HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  After a short pause, Axton pushed his hands into his front pockets, nodded his head slowly, and spoke.

  “I’ve never been in the military or fought in a war, nor am I trained medical professional,” he said. “But in my opinion, and it’s only that, an opinion…”

  He slowly walked over to his bike and leaned against the seat.

  He pulled his hands from his pockets and rubbed them along the thighs of his jeans. “You’re a good man, a damned fine one to be honest. Part of the problem is you’re too damned good, raised by good Italian parents in the Catholic church. You grew up believing your understanding of God’s will. You went to war, just like your father, grandfather, and your great-grandfather. And now you struggle with what happened and the lives of your Marine brothers that were lost. You wonder why you didn’t die instead. You wonder what you could have done differently. Now you live your life trying to make up for what happened as if it was your fault, or you had some control over it. I’ve got news for you, it wasn’t and you don’t. Let me ask you something. You don’t have to answer, and I know this is a sensitive subject, but tell me this if you can; were any of the Marines in your battalion who died on your immediate left or immediate right? You know, within an arm’s reach?”

  I didn’t really have to think for very long to answer. It seemed odd talking to Axton about this type of thing, but I felt strangely comfortable. “No. Not so much. They were close, but not that close.”

  “So moving one way or another you couldn’t have made a difference by taking a bullet for them or anything like that?”

  I crossed my arms and I shook my head.

  “Well then, what happened to them was God’s will. Not yours, God’s. And for you to think you had or have some control over what happened is to think you’re God. I got news for you Toad. You’re one solid motherfucker, but you’re not God,” he said as he stood.

  He took the few steps which separated us and slid his hands back into the pockets of his jeans. “I think your struggle is with God. In the civilian world, you continue to do what most perceive as evil. It allows you to think the atrocities of war weren’t so evil. It puts things into a different perspective, so to speak; making this life and that life seem similar. If your civilian world was full of butterflies and rainbow barfin’ unicorns, you’d clearly see the complete contrast between life and war. But, if your life resembles war, there is no contrast. Not much anyway. So, considering your upbringing and your relationship with God, you struggle. You know the difference between right and wrong. Do you regret being a Marine?”

  “Fuck no,” I snapped.

  “Marines kill, Toad. And Marines die. It’s what they do. Stop trying to make peace with God for something he’s already accepted as being part of his master plan. He’s moved on to hurricanes, earthquakes, that crazy prick in North Korea, and making sure those flowers Avery planted at my house don’t die. He’s over it. Now it’s your turn,” he said as he pulled his hands from his pockets and stretched his arms wide.

  One thing I never expected from another man until I was in the MC was to be hugged. I learned in my introduction to the club as a Hang Around, and later as a Prospect that all of the members hugged each other. It seemed strange seeing it at the time, but now it was common practice for me. It was part of the brotherhood, the bond, and a means of expressing our closeness to each other. As he slapped me on the back, he exhaled and spoke in a low tone.

  “God, Country, Corps, Family, and Self. In that order,” he said.

  I broke the embrace and stared. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Read it on the internet, along with all the other shit we just discussed. I want you to get better, so I’ve been researching. You’re the Sergeant at Arms for this club Toad, I want you at your absolute best,” he responded.

  As I studied Axton in an odd admiration, I realized in spite of his attitude, rough exterior, and harsh way of making himself clear, he did almost everything for one reason and one reason only.

  The betterment of the club.

  And it was time I do the same.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  SYDNEY

  “Peanut butter, bread, 2 dozen eggs, and toothpaste. Is that going to be it for you?” the sixty-year-old cashier asked as she carefully placed the groceries in a bag.

  “Yes ma’am,” I said with a grin.

  Inside my head, a song was playing. Not one from the radio, but one my brain had just made up in celebration of earning my tips. I can pay for my own groceries. I can pay for my own groceries. I grinned as the words continued to repeat themselves.

  She looked over the top of her glasses toward the register. “That’ll be $13.20.”

  Watch this. I’m going to reach in my purse and grab money.

  My money.

  I pulled my wallet from my purse and thumbed through the bills as if I were looking for something small enough to give her. In actuality, I was looking for a $20 dollar bill, and I knew I only had one. The remaining $1’s and $5’s littering my wallet made me look and feel as if I was on top of the world.

  In all respects, I was.

  “Here,” I said as I pulled the $20 bill from my wallet.

  “Are you new in town, Hun? I haven’t seen you in here before,” she asked as she accepted the money.

  “Yes ma’am. I just moved here a week or so ago. I couldn’t find a job in Wichita, and was offered one here at a restaurant. So, here I am. I’m Sydney,” I said.

  “I’m Gladys. Well, it’s nice to have you come in. We try to keep our prices down, but I can’t get as cheap as those places in Wichita. But we’re sure convenient,” she said as she opened the register.

  As she handed me the change, she smiled. “So, which restaurant are you working at?”

  “Randy’s Rib Shack,” I responded.

  She raised her hand to her mouth and leaned over the counter as if telling me a secret, “Randy doesn’t own it anymore. Some hoodlum bought it, but he kept the name.”

  I wanted to shove the groceries to the floor and tell her to fuck off. Having grown up in a small town, I knew small towns were generally filled with people who had far less exposure than larger cities. The lack of experience with various races, religions, beliefs, and cultures caused many people in small cities to turn their noses up at anyone who even appeared to be different. As much as I wanted to scream, in my opinion it was always better to educate than argue. I swallowed heavily, tapped my toe on the floor lightly, and smiled.

  “I certainly didn’t see him as that. He was very kind to me. I was unemployed and homeless. He offered me a job, gave me a ride here from Wichita and offered me one of his rental properties for free, or at least until I could pay him,” I said as I reached for the bag of groceries.

  She covered her mouth with her hand as her eyes widened. “You don’t say?”

  No, actually I just did.

  I smiled and nodded my head. “He was very sweet.”

  She lowered her hand from her mouth tilted her head slightly. “Well, George said he rode motorcycles with that group of hoodlums down south. There’s a bunch of ‘em over there at that old warehouse Torn Mattern used to own, and they all look dirty.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I have no idea. All I know is he was very nice to me, and he was far from dirty. Actually, he was clean cut, and had a military haircut. Oh, and I caught a glimpse of a Marine tattoo on his arm, so I asked him about it. It seems he’s fought in the war for this country, they awarded him a few medals for bravery as well.”

  She leaned back and scrunched her brow slightly. “You don’t say. Well, George was a Marine. Those guys are as thick as thieves, you know. I’ll have to pass the word. Well, Sydney, it was nice talking to you.”

  “Likewise,” I said.

  After I walked the three blocks home, I used my peanut butter, my bread, my knife, and my plate to make the best peanut butter sandwich I’d ever eaten. After I finished eating, I took a shower, brushed my teeth, and relaxed on the bed
I was so graciously provided by one of the Sinners. As I stared up at the ceiling and waited for the sleep fairy to take me away, I thanked God.

  For hoodlums like Toad.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  TOAD

  I had been sitting on my bike outside the back door of the restaurant waiting for the lunch rush to end. Junior and I had a long talk about his eating habits, and as a result I had changed the rules for all employees. The new allowance was one sandwich of their choice, one side dish, and as much as they wanted to drink per 8 hour shift, free. I had my doubts about Junior adhering to the rules, and I wanted to catch him in the act of eating lunch. Generally he ate lunch around 1:30, and I hoped to stop in and find him eating. If I didn’t get to the bottom of my steadily increasing meat costs, I was going to go out of business.

  I raised my leg over the back of the bike, locked the ignition, and walked to the back door. I gripped the door handle lightly, held it in my hand and pressed my ear against the door. The faint sound of whistling was all I heard. Just as I had hoped, Junior was either eating or cleaning the kitchen. I twisted the handle and yanked the door open.

  Junior turned to face me, his eyes opened to an almost comical width, and his mouth agape. In front of him on the prep table sat a plate of various meats stacked ten or twelve inches high. Beside the meat was what appeared to be the upper and lower portion of the bun we used to make sandwiches. My experience in the few years I had owned the restaurant told me the plate of meat probably weighed three pounds. Our typical small sandwich was to include 4 ounces of meat, and the large 6 ounces. This wasn’t a sandwich or a meal, it was a family feast.

  “Gorgeous day, Junior. What’s going on?” I asked as I stepped into the kitchen.

  “Just cleaned the kitchen and I’s going to eat me some lunch, Mr. Toad. Worked me up a powerful hunger, we was busier’n a bunch of bees at lunchtime,” he responded.

  I stepped a little closer. As I glanced at the plate and inventoried the meat, Junior walked over and picked up the plate, whistling the entire time.

  “Do you remember our talk about the eating? How it was dipping into profits?” I asked.

  He nodded his head as he reached for the plate. “Yes sir, Mr. Toad. I remember it clear as a bell.”

  I shook my head and tried not to laugh. “Well, if you remember it clear, why don’t you explain to me what you’re eating for lunch?”

  He looked down at the plate he held, twisted it and tilted it as if looking to make sure he was holding what he’d prepared. As he glanced upward, he smiled. “A sandwich, Mr. Toad.”

  I widened my eyes. “That’s a sandwich?”

  “Sure nuff is, Mr. Toad,” he said.

  Although I tried not to, I chuckled slightly. “Junior, that’s not a sandwich. A sandwich is two pieces of bread with meat in the middle.”

  He looked down at the plate for a long second. As he shifted his gaze to meet mine, he widened his eyes. “Zactly what we got right here, Mr. Toad. It’s sure nuff two pieces of bread and some meat. I can’t get it in the middle like you say, ‘cause the dag nabbed thing always falls over. It’s tough to stack it up that high without droppin’ it on the floor.”

  “Junior, if you stacked that meat up on the bun, it’d be three fucking feet high,” I said.

  He nodded his head. “That’s zactly what I’m sayin’ Mr. Toad. A three footer’d fall over fo sho. So, I’s using the brain God give me to lay it down flat so we don’t have us a meat wreck.”

  It was all I could do to keep from laughing. “A meat wreck?”

  “Yessir, Mr. Toad. That’s when she all falls over on the floor. A meat wreck. It’s just like a train wreck, but with meat. So to keep from havin’ em, I flatten my sandwich out,” he explained as he waved his hand over the plate.

  Still standing beside the prep table with the plate in his hands, Junior stood and grinned. I motioned toward his plate with my right hand. “What all’s on that plate Junior? Just what have you got there?”

  He looked down at the plate and recited every type of meat we sold. “There a little bit of the pulled pork, some sliced brisket, some chopped brisket ends, a slice or two of that brown sugar smoked ham, a little chicken, got me a couple slices of turkey, and some of them ribs. Oh, and there’s a few of them hot links down there, but they’s hidin’ under the rest. And the bun. The bun makes it a sandwich, Mr. Toad.”

  Junior appeared to have gained twenty pounds since I’d seen him a week prior. Easily pushing four hundred plus pounds, he was huge. Without a doubt, at his size he needed to eat considerably more than most to simply stay alive. I shook my head and smiled. “Looks like a fine sandwich Junior, just try to keep it down to one a day. No nibbling on the side.”

  “I’ll do me just that. One a day, and no nibblin’. And thank you Mr. Toad, I takes me some pride in my work.”

  “Well it shows,” I said.

  I couldn’t bear to watch him eat the mess on his plate. I glanced around the spotless kitchen, down at the well cleaned floor, and recalled the condition of the kitchen before I hired Junior. It was a catastrophic mess. If Junior was nothing else, he was prideful and clean.

  “Have a good day, Junior. I’m going to go fuck me some bitches,” I said.

  Junior looked up from his plate as he pulled a stool to the edge of the prep table. “Mr. Toad, my momma says your tallywhacker’s gonna fall off if you keep on with those women like you do. Offer she made still stands for goin’ to church with us. She says that’s the only place for a man to meet a good woman; in the church before God.”

  “Appreciate it Junior. I’ll think on it,” I said.

  “You do that, Mr. Toad,” he said as he sat down.

  As I turned toward the door, I realized I had made zero progress for the day. Slowly I sauntered toward my motorcycle. Although I felt a slight desire to go by and check on Sydney, I decided I really had no right to do so. Having provided a place to stay and a job gave me no privilege to stop in and see her, no matter how much I wanted to. There was something about her attitude, gorgeous looks, and take no bullshit personality that not only intrigued me, but provided me with comfort. It was almost as if I felt spending time with her would allow her gratuitous nature and strong will to rub off on me. Knowing seeing her without an invitation could seem creepy, I began to consider what other options I might have.

  Sometimes I felt having nothing I was required to do during the day, while most all of the other Sinners worked, was more of a curse than a blessing. As I relaxed into the seat of the bike and turned on the ignition, it dawned on me it was Thursday, and my new cams should be in.

  Now I had something to do; modifying my bike, which would hopefully allow me to beat Otis in our next race. As far as I was concerned, nothing was more important than beating Otis. Not only in my eyes, but in the eyes of most of the Sinners, Otis was somewhat of a God. It seemed he was incapable of doing wrong. Although Axton was always willing to listen, sometimes he held a strong opinion and came off as a bigger prick than he really was. Otis, on the other hand, was always reasonable and willing to discuss anything at length with any of the club brothers. He never seemed to lose his cool or come unraveled, regardless of what life tossed his direction.

  Hopefully after I got my new cams in my motor, I could change all of that. Nothing would satisfy me more than beating Otis in a race and having him explode with anger. Highly unlikely to happen, but it would prove to me he was just as human as the rest of us.

  Either way, I was ready to find out.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  SYDNEY

  Being placed in foster care at the age of four wasn’t something I wished for as a three-year-old child. Having been shipped around from foster home to foster home and never being adopted caused me to feel unwanted and alone. Eventually, we ended up in a permanent foster home, but I never felt as if we were part of the family, because we weren’t adopted. The father a minister, and the mother a codependent housewife, the home was an extremely
strict one. Although we weren’t the only foster children in the home, we were the youngest.

  The biological children of the couple were treated differently, and the foster children were considered outcasts. The father kept the cupboards locked, and I remember always being hungry. The older siblings, be them in foster care or the biological children of the parents, raped the younger children; me included. I didn’t tell my brother until we were out of the home and adults - for fear of losing what little family we had. As I grew older and found out I had aunts and uncles who could have adopted us - but didn’t - the sadness I felt was immeasurable. I remember at the time feeling as if my suspicions of not being wanted by anyone were confirmed. As an adult, I became grateful my brother and I were never split up, and I was able to at least grow up with one member of my blood family by my side.

  As children, we were as inseparable as two orphaned siblings could be. As adults, we were equally as close, but his involvement in the MC separated us more and more as time passed. Eventually, I saw him less frequently, and came to understand the difference between being without parents and actually being alone. For me, being alone as an early adult was extremely difficult. As a result, I attached myself to any man who would give me the time of day, and always kept my mouth shut for fear of them leaving if I chose to oppose their thoughts, ideas, or principles.

  In the end, I had four failed relationships, a tendency to attach myself to abusive males, severe codependency, and daddy issues. If I had an advantage over all of the other fucked up women on this earth, it was that I was knowledgeable of my deficiencies, weaknesses, and patterns of behavior. There is not a day that passes where I don’t ask myself the same questions I have since adolescence.