HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  He leaned away from the table and slid to the end of the booth, waiting on my answer.

  I shook my head. “I guess not.”

  He coughed a light laugh. “You guess not?”

  “Well, that’s what we do for women, we drink beer that tastes like it came out of the ass of an elephant. It’s instinctual behavior for a man to try and impress them. Drinking the shitty beer is the result.”

  I leaned back in the booth and stared down at my boots. As I shifted my gaze upward, I attempted to salvage my manhood. “I wasn’t trying to impress her. I just agreed to try the beer.”

  “Keep telling yourself that,” he said. “Where were we earlier?”

  “Axton and Avery,” I muttered as I turned toward the approaching waitress and grinned.

  “Oh, yeah. How much of it’s because of her and how much is because he’s getting laid. I’d say part of it’s her and part of it’s the fact he’s happy for the first time in his life. None of it’s because he’s getting laid. Slice don’t give half a fuck about sex. Avery’s a good damned woman. As far as Ol’ Ladies go, she’s as good as it gets.” He paused and turned to face the waitress.

  She smiled and cocked her head to the side. “Hey. You want two more Founders?”

  Otis smiled and shook his head as he slid the two bottles to the edge of the table. “It was all I could do to choke the first one down and my buddy couldn’t even finish his. How about a couple Bud’s?”

  “Bottle or draft?” she asked.

  “Bottle,” Otis said.

  She grinned. “Be right back.”

  Otis shifted his gaze to meet mine and raised one eyebrow. “See?”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Well, I told her mine tasted like shit, and you couldn’t finish yours. She didn’t respond with oh, wow I can’t believe that, everyone loves them, or that’s hard to believe. She didn’t say shit, because she knew they were nasty fuckers. Now, let’s get back to what we were talking about, women. We all want a woman. I don’t give a shit who you are. A man wants a woman in his life. Some of us don’t want to admit it, and others keep ‘em at bay like they’re trying to preserve their feelings or keep from hurting ‘em. Deep down inside we want one that suits us, Slice included. Hell, he’d been ten or fifteen years without a woman, and I ain’t so sure, but I think he’d gone the same amount of time without even getting any pussy. That motherfucker hated women. Look at him now.” He paused as the waitress walked up with the two bottles of beer.

  “Here you go,” she said as she placed the beers on the table.

  “Appreciate it,” Otis said with a nod.

  As he slid a beer across the table he grinned. “Answer this. Don’t look at her or turn around, just look at me and answer. What color is the waitress’ fingernail polish?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Fuck I don’t know.”

  “Grey. Eye color?” he asked.

  “Got no idea,” I responded as I grabbed the beer.

  “Green with brown specs. I bet without turning around you don’t even know her hair color,” he said.

  “Blonde,” I responded.

  “Good guess. It’s dark brown. You know for a motherfucker who pays attention to everything around him, you sure as fuck aren’t paying attention to her. Want to know why?” he asked as he raised the bottle of beer to his lips.

  “Sure,” I responded as I took a drink.

  “Right now she doesn’t interest you beyond the normal instinct you have to try and impress her. Right now, you’ve got that cute little bitch, Sydney, on your mind,” he said.

  “Bullshit,” I snapped back

  Otis slid to the back of his seat. “You’re full of shit. For the first half hour we were here, you mentioned her four times.”

  “For fucks sake, I mentioned her once,” I said.

  Otis shook his head, released the bottle of beer from his grasp, and raised his fist in the air. As he spoke, he extended his index finger. “We no more than sat down and you said she made the best tea you’ve ever tasted.”

  He extended his middle finger. “Later, after we’d talked for fifteen minutes about whether or not beating a man’s ass was a sin, you said she was a runner and asked if I thought she had a good body.”

  He extended his ring finger. “Then, right after we finished the first beer, that fucking apple cider bullshit you made me drink, you told me about Junior’s rib, taking her to the bar, and that she had a great personality and was always happy. Then you started asking about Avery and Axton, and right before I went to piss…”

  He extended his pinkie. “You said she was a natural on the back of your bike, and bragged on how well she rode back from Wichita and how well she rode to the restaurant.”

  “That was one long conversation not four separate ones,” I said.

  “Again, tell yourself whatever you want to, brother. You know…” He paused and situated himself in the back of the booth, against the wall. “Here in the last week or so, something with you changed. I ain’t trying to say it’s Sydney, because it might not be. Maybe it was that trashy assed Sloan, I don’t know. But something happened. Slice and I were talking about it yesterday. You know I asked you to come in here to have a few beers. I did it because I wanted to talk to you about this. As soon as we sat down, you started asking about Slice and his Ol’ Lady. How he’d changed and seemed happy…”

  “Hold on, motherfucker,” I grumbled.

  Otis held his hand in the air. “You hold on. Let me finish what I’m trying to say.”

  I shifted my body lengthwise in the seat of the booth, facing the bar instead of facing Otis. As I stared blankly at the bar, I lifted my boots into the seat in front of me and leaned against the back of the booth.

  “Whatever. Go ahead,” I said as I grabbed my beer and relaxed into the seat.

  “You know Toad, normally you’d be a hard motherfucker for someone to figure out. You fill your day with dumb shit to do. You don’t really have anything you have to do, but you’re all over the fucking place. Going here. Going there. You stay busy doing nothing. With the fellas you laugh and joke and you’re an all-around good motherfucker to be around. But you have these mood swings. Slice and I always figured it was the war. When you get mad, you get mad. I’ve seen you beat a motherfucker’s ass a damned sight more than it needed beat on more than one occasion. I’m the biggest motherfucker in the club, but who’s been in the most fights in the last five years that you’ve been around?”

  I looked over my left shoulder and raised my eyebrows as I tipped up my beer and took a sip. I knew he would tell me, but I lacked a little interest in hearing where the conversation was headed.

  “You. Without a fucking doubt. You’ve probably been in ten or twelve fights in five years. Actual fights. Not bullshit or shoving a motherfucker, but fighting. Closest motherfucker to you, short of Slice, has probably been in one or two. I ain’t callin’ you out, I’m just saying you’ve normally got a lot of anger inside of you, brother. Something. And whatever it is, you normally run from it. Hell, even the women you fuck with, you don’t just fuck ‘em. You choke ‘em and slap ‘em and tie ‘em up. I know you ain’t raping these bitches, but you’re like a fucking sadist or something. I mean really brother, who wraps a bitches head in Saran Wrap and fucks her? I’m guessing it’s a short fucking list,” he said.

  He lifted his beer, took a long drink, and continued. “So again, normally you fight with yourself. You know; the entire good and evil thing. You always want to do what’s right, what’s justified, and what’s good in the eyes of God in your opinion. Somehow, you justify your actions. And I guess what I’m saying is that here recently, something’s changed, or it’s damned sure changing. It’s not that you’re getting soft, but you’re acting different. You gave Sydney the house. You said you bought Junior a truck, trailer, and lawn equipment. And as far as I know, you ain’t fucked anyone since you took Sloan to Corn Dog’s place; or at least you ain’t said anything about it if you have,”
he hesitated and shrugged his shoulders slightly.

  I shook my head and shifted my gaze to my boots. As I studied the laces, I began to feel uneasy. I took another sip of my beer. My eyes began to feel itchy. I blinked a few times and took another sip of beer. I didn’t realize anyone could see a difference in me, but if they could, maybe it was…

  I stared down at my boot laces, realizing I was roughly one breath away from snapping.

  “I’ll take that as a no. It just confirms what I was thinking and why I wanted to come here and talk. So anyway, the week or so you’ve been a little more concerned with what you’re doing. You’re being more of a do-gooder, asking questions about what people think, even arguing with Slice about a woman’s place in a man’s heart. So, did something happen? Is the war gettin’ to you? Brother, if you need to take some time and go to the VA for therapy, or whatever it is, you know you can talk to me, Toad. It’ll stay here.” He motioned toward me with his hand and then pointed to himself.

  I looked over my shoulder, shifted my gaze to meet his, and opened my mouth. As much as I wanted to speak, I knew if I did, I’d lose my composure. The entire thing just seemed childish. To talk to one of the fellas about it would make me seem weak, incapable, and unable to effectively act as their Sergeant at Arms and protect them.

  I glanced down at my boots.

  After a long moment of staring at my boots, I looked up and nodded my head once. I felt as if I needed to say something, but my throat told me otherwise. I swallowed heavily as I felt my eyes well with tears. I shifted my gaze slightly to the left.

  “Don’t matter what it is brother, we can get through this,” Otis said.

  I swallowed a lump the size of a golf ball and stared. “I uhhm. I was riding out by the lake. He’d been shot. Twice. Well, actually three times. I tried to save him. I really fucking tried. I uhhm. I did everything I could. It was…”

  I paused and took a sip of beer. My eyes felt like they were on fire, but I knew better than to touch them. For Christ’s sake, I was a grown man, and I knew I should be able to do this without losing control of myself. I gripped the cool bottle in my hands and continued.

  I shook my head. “It was the other day, maybe a week or so ago, I don’t know.”

  I hesitated and nodded my head repeatedly, knowing I was right. At the time, I dismissed it, but it had been eating on me ever since.

  One fucking nibble at a time.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  Still staring down at my boots, I raised my beer and drained the last small sip from the bottle. My mouth felt as if I had swallowed a handful of sawdust. I looked up and nodded my head once. He asked, and I needed to be a man and tell him what happened. I gazed down at my boots, inhaled a choppy breath, and responded.

  “It was a puppy. An innocent little fucking puppy,” I said.

  “What? A puppy?” he asked.

  I nodded my head and attempted to swallow, but the dryness in my throat prevented it. I shifted my gaze toward Otis, opened my mouth to speak, and instead began to softly cry.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  TOAD

  One week earlier.

  Nothing on this earth could compare to the freedom I felt while riding. If there was one thing people associated with living in the United States of America, it was freedom. The only time I felt free of all of life’s constraints was when I was on the open road. Those who have never ridden would never know, and those who had would never find anything to replace it.

  I rolled the throttle back and listened to the sound of the unrestrained exhaust bellow from the rear of the bike. As the warmth of the mid-summer sun beat down on my face, the unoccupied stretch of highway begged me to explore it. I unconsciously inhaled a breath, almost tasting the prairie hay the team of kids in the pasture on my right were picking up from the freshly cut meadow. As they neatly stacked the hay on a trailer, one of them looked in my direction. I pulled in my clutch and revved my motor.

  Future Sinner, no doubt.

  As I came into a wide sweeping corner, I leaned the bike deep left, dragging to the toe of my boot on the pavement as the force of the aggressive turn pushed against me. A little more throttle, and out of the turn I shot, slightly faster than I had entered.

  Fuck yes, this is living.

  To my right I noticed a group of crows gathered on the side of the road. Two or three were in the street, in my lane. As I downshifted and slowed to a safe speed, I noticed two down in the ditch. More than likely, I suspected a farmer or unsuspecting motorist had hit a deer, and the crows were picking at the flesh. As hitting a crow on a bike at 80 miles an hour would be the end of my riding career, I pulled in the clutch and revved the throttle to scare the birds from the side of the road. Although the noise seemed to shift their attention, it did little to scare them from whatever it was that had captured their interest. As I slowly passed, I stared down in the ditch out of curiosity.

  I twisted the throttle slightly and began to speed up.

  Was that a bloody dog?

  I applied the brake, turned around, and pulled alongside the gathered crows. After kicking down the kickstand and shifting the bike in neutral, I stepped off and walked over to the side of the ditch. As the crows reluctantly fluttered a few yards away, I peered down into the ditch.

  A small Pit Bull puppy attempted to lift his head. Exhausted, covered in blood, and clearly dying, he held his head an inch off the ground for a few seconds before collapsing. I hustled down into the deep ditch and stared down in disbelief at what I saw. Covered in dried blood and still bleeding, the poor puppy appeared to be close to death. As I carefully turned his body to inspect him, I noticed one bullet wound entered his shoulder and exited his upper back. Another bullet wound in his hind quarters appeared to not have an exit wound.

  Fucking heartless cocksuckers.

  His body, face, and legs were covered in old cuts and scars, undoubtedly from fighting. More than likely he had either lost a fight, and the owner was disappointed with his performance, or he wasn’t as aggressive as the owner had hoped. Either way, someone had shot him twice and left him for dead.

  “Hold on you little devil dog. I’ll get you some help,” I said.

  I turned toward my bike. A quick recollection of what I had in my saddlebags turned up nothing to wrap him in. Frustrated and knowing time was of the essence; I quickly removed my cut and flipped it over my shoulder. After reaching down in the ditch and carefully picking up the pup, I ran across the highway to my bike.

  Still holding the bleeding pup, I unlatched the left saddlebag and peered inside. A small tool kit was all that lay inside the bag. Cradling him in my arm, I grabbed my cut and wrapped the dog inside the leather vest.

  “I’m wrapping you up in this cut, it’ll keep you from going into shock. And although I don’t know for sure, I’m thinking it’s got special powers. Hold on, I’m going to get you to the vet. You’ll be just fine. After he gets you stitched up, you can be this old Devil Dog’s little devil pup,” I said out loud as I lowered him into the enclosure.

  I carefully placed the pup in the saddlebag and hopped on the bike. The closest competent veterinary office was in Wichita, almost fifteen miles away. I knew if the highway was as unpopulated at this short stretch, I could possibly be there in eight to ten minutes. I looked over my shoulder and into the bag. The pup blinked his eyes a few times and then they fell closed.

  Devil looks after his own, little man. You’re my little devil pup, and I’m a former Devil Dog. Hold on, ‘cause I ain’t going the speed limit.

  Ten minutes or so of speeds in excess of 100 miles per hour, a few traffic signals I didn’t stop for, and an all-out run down one of Wichita’s major streets at 60 miles per hour, and I was in the parking lot at the vet’s office. I kicked down the kickstand, reached into the bag, and cradled the puppy in my arms.

  “I’ve got a puppy, he’s got two gunshot wounds!” I shouted as I approached the receptionist’s desk.

  “Oh, uh
hm. Give him here,” the receptionist said as she held her arms outstretched.

  I handed her the bloody pup. As she curled her arms to her chest, I realized I had just handed her my cut.

  “I can’t let you take that cut, hold on,” I half-shouted as I pulled off my bloody shirt.

  Standing shirtless, I reached toward her and lifted the pup from her arms. After removing him from my cut, I carefully wrapped him in my shirt. As I handed the whimpering puppy back to the startled girl, I forced a smile.

  “I’ll be right here,” I said as I pointed toward the waiting area.

  After filling out the necessary forms, waiting for thirty minutes with three angry caged cats, and answering two mid-twenties housewives’ questions about the life of a biker, I began to wander through the office and look at dog collars and tags. A one inch wide camouflaged collar with a quick release fastener caught my eye.

  “This is about the right size for him, isn’t it?” I asked as I held it in the air for the receptionist to see.

  She smiled and nodded her head.

  “Does it snap apart like this to keep him from being choked?” I asked as I pulled the collar apart.

  She nodded her head. “It’s a safety collar. If they get hung up on something, it’ll break loose, and keep them from choking.”

  We’ll get you this one, I don’t want you choking on anything.

  I nodded my head once and looked around the rack for anything else which looked better. I wanted something that would fit the pup’s aggressive stance and both of our personalities.

  “Are you the gentlemen who brought in the Pit Bull Terrier mix?”

  Holding the collar in my hand, I turned to face the voice. A man in his early forties was wearing a lab coat and holding a clipboard. His face was covered in hair and he smelled like chemicals.

  “Sure was. How’s he doing?” I asked.

  “I did everything I could for him. He didn’t make it,” he sighed. “I’m sorry.”