HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  When word came that Becker was getting a new trial, she couldn’t tell him. His condition worsened to a point that removing him from his cell was impractical. What little treatment they felt was still needed was done in the confines of his cell.

  So far, I was fifteen chapters into the book, and there was no sex, but I didn’t care. A gratuitous sex scene would have done nothing but cheapen the story. As it was written, I simply loved it. The characters were true to themselves, to each other, and to the story.

  Allison now sat and nervously waited for the jury to return from deliberation. The new trial, conducted in Becker’s absence, had gone well, or so she’d hoped.

  Emotionally exhausted, I rolled to my side and removed a face wipe from the package on my night stand. After cleaning my smeared makeup, I tossed the wipe in the waste basket and inhaled a deep breath. The last chapter ended with her saying a prayer. I hoped for the best, feared the worst, and flipped the page to the next chapter.

  She prayed not for Becker’s freedom, but for justice. As the jury entered the room, she looked up, hoping to see a hint in their eyes of the verdict they would soon reveal. With their heads hanging low as they sauntered into the courtroom one by one, the jurors gave little indication as to the decision that had been made.

  Allison feared another conviction was imminent.

  The bailiff, a dedicated man who had served seventeen years under the honorable judge, cleared his throat.

  “All rise!” he bellowed.

  The courtroom fell silent.

  She clenched her shaking hands into fists, stood, and then pressed them against her thighs.

  The judge walked to his seat, unfolded his glasses, and then sat. As he draped the wire temples over his ears, the bailiff once again cleared his throat.

  “You may be seated.”

  The judge pushed the glasses halfway up the bridge of his nose. After situating the paperwork in front of him, he looked up.

  He’d taken an oath to remain impartial. This particular case, however, troubled him from the beginning. The jury’s outcome in the first trial left him biased toward the very system that he swore to uphold.

  He was knowledgeable of the jeweler’s claimed craft, having seen one of his remarkable rings on the wedding finger of a friend’s wife preceding the first trial. His knowledge, however, was never entered into the court’s record, nor would it be allowed.

  There were facets of the law that had always concerned him. Correcting these deficiencies was the responsibility of the appellate court, which he openly hoped to serve upon one day. For the time being, he presided over the lower court a proud man. He believed, in summation, that the problems inherent to the legal system were minimal, and would one day be resolved.

  During the original trial, he sat silently as the prosecution presented their case, and as the defense defended to the best of their ability. The guilty verdict sickened him to the point that he wept the night of the conviction. The law, however, had no provisions for him to second guess the jury.

  The judge said a silent prayer and then gazed toward the jurors. “In the matter of the United States versus Becker Wallace, have you reached a verdict?

  The foreperson stood. “Yes, your honor, we have.”

  “How do you find the defendant?”

  The foreperson unfolded a sheet of paper, studied it, and then met the judge’s gaze. “In the matter of the United States of America versus Becker Wallace, we, the jury, find the defendant not guilty of murder.”

  Allison’s knees went weak.

  The judge removed his glasses and wiped his eyes. He thanked God for the justice he believed had been served. As a matter of record, and of respect, he promptly polled the jurors, asking each of them if the verdict read was the verdict they’d reached. After they all agreed, he thanked them for their service, and released them.

  All but tripping over her feet, Allison shuffled along the aisle, down the steps, and to the attorney’s side. “Is that it?”

  The attorney smiled. “That’s it.”

  “When can he be released?” she asked excitedly. “I need to get him transferred to a better hospital.”

  “As soon as the paperwork’s processed.”

  “How long does it take?”

  “A few minutes,” the attorney responded. “He’ll be released this afternoon.”

  She wiped the tears from her cheeks and somehow managed to swallow the lump that had risen high in her throat. “God bless you.”

  She lifted each foot, removed her high heeled shoes, and placed them in her purse. She then walked nonchalantly toward the door in her stockinged feet. After stepping into the hallway, she glanced over each shoulder and then rushed to the staircase at the far end of the hallway.

  Breathlessly, she leaped down the steps, taking two with each long stride. Upon traveling the three flights and reaching the ground floor, she burst through the door and stepped onto the sidewalk.

  She pressed the button on her key fob and sprinted toward her car. Out of breath, and filled with hope, she yanked open the door and jumped inside. She struggled to fit her key in the ignition, eventually dropping it onto the floor. After fumbling to find it for some time, she paused, tilted her head toward the sky, and said a prayer.

  “Please. Let me provide this man with the gift of life. It’s all I ask of you, Lord. Becker Wallace may not be perfect, but only one man was, and he was crucified for it. Let me get to him in time, Lord. I humbly ask this of you, and nothing more.”

  She reached between her knees and toward the floor. Without searching, her hand landed on the ring of keys. She lifted them to the ignition, and with a shaking hand, pressed the key into the slot and started the car.

  “Thank you.”

  A scene break gave me reason to pause. I set my Kindle aside and rubbed my eyes. I’d ridden with the characters of the six-book series in the Southern California sun. I’d cried tears with them. I’d stood by their side at funerals, and when the ultrasound revealed the sex of their children.

  The men were real. Their Ol’ Ladies were my besties. I now understood the brotherhood. I respected their codes, bylaws, and feeling of necessity to commit crimes in an effort to protect the innocent from peril.

  Becker Wallace was the best character ever written. My heart was in my throat over what might lie in the pages ahead. I felt sorry for him, because he had no other choice than to suffer his fate without the support of the men he’d grown to love.

  He had no one on his visitation list. As much as the club’s men wanted to see him, they couldn’t. In Becker’s opinion, to allow them to visit would be selfish. It would place each of them under the scrutiny of the board of prisons, and quite possibly earn them a cell right next to his.

  He loved them too much to take the chance.

  To think that Becker and Crip would never see one another again knotted my stomach into a wad. I hated Crip at first. I’d mistakenly perceived his love and loyalty to the men of the club as annoyance and arrogance. I now saw him as a man of honor, and I respected him.

  Allison had to get to Becker in time. She just had to.

  I inhaled a deep breath and prayed that she made it before it was too late.

  Becker Wallace awoke. Weakened from the cancer and groggy from the medication, he looked at the man who stood over him and blinked. For an instant, he believed the man was the prison’s warden.

  “Mr. Wallace, I’m Mr. Price, the Warden. The men behind me are going to move you to a stretcher. They’ll be taking you out of here.”

  Becker fought against his pain. He gripped the empty bunk above and pulled himself to his feet. Assuming his cell was being inspected under the prison’s lottery system for shake-downs, he stood before the warden on quivering legs.

  He stood not out of a feeling of necessity, but out of respect. The warden was the highest-ranking officer of the prison, and as much as Becker detested the legal system, he’d been taught to respect authority.

  “Have a s
eat, son,” the warden said. “These men are taking you to the infirmary. You’re being transported out of here. You’re leaving.”

  Becker feared he didn’t have the energy to be moved to another prison. The thought of never seeing Allison again came to mind. He rejected the thought, and his eyes thinned in opposition. “I don’t want to leave. I want to stay here.”

  “I’m sorry, son. You can’t stay. You’ve been exonerated.”

  “Of what?” Becker asked.

  “Of your crimes. You’re a free man, Mr. Wallace. These men are taking you to a plane. You’re going to Houston. The MD Anderson Cancer Treatment Center, I believe.”

  Becker’s mind attempted to process what he’d heard. He glanced at the two men standing outside his cell. One stood on each side of a stretcher.

  “Exonerated?” he asked. “How?”

  “You were granted a new trial. New information was presented, and there were new witnesses. You were found not guilty.”

  Becker felt faint. “But. I didn’t. When?” he stammered.

  “You’ve received mail about the trial’s date, but you’ve been too weak to read it,” the warden explained. “For medical reasons, the board elected not to have you attend. The verdict was read this morning.”

  Becker steadied himself against the steel bedframe, looked at the stretcher, and then at the warden. “I’m free?”

  “You are.”

  If Becker was truly a free man, there was something he needed. Something he’d been deprived of for longer than he could recall. “I want to talk to Officer Anderson. Allison Anderson.”

  “I’m sorry,” the warden said. “She resigned. She no longer works here.”

  Becker’s heart plummeted. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, swallowed heavily, and released the upper bunk from his grasp. He collapsed onto the rubber mattress on the bunk below.

  Lacking energy to oppose, and feeling that very little now mattered, Becker lay motionless as the attendants lifted him and strapped him to the gurney.

  Swiftly, they pushed him through the cellblock and to the elevator’s doors. In and out of consciousness, he caught glimpses of lights and faces, but nothing he saw gave him reason to change his state of mind.

  Becker had given up. Freedom, without the one woman he’d grown to love, meant nothing to him.

  The elevator doors opened. The men hurried toward the double doors at the end of the corridor. The prison’s final guard, standing post at the doors that separated Becker Wallace from freedom, pressed the button on the wall and opened the electric doors.

  Becker’s eyes fluttered open at the feeling of the warm humid air as it rushed past him.

  Fifty yards ahead, a fueled airplane waited, running.

  Becker closed his eyes.

  “Mr. Wallace. We’re going to push you up the ramp.”

  Becker opened his eyes.

  At the top of the ramp, a woman stood. With her blonde hair pulled into a bun, she raised a shaking hand and waved.

  Becker, weakened from the night’s happenings, managed to do nothing but blink in disbelief. After convincing himself his eyes weren’t deceiving him, he parted his dry lips. “Allis…Allison?”

  Overcome by emotion and incapable of speaking, she simply nodded. Her dream, at least in part, had come true.

  “How?” His thought swirled in his head. “What…what happened?”

  She smiled at the thought of it all. “I cashed in my retirement account. I hired an attorney, and I’ve got doctors waiting in the best cancer center in the United States,” she blurted. “It’s in Houston. They’re expecting you.”

  The attendants pushed him up the ramp. As he rolled past her, he raised his hand. She reached for it, folding her fingers gently over his.

  Although they had touched each other’s hearts, this was the first time they had touched one another physically.

  “They say they can help you,” she said.

  He swallowed heavily, feeling ill from the morphine that had been administered while he waited outside his cell. The best he was able, he gripped her hand in his and said the only thing that came to mind.

  “I think it may be too late.”

  With those words, Becker Wallace’s eyes fell closed.

  I threw my Kindle across the bed.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I shouted.

  I couldn’t take it any longer. If Becker died, I’d hunt Tate down and choke him until he passed out.

  A story of a prison guard and an inmate falling in love simply felt too real. Too close to home. Too relatable. I wondered if Becker was going to die, and if his death was a message for me to forget I ever met Tate. The prison guard and the inmate in the book parting to suggest the parting of the inmate and guard in real life.

  If that’s what he wanted, he should have said something. He shouldn’t kill Becker to make a point.

  I had fifteen chapters to go, and decided he wouldn’t spend fifteen chapters killing the hero. Becker had to live. He simply had to.

  I looked at my watch. It was well past midnight. I needed three hours to finish the book. If I didn’t spend all my reading time in tears, that should be enough.

  I flipped through the chapters, taking the book in one paragraph at a time. The three hours passed as quickly as the chapters, and before I knew what happened, I had finished it.

  Amazon’s prompt to review the book came up.

  In tears, and suffering from a book coma, I typed my first book review. Convinced the book was the best book I’d ever read, I gave praise where praise was due. The book was a masterpiece, and nothing less.

  After posting my review, I read some of the others, making note that all 421 reviews were five-stars.

  I scrolled to the bottom of the page.

  The book’s ranking was number one. At first, I was elated that Tate had written a best seller in Romance, and then it dawned on me that the ranking wasn’t in a genre, it was out of all books – millions of books – that were available to purchase.

  I refreshed my Kindle, and looked again.

  Number one.

  Holy crap.

  Proud to have met the man who wrote the number one book out of all books in existence, I relished in the recollection of the discussions Tate and I had over the months that he was incarcerated.

  While I wallowed in memories, I realized in my rush to read the book that I had failed to read the dedication. Tate’s dedications were almost as good as his books.

  Using the index, I zoomed to the dedication.

  Madden, I don’t know how I could have done it without you. With a swollen heart and tear-filled eyes, I hereby dedicate this book to you. Thank you for everything. Wish I could have seen you before I left. If you’d like to grab a cup of coffee or go for a ride, I’d be honored.

  If so, multiply the number of my residence times 184,318,033. Then, round up. Call or text me at the number you obtain.

  If not, I understand.

  Holding my breath in anticipation,

  TD Reynolds.

  I coughed out a ball of emotion and then reread the dedication.

  Number of my residence?

  His cell number was twenty-four. I did the math on my Kindle, and the result was an Oceanside, CA telephone number.

  I called it. Without ringing, it went to voicemail.

  This is Tate. Leave a message.

  Hearing his voice caused me to blubber another emotion-filled wad from my throat. After regaining my composure, I left a message.

  “Tate, this is Bobbi. Bobbi Madden. You can call me at 213 383 9199. I want the coffee and the ride. Yeah, I’m selfish like that.”

  I no more than finished, and his phone beeped, indicating the message had been accepted. Convinced he was riding down the coast, I hung up and tossed my phone to the side.

  My mouth curled into a smile.

  If I was lucky, I’d get two hours sleep. I didn’t care. At least Tate wasn’t going to see me when I went to work.

 
Chapter Two Hundred Twenty-One

  Tate

  If a man had spent so much as one day in prison, he lived every moment of freedom that followed with the lingering fear that one day he’d return. Everyone I knew that had done time, me included, felt that way.

  The thought of going back to prison haunted me for five years. Then, my fear became reality when I was arrested for the firearms charge. Being released after the charges were dropped was truly a miracle. Volunteering to go back to prison weeks later would seem ridiculous to most.

  It seemed ridiculous to me, too. Yet. There I was, gazing through the thick glass of my cell door’s window, wondering which cell Gravy was in.

  The sound of jingling keys gave warning of a guard walking his post. As Officer Turner marched past, I pounded my clenched fist against the door twice. “Turner!”

  He paused, turned around, and then peered through the window. “Hell, I almost didn’t recognize you. Didn’t stay gone long, did ya?”

  “Missed the scenery,” I said. “And the oatmeal.”

  “Bullshit.” He stepped away from the window. “What do you need?”

  “Can I get a couple pencils? Tooth brush? Tooth paste? Soap. And some paper?”

  He folded his arms over his chest and looked me over. “You didn’t get that shit in admissions?”

  I shook my head. “Wouldn’t be asking if I had.”

  Truth be told, I’d received all the items. But if they searched my cell, and I was sure they eventually would, I wanted them to find everything they’d given me. What he was going to bring me would be used, and later entered into the prison’s evidence room.

  If the issued toiletry items were missing from my cell, I’d be a suspect. If they were accounted for, I wouldn’t.

  “Who’d you see in admissions?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “All you guys look alike.”

  “Lazy bastards. Half the time they forget to give new admissions their fucking pillows.”