HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  I preferred when her hair was pulled away from her face. When she wore it in an updo or a bun, it revealed all the features of her beautiful face. Seeing it in a ponytail was a nice change. After a few seconds of admiration, I decided her choice of attire was adorable. So much so that denying my attraction to her was difficult.

  I’d spent the last twenty-two days doing my best to hide my sexual attraction to her, but continuing to do so was becoming more difficult. I found her attractive on the day I met her. Now seeing her as sexually attractive simply complicated matters when it came to concealing them completely.

  I was a master at interrogation, most of which required me to remain stoic. I clenched my jaw and pursed my lips as I admired her, all the while hoping she didn’t notice the excitement brewing between my legs.

  “I do,” I said dryly.

  “The lawn?”

  I crossed my legs. “Same.”

  “Shrubs? Landscaping?”

  My gaze fell to her bare legs. Her ponytail enticed me. Her legs all but pushed me over the brink. I uncrossed my legs, and then immediately crossed them again. “All me.”

  “The pool?”

  My eyes shot to her full lips. “Clean it, too.”

  “Wow.” She reached for her ponytail again. “When do you do it?”

  I had to look away. “Mornings. It’s too tough to get it done in the evenings. I like using them to relax when I can.”

  “When I wasn’t around, what did you do to relax?”

  I stared at the wall. “I’ve got a few things to do that I find relaxing.”

  “Like what?”

  I looked for imperfections in the paint as I waited for the swelling between my legs to subside. “Different things.”

  “You don’t want to tell me?”

  After finding three places that could use touched up, my level of arousal was manageable. I turned toward her, smiled, and stood. “Follow me?”

  She stood and then tugged against the hem of her shorts. “Sure.”

  I led her to the garage. Standing together in the doorway, I flipped on the light. Inside, my ten-year-old car, my fifteen-year-old truck, and my Harley sat.

  She peered over my shoulder. “Oh wow. You ride a motorcycle?”

  “Every chance I get.”

  “My dad always wanted to have one. Every year, he’d say this is the year, Theresa. But, he never got one.” She stared at it with wide eyes. “What is it?”

  “Harley Heritage Softail.”

  “He wanted a Harley, too. So, that’s what you do for fun?”

  “That and the car. Depends on my mood.”

  She lifted her chin. “What’s the car?”

  “BMW M5. The last real one. I only drive it about 500 miles a year. It’s naturally aspirated.”

  She looked at me. “I don’t know what that means.”

  “The new ones are turbocharged. Naturally aspirated means that it has no external engine enhancements feeding it air. No turbocharger or supercharger. Just a V-10 engine.”

  She shot me a confused look. “Is that good?”

  “Five hundred horsepower. It’ll go 200 miles an hour.”

  “Holy crap. Yeah, I’d say that’s good enough.”

  “It relieves tension.” I motioned toward the Harley. “So does the Harley. The truck is just a truck.”

  “One of these days, can we go out on the bike?”

  I had an unwritten rule that I never allowed women on my motorcycle unless they were my significant other. A quick glance revealed her eyes were filled with hope and the corners of her mouth were fighting not to curl into a grin.

  “Let’s go now,” I said. “I could use a little stress relief.”

  Her eyes shot wide. “Really?”

  I looked her over, then reached for the button to open the garage door. She may not have officially been my significant other, but describing her as insignificant would be a complete lie.

  The thirty days weren’t up, but I knew that much for sure.

  I pressed the button to open the garage door. “Yeah,” I said with a smile. “Really.”

  Chapter Two Hundred Fifty-Nine

  Taryn – Day twenty-three

  After figuring out that I could hear the doorbell from the back deck, I decided to relax beside the pool. Dressed in my favorite bikini, I enjoyed the warmth of the mid-afternoon sun on my bare skin. Initially, I struggled with the decision to lay in a lounge chair half-naked, but after an hour of seeing no one pass by on the beach below, decided to give it a try.

  My mind drifted to thoughts of Marc, and how my perception of him changed in the three and a half weeks that we’d been seeing each other. My first impression of him was one that simply made mental note of the obvious: his masculinity, handsome looks, and athletic build.

  I found it reassuring that those things seemed to become secondary in the passing weeks. When I looked at him now, I couldn’t help but notice that he was attractive, but it seemed I was somehow able to see right through it. I certainly didn’t become as fixed on it as I did when we first met.

  I no longer just looked at him with sensual eyes, mentally undressing him each time we met. My new perception of him was that he strived to help others, protect people from harm, and was willing to forfeit his life while performing his selfless acts. He was humble and kind, but it wasn’t easy to see. It required being exposed to him on a daily basis, and I felt fortunate that I was able to see those traits in him.

  As the sun baked my skin, I dreamt of being in an unrestricted relationship with Marc. Of spending Sundays at the pool, riding on his motorcycle, and driving his car down the winding roads alongside the vineyards in the northern part of the state.

  Walks along the beach. Staying up late listening to how he solved a crime, saved someone who’d been taken hostage, or found a way to use his knowledge of human nature to put away his gun and negotiate with a manically depressed person who planned on dying at the hands of another death by cop suicide.

  I had eight days to go, and I couldn’t imagine he’d reach the end and decide we weren’t a fit for each other. As my impressions of him had changed, I hoped his perception of me broadened as well.

  My views on him – and on relationships – certainly had, and I hoped he could see it. If he could, I further hoped that he liked what he saw. If for some reason he didn’t, I was convinced I wanted to live the rest of my life with my newfound views nonetheless. In my future, if Marc decided we were not a good fit for one another, I would view our time together and valuable, and proceed with caution when it came to meeting a new mate.

  That person not being Marc made me feel uneasy, though. I’d become rather fond of the memories we were making, and how I felt when we were able to spend time alone together. My days before Marc were rushed and unpredictable in many respects.

  It seemed I went wherever the action was, following the girls from work, hitting the happy hour specials, and rushing from home to work with little – if any – plan on what my future life would be if the pattern continued.

  Now, my alone time was spent dreaming. Not only of a potential life with Marc, but of living a life of enjoying instead of simply existing.

  Driving along the coast instead of sitting in the bar. Going to the flea market instead of hitting happy hour. Learning to surf instead of hooking up with yet another man who wanted nothing more than to add another notch on his bedpost.

  Of finding a way to accept everything in my past as being exactly what it was.

  One of life’s lessons.

  While I faded in and out of a light sleep, the sound of the door’s buzzer caused me to spring from the lounge.

  Shit!

  I wrapped myself in a towel and rushed to the front door, repeatedly screaming I’m coming the entire way.

  I yanked the door open.

  A short muscular man dressed in shorts and a brown shirt wiped the sweat from his brow. “Delivery for March Watson. I need a signature.”

  “Marc?�
�

  He looked at his hand-held scanner. “March.”

  “Like February, March, April?”

  He looked at the pad and then nodded. “March Watson.” He leaned back and looked at the number on the side of the house. “901 N. Pacific. March Watson.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I thought you said Marsh,” I lied. “March. March Watson. Where do I sign?”

  He leaned to the side and scanned a large box, and then handed me the scanner. “Sign anywhere on the screen.”

  I signed my name and smiled. “Thank you.”

  He motioned toward the box. “It’s big, but it doesn’t weigh much.”

  I looked at the it, and then at him. “Have a nice day.”

  He ran to his truck, backed out of the drive, and shot down the street.

  I reached for the 2’x2’ box. Surprisingly, it weighed no more than I expected the cardboard would. I looked at the shipping label.

  March Watson, 901 N. Pacific, Oceanside, CA 92054

  I wondered if it was a misspelling, or if his name was truly March. I carried the box into the kitchen, wiped it down with a rag, and placed it on top of the island. After a moment, I decided having it on the island would probably bother him, so I moved it to the floor.

  I considered putting it in the garage, and then recalled how he told me to wipe it off before setting it down anywhere, which led me to believe it should be inside. I decided the kitchen probably wasn’t where he wanted me to keep it, and began to look around for a new spot.

  I carried it to the front room, placed it beside the door, and then looked at it.

  Curiosity soon got the best of me. I lifted the box and shook it.

  There was no rattle, no odd noise, and no indication that anything was inside. I couldn’t help but wonder why it was so big, especially if there was nothing in it.

  I studied the label. The return address was nothing but an address in San Diego.

  I wondered if it was crucial evidence on an important case. If I was unknowingly playing a part in the critical path of the chain of evidence, and my signature would be time stamped into the court documents.

  A bullet that tore through the flesh of a victim, traced by ballistics to a rifle purchased by a war-torn Marine who decided to go on a killing spree to relieve his mind of the ghosts that haunted him.

  Packed in bubble wrap to protect it from damage, it would be used to tie him to the killing and lock him away in a psychological evaluation center for the rest of his life.

  Or.

  A pocket knife with a single bloody thumbprint on the handle. The FBI database promptly linked it to Nate John Patrick Wadsworth, a child pornography kingpin who, as with all child molesters, had two middle names and a penchant for kidnapping unwary children and making films of them dancing in their underwear.

  My mind reeled at the possibilities.

  I picked it up and shook it again.

  Nothing.

  If it were wrapped in bubble wrap, it could be anything.

  A tooth. A single tooth left behind by mistake after stripping the teeth from a victim that was burned in an incinerator and sprinkled into the Pacific Ocean.

  NCIC’s DNA database would link the tooth to none other than Guido Marchello, a mob hit-man who was on the lamb, hiding in San Diego from the infamous New York Gambino mob boss after giving testimony regarding the mob’s money laundering routines.

  While I considered shaking the box one last time, the sight of an approaching car caused me to shift my attention to the driveway.

  The garage door opened.

  Marc’s car pulled inside.

  I ran across the living room, through the glass doors, and tossed my towel onto the deck. After all but diving onto the lounge chair, I did my best to look relaxed.

  In a few minutes, the doors slid open. “I see the package made it.”

  I faked a yawn, and turned to face him. “Oh. Yeah.”

  “I appreciate you hanging out and receiving it for me.”

  “No problem.” I tilted my head to the side. “Is your name March?”

  He smiled. “It is.”

  “I like that.”

  “I don’t care for it as much as my parents do. I’ve always shortened it.”

  I sat up and stretched my arms over my head. “I won’t call you it, then. Just in my head.”

  “Good day for this.”

  “For what?”

  He brushed his hand over his short hair, and then scanned the horizon. “Relaxing in the sun. I’ll get the box put up and join you in a minute.”

  “I didn’t know where to put it, so I just put it by the door.”

  He turned toward the door. “I’m going to lock it in the safe.”

  My eyes went wide. “You’ve got a safe?”

  “I sure do.” He glanced over his shoulder. “A big one.”

  As much as I wanted to view at him as humble, kind, and helpful, he suddenly became sexy again.

  “I’ll just wait for you right here, detective.”

  He gave me a look, shook his head, and sighed. “I’ll be right back.”

  When the doors opened. I nonchalantly turned toward the sound.

  Dressed in board shorts, and flip-flops, March Watson stepped through the doors and onto the deck. I mentally gawked at the sight of him. It was the first time I’d seen him without a shirt, and I hoped it wouldn’t be the last.

  His chiseled physique defined athletic perfection.

  Instead of staring, making a comment, or allowing me to torture myself with sexual thoughts, I simply rolled to my side and stared out at the beach.

  It wasn’t easy. In fact, it was hard as hell. But, it was necessary. If I continued to look at him, I’d make a complete fool of myself. Drooling wasn’t becoming, even for me.

  My nostrils flared as a faint hint of his cologne wafted in front of me.

  “Thanks for trusting me with the box,” I said over my shoulder.

  “Thanks for giving me reason to.”

  Convinced I was right where I belonged, I closed my eyes and inhaled a slow breath.

  Please, Lord, don’t let this ever end.

  Chapter Two Hundred Sixty

  Marc – Day twenty-three

  As I approached the building, I saw the president of the Filthy Fuckers MC standing outside the clubhouse with his 6’-8” Sergeant-at-Arms at his side. On the other side of the door, one of the club’s newer members stood with a long-time member who I suspected had kidnapped an ATF agent that had infiltrated the club.

  The agent was a shit-hat who had set up one of their members for a crime that he didn’t commit, and was later released by his captor. Although he never admitted to being captured, tortured, or mistreated, I believed otherwise. In support of my theory, the charges against the member of the club were later dropped by the ATF.

  As much as I wanted the label the club a group of misfits and miscreants, they were far from it. The president, Nick Navarro, aka Crip, was in his early forties, and a former Navy SEAL. The Sergeant-at-Arms, Bradley Carson, aka Pee Bee, was a former college football star, and the other two men accompanying them were a construction company owner, and a baseball card collector.

  Navarro ran a tight ship, no differently than if he were still in the military. His men obeyed his orders, like it or not. If they didn’t, they had to deal with his wrath. One thing that I admired about all the men was that they did not mistreat women. Their Ol’ Ladies were placed on pedestals, and there they remained. Off-limits, and out of reach of anyone who meant them harm.

  As a whole – or individually – the club’s men caused no harm to society. Unlike many outlaw motorcycle clubs, they didn’t sell drugs or commit crimes, nor did they fuck with anyone who wasn’t fucking with them.

  They were, however, very protective of the portion of Southern California they liked to call their turf. That protective nature was exactly why I chose to deface their building. They seemed to have a way of collecting information on the street that I was
simply unable to find out.

  I pulled into the lot behind them and honked my horn. The baseball card collector, a skittish man who hated authority, jumped three feet in the air and spun around.

  “It’s a fucking cop,” he said through his teeth.

  I leaned out the window and looked at Navarro. “Hell, I had no idea you fellas were moving out of town. What? Did you decide to sell this shit-hole to MS-13? I see they tagged it as theirs.”

  He turned to face me and crossed his arms over his chest. “I was just telling Pee Bee I thought I smelled bacon frying. Shit, I no more than turned around, and here sits a pig, frying in the SoCal sun. You lost, detective?”

  “Not lost. Just investigating MS-13’s claim of territory. It’s become a pretty big deal.” I opened the car door and stepped out. “Looks like they’ve claimed yours.”

  He glanced at the graffiti and then looked at me. “Probably a bunch of kids.”

  I shook my head. “You and I both know better. Anyone painting that on this building better be one of their solid members, or there’ll be hell to pay. Shit, they’ll kill a man for tagging territory who isn’t one of their own.” I shifted my gaze from the building to him. “So, when are you leaving?”

  Navarro glared. “We’re not going anywhere, detective.”

  I looked at the construction worker, Smokey. “You’re getting ready to have twins, aren’t you? I know you’re smart enough to get the hell out of here. Don’t want your children to grow up fatherless, do you?”

  “Don’t want ‘em to grow up thinking their Ol’ Man’s a chump. That’s what I don’t want ‘em to think.” He clenched his jaw and shook his head. “So, fuck these pricks. I’m not leaving.”

  I glanced at Pee Bee. “What about you, Peanut Butter? You gonna fight all 70,000 of these guys? That’s how many there is. 70,000. You’re a big fucker, but with that bum knee--”

  “Fuck you, and fuck them. My knee’s fine.” He looked at Crip and then shot me a glare. “And, there ain’t 70,000 of them in this town.”

  “Oh no?” I asked, feigning surprise.

  “I ain’t going anywhere,” he said adamantly.