HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  As he rubbed his face, I nodded my head once in agreement. “Let’s hear it.”

  He closed his eyes, and after a moment’s thought, opened them and began to speak softly.

  “A middle school kid told his mother he’d been going to this guy’s house for a few years posing for pictures. He said the guy told him if he ever spoke of it, he’d cut his dick off and supposedly he gave this kid a schedule to follow to return to his place for...well…you know, blowjobs. And the other kids supported these statements. So this poor kid is scared to death. You know how little kids want to please adults and they look up to them? Well, that part makes my skin crawl. That this son-of-a-bitch used the fact he was an adult to manipulate the kid. So, scared to death and wanting to make the man happy that he was doing what the sick fucker wanted him to, the kid did it for years under the fear of being dismembered. Finally, he reached an age that he began to wonder and feel guilty. The shame and guilt as he got older made him come to his mother for help.”

  He hesitated and swallowed heavily.

  I dropped my fork onto my plate and pushed my bowl to the center of the table. I felt my blood begin to boil. I reached under the table and stretched the rubber band until it almost snapped. As he began to speak again, I released it; snapping it into my wrist.

  Snap!

  “So, she came to us and we investigated. We held an awareness class at the school. Kids came forth and gave this guy up. Hell, it was almost a perfect investigation. Too damned good to be true is what it was. We typed up the search warrant, and raided his place. On his computer, we uhhm. On his computer, we found. We uhhm.” As he struggled to find the words to finish his sentence, his voice began to falter.

  I raised my hand and turned my palm toward him. “I’ve heard enough.”

  “Axton, you asked. Let me finish the story. I need to say it and you need to hear it anyway. So…” He paused and rubbed his temples with his fingertips.

  As he sat quietly, he reached toward his eyes with his pinkie fingers and attempted to wipe tears from his cheeks. Being a cop in a city the size of Winfield, Frank would probably see a case like this one only once.

  But that was one time too many.

  After he regained his composure he wiped his eyes again and inhaled a deep breath. “Fuck, this is tougher than I thought; saying it and all. He uhhm. He had videos and pictures, Axton. A lot of them, hell they dated back for years and years. What looked like seven and eight-year-old kids sucking on his, you know…sucking on his dick while he told them how they were doing such a good job. He would ejaculate on their faces and make some of them swallow it. Sharpe puked when he saw it. I tried to hold myself together, being the Chief and all, but I just lost it. Broke down and started crying right as we watched it. I fucked this deal up, Axton, and I need some help.”

  It was all I could do to keep from standing up and knocking all the shit off the table. Generally a reasonable man when it came to keeping my anger at bay, this was far more than I was able to contain. I wanted the address of the pedophile, and I wanted to skin the son-of-a-bitch alive.

  I sat up straight in my seat and raised my hand. As Frank stared at my hand, his lip quivered. I reached into my cut and pulled out the small notepad I carried with me. I scribbled a note onto the page. I slid the open note pad to Frank’s side of the table as I held it in my hand.

  Get me the information on where the fuck this motherfucker is. And I mean it this time, Frank. I’ve heard enough. I’m about to snap.

  As he read the note, I began to speak, in complete contrast to what I had written. “Well, you know the club could help you find this guy, but we damned sure can’t do anything beyond that.”

  I trusted Frank as much as a biker could trust a cop, but I didn’t trust him. I wasn’t dumb enough to get caught up in some conspiracy to commit murder charge, and if I spoke of the things he was asking of me, it would be all too easy for him - or someone else - to record the conversation and use it against me or the club later. To provide me a little false comfort, I always used my notepad to discuss matters which were contrary to the law.

  Frank inhaled a deep breath and exhaled loudly as he lowered his hands to the table. “We made a mistake on the search warrant, Axton. And now the computer, everything – all the fruits of the search warrant – they’re gone. Basically we can’t use any of it. Everything else on this guy is clean. All we really had was the computer and three kids who were willing to testify. Now all we have is the testimony, and the parents are second guessing having the children testify now.”

  The thought of someone doing such shit to a helpless kid made me feel sick. The pedophile probably selected Winfield for his home because it was small and lacked competent law enforcement, under the belief the small town kids would never say a word to anyone, and he could continue to take advantage of them for as long as he wanted.

  I turned my head and stared out the window. “That’s a damned shame, Frank. Sounds like a hell of a mess. I feel for those parents and kids.”

  I stared outside for a long moment. As I turned from the window to face Frank, I scribbled onto the notepad and held it under his nose.

  Consider it done. I’ll take care of it myself. Son-of-a-bitch, Frank. Fucking hell, and in this town, what the fuck, huh?

  Frank reached into his shirt pocket and removed a pen. As he spoke, he scribbled onto the pad.

  “I know. It makes me sick. Hell, I have kids,” he said as he continued to write.

  After he finished scribbling, I slid the notepad to my side of the table and looked down at what he had written.

  If this guy disappears, no one will give a shit. And hell, anyone could have done it. I’ll write it up as a missing person, and leave it at that. He doesn’t have any family, so who cares, right?

  Growing angrier by the second, I clenched my jaw, reached toward my wrist and pulled the rubber band back. After I released it, snapping it into my wrist sharply, I stretched it tight again and released it.

  Snap!

  I looked down at the red welt growing on the inside of my wrist. “Well, I don’t have kids, but I’m a compassionate man. That’s a damn shame, Frank. Maybe a parent will get to him and make him pay, hell who knows.”

  I picked my pen up from the table and wrote under the note Frank had written. I turned the pad to face Frank.

  Get me the information. I’ll need a day or so to figure it out, and we’ll get it taken care of. I’ll make it clean and as simple as I can.

  As he nodded his head, I slipped the pen and notepad into my cut.

  “Now I have a story for you,” I said.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “It’s not a big deal, really shouldn’t matter. I’m just trying to be respectful to ya, Frank.”

  He sat back in his chair, crossed his arms, and lowered them onto the top of his stomach. “Okay, what have you got?”

  “We’re making a deal with a Mexican gang. They’re not an MC, but a gang. I have no idea if it’ll take place here or in Wichita, but it’ll be in about a week or so. If they come here, we’ll have ‘em at the clubhouse for a night. Shouldn’t be any problem, and they ought to be respectful, coming to our town and all.” I paused and considered what might realistically happen.

  My experience with Mexican gangs was nil, and I had no idea what they planned to do regarding the delivery of the weapons. We preferred they come to us to pick them up, saving transportation and potential confiscation if stopped by the police. They may have planned on simply sending a man to pick up the weapons. Or, they might plan on coming to Winfield and having a celebration, a fucking fiesta of some sort. As Frank narrowed his gaze and leaned forward, I waited for his response.

  “That’s it?” he asked.

  I nodded my head. “I’ll keep you posted. Should be an in and out deal, and it’ll be legitimate. But you know, if a town local sees a gang of cholos rolling into town, they might give you a call.”

  He leaned into his seat and cleared his throa
t. “Yeah, you do that. Keep me posted.”

  “Will do,” I said as I reached for my wallet.

  Frank shook his head. “I’ll get the tip.”

  “You sure?” I asked.

  He nodded his head.

  I chuckled as I stood from my seat. “Well, I’ve got an ongoing criminal enterprise I need to look after.”

  He tossed a twenty-dollar bill onto the table and looked up. “And I’ve got to go set up a speed trap.”

  I looked over my shoulder and grinned. “Utter hell, ain’t it?”

  “Sometimes,” he responded.

  As I began to think of the piece of child molesting shit I was going to rid the city of, I realized nowhere or no one was immune from what the bowels of society had to offer.

  Society sees a man like me, wearing my cut covered in miscellaneous patches I’ve earned over the years, and they typically categorize me as scum. I had no doubt whenever the local child molester went to get groceries he was met by the girl at the checkout counter with a smile. As I threw my leg over the rear fender and dropped down onto the seat of my bike, I grinned. I couldn’t recall the last time someone smiled at me.

  And I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

  AVERY

  The tattooed asshole behind me had reminded me no less than half a dozen times he wanted a Rum and Coke. As empty as the bar was, he could easily see I was taking the order of two nice gentlemen who sat at the end of the bar and ordered bottles of beer. I reached into the cooler for the beers and simultaneously pulled the opener from the back pocket of my jeans.

  “Rum and Coke. Coming right up,” I hollered over my shoulder.

  I opened two Budweiser’s, slid them along the side of the bar, and nodded my head toward the two gentlemen who had ordered them. They appeared to be brothers at minimum; potentially twins. Magically, the two bottles slid to a stop directly in front of them. I clenched my fist, pumped it forward slightly and pulled it toward my hip sharply.

  Yes!

  Doing my job and doing it well satisfied me to no end. I loved sliding shit along the bar and having it land where I planned. Dumb little things seemed to provide me the satisfaction I needed to convince myself I was doing a good job. My competitive nature probably fueled the need for measuring my success, but I desperately needed to know I was succeeding at whatever it was I decided to attempt. Without having a goal and reaching it, I’d go completely insane.

  Rum and Coke, behind me.

  I reached for the rum with one hand and a glass with the other. After scooping the glass through the ice bin, I poured a long shot into the glass and shot a splash of coke on top.

  “There you go, Rum and Coke,” I said as I handed the man standing at the bar behind me his drink.

  Blonde haired guy at the end of the bar.

  He had a…

  Gin and Tonic.

  I turned toward the opposite end of the bar, pointed toward the blonde man, and grinned. “You alright on that Gin and Tonic?”

  He mouthed the words, I’m good as he nodded his head, raised his half-full glass, and smiled. I smiled in return, reached for the bar towel, and began wiping down the end of the bar. I scanned the bar. A typical Tuesday night, slow as fuck. Six people certainly weren’t many to try and keep happy.

  “You didn’t measure the shot,” a voice from behind me said flatly.

  I turned around. Mr. Rum and Coke stood at the bar with his glass held at chest height. It appeared he hadn’t so much as tasted the drink. I made note of a faint tattoo on his neck I hadn’t seen before. It looked like some serious garage work or maybe something he got in prison. It looked like someone had taken a ballpoint pen and scribbled over a word they didn’t want anyone to read.

  Nice tattoo, douchebag.

  “Nope, sure didn’t. You know why?” I snapped.

  He shrugged.

  I smiled and began to wipe down the bar which separated us. “If I’d have measured it, you’d have about half the Rum I gave you. Taste it. And I’ll be sure to measure your next one, how’s that?”

  He raised the glass and tipped it to his mouth. After a small sip, his eyes closed and he shook his head.

  “Damn, that’s a Rum and Coke,” he said as he raised his glass.

  I smiled, winked, and lifted the towel from the bar. “I’ll measure the next one.”

  Working at a bar as a college senior was far more entertaining than anything else I had ever done for work. I had grown up in the small town of Marietta, Ohio, and a volleyball scholarship brought me to Kansas to attend college at Southwestern College in Winfield. Winfield was a shitty little town which reminded me too much of Marietta, so I opted to find a job twenty-five miles north, in the city of Wichita. Roughly half a million people provided a reasonably diverse group of patrons for the bar, and while I worked there I was learning a lot about dealing with people. The bar was small, and seated fifty-two people according to the card the Fire Marshall required we post above the door. A long bar with a return on each end seated twelve total; five high tops, and five booths at four apiece provided the seating. I controlled the music selection, and generally listened to indie rock on Pandora. No juke box, and no dancing, just great drinks and salty bar food. A cook and a dishwasher got off work at midnight, and I worked until two am. Weekends added a second employee, who worked as a waitress and bartender.

  My guess was that some small town girls would naturally be drawn to other small towns, but having grown up in a town of 14,000 people caused me to yearn for more. Living in a small town, to me, seemed counterproductive. I needed significant change in my surroundings to feel as if I had succeeded. A big city was drastically different from what I was used to growing up, and change was something I saw as an improvement. My overly religious Baptist parents would rather have me living in a cave, but given the ability to make my own decisions, I’d probably move to Wichita when I graduated.

  A few more weeks, and I would be on my own. I couldn’t wait. My best friend and roommate Sloan was on the volleyball team, a senior, and would graduate with me. We’d talked about being roommates after college, and if things went the way we had planned we would both move to Wichita and live together; easing the financial burden of trying to live alone. She worked with me at the bar mostly on the weekends, and we were a force to reckon with. She at a little more than six feet tall and me at 5’-11”, together we looked like two Amazon women. Men either had a love for tall women, or seemed to hate them. I always thought men were intimidated by my height, but none would ever admit it. Sloan was a little more conservative than I was, but she provided me balance and acted as the angel on the opposite shoulder of my naturally active devil.

  My strict parents attempted to raise me as a conservative girl who abided by the rules and regulations they shoved down my throat. It obviously backfired, because I was a little more adventurous than any of the other girls I met in college. Taking risks and having fun was part of my nature. Having Sloan keep me in check was something I probably needed. Without her, I’d make far shittier decisions without a doubt.

  “I’m headed home, Avery. Thanks. What did I have, I can’t remember?” Ryan asked.

  I turned toward the register and pressed my finger against the screen. After jockeying through the various screens and finding his order, I pressed the total button. After the receipt belched out the bottom, I looked down at the total.

  “Let’s see, you had two Jack and Coke’s and a grilled chicken with fries, Ryan. Looks like twenty-three bucks with tax,” I said as I printed the ticket and handed it to him.

  “Well, here’s thirty. Thanks, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said as he tossed the money on the counter.

  I nodded my head, smiled, and waved as I scooped up the money and receipt. Ryan was a regular at the bar, and always ordered Jack and Coke. He was overly nice, but had never hit on me or even said anything alluding to the fact he was interested in me. I always respected him for that, because he was married and had children. Although he had i
ndicated his dissatisfaction with his marriage, he made clear he had no intention of cheating on her. He did, however, come into the bar almost nightly to unwind before he went home.

  To me, men were a strange guilty pleasure, and never a necessity. I wanted a man, but my desire, as far as men went, was different than almost anyone I had ever met. If a man asked me out on a date, I wasn’t interested. I wanted a challenge, and if someone was willing to take me on a date without any work on my end, I wasn’t interested. I wanted what I couldn’t have. I desired a man who wouldn’t give me the time of day naturally; or at least at first, and I wanted to earn my way into his mind, heart, and life. If a man appeared to be a challenge, I wanted to try my luck at impossibility; and through my cunning ways, good looks, and competitive nature win him over.

  For my first three years at Southwestern, a professor was on my to-do list. He was in his late thirties, single, and handsome as fuck. He had no idea I was even alive. I dressed provocatively, ditched the bra, and bent over a thousand times in front of him. I tried the naïve schoolgirl act, the innocent religious girl, the I’m an old soul routine, and even sat popping my gum as I twisted my hair in my index finger for countless hours as I batted my eyelashes at him.

  I got absolutely nothing in return.

  After my third year of beating my head against the wall, I learned he was gay.

  Overall, I considered it a win, because he wasn’t technically available. It continued to bother me, as not having him wasn’t an easy loss for me. I even considered trying to make him go straight, but Sloan talked some sense into me. She was right, there was no way I could win that battle.

  “Hey, motherfucker, watch where you’re walking…”

  I turned to face the voice I heard behind me.

  Mr. Rum and Coke.

  At the end of the bar a hallway led to the restrooms. Two men stood at the opening of the hallway. Apparently Rum and Coke had collided with one of the Budweiser twins, and was challenging him on his ability to find the way to his barstool without bumping into him. One thing I didn’t stand for on my shift was fighting. My parents worried about me being a bartender at a bar in a city the size of Wichita, and especially working alone. I didn’t really worry about it at all. I wasn’t big enough to fight men, but I certainly wasn’t afraid to break up a fight.