HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  I stood from my seat and crossed my arms. “Before you answer, let me explain a few things. Wearing it means more than you think. When two people get married, the woman gets a ring, and with that ring she gets a sense of ownership and a feeling of commitment from her husband. He, in turn, wears a ring showing his commitment to her. When you see them together, and they’re each wearing a ring, there’s no doubt they belong together and they’re committed to each other. If they’re apart, however, all you know is that each one is committed – because of the rings they wear, but you don’t know where the commitment lies.”

  I nodded my head toward the cut. “Now with that, it’s obvious where the commitment lies. My name is on the back of it, and you’re wearing it. Anyone see’s that cut on you, and they know you’re mine and I’m yours. There’s no question.”

  “You know, most people don’t understand the Property Of patch. Not only am I claiming you, but it’s worn as a warning to others outside the club that the Ol’ Lady wearing the patch is to be respected the same as a fully patched male member, and that she warrants the same protections as her male member counterpart. That patch, Avery, says don’t fuck with this girl, in more ways than one. You’d be the President’s Ol’ Lady, and nobody, and I do mean nobody will fuck with you.”

  “So,” I said. “Will you be my Ol’Lady?”

  She stood from her seat, slipped her arms through the cut, and snapped each button carefully. She glanced up at the motto posted on the wall and swallowed heavily. As she rubbed her bracelet with her thumb and forefinger, she inhaled a shallow breath and shifted her gaze down to meet mine.

  God damn, woman, say something…

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  AVERY

  To understand a woman or women’s thoughts would be impossible. I am convinced there are more personalities in the female population than grains of sand on the beaches of the world. To attempt to comprehend the intricate thoughts and behaviors of a woman would be impossible for a trained psychiatrist, let alone an average man. Most women, including me, don’t necessarily know what we want until it arrives on our doorstep.

  Diamond rings and wedding dresses may be for some women, and I always believed they were one of my main goals in my life. I had learned over the course of the summer I wanted so much more than a conventional wedding. I wanted a man, not just any man, but a man who was satisfied with what he had in life, and didn’t need a woman to complicate things.

  I wanted Axton.

  We never really know where we belong for certain until we get there. This summer, I landed where I belonged, and I now stood grateful for being delivered to my final destination. Axton may not totally agree, but his asking me to be his Ol’ Lady and allowing me to wear the Property Of patch meant more to me than an engagement or marriage ever could.

  I removed the cut from the box and stared, afraid I was going to lose my composure and begin crying. I pressed it into the table, unsure of what he had specifically done. A simple Property Of patch would have meant one thing. But a Property Of patch with Slice on the lower rocker meant so much more.

  We were committed to each other.

  And the club had my back.

  I pulled the cut over my shoulders and buttoned it up. Axton stood across from me with his arms crossed in his what the fuck are you looking at pose. He didn’t realize it, but when he did that, he was one scary motherfucker. As he turned his palms upward and spoke, I bit my quivering lip.

  “So, will you be my Ol’ Lady?”

  I knew the answer, but I was incapable of speaking. Still biting my lip, I shifted my eyes upward and lowered my chin in a half-assed nod. I swallowed heavily and for the first time in my life, spoke slowly.

  “I won’t embarrass you or the club, Axton. And yes, I’ll be your Ol’ Lady.”

  “Go saddle up, we got to make a run to Wichita. El Pelón needs to talk,” he said. “I’ll get the lights.”

  Standing taller, feeling prouder, and knowing no matter where I went or who I was with I would always have the confidence I previously only had in Axton’s presence, I walked out to the shop.

  Progress.

  I made it.

  Mission accomplished.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  AXTON

  The only family I had ever claimed were the men I rode with; my brothers. Adding a new member to the family had always been an exciting thing for me. Adding Avery? Well, that was a totally different feeling.

  Having her as my Ol’ Lady was a huge step for me. Her wearing the cut was even a bigger commitment. I offered it to her knowing I was ready for the responsibility, and I’d never disappoint her. Feeling more proud than I had in my entire life, I walked to the door, looked up at the motto, and flipped out the lights. As I stepped through the door and pulled it closed, I realized there was one more thing I needed to do.

  I shook my head and grinned at the thought.

  The unthinkable.

  I opened the door, flipped on the lights, and stared at the membership board. No doubt about it, one thing was missing. I walked to the board, picked up the pen, and without hesitation, marked a big black “X” beside my name in the Ol’ Lady Allowed column.

  I stood back and crossed my arms as I gazed at the board.

  God damned right, fellas.

  She’s mine.

  And I’m proud to admit it.

  Dedication

  Judging a person based on what we see, the color of their skin, race, creed, religious belief, lack of religion, sex, or appearance is wrong. In my opinion, to judge a person, even for their actions, is a difficult thing to justify. Having not experienced their life makes it difficult to judge their actions. In short, judging a person does nothing to define them, but does everything to define you.

  This book is dedicated to those who have the ability to love all creatures of this earth.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, are coincidental.

  TAKING THE HEAT 1st Edition Copyright © 2015 by Scott Hildreth

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at designconceptswichita@gmail.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Cover Art art by Jessica Hildreth: www.JessicaHildrethDesigns.com

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  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  TOAD

  I leaned forward and placed the folded sheet of paper on top of the headstone. I had every intention of leaving it and walking away, but for some reason I wavered. As if I expected an answer from a man who had been dead for a dozen years, I slowly knelt and stared blankly at the etched stone.

  Cambio Salvadore Todelli

  GY SGT

  US MARINE CORPS

  WORLD WAR II

  May 8, 1920

  Sept 16, 2003

  PURPLE HEART

  BRONZE STAR

  “Everything’s going pretty good, Nonno. Mom made those meatballs last Sunday. You remember the ones we fought over right before I left for the war? The big fuckers with the thick sauce? You remember, the ones she makes with pork? Hell, I didn’t need the last one any more than you did, but I damned sure wasn’t going to let you have it,” I hesitated, wiped the dust from stone base with my index finger, and considered standing.

  Instead, I maintained my kneeling position, inhaled a shallow breath, and continued speaking softly. “So we had
this fella who stole from us. Well, he tried to anyway. And he damned near got two of the other fellas killed; two of the main fellas from the Executive Committee. They’re similar to officers in the Marine Corps. You know, it’s just like the Marine Corps, Nonno, we don’t do what we do for the sake of doing it; we do it for the man riding beside us. I’d die for each and every one of these men. I sure would. And they’d do the same for me. Maybe that’s why I’m in this damned club, because it’s the closest thing to the Corps I could find. It reminds me a lot of it to tell you the truth, the brotherhood and all.”

  I blew the dust from the bottoms of the chiseled letters and grinned at the thought of him actually listening to me as I continued. “Well, anyway, we took care of him. I remember you telling me when I was a kid how it was my duty to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. I suppose in a sense I was protecting the other members of the club from what he might expose them to. You know, harming them in the future or whatever. It all gets jumbled up when I think about it, really. But I know he was a terrible man, Nonno. And he almost killed two of the fellas. Well, he’s gone now, so the club’s a better place. I sure wish you were here to see how solid the rest of these fellas are, you’d be proud of ‘em for sure. Oh, and I wrote you another poem.”

  I slowly stood, reached for the folded sheet of paper, and removed it from the headstone. As if rehearsed, I unfolded it and began reading.

  The pages of the calendar blow in the breeze,

  One by one they go.

  A wounded boy stands from his knees,

  The scars of war heal slow.

  Wind at his face, dead men blow past;

  The warm breeze dries the tears.

  The sound of thunder fills the air,

  And days fade into years.

  With a watchful eye the boy checks his six,

  For a ghost rides in his wake.

  As the apparition weaves through the mix,

  A second glance the boy must take.

  He blinks his eyes in disbelief,

  There is no need to fret.

  An exhaled sigh, one of relief;

  The wraith’s a combat vet.

  The ghost rides past, his face is clear.

  The boy grins and nods his head.

  He rides without an ounce of fear,

  For Nonno is not dead.

  I folded the paper, placed it on top of the headstone and wiped the tears from my eyes. “I like that one. It’s better than the one I wrote last year, isn’t it? You give me the courage to stand up against evil, Nonno. And I know you’ve got my back. I appreciate you, old man, and I miss you. I miss you a lot. I better get back, it’s a long ride. Take care, and I’ll be back to see you real soon.”

  My grandfather passed away after my first tour in Afghanistan. I felt as if he had waited for me to return from the war before he allowed himself to pass. As I knelt at his bedside, he held my hand and explained how he would continue to watch over me after his death.

  “While I fought in my war, my grandfather watched over me; it’s what grandfathers do. I can’t keep a good eye on you from down here, the earth is too damned flat for me to see you with these old eyes. It’s time for the good Lord to drag my old ass up to the heavens so I can look over you. From up there I’ll be able to see it all, so don’t worry, I’ve got your six. I’ll tap your left shoulder if I ever need to forewarn you about anything life threatening. And if I don’t warn you, fight without reservation, Cambio. Capisce?” he whispered.

  Outfitted in my Marine dress blues, I held his hand and attempted to force a smile. The thought of him dying was devastating to me.

  “Capisco,” I said. “I’ll make you proud, Nonno.”

  He closed his eyes and grinned. “You already have, Cambio. You already have.”

  The next day he passed away. I went on to serve half a dozen tours in the war, and did so without much fear of death or even injury. According to those who fought beside me, I made some very courageous decisions; saving the lives of many Marines while I risked my own life in the process. As far as I was concerned, I was simply doing what I was capable of. Although I knew my grandfather wasn’t really going to warn me, I continuously told myself the absence of his warning tap on my left shoulder was reassurance there was no real risk in my decisions or actions while in combat. The entire time I was in combat I felt as if I had a sixth sense.

  I have since left the war, but the war has never left me.

  I doubt it ever will.

  Chapter Forty

  TOAD

  When exposed to the brutality and horror of war, a man’s mind must decide how to process the terrifying experiences so the memories may be carefully filed away into the chosen portion of the frontal cortex of the brain; saved for long-term recollection. Some men seem to dwell on the horrific events, and allow them to chisel away at their life for all of the years which follow. Others become somewhat immune to the events of their past, or any similar circumstances which may present themselves in the future. I don’t believe the decision to either lose sight of the past or allow it to inhabit our mind is a conscious one, but more a matter of a person’s chemical assembly. The men who don’t seem at all bothered by their exposure to the atrocities of war are often perceived as evil, immoral, depraved, or wicked.

  Hardened.

  I’ve heard some describe me as hardened.

  I couldn’t say I enjoyed what I witnessed in combat, nor could I accurately describe it as something I found to be horrifying. War happened and I was present. My mind processed the events, and for whatever reason, they were placed on a shelf along with chapters from various graphic books and scenes from B rate horror movies. I’m not so shallow that I perceived the war as a fictitious event, nor did I dwell on it as an absolute fact which required my continual approval or constant embrace. I did, however, realize my exposure to certain violent events had caused me to become less sensitive to any and all things life now offered me; sex included.

  In short, I needed tremendous mental stimulation of the violent variety incorporated into my sex. I needed it to be aggressive, rough, and unrestrained, or I wasn’t able to perform. My war-torn mind which had been pickled by the savagery of combat now needed violence to become aroused. There was no doubt in my mind I was a sexual misfit, and I realized my tastes and desires weren’t shared by the masses. The considerate side of me – the side my Catholic parents raised – often viewed my sexual side as a walking contradiction. I saw my sexual self as nothing short of a disaster. As much as I had tried to change it, I couldn’t. So, I simply considered myself damaged and decided to embrace it.

  “Stop flopping the fuck around,” I said.

  Considering my sexual tastes and lack of specific boundaries when it came to a sexual relationship, I was very thorough in my explanations of what my sexual partner and I were planning to do. The event, entirely, must be 100% consensual. If after discussing my sexual intention an agreement could not be reached regarding the intended event or events, the plan was changed until it was agreed upon. I may not be as compassionate as most men when it came to sex, but my partner’s knowledge of the situation and expressed consent was a requirement, not a recommendation.

  I continued to wrap the Saran Wrap around her head at a rapid pace, covering her mouth, ears, and eyes with several layers. Too little of the plastic may allow her to force her tongue through the slit I intended to provide for her to breathe through; but in my opinion there was no such thing as too much. As I made one last revolution for good measure, her arms began to flap like a bird attempting to flee from a captor. Aggravated at her inability to hold still, I gripped the plastic wrap in both hands and pulled, stretching the material until it snapped. I pressed the loose end against the back of her head and grinned at my handiwork.

  I quickly grasped the wrists of her flailing arms, pulled them behind her back, and wrapped them with several layers of the plastic, hoping to prevent injury. Now completely naked with her entire head and forearms wrappe
d in Saran Wrap, she collapsed onto the floor of my bedroom. Although her body began to convulse, I knew from experience it was mostly show and not solely from lack of oxygen.

  Satisfied, I tossed the remaining roll of plastic wrap beside the bed.

  I pulled my knife and flipped the blade open with my thumb. As it snapped into locked position with a pronounced click, she began to whimper and squirm on the floor. I knelt beside her and pressed against the back of her head with the palm of my hand, tilting her head slightly to the side. As I positioned my mouth against her plastic covered ear, I spoke clearly and with a tone of authority.

  “I know you can hear me, this isn’t my first time doing this. Just listen. You’re fine. It’s only been about twenty seconds. Now, I’m going to poke a hole in this shit with my knife, which will allow you to breathe a little. The opening won’t be very big, but it’ll be enough for you to survive. If you flop the fuck around while I’m trying to poke this hole, it’ll just cut your face, and I don’t want that. I’m going to let go of your head, but you need to hold still, okay?”

  As soon as I lifted my hand from her skull she nodded her head eagerly. Although she continued to moan and sob, she was otherwise motionless. Gripping the knife with one hand and holding her head with the other, I carefully poked the tip of the blade against the material which covered her mouth. A small slit roughly an inch long developed between her lips. As I tossed the blade on the floor beside the roll of Saran Wrap, I watched the plastic heave inward and outward with each labored breath she took. Her muffled sobs only added to the excitement of it all.