HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  “I’m sure one of the other fellas will throw you a little cock,” I said as I raised my leg over the seat.

  Through the sniffles and sobs, she wiped her face with the back of her hand and gazed in my direction. After wiping the final tear from her face, her mouth curled into a half-assed smile.

  “You really think so?” she asked in a broken voice.

  “Hop on, I’ll haul you over to Corn Dog’s house right now. The Dog will fuck anything that’ll hold still long enough for him to finish,” I responded sarcastically.

  “I’d really appreciate it,” she sighed as she climbed over the rear fender and onto the seat.

  Holy shit, bitch. Have a little self-worth.

  I reached for the hand controls and started the bike. As the sound of the engine echoed against the garage door and through the neighborhood, I stared along the driveway and realized my thoughts of women and their inability to be sexually adventurous, loyal, and sane were accurate.

  There was no such thing.

  Chapter Forty-One

  TOAD

  “Now I’m not saying this as any means of disrespect to Stacey, you all know this. But good fucking God men, I shouldn’t have to remind you of shit like this…” Axton paused and stood from his seat.

  “If you’re sitting at a God damned stop light in the fucking dark, and you see the lights of some cage rolling up behind you, and the son-of-a-bitch is coming in hot, run the fucking stop light. Shit, you’re on a bike, fellas. There isn’t much of anything more nimble or agile than a bike. Run the fucking light, speed into oncoming traffic, ride the bastard into a ditch, but do something. Don’t sit and stare in your rearview mirror and wonder if that dumb drunk fucker’s gonna hit you. Because odds are if it’s three o’clock in the morning, and he’s driving the fuck around, he’s either drunk or stupid.”

  He crossed his arms and exchanged glances with most of the men.

  A few days earlier, Stacey was at a red light waiting for the left turn signal, and a car rear ended him, killing him instantly. The police declared the driver drunk, and claimed he was traveling at a speed in excess of sixty miles an hour when he hit Stacey’s bike. Several times I had been in a similar circumstance, and I had sped through the red light to make distance between my bike and the dip-shit in the car that wasn’t paying attention. I believed riding a motorcycle was similar to being in combat; your head must remain on a swivel at all times.

  Axton uncrossed his arms and pressed the palms of his hands onto his belt. “As you all might have guessed, the special election was called today to fix this mess in our ranks. I’m the President, so I can’t make a motion, but I’ll God damned sure entertain one if you make it. I have a Vice Presidency slot open, and a Road Captain spot I need filled. Any of you fucking brain surgeons have an idea of what I should do?”

  As far as I was concerned, a man would have to search the entire earth extensively to find a person with as much heart, spirit, and compassion as Axton Bishop. He was as solid of a man as God had ever created. To an outsider, Axton might seem like a heartless prick, but to the select few who knew and understood him, he was truly a man amongst men.

  “Well, none of you fuckers will probably agree, but I say we move Otis to Vice President,” Pete said.

  “Speak up, Pete. You sound like an indecisive little girl,” Axton growled.

  Pete fixed his eyes on Axton, narrowed his gaze, and cleared his throat. “I say we move Otis to Vice fucking President, Slice.”

  “I need a motion,” Fancy sighed.

  Pete rolled his eyes and pulled against his long beard with his right hand. “Son of a fuckin’ bitch. I make a motion we move Otis to Vice God damned President.”

  “Second,” Mike chimed.

  Fancy scribbled onto his note pad and tilted his head slightly. “All in favor?”

  The entire room responded. “Aye.”

  “Opposed?” Fancy asked as he looked down at the pad.

  The room fell silent.

  Axton raised his hands in the air and shook his head. “Well fuck me running. Thanks fellas. Now I need a God damned Sergeant at Arms and a fucking Road Captain. We made zero progress. Why do I have a feeling we’re going to be here all God damned day?”

  Otis turned to face Axton. “Boss, I’m all for moving into the VP spot, but I can’t say I’m real comfortable leaving my position of SAA before I know who’s filling it.”

  Axton lowered his hands and crossed his arms in his signature pose. “I’ve got to agree with you, Otis. There’s a clear problem now with you as Vice President. At least in my opinion, there’s only one motherfucker who I’d trust to do what needs done in the SAA position. Feel free to correct me if you think I’m wrong, but remember, I can’t make a motion or influence your vote. Let me refer to the bylaws in an effort to remind you pricks of the duties of the Sergeant at Arms.”

  Without a doubt, every man in the club respected Axton. A good percentage of them feared him. Almost all were intimidated by him, and I’d never seen one man clearly oppose him. He reminded me of a Marine Corps Drill Instructor. Intimidating as hell, and never had to demand respect; he earned it through his actions and the respect he gave the men who respected him.

  “You can read all that precedes this if you want.” Axton hesitated, turned toward the wall, and began to read from the posted bylaws.

  “The Sergeant at Arms is responsible for the safety and security of the club, as well as the protection and defense of all club Members and Prospects. He shall keep and maintain a record of all data pertinent to the safety and security of the club, its Members and Prospects. Upon becoming aware of any real or perceived threat to the club, its Members, Prospects, or events, he shall immediately notify the Executive Committee of that information.” He slowly turned and faced the somewhat somber group.

  “Who here is mean enough, tough enough, and has not only the heart, but the ability to protect this entire group of men?” Axton raised his eyebrows and waited for a response.

  I gazed down at the toes of my boots, feeling somewhat uneasy about Stacey’s death, Axton’s frustration, and the fact I didn’t necessarily trust my protection and defense in the hands of anyone except Axton, Otis, or myself.

  “I make a motion we move the Marine into the Sergeant at Arms spot, Slice. He’s the only one big enough and tough enough to fill the shoes. Well, besides you and Otis,” Mike offered.

  I glanced upward. Axton shrugged his shoulders in an exaggerated fashion as he shook his head. “Jesus H Christ. I swear to God almighty. I need a fucking motion and a God damned name. Come on, Mike.”

  “I make a motion we move Cambini Toad-a-relli or whatever his fucking name is, otherwise known as Toad, who’s the only fucking Marine in the club to Sergeant at Arms,” Mike grunted as he raised his hands into the air.

  It’s Cambio Todelli, but you were close.

  “Can I get a second?” Fancy asked.

  It seemed as if the entire room responded. “Second.”

  Fancy scribbled onto his notepad. “All in favor?”

  “Aye!”

  I gazed at Axton, who now stood fifteen feet from me with a grin on his face. He rarely smiled, and when he did, there was no hiding the fact he was either amused or extremely satisfied. I hoped his smile was one of sheer satisfaction. I inhaled a shallow breath, lowered my cupped hands along the seams of my jeans, and stood proud as I waited for someone to oppose the motion.

  “Opposed?” Fancy asked.

  Complete silence.

  “Well, I feel better about the welfare of my beloved Sinners. Welcome to the Executive Committee, Toad. Now all we need is a Road Captain,” Axton said as he extended his hand.

  As I gripped his hand in mine, I bit my lower lip slightly and gazed beyond Axton and toward the group. Without a doubt, I’d never let any harm come to the club, the club’s welfare, or any of the Members or Prospects. Although I was appreciative and humbled by the motion and the expressed opinion of the club in voting m
e into the Executive Committee, I didn’t dare show it. Being in the club was similar to being in the military or in doing a stint in prison. Showing emotion was a perceived as a sign of weakness. I released my grip on Axton’s hand, crossed my arms, and stood stone faced as if I didn’t give two fucks about the promotion.

  Nothing could have been further from the truth.

  I felt as if I was finally where I belonged. Protecting those who were incapable of protecting themselves was what my family had practiced for centuries. I came from a long line of Todelli’s who had risked their lives to make sure the incapable or unwilling didn’t have to stand up against a potential foe. As a US Marine, I risked my life to protect my brothers and preserve this country. For the club, I would certainly do the same. As any former Marine knows, there are no former Marines.

  Once a Marine, always a Marine.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  TOAD

  The tales told by men in a Motorcycle Club are less accurate but far more entertaining than the events inspiring them. Over time, the stories grow, become more interesting, and always develop an ending that’s either funny as hell or unbelievably grotesque. I’ve always believed they started out as the truth, and become polished to perfection over a period of time. Some men are typically more truthful than others; and considering my capacity to digest lies and bullshit, I was close friends with very few of the men in the club. I loved them all as my brothers, but I chose not to befriend each and every one of them. The club decided through the process of being a Prospect who was allowed in, and I determined through my own means and methods who I felt I could truly trust. In the end, I had a short list of people I called my friends, and Otis was on the top of the list.

  Otis leaned onto the edge of the table and pushed his cup of coffee to the side. “So, you wrapped her head in plastic, fucked her until she was damned near unconscious, shoved your cock down her throat, dumped a load of cum in her gut, and then told her to kick rocks?”

  “Yep,” I said as I tipped the bottom of my coffee cup up, draining the little remaining liquid from the bottom.

  “You’re such a fucking romantic. Think maybe that was a little harsh?” he asked as he leaned away from the table and into the back of his chair.

  “Fuck no, it wasn’t harsh. She was a childish bitch. She started talking about being exclusive as soon as I cut the shit off her head. And I’d already gave her my speech about all we’re doing is having sex, and she agreed. I fucking swear, finding a good bitch is impossible.” I hesitated and leaned into the edge of the table.

  “But I did give her dumb ass a ride to Corn Dog’s house. Left my place, rode to the Dog’s, and dropped her off in the driveway. Fucking bitch waved as she walked up the drive like I was doing her a solid,” I said with a laugh.

  Otis picked up his cup of coffee, shook it, and rolled his eyes. “That’s some funny shit right there, I can’t believe you did that. Well, I really can’t believe she did it. Heard from the Dog yet?”

  I shook my head. “Nope. Not a fucking word.”

  He chuckled. “Probably still fucking that poor girl. Been five years without pussy, he’s got some catching up to do.”

  I grinned at the thought of Corn Dog taking five years of frustration out on Sloan. Maybe his personal sexual taste combined with the absence of pussy in his life for the five years he spent in prison would mesh well with Sloan’s desire to be filled with biker cock. As I stood from my seat and tossed the empty cup in the trash can, I shook my head and laughed.

  “You ready?” I asked, still laughing at the thought of Corndog and Sloan.

  “Suppose so. Damn this sun feels good,” Otis said as he stood.

  Sitting outside at the local coffee shop was a guilty pleasure of ours. People walking into the store always admired our bikes, and the more brave souls would often ask questions about the club, our bikes, or our cuts. Spending time watching the customers go in and out provided confirmation of just how fucked up Wichita’s east side Starbucks coffee drinking society really was.

  I tilted my head toward the bank on the other side of the street. “We’re just going right over there. I need to get this shit deposited as soon as they open. You can sit on your bike while I go in if you want.”

  I had taken the majority of my pay, tax free combat pay, and what little money I hustled from side work and invested roughly half of it into a barbeque joint and two rental houses in Winfield. I purchased the rental houses after bank foreclosure, and got one for $7,500 and the other for $9,000. By my calculations, each should provide between $400 and $500 a month of income. The barbeque business was already established, and it came complete with everything I needed from wait staff to meat smokers. $50,000 wouldn’t buy much of anything in a large city, but in a town the size of Winfield, it had potentially purchased my retirement. Income from the restaurant and rentals, combined with what little work I did on custom bike building allowed me to enjoy my days without necessarily having a job.

  As we pulled out of the parking lot of the coffee shop and into the street, the light at the corner changed from green to red. As we slowly rolled to a stop at the intersection I tossed my head in the direction of the light above and twisted the throttle. Age and level of maturity always seem to be tossed aside when two men are riding side by side on motorcycles. Otis alternated glances between me and the light as he nodded his head and revved his motor. The sound of the obnoxiously loud exhaust being thrust into the cars behind us would support their thoughts of bikers being obnoxious tattooed pieces of shit. As the light turned green, I released my grip on the clutch and twisted the throttle tight. Two clear advantages I had over Otis were the high performance engine I had built, and the weight of my bike. At nearly nine hundred pounds, I didn’t have to worry about the front tire coming up off of the ground under hard acceleration. As the rear tire screeched and the bike lurched forward, I watched in amazement as Otis shot past me as if I were parked.

  What the fuck?

  After shifting through two more gears at full throttle, I pulled in the clutch, released the throttle, and slowed down to a responsible eighty miles an hour. There was clearly nothing I could do to catch Otis. Like a little boy who had just been beaten handily on his own playground, I slowed the bike down and pulled into the parking lot of the bank; aggravated and ashamed.

  “What the fuck, brother?” I complained as my bike rolled to a stop beside Otis.

  “New cams,” Otis responded.

  I shrugged my shoulders and glared. “Cams?”

  Otis nodded his head.

  “When?” I asked.

  “Put ‘em in last weekend. Surprised you couldn’t hear the difference. She’s got a real rumpity rump to her now,” he said as he stepped over the seat and stood staring at his bike admiringly.

  I flipped the switch on the hand controls and killed the engine. Still pissed off at the quickness of Otis’ bike, I leaned over and unlatched the left saddlebag. After stepping off the bike and to the side, I opened the lid and removed my deposit pouch. Generally, I kept a week of earnings at home in a safe, and rode to the bank once a week for deposits into my business account. Gripping the pouch of money in my hand, I turned toward Otis and lightly shook my head.

  “Wallow in it for now, you big prick. I’ll tear mine down this afternoon, and we’ll go at it again. Fucking asshole,” I hissed.

  “Runs like a beast now. Shit brother, I waited all fucking morning for you to try something. Go ahead, get your cams in, and we’ll race for that little bag of money you’re carrying,” Otis said as he tilted his head in my direction.

  “Afraid not. I need to get this in the bank. That fucking Junior is eating me into the red. I’m going to have a talk with that mother fucker,” I said.

  “The big black kid?”

  I nodded my head. “Yeah. My meat cost has gone up almost ten fucking percent. He’s either eating ten percent of the meat, or making the meals ten percent larger. Either way, we’re going to have a talk.”
r />   “Well fuck. Kid probably weighs what, four fifty? I bet he can eat a shit load of barbeque,” Otis said.

  After I purchased the restaurant, a few of the employees immediately quit. I put up a Help Wanted sign on the window and almost instantly a local kid approached me about employment. He had just dropped out of school and was trying to help support his family. He explained his mother was having a difficult time supporting him and his five younger brothers and sisters with no father at home. Although at the time he was only sixteen, I hired him on the spot. He was polite, had a great sense of humor, and seemed very responsible for his age. Initially, a perk of employment was free meals for the employees. Later, due to plummeting profits, the perk changed to one sandwich per employee. Now roughly eighteen years old, Junior weighed in excess of four hundred pounds, and it appeared he was eating me into a daily deficit.

  “Yeah, he probably weighs four hundred something anyway. So you going in or staying out here in the sun?” I asked.

  “I’ll sit here if you’ll make it quick,” Otis responded as he turned toward his bike.

  A newer model BMW pulled alongside Otis’ bike as I turned to walk across the parking lot and toward the bank. The gorgeous blonde riding passenger caught my immediate attention, and I craned my neck her direction until I reached the sidewalk leading to the entrance. As I slowly shuffled my feet toward the steps, I watched her out of the corner of my eye until she got out of the car. I continued to make a conscious effort to meander to the door slowly, hoping to hold it open for her and the shit hat she was riding with so I could get a better look at her.

  I stepped onto the top landing of the steps, reached for the door, and hesitated as I grasped the handle. As they began to walk up the stairs, I pulled the door open and held it for them to enter, looking over my shoulder as I did. She was wearing nice jeans, conservative heels, and a sleeveless silk top that looked like it had a thousand wrinkles in it. He was wearing slacks, a dress shirt, and a jacket three sizes too large. She shifted her gaze to meet mine, smiled, and immediately looked down as if embarrassed. He, on the other hand, focused his nervous eyes on the deposit pouch I held, eventually broke his stare, and forced his mouth to form a half-assed smirk as he looked upward.