HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  What would be so bad to cause a murder/suicide by our parents?

  What did I do wrong?

  Why did no one want me?

  My brother’s absence in my life, and knowing he would never be free from prison caused me a tremendous amount of grief; so I did my best not to think about it. Inevitably, I did have thoughts of his imprisonment, and in a short period of time I was filled with sorrow knowing I would live my entire adult life without a family member by my side. I do believe, considering all things, I am a strong woman and I do a reasonable job of masking my true feelings and faults. Having a sense of humor is the best gift God ever gave me.

  “Are these racks big?” he asked.

  “Huge,” I responded as I extended my outstretched arms.

  “How many ribs on a rack?”

  “Eight,” I responded.

  The man questioning me appeared to be in his early sixties. He had explained he was from out of town and was working at the refinery twenty miles away. He had come to the restaurant for rib night because racks of ribs were on sale for $10.99. His concern was the size of the rack, and more importantly, how many ribs were included.

  “Eight? There ain’t eight ribs on any cow I ever seen. How can you call eight ribs a full rack?” the man complained.

  “Yes, eight. The owner raises the cattle outside of town at a special top-secret ranch. They’re genetically altered to have eight huge ribs instead of thirteen reasonably sized ones. As long as he continues to breed eight ribbed cattle to eight ribbed cattle, he has an endless supply of racks of ribs that are massive. The only downfall, if you can call it one, is there are only eight ribs to a rack,” I said straight faced.

  “No shit? Ain’t never heard of such a thing. These cows are big ribbed fuckers, are they?” he asked.

  I nodded my head and tried to keep from smiling. “Sure are. But something about the genetic alterations makes the meat orange and kind of fishy tasting. We slap enough barbeque sauce on ‘em you should never notice though.”

  He narrowed his gaze and wrinkled his nose as he looked up from the menu. “Fishy tasting?”

  “Most say they taste like barbequed Halibut, I don’t know. I won’t eat ‘em personally,” I said.

  He sat and stared as if he’d just witnessed a train wreck.

  “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself. I was kidding. Our rack of ribs includes eight beef ribs. At least here that’s a rack. And you’re right, cows have thirteen ribs, but depending on the butcher, some are left on the shoulder, and the little ribs at the end are cut off and used as riblets. You don’t want those little guys anyway.” I paused and twisted my mouth to the side.

  “I tell you what. It’s not policy, but I’ve worked here long enough to take this risk without fear of losing the bet. Order the rack of ribs. If you finish the entire rack, two sides, the Texas Toast, and want more, I’ll give you as many as you can eat afterward for free.”

  I shrugged my shoulders and waited for his response.

  “But you was kiddin’ about the fishy thing, right?” he asked.

  I grinned. “I was, I’m sorry.”

  “Damn, you scared me with that fish deal. Yeah, sounds fair, bring ‘em,” he said as he handed me the menu.

  “Sides?” I asked as I pointed along the list of side orders on the menu.

  “Beans and slaw,” he responded.

  I shifted my eyes to the man accompanying him. “And for you?”

  “Gimme the same deal?” he said with a laugh.

  I nodded my head. “Beans and slaw?”

  “Sounds good,” he said.

  I scribbled down the order and pulled the page from the pad. “You won’t be disappointed. Our ribs are huge. I’ll have ‘em here as soon as they’re ready.”

  Both men smiled and nodded their heads.

  Although I had never waited tables when I started, my small amount of experience taught me if I was polite and interacted with my customers, they were appreciative of my personality and humor, and rewarded me in a reasonable tip. The customers themselves were a real pleasure of my work. Either by design or sheer luck, there were never really any problem customers in the establishment, even at the bar. Although I couldn’t be certain, I suspected it was because Toad was the owner. He appeared to me to be the type of person a man wouldn’t want to cross. As I walked into the kitchen, I grinned toward the other pleasure of my job, Junior.

  “Two full. Beans and slaw on each,” I said as I pinned the order to the carousel.

  “Comin’ right up, Miss Sydney,” Junior said.

  In the short period of time I had worked at the restaurant, I had talked to Junior quite a bit. After finding out he grew up in a home with no father, I felt a little closer to him. His mother had raised him, three brothers and sisters, and two other children he called his siblings. In reality, he had three siblings and the other two children, the youngest, were his cousins. All told, there were six children, Junior included. They ranged in age from 6 to 19, Junior being the oldest. I admired the fact he still lived at home and worked for the sole purpose to provide for his family.

  “Busy night, huh?” I asked as I grabbed a plate of ribs for another table.

  “Sure nuff, Miss Sydney. Busy as a bunch of bees, we are. Makes the time pass real quick like, you know. I like it when we’s busy. When we slow down, I get bored after I clean the kitchen. When I’m bored, I want to eat me some of Mr. Toads barbeque. If’n I eat like I used to, Mr. Toad’s gonna put that big boot in the middle of my black ass. So busy is good,” he said.

  “I still haven’t had my sandwich for the day, Junior. You can have it later, how’s that?” I asked as I pushed my butt against the kitchen door.

  “I could sure nuff use it, Miss Sydney. I’m a feelin’ faint,” he said as he raised his hand to his forehead.

  I rolled my eyes and pushed my way through the door. As I walked through the dining area and toward the gentleman who had ordered the ribs, I passed the table of the two refinery workers and paused. As I held the plate under his nose, the man’s eyes widened.

  “Good God. Now that’s a rack of ribs,” he said as he reached for the plate.

  I slapped his wrist with my free hand. “Sorry, these aren’t yours. I just wanted to show you what you’re up against.”

  “Think I’ll manage just fine,” he said.

  After dropping off the ribs, it seemed as if the next thirty minutes or so was nothing but delivering food to tables. Again, I had nothing to compare it to, but it seemed taking orders and delivering food came in completely separate waves. After taking half a dozen orders or so, I would be caught up on orders, and then the delivery would start. After the delivery of food to each of the tables, dropping off the bills came in another wave, and then cleaning the tables. In fractionally more than a week, I felt I had the system down to a sheer science.

  I glanced at the table of the two refinery workers. Both men were leaned against their chair backs talking. Each of their plates still had what appeared to be two untouched ribs. A precursory glance around the restaurant produced no one needing a refill on drinks or napkins. I grinned as I walked toward the table.

  “So, how many more ribs you want?” I asked as I flopped down in the empty chair.

  “Shit. I can’t finish these. Biggest fuckin’ ribs I ever seen,” he moaned.

  “Can we get a doggie bag or a box or something?’ the second man asked.

  “Sorry. We take the uneaten ribs back to the kitchen and serve them up all over again. It helps keeps cost down,” I said as I stood.

  Both men stared as if in shock.

  “Just kidding,” I said. “Can I get you anything else? Other than a couple boxes, that is?”

  “You know,” the first man sai. “We eat out every damned night. Have for what, John? Ten years?”

  The second man nodded his head as he picked his teeth with a toothpick.

  “We work turnarounds in the refineries. Have for a decade or so. After work, we eat out.
I’m from Texas, but I’ve eaten in restaurants every fuckin’ day for the last ten years. Hell, from Pennsylvania to Wyoming, and from Texas to South Dakota. Anyway…” He paused and narrowed his gaze as he studied my nametag. “…Sydney. I just want to tell ya, you’re the best damned waitress I ever had.”

  I smiled, thanked him, and walked back to the kitchen to get boxes for his ribs. His comment made me feel so good, so excited, that I literally felt as if I was going to vomit. I’d never been so excited or felt so good about doing anything in my life.

  I often wished I could have a second chance to live my childhood. There were so many things I wished I could do over. The last few weeks of my life, however, seemed nothing short of perfect. I was beginning to feel as if all of my regrets of yesterday were slowly being washed away by my gratitude for what I was fortunate enough to have today.

  After I dropped off the boxes and exchanged a few niceties, I made my rounds cleaning tables. A few trips to the kitchen with dirty dishes, followed by Junior’s jokes, and I was back out in the dining area. Sadly, the two refinery workers were gone. Although he said they would be back the next week, I had hoped to say goodbye. As I reached for the bill holder, I noticed the receipt was under the holder, not inside. I picked up the holder and looked down at the credit card receipt. Under the space marked tip, he had written the number 0 and placed a line through it. I had learned this was not uncommon for people who left cash for a tip. I opened the bill holder to drop the receipt inside. A crisp one hundred dollar bill was inside with the words, Best waitress ever. Thanks Sydney, written across the top.

  As I felt my eyes begin to well with tears, I slapped the holder closed and looked around the restaurant at the diminishing crowd. There was no doubt in my mind; I would never spend the $100 bill. I’d frame it for sure. When I started the job at Toad’s restaurant, I wondered how long I would last. As time passed, and certainly at that particular moment, I knew one thing for sure.

  I was where I belonged.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  TOAD

  A man’s character can almost always be determined by two things: the cleanliness of his belongings, and how he treats animals.

  I knelt down and looked at my freshly detailed bike. Not much was more satisfying to me than having my bike free of any road debris, bugs, or water spots. No doubt it would be filthy in another week, but at least for now, it was gorgeous; gorgeous and ready for Otis with a new set of cams. As I admired the black paint and glistening chrome, my mind wandered to thoughts of Sydney.

  As much as I wanted to stop by and see her for the last few days, I had fought the urge and refrained from doing so. The sensible side of me told me a girl like her would have very little interest in a man like me. Regardless of her knowledge of bikers, understanding of clubs, and the fact her brother was doing time in the pen for his club, she seemed to me to be a person who wanted more out of life than a good hard fucking.

  Generally speaking, I was a good judge of character. Although I would typically look at a woman like her and wish she was different than my opinion or expectation, I found myself looking at Sydney and hoping I was in fact correct in my assumptions. The thought of her being wholesome and basically off limits appealed to me more than the thought of her being otherwise.

  If any one thing bothered me about her it was that I found myself thinking differently about her than I was accustomed to. For me, not wanting to fuck a woman was something that hadn’t happened since childhood. Sydney intrigued me; her homelessness, her attitude, and her savvy personality alone were enough to make me want to know more about her. Her living on the street, in itself, made me want to sit and talk to her about her experiences. My not-so-typical feelings about not wanting to have her succumb to my sexual wishes provided even more reason for intrigue. All things considered, I was beginning to feel I was spending more time thinking about Sydney for some reason or another than I spent thinking about anything else.

  As I gazed at my bike and fought the urge to ride to her house, the sound of an approaching Harley caused me to stand and peer over my shoulder. Biscuit was coming down the street at a rate of speed well in excess of the speed limit. As I began to wonder if he knew which house was mine, the suspension on his bike compressed as he applied heavy brakes. After releasing the brakes and twisting the throttle one last time, he shot into the driveway between where I was standing and my bike.

  “What’s shakin’, motherfucker? You got any Red Bulls around this camp?” he asked as he flipped the ignition off.

  “Don’t fuck with the stuff. Sorry, Brother,” I said. “What’s going on?”

  “Quite a bit, got a minute?” he asked as he stepped off the bike.

  “I got as much time as you need, Brother Biscuit,” I responded as I tossed my polishing rag in my saddlebag.

  “Let’s go inside,” he said as he tossed his head toward the house.

  “So what’s up?” I asked as I followed a few steps behind his brisk walk.

  “Need a beer if you ain’t got any Red Bulls. Fucking ATF, FBI, DEA and every other motherfuckin’ Fed agency paid me a visit. Oh, and the US Marshall’s were with ‘em. Cocksuckers,” he huffed as he stepped onto the porch and reached for the door handle.

  “What the fuck, are you fucking serious?” I snapped back.

  “Sure as fuck am. In the fridge?” he asked as he walked toward the kitchen.

  “Grab me one too,” I said as I sat down at the kitchen table.

  As he sat down and handed me a beer, I attempted to resurrect every gun deal I’d been involved in for the last five years, and if there was anything inherently wrong with them. As I mentally struggled to assemble a spreadsheet in my head, Biscuit began to explain his visit.

  He tipped up his bottle of beer, drank half the bottle in one swallow and slammed the bottle down on the table. “So I was at the house dicking with my bike in the garage, and about four fucking Suburbans come rolling up. Two of the pricks pull in the drive, and the other two behind the drive. I fucking looked up, and the suits start piling out.”

  I widened my eyes, took a drink of beer, and gasped. “What the fuck?”

  “Precisely what I said, I’m tellin’ ya. If there’s two motherfuckers I hate, it’s people who text and drive, and fucking cops. And there ain’t a cop on this earth worse than a fucking Fed. So anyway, I stand up, toss my rag on the seat, and say how’s it hangin’ fellas? One, found out later his name was McCreary, he responds. He says like a hammer. Fuck I couldn’t believe it. So I ask these pricks as their steadily filing into my garage if they’re at the right place. Now this is where it got kinda scary. This McCreary fella looks at me as they’re all gatherin’ around like a bunch of fuckin’ ducks, and he says you’re Biscuit, ain’t ya? You ride with the Sinners, right? We’re at the right place, ain’t we? This is 9310 Shannon Way, ain’t it?” He paused, drank the remaining beer from his bottle, stood and walked to the refrigerator.

  As I sat in a state of shock and waited for him to return, my mind continued to race.

  “So what the fuck did they want?” I asked over my shoulder.

  “Hold up, I’ll get to it, Brother,” he responded as he sat.

  He opened a beer and placed two more in the center of the table.

  “Now I ain’t wearin’ my cut or anything, so it ain’t like these walkin’ turds are readin’ my patches or something. These fuckers are in the know. So, I say let me see some identification. And it’s like a scene from that movie with Tommy Lee Jones, you know the Men in Black movie? They all yank out ID wallets and flash ‘em at me, and that’s when McCreary hands me his business card. Card says he’s the Special Agent in Charge. If you ask me, there wasn’t nothin’ special about any of them pricks. Anyway, so that’s when they start askin’ questions.” He wiped the sweat from his brow, downed half the bottle of beer, and exhaled as he gazed down at the floor.

  I took another drink of beer and leaned into the table. “God damn, Biscuit, get to the meat of the
story, what were they after?”

  “Well, this little short prick, I didn’t get his name, he’s a DEA or ATF, I don’t remember. He starts in on the bad cop side of things, actin’ all tough. Little fucker’s about 5’-8” and maybe about a buck and a half, and he ain’t wearin’ his government issue black suit. No sir, he’s dressed like you and me. He’s covered in tats, got a two foot long goatee, and about ten ear rings. Little prick steps between McCreary and me and says when was the last time you seen Toad?” he paused nodded his head, and took another drink.

  “Motherfucker. What’d you tell ‘em?” I asked.

  He slapped the table with his hand and chuckled. “Well, that’s what pissed this little bastard off. I said I ain’t seen a toad in a bit, but I was fishin’ the other day and I seen some frogs.”

  “You said that?” I laughed.

  His eyes widened as he took another drink from his bottle. As he rested the bottle on the table, he raised his hand to his chin and began to rub it with his palm, “Them exact words. And get this. Motherfucker looks at McCreary, and McCreary says Cambio Todelli. Toad. When did you see him last? Now fuck, I don’t even know what you’re fuckin’ name is for sure, so I’m shittin’ razor blades at this point, and I look up at the ceiling of the garage and act like I’m thinkin’ real hard, and I look down and nod my head a couple times. I say oh, Toad? Fuck fellas, I seen him just the other day.”

  I shook my head and rolled my eyes. “Fuck me. Was it about the bank?”

  He raised his index finger in the air. “Hold up, almost there, Brother.”

  My insides felt all jumbled, and my mind was going in about ten different directions. As I battled with my nerves, considered what I might have done to deserve a Government investigation, and attempted to drink my beer, Biscuit nonchalantly sipped his beer and held his free hand in the air to silence me.

  After he finished his beer, opened another, and took a sip, he continued, “So he said was it the day of the Rock Road Bank Robbery? Now I look at this McCreary fella and I blink a couple of times and I respond fuck I don’t know, when was the robbery?”