HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  When a 1%er dies on his bike, the same thing happens.

  It was the first time I’d been to a biker funeral. I stood at the top of the hill and stared. Twenty feet from the gravesite, I was awestruck by what I saw. Motorcycles lined every street in the cemetery. As far as I could see, chrome glistened, sprinkling the grassy hillsides with man-made stars.

  Men stood with their hands behind their backs, some dressed in kuttes, some in in leather jackets, and some wearing nothing more nothing more than a tee shirt and jeans.

  Colors from a dozen different SoCal clubs merged with the lone riders, mom and pop clubs, and riding clubs. Officers from national clubs stood amongst men they might have considered lesser beings, but on that day, everyone was equal.

  The mood was somber as the preacher gave the eulogy. Contrary to what I expected, no one from the club spoke. It might have been that they’d already grieved, or that they mourned differently than most other men.

  After the service ended, the men mingled, exchanged niceties, and gave their opinions of how Stretch was forced into the back of the semi-truck he hit by someone driving a cage.

  Tate didn’t speak much during the service or on the way to the shop. Once we got there, things changed.

  The men didn’t mingle and eat finger foods, mope around, or wear their somber faces. They threw a celebration. A party to remember the good times, the tough times, and the times they swore they’d never mention again.

  I didn’t keep to myself, nor was I overly outgoing. I spoke when I was spoken to, and tried my best to be respectful to all who were at the clubhouse. I hoped they could find a way to accept the death of their fallen brother without too much pain.

  I recalled the death of my mother, and how she passed without much warning. There are no assurances when someone dies of cancer, and my mother stood as proof. After being diagnosed with lung cancer, she was given six months to live. A week later, she wasn’t with us any longer.

  Trying to figure out such things is impossible.

  Accepting them isn’t.

  It’s difficult.

  Around midnight the men started leaving, each going their separate ways, but all carrying the same baggage.

  Tate and I rode to his house in silence. I knew there would come a time when he was back to his former self, and I further knew it would take time.

  Time was something I had a lot of.

  Now that my book was a top ten bestseller in cookbooks, I had enough money to pay the bills, and a little left over. It wasn’t ranked anything like Tate’s was, but then again, Tate was special. The amount of free time I had was what I liked.

  It allowed me to spend more time with Tate.

  That night we didn’t make love, although we had on every other night since the first. That night, I held him against my chest while we listened to Credence Clearwater Revival’s Greatest Hits, on vinyl.

  It was Stretch’s favorite, according to Tate.

  While John Fogerty sang Vietnam era protest songs, I fell asleep. When I woke, Tate Reynolds was making breakfast.

  Before I had a chance to convince myself to get out of bed, he brought yogurt parfaits to the bedroom.

  And, for the first time in my life, I ate breakfast in bed.

  There would be a lot of first times with Tate Reynolds, that much I was sure of.

  I’d take the bad ones right along with the good. Because, when you’re truly in love with someone, you’re committed.

  And, I was as in love as any woman could ever claim to be.

  Chapter Two Hundred Thirty-Nine

  Tate

  I parked my bike in the drive, walked up the walk, and knocked on the door twice. After a moment, it opened.

  “Well, hell’s bells,” Bobbi’s father said, peering over my shoulder and toward the bike. “Where’s Bobbi?”

  “She’s at home.”

  “Come in. What brings you?”

  I stepped inside. “I wanted to personally invite you to something.”

  “Want a cup of coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  He took off toward the kitchen. “I’m like you. I drink that shit all day. Always have a fresh pot going.”

  I followed him to the kitchen and sat down. He poured two cups, handed me one, and then sat down. “So, what’s going on?”

  “After we buried our buddy, most of us got to thinking about things, me included. Some of the fellas got life insurance policies, some upped their medical insurance, and some just went home and hugged their wife and kids. Our president, Crip, went to another extreme.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Oh. Yeah. It’s fine. He’s been with his Ol’ Lady for some time, and a few days after Stretch’s funeral, he decided it was time to get married.”

  He sipped his coffee. “So, they got hitched?”

  “No, Sir. He asked for her hand in marriage.”

  “They’re engaged?”

  “As of now, yes.”

  He pushed his cup to the side. “Before you go any further, I need to tell you something. If I don’t tell you now, I’ll damned sure forget it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Bobbi. I’ve never seen her happier. And, when I say never, I mean never. I don’t know what your intentions are, and I know nothings etched in stone, but I’d like to ask you if and when you let her go, let her down easy, will ya?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not going to let her go.”

  “That’s not an easy promise to make, and that’s not why I brought it up. I don’t expect an assurance, all I want is to make sure she doesn’t get hurt. She thinks the world of you, Tate. She really does. When a girl feels that way about a man, losing him is never easy. I’m asking that you make it as easy as you can.”

  I pushed my coffee cup to the side and leaned against the edge of the table. “You wear hearing aids?”

  “Not yet, why?”

  “I was going to ask you to turn ‘em up.”

  He chuckled. “Smart ass.”

  “I’m not leaving her, Mr. Madden. Not now, not ever. If we split up, it’ll be because she gets sick of me.”

  “Mr. Madden died twenty years ago. Call me James from here on out, will ya?”

  “Okay, James.”

  He reached for his coffee, took a sip, and then gave me a look of slight confusion. “Well. It sounds like you two are off on the right foot. Color me stupid, but did you stop by here to tell me your president is getting married? Is that the reason?”

  “I wanted to make sure you got an invite from me to the wedding. I want to make sure you’re there.”

  “Is it important to you that I come?”

  “Very.”

  “I’ll be there, then.”

  “Want me to tell you when it is?”

  “At some point, I suppose. When is it?”

  “Two weeks from Saturday.”

  “What time?”

  ‘Two o’clock.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “I’d sure appreciate it.”

  He finished his cup of coffee and then studied me. “You’re unique, Tate. I like that about you.”

  “Unique? How?”

  “Just from all I’ve learned about you. The TV, no sports, no internet. You’re an odd one for sure. Odd in a good way. And, I think you’re good for Bobbi. It makes me happy thinking you two might make it the distance.”

  “We’ll make it the distance.”

  He cocked his head to the side and gave me a look. “How can you be so sure?”

  “When you know, you know,” I said. “And, I know.”

  “You know what?”

  “That she’s the one.”

  “Most think they know. When I met Maddie, I knew. It wasn’t a week, or even a month. I knew on our first date. Asked her to marry me after four weeks.”

  I laughed. “Four weeks?”

  “Four.”

  “If I wrote that in a book, I’d be crucified.”

  His brow furrowed. “For what?
”

  “Insta-love.”

  “What’s insta-love?”

  “It’s when a couple falls in love instantly.”

  “It wasn’t instant. It was a month.”

  “A month’s instant in the book world,” I said.

  He grabbed the empty cup and turned toward the coffee pot. “The book world is stupid as shit.”

  I finished my cup of coffee and stood. “You’re right about that. A man ought to be able to tell the story the way it unravels, and people ought to accept it.”

  “They damned sure ought to,” he said.

  I handed him my empty cup. “But they don’t.”

  “They’re horse’s asses. Tell ‘em to write their own damned books if they don’t like yours.”

  “I wish I could,” I said. “Believe me.”

  “You leaving?”

  “I need to.”

  He shook my hand. “Nice seeing you again, Tate.”

  I tugged at the bottom of my kutte and gave a nod. “Nice seeing you, James.”

  He poured a cup of coffee and turned to the side. “Working on anything yet?”

  “Writing another right now.”

  “Write what you want,” he said. “It’ll appeal to someone. You’ll just need to find ‘em.”

  “That’s the trick. Finding them.”

  “I’m just an old man, but it sure looks to me like you’re good at finding what it is you want.”

  “I’m just stubborn. And, I’m a prick. I don’t take no for an answer.”

  He raised his cup. “See you two weeks from Saturday, you stubborn prick.”

  I grinned and gave a sharp nod. “See you then.”

  Chapter Two Hundred Forty

  Bobbi

  Nervously, I stood and the end of the row of bridesmaids and gazed the length of the red carpet that was stretched the length of Cholo’s back yard. Peyton’s dress trailed behind her as she walked in perfect time with the music. Mesmerized by her beauty, my eyes remained fixed on her until she paused a mere twenty feet from where I was standing.

  The wooden platform and Arbor Trellis that Smokey and Cholo built was breathtaking. The trellis was adorned with various species of pale pink flowers that Tate bought from his favorite florist. He felt it was the least he could do. Every breath I took filled my nostrils with a mixture or peonies, roses, and hydrangeas with an undertone of ocean breeze.

  Beneath the Arbor, Crip, Peyton, and the preacher gathered.

  “Before one of God’s greatest creations, and beneath his bluest of skies.” The preacher said with a wave of his hands. “Who gives this woman to be wed to this man?”

  Dressed in a black tuxedo and sporting a bow tie, Pee Bee looked like a movie star. He grinned a cheesy grin and squeezed Peyton’s shoulder. “I do.”

  The preacher gave a nod. Pee Bee found his place amongst the row of groomsmen. I felt like I was going to pass out. It wasn’t even my wedding, and I was a sniveling ball of emotion. I turned to face the ocean, and listened intently as the preacher spoke.

  He exchanged glances between Crip and Peyton. “Nicholas and Peyton, have you come here to enter into marriage without coercion, freely and wholeheartedly?”

  “Yes, I have,” Peyton said.

  Dressed in a black tuxedo, Crip was cleanly shaven. He looked handsome, and younger than I’d ever seen him. A handful of tattoos peeked out from underneath his collar.

  He gave a nod. “I have.”

  “Are you prepared, as you follow the path of marriage, to love and honor each other for as long as you both shall live?”

  “I am,” Peyton said.

  “Yes, Sir,” Crip said.

  “Are you prepared to accept children lovingly from God and to bring them up according to the law of Christ and His Church?”

  “I am,” Peyton said.

  Crip grinned. “Yes.”

  “Since it is your intention to enter into the covenant of holy matrimony, join your right hands, and declare your consent before God and His Church.”

  Crip and Peyton joined hands.

  Crip cleared his throat. “I, Peyton, take you, Nicholas, to be my husband. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life.”

  “I, Nicholas, take you, Peyton, to be my wife. I promise to be faithful to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love you and to honor you all the days of my life.”

  “Have you chosen rings to express your commitment in marriage to one another?”

  They each nodded.

  Smokey’s daughter Eddie handed them the rings.

  With a nod of the preacher’s head, they placed the rings on each other’s fingers.

  The preacher glanced at the audience that was gathered. Although I assumed everyone would be dressed in blue jeans, boots, and their kuttes, Crip insisted that everyone dress accordingly. He said he only planned on doing this once, and he expected everyone in attendance to be respectful of that fact.

  Beards, goatees, and ponytails were commonplace with the two hundred or so bikers that had gathered, but everyone was dressed as if attending a church service.

  “They are no longer two, but one flesh,” he said. “What God has joined, let no one put asunder.”

  He exchanged looks between Crip and Peyton. “I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

  Crip lifted her veil, and they embraced in a kiss.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Nicholas Navarro!”

  The crowd erupted in catcalls and shrill whistles. They were the first of the remaining original six to be married, and I hoped they wouldn’t be the last.

  As they walked up the red carpet toward Cholo’s house, I wiped a tear from my cheek. Two by two, the groomsmen and bridesmaids joined arms and walked behind them.

  Pee Bee and Tegan.

  Cholo and Lex.

  Smokey and Sandy.

  P-Nut and Joey.

  And, last, but by no means any least, me and Tate.

  After a series of photos, we shared a glass of celebratory champagne. A few deep sighs later, and Crip agreed that he was ready for the crowd. Wearing a proud smile and a new wedding ring, he took Peyton’s hand in his. “C’mon, Reporter.”

  Everyone shared a laugh except me.

  It must have been an inside joke.

  We mingled amongst the many members of various MC’s, all gathered to pay their respects to the new bride and groom. I met Crip’s adorable mother, and his handsome but extremely stern father.

  Cholo’s mother insisted on making tamales, and had prepared enough to feed the nation. Pee Bee’s mother couldn’t have been happier, while P-Nut’s mother nagged him and Joey to set a date. My father attended without hesitation, eager to meet the rest of the fellas and have a plate of homemade tamales.

  After Crip and Peyton cut the cake, we gathered to share in their celebration. I hadn’t been at too many weddings, actually none that I could recall, but it seemed odd that Crip demanded that we all eat cake together.

  Seated together at a long table, the twelve of us were served a plate filled with cake and ice cream. I’d already decided my diet was out the window. It allowed me to have fun without a guilty conscious during the wedding.

  I savored each bite of the buttercream frosted cake. Despite standard wedding tradition, Crip insisted that his cake not be decorated with fondant. He said it tasted like shit.

  As I spooned the last bite of my ice cream and cake into my watering mouth, I had to agree with him.

  There was no substitute for buttercream.

  I pushed my plate to the side. “That’s it, I’m done.”

  Crip nudged me with his elbow. “Good shit, huh?”

  “It was.”

  Tate finished his and then looked at me. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “It was sooo good.”

  “Seriously, I feel awful.”

  Cholo’s house backed up to its own privat
e beach. The back yard, where the wedding was taking place, wasn’t walking distance from the beach, it was the beach. Steeping out of Cholo’s yard was stepping onto the sand.

  “Are you going to barf?” I asked.

  “I think I need to go for a walk.”

  Crip pushed his chair away from the table. “Let’s all go.”

  Pee Bee pushed himself away from the table. “Let’s do it.”

  Smokey stood. “Too sweet for me. I could use a walk, too.”

  Cholo, now dressed in his tuxedo and a ball cap, stood without speaking.

  P-Nut reached for Joey’s hand and nodded toward the beach.

  Together, the twelve of us walked toward to the beach.

  “Where are you headed?” my father asked as we walked through the crowd.

  “Down to the beach,” Tate said. “We overate.”

  “Hell, if it’s alright, I’ll join you.”

  “C’mon,” Crip said with a wave of his arm and a laugh. “This ain’t a club function.”

  My father hurried to my side. We stepped over the wooden barrier that separated the lawn from the sand, and everyone paused, taking time to remove their heels and shoes. Then, barefoot, we walked toward the ocean, which was a hundred feet away.

  The warm sand between my toes reminded me of my childhood. The beach was Tate’s place to unwind, his place to think, and his place of serenity. He said he did all his best thinking at the beach, because he was closer to God when he was there.

  I, on the other hand, didn’t spend as much time there as most Southern Californian’s.

  When we reached the water, the group paused. Standing side by side, the thirteen of us faced the ocean. Tate released my hand and continued walking until he was ankle deep in the water. As the tide washed in, covering him to his knees, he turned to face me and smiled.

  “Feel better?” I asked.

  “Much better,” he said.

  I gazed beyond him, and toward the sea. The early evening sun was several hours from setting, but had already came to rest behind a patch of clouds, leaving the sky plastered with rays of sun that peeked out from behind the obstruction.