “Looks like he’s getting ready to smack that motherfucker,” P-Nut said.

  I started to feel nervous about everything. There was nothing good that would come from having a cop mysteriously stop by on the night we were going to raid a drug house. Just as I began to mention my concerns, Crip turned away from the detective and walked into the shop.

  Every man stared back at him with concern in their eyes.

  He raised his hands in the air. “Listen up. We’ve got a change of plans. That dope house we’re headed to has nine teenage girls being held in it. The girls from the news that were kidnapped over the last week or so. We’re going in, taking care of the men who are there, and we’re leaving. That cop standing outside is going to take care of the girls after we’re gone.”

  He scanned the group of men, folded his arms over his chest, and let out a long breath. “This wasn’t my plan, fellas. That prick showed out of the blue. I’m just as shocked as you are. I realize this might spook a few of you from wanting to be involved, but I can assure you, this isn’t a set up. That man’s a cop, but he’s not here to cause us any harm. He’s here for those girls, and that’s it.”

  “Cop’s a cop,” P-Nut said. “You said it yourself.”

  Crip looked at P-Nut. His eyes slowly thinned. “I’m not inviting the son-of-a-bitch to a kegger or the club barbeque, P-Nut. He doesn’t even know where the house is. He only knows that the men we’re after are holding those girls against their will.”

  He looked at each of the men. “I’m not going to bullshit any of you fellas. These are the same cocksuckers that kidnapped Cholo and tortured his ass damned near to death. But. These pricks are taking over our neighborhoods, claiming our turf, and turning this city into a drug-infested mess. In ten minutes, I’m heading out in that van.”

  He looked at Stretch. “You driving?”

  “Always do, don’t I?”

  Crip gave a nod. “Appreciate ya.”

  “I need five men,” Crip said. “Five who can handle themselves when they’re getting shot at. I’m not going to lie to ya, this is going to get ugly, fellas. Who’s in?”

  “I’m going,” Cholo snapped.

  “I’m in,” I said.

  A few months prior, posing as a drug dealer, Cholo made his way into a dope house that was filled with young girls that had been kidnapped by MS-13’s gang, one of which was his wife. After killing the entire group singlehandedly, he made sure the girls all made it home alive.

  In retaliation, they kidnapped him a few weeks later, and tortured him for damned near a week. After pulling his teeth with pliers and smashing his toes with a hammer, he gave them no information about the club, or about their stolen money.

  Crip, Pee Bee, and a platoon of retired Navy SEALs rescued him, killing all of the men invo
lved in the process.

  If for no other reason, I knew I’d be going to make sure the assholes involved didn’t continue to wreak their havoc on the city I called home.

  “You guarantee me this ain’t a set up,” P-Nut asked. “God damned guarantee me? Brother to brother?”

  “Without hesitation,” Crip said. “This ain’t a set up.”

  “Let’s do it,” Smokey said.

  P-Nut blew a cloud of smoke directly into Crip’s face. “I’m ready as soon as I finish this smoke.”

  Crip looked at Pee Bee. Pee Bee returned a cheesy grin. “I’m the Sergeant-at-Arms, Boss. Don’t even have to ask.”

  Crip looked at the rest of the group. “Keep van number two here and ready to roll out just in case. We might need to make a run to Tijuana if anyone needs medical attention. We’ll be back in an hour. If we’re not, lock this motherfucker up and go home, fellas.”

  The entire street was pitch black. In neighborhood’s such as this, streetlights were shot out as soon as the lamps were replaced. The night’s only illumination was provided by the half-moon that hung low in the night sky.

  Dressed in black tee shirts, and wearing black nylon masks, we looked like a set of ninja sextuplets.

  “Sound off if you’re in this, fellas,” Crip said as the van rolled to a stop.

  “Lead the way, Boss,” Pee Bee said.

  “Ready for round two,” Cholo barked.

  Smokey gave a nod. “I’m good to go.”

  P-Nut scratched his forearms feverishly. “Let’s get out of this motherfucker, I’m starting to fucking itch. I’m in.”

  “Fuck these pricks,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

  Crip reached for the door handle and then paused. He glanced at Stretch. “If you hear sirens, get the hell out of here. Pick us up at the ball diamond.”

  “Got it.” Stretch said.

  Crip turned toward the back of the van. “Just like I said at the shop. No clear target, don’t take a shot. We’ve potentially got nine teenagers in here, and I don’t want them catching a stray. I’m taking point, Cholo and Peeb are at my rear. Smoke, Nut, and Meat enter the back door upon hearing the first shot. I doubt any of these gangbangers are wearing black headgear. So, anyone not wearing a black mask? Don’t ask questions, just shoot.”

  I pulled the slide back on my pistol, verified it was loaded, and then gave a nod. “Let’s roll.”

  The six of us nonchalantly walked through the yard of a home that was for sale, and into the back yard of the dope house. Smokey, P-Nut, and I turned toward the back door and Crip, Cholo, and Pee Bee crept around the side of the house.

  “You kick it,” I whispered to P-Nut. “I’ll go in first.”

  The sound of the front door being kicked in was followed by two gunshots. I gripped my pistol firmly, and inhaled a deep breath. The thought of dying danced around in my head, but P-Nut kicking the door off the hinges changed my focus.

  I burst through the door and into the edge of the kitchen. Two men, both wearing Chino’s and wife beaters, stood side by side. One was pointing a rifle toward the front door, right at Pee Bee.

  As his eyes shot toward us, I fired a shot, and then another, striking him twice in the chest. His rifle discharged as he stumbled against the countertop. The sound of his weapon firing was deafening, and muffled the sound of the silenced gunshots that followed.

  The second man was struck multiple times. His dingy shirt glistened with blood as he fell to the floor.

  Nervously, I kicked the rifle away from the dead man at my feet, and then looked around. The filthy shack had virtually no interior walls, and consisted of a kitchen on my left, a living room in front of me, and a hallway that led to the bedrooms on my right. With the exception of the inside of the bedrooms, everything was within view.

  There were two dead men in the kitchen, and two in the living room.

  “Bedroom’s clear,” I heard Crip shout.

  “Check the garage,” I said over my shoulder.

  Cautiously, I walked through the living room and toward the hallway. With Crip still in the bedroom on my right, I rushed toward the door on the left. Cholo looked at me and then slowly opened it.

  The smell almost knocked me to my knees. Sixteen concerned eyes from eight filthy half-dressed teens stared back at us. My stomach churned as my blood pressure rose. Cholo lowered himself to one knee, and pulled off his mask.

  “The police will be here in a minute to give you girls a ride home,” he said. “No one here is going to hurt you.”

  A few of the girls nodded. I wanted to say something meaningful, but couldn’t seem to get a sound past my tightened throat.

  “How many you got?” I heard Pee Bee ask.

  I realized I was sitting on the floor in front of the doorway, simply staring into the room. I didn’t have any idea at what point I sat down, or why.

  “Eight,” Cholo said. “We’ve got eight.”

  Pee Bee turned away, and quickly returned with another girl. One of the fella’s black tee shirts hung from her like a black bedsheet. With matted blonde hair and bare feet, she walked at his side, holding his hand loosely in hers. She couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven years old.

  At six-foot-eight, Pee Bee looked like a gentle giant at her side.

  A gentle giant that I now saw was covered in blood.

  “Just stand in there for a few minutes,” Pee Bee said as he released her hand. “Help will be here in just a couple minutes.”

  She glanced over her shoulder and responded faintly. “Okay.”

  Pee Bee reached for the door handle. “I’m going to close this. Don’t come out until someone identifies themselves as a police officer, okay?”

  “Okay,” the girl in the black tee shirt repeated. “Thank you.”

  Hearing those words proved to be all I could take. My throat went dry and every muscle tensed. On the verge of what I expected was a nervous breakdown, I peered into the filthy room and filled with sorrow over what the girls had undoubtedly gone through.

  Someone pulled the door closed. Once painted white, it was now dingy and discolored. The greasy fingerprints and stains gave hint to the vile scum that had touched it from the outside. I gazed blankly at it, and imagined the other side being spotless and shiny.

  I felt a hand on my arm. Someone pulled me to my feet. Our raid and half-assed rescue wasn’t like the scenes I’d written about. The intensity and emotion were unexplainable. The smell of week-old piss, stolen innocence, and unimaginable fear hung in the air, all but choking me from taking each breath.

  I turned toward the kitchen.

  Covered in blood, and not wearing a shirt, Crip stood over a man in the hallway with his pistol pointed down at his torso.

  The barrel of the pistol jumped repeatedly. The thwack, thwack, thwack from the silencer preceded the smell of cordite that filled the hallway.

  The sweat-stained shirt of the man on the floor transformed to crimson.

  “Come on, Boss,” Pee Bee said. “I told ‘em help is on the way. We need to roll.”

  “You guys go ahead. I’m not leaving these girls alone until I know they’re safe,” Crip growled. “Pick me up at the ball diamond. As soon as that cop pulls up, I’ll slip out the back.”

  “You’re covered in blood, and you gave up your shirt, Boss. You’ll get picked up by the cops for sure,” Pee Bee said.

  “Not leaving the girls, Peeb.” Crip glanced at each of us. Blood ran along his arm and dripped from the tips of the fingers on his left hand. “Get gone.”

  We all stood and stared.

  Crip pulled up his mask. His face was peppered with gray and black whiskers, and his eyes were filled with concern. “I’m not asking, I’m telling,” he said. “Now, beat feet.”

  Pee Bee pulled off his shirt and handed it to Crip.

  Pee Bee’s shoulder was covered in blood. Crip nodded toward it. “You get hit?”

  “Just once.”

  “You alright?”

 
; Pee Bee motioned toward the door at the end of the hallway. “Better off than those kids in that room.”

  “I appreciate each one of you fellas,” Crip said with a nod. “Now get gone. I’ll see you at the ball diamond.”

  The entire event hadn’t lasted five minutes. It wasn’t like kicking the shit out of someone in a barfight, recovering a stolen bike from a rival club, or settling a dispute at a weekend rally.

  It was different.

  So much so that I wondered if I’d ever be the same.

  Chapter Two Hundred Eighteen

  Bobbi

  After receiving an email from Amazon that book number six in the biker series had been released, I eagerly clicked the link. Frustrated to find that the book had been out for almost a week, I eagerly downloaded it and took my Kindle to work. My day was then spent anxiously waiting for my lunch break to arrive. Now that it was finally time, I sat in the observation station with an apple in one hand and my Kindle in the other.

  “Must be a great book if you can’t wait until you get home to read it,” Perry said. “Never had one that I was that worried about reading.”

  I seriously doubted he’d ever read a book. I glanced up, gave him a quick glare, and then went back to reading. Two chapters in, and it was so gripping that I couldn’t put it down. It followed the life of an ancillary character from book four. He was proving to be more interesting than any of the previous characters from the series.

  His name was Becker Wallace, and he went by the road name Cricket. It’s been said that crickets are a sign of good luck, and Cricket was the club’s good luck charm.

  He’d been riding with the MC for sixteen years, and was only 34 years old. Set in his old-school ways, he was a man well beyond his years in persona, actions, and state of mind.

  He wore short unkempt hair, a full beard, and smoked a pipe – which he carried in his front pocket. Despite living in southern California, he always wore a flannel shirt. He didn’t have a television, carried a flip phone, and didn’t use the internet. He didn’t send text messages or have Facebook, and believed social media was the beginning of the downfall of the entire nation. If you wanted Cricket, you had to call him or somehow find him. If you weren’t one of his MC brethren, you couldn’t call him, because he wouldn’t give out his phone number to anyone. He only had it because the club demanded it in their bylaws.