HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  “I’ll get it. Hand me your plate,” he said.

  I handed him my plate, grinned, and did my best to relax. I was a little more excited than I expected I would be. The thought of him meeting my parents made me nervous, happy, and extremely content all at the same time. I had told my parents about him, and was completely truthful regarding who he was, and what he was like.

  Having parents who were not judgmental, open-minded, and ultimately sought only what was in my best interest was a true blessing. As Jackson walked into the dining room, he stared down at his hand as he extended his fingers and counted.

  “8th is a Wednesday. We can leave on the Friday, Saturday, whatever you want,” he said as he sat down.

  “I love you,” I said.

  “Well, I fucking love you too. Just let me know when we’re going,” he said with a nod as he reached for his cup of coffee.

  “I work the Friday before. Maybe if I pack Saturday we could leave Sunday, there’ll be like no traffic at all,” I said.

  “Sunday sounds good, Em,” he responded.

  I stood from my seat, walked to where he sat, and wrapped my arms around his neck as I stood behind him. Nothing could make me happier than spending the rest of my life with him and I looked forward to what each day brought us. I now looked forward to the arrival of Thanksgiving and Christmas, and making a huge meal for him, his friends, and possibly even his sister.

  Although he spoke of his sister often, and went to see her from time to time, he was very protective of her. I hadn’t met her yet, but he assured me I would soon. I realized as she was the only family he ever had that he held her in a different place in his heart than most men held their sisters. In time, I was sure his sister and I would be the best of friends.

  “Now, I remembered about your mother’s birthday, did you remember about today?” he asked.

  I remembered nothing.

  I gazed into the kitchen, rocked back and forth on the balls of my feet, and held him in my arms. As I searched through my mind for any recollection of anything he had told me, he laughed and cleared his throat.

  “Got a club meeting about the Shovelheads, remember? Told ya I’d be gone most all afternoon, if not maybe into tonight,” he explained.

  “Oh, that. Yeah, I remembered,” I lied as I rested my chin against his shoulder

  He reached around, grabbed the back of my neck in his hand, pulled me forward, and almost flipping me onto the table.

  He pressed his mouth against my ear and exhaled a long sigh.

  “You didn’t remember shit,” he whispered.

  “You’re right,” I admitted, finding slight humor in the irony of it all.

  “Well, I’m going to go change the oil in my sled. See if you can remember to be here when I get home tonight,” he said as he stood.

  I narrowed my gaze and pushed my hands against his chest.

  “I’ll always be here when you get home,” I said as I shoved him.

  “And eventually, I’ll always come home,” he said as he leaned forward and puckered his lips.

  Jackson wasn’t a man I had simply fallen in love with, he had become a part of my inner being. No differently than my lungs, heart, kidneys, and liver were all needed to keep me alive, Jackson was now a necessary part of my existence. Without him, I was certain to wither and die.

  With him in my life, I continued to grow, no differently than the rose bush we had planted; becoming slightly closer to heaven with each passing day.

  “Promise?” I asked.

  He nodded his head. “Promise.”

  And if there was one thing that I could always count on with Jackson, it was that he kept his promises.

  No matter what.

  Chapter One Hundred Seventy

  JACK

  September 13th, 2006

  I rarely reached a point that I got drunk, and generally stopped drinking long before I had to worry about it. Not unlike anything else, there always seemed to be a time that whatever I held in my ‘yet bag’ eventually escaped, and the typical day turned into a not-so-typical one. This particular night was one of those nights.

  “Well, it’s pretty fuckin’ sad if you ask me. I ain’t liking it that we’re gonna have to make a stand against these pricks,” Sarge said as he pushed himself away from the bar.

  “We gotta do what we gotta do, Sarge,” I said.

  “I’m gonna piss and get the fuck out of here,” he muttered as he walked toward the bathroom.

  “Fuh…fuh…fuckers ain’t goh…goh…got no fuh…fucking respect, kah…kah…Killer,” Chili said as he finished his drink.

  “Sure don’t,” I agreed.

  The entire MC had met at a bar to discuss the problems with the Shovelheads MC, who had been caught on three separate occasions flying a bottom rocker claiming our territory as theirs. It was undisputed that the territory was ours, and every other club in existence recognized it as such, and chose to set up shop somewhere else. Their blatant disrespect toward our club, my brothers, and our repeated requests to stand down had done the damage, and now it was time they pay the price.

  We voted to provide a final warning, and if they were seen again wearing a lower rocker on their cut, it was agreed we would be in an all-out war.

  When rival clubs declared war, and I hoped we didn’t reach that point, there were no rules. Upon being in each other’s presence, guns, knives, clubs, and chains took the place of fists, and generally a meeting by chance ended up in several deaths.

  I took an oath when I joined the club, and as the club had held up their end of the bargain, I felt I needed to hold up mine. As far as I was concerned, the oath was a promise, and I didn’t intend to ever break a promise. I would do whatever it took to keep my brothers in the club from harm, and to protect and preserve the colors I proudly wore as a fully patched in member of the MC.

  “I’m gonna guh…guh…get the fuh…fuh…fuck outta here,” Chili said as he stood from his seat.

  “Ain’t drunk yet for the night?” I asked, realizing after I had spoken it made very little sense.

  “Not yuh…yuh…yet.” He grinned as he slapped me on the back. “wuh…wuh…wouldn’t be stuh…stuh…stutterin’ if…I wuh…wuh…was.”

  I nodded my head and waved.

  As I gazed blankly at my beer, Sarge slapped his hands on the bar beside me, startling me slightly. As I spun around, he chuckled and slapped his hand against my back.

  “I’m rolling out. There’s a few of the fellas still here playin’ pool, you alright to ride?” he asked.

  “Not even close,” I said over my shoulder.

  “Well, sober up before you get outta here. If you need, there’s a hotel next door,” he said as he pointed toward the door.

  “I’ll sober up,” I said. “Gotta get home to for Em. Waiting…”

  “What can I get you two?” the bartender asked.

  “I’m headin’ out, get him a coffee and a burger, no cheese,” Sarge said as he slapped his hand against my back.

  “Fear the act of no man…” he said as he walked toward the door.

  I raised my finger in the air as I swiveled my stool in his direction, “For the fury of hell is yours…”

  I sat at the bar for some time, and eventually, my coffee and burger arrived. As I reached for the burger, Lucky sat down beside me.

  I glanced over my left shoulder, recognized him, and exhaled a sigh of disgust as I lifted the burger from my plate.

  “So, Killer, what about them ‘heads? Fuckers gonna get what they deserve, huh?” he asked.

  I bit into my burger and shrugged my shoulders. He was part of the reason I was as drunk as I was. Over the course of the afternoon, someone continued to buy me shots of whiskey, and, upon realizing I was inebriated, I asked the bartender who my generous friend was. His response was to point at Lucky, which caused me to stop accepting the shots.

  The effects of the alcohol, however, continued to creep up on me.

  As did their provider.
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br />   He had asked me no less than half a dozen times what I would do if I encountered one of the Shovelheads wearing a lower rocker claiming our territory. My response was the same each time; a shrug of my shoulders and a short stare.

  I figured if he had to ask, he sure didn’t need to know.

  “Lemme get a Budweiser for me and my buddy,” he said as he raised his hand in the air.

  “Ain’t drinking any more. I got to sober up and ride,” I said as I wiped my hands on my napkin.

  “Damn, I drank one to one with you on those shots, Killer. You tellin; me I can out drink ya?” he asked.

  “Gimme that beer,” I said as I waved my hand at the bartender.

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” he said as he slapped the edge of the bar with his open hand.

  “Fine, I’ll drink your beer,” I said, knowing there was no way I’d let him out drink me.

  I finished my burger with hope of it providing a little bit of a buffer between me and the drunkenness developing within me.

  As soon as the beer arrived, I tilted it toward him and drank half the bottle in one swallow. Lucky followed close behind, his mouth running every second it wasn’t swallowing beer.

  “So those fuckers wearing that rocker on their cut, it’s fucking on if we see ‘em, huh?’ he asked.

  I nodded my head and finished my beer.

  I glanced over my shoulder toward the pool table. A few of the members and one of the prospects stood by the table shooting a game of pool.

  “See them fuckers behind ya?” I asked.

  He turned around, gazed toward the pool table for a minute, and turned around.

  “Yeah,” he responded.

  “I’d take a bullet for any of ‘em, and I can’t even tell ya their names right now. That’s how I feel about it,” I said as I turned toward the bar.

  “But what about those fuckin’ Shovelheads?” he asked. “They’re askin’ for it by flyin’ that rocker, huh?”

  “Sure are,” I said.

  “Two more,” he barked at the bartender.

  “I need to quit,” I said, realizing the beer I had just finished was doing me no good whatsoever.

  He cocked one eyebrow and chuckled. “Don’t let me outdrink ya, Killer.”

  “Fuck it, bring it on,” I said as I waved my hand toward the bar.

  “So, why they call ya Killer?” he asked.

  “Why not?” I said.

  “There’s got to be a story,” he said. “I wanna hear it.”

  “Well, I ain’t lookin’ to tell it, so you’ll just have to leave here mad,” I said.

  “Well, when you’re ready to tell it, I’m ready to hear it,” he responded.

  “Duly fuckin’ noted,” I nodded.

  The bartender placed two more beers in front of us. Disgusted at the thought of another drink, I stared at the bottle beside me as if it were poison.

  “So, what if we’re pulling out of here and we see one of them fuckers?” he asked.

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “Shit, I’m gonna out drink the Killer,” Lucky said as he reached for his beer.

  I shook my head, reached for the beer and downed it in one gulp. After spinning my stool half way around, I slid off the edge and stumbled toward the bathroom. As I pissed and realized I was too drunk to even stand, I called Em and told her she could come join me in the hotel for the night, but riding home wasn’t an option.

  I stumbled back to the bar, sat down beside Lucky, and stared at the wall. Relieved my drunken night was coming to a close, and knowing a good night’s sleep would be enough to bring me back to my senses, I gazed down at my boots and hoped the Shovelheads had enough common sense to take Sarge’s final warning as what it was intended to be.

  The last straw.

  “So, seriously, what if one of them fuckers…” Lucky began.

  “Listen you little fucker,” I said as I spun around in my stool. “It’s no fucking secret I don’t like you. But if one of them fuckers came in here with a lower rocker claiming my MC’s territory on it, I’d take a bullet for you. And, if I had to, I’d kill one of ‘em, or all of ‘em for that matter. You know why?”

  His Adam’s apple raised and lowered as he swallowed.

  “Why’s that?” he asked.

  “Because by wearing that rocker, they’re saying they’re willing to kill us. I don’t like it, and yeah, just like kids on the school yard, I wish we could all get along. But some people just don’t play well with others. And I got a few dozen brothers, a sister, and a good god damned Ol’ Lady who expect me to protect ‘em, and if that means taking out one of them cock suckers before they try to kill the ones I love, well so fuckin’ be it,” I growled.

  “Now kick fuckin’ rocks,” I said as I pointed to the door.

  He nodded his head as if he was satisfied my explanation was sufficient. After damned near falling off his barstool, he sauntered to the door, turned, waved, and gave me shitty little grin.

  After Em showed up, we rented a hotel room and shoved my bike in beside the bed.

  As I gazed at my bike and slowly fell off into a drunken sleep, I wondered just what the future for the club might hold, and prayed that the Shovelheads had enough common sense to do what they had to do to prevent any bloodshed.

  Wars are never won, they’re only fought.

  And personally, I preferred to only fight the fights I felt I could win.

  Chapter One Hundred Seventy-One

  EMILY

  October 4th, 2006

  I stood at the stove cooking half a pound of sausage for what I had learned to be Jackson’s second favorite breakfast: a baked egg casserole. A combination of eggs, potatoes, cheese, sausage, mushrooms, onions, bell peppers, flour, and milk, the concoction after cooked was quite satisfying, and easy to eat. As far as he was concerned, it was a meal in itself, and he loved eating the leftovers.

  Only one day stood between us and hitting the road to see my parents. I hadn’t seen them in six months, and although it seemed like a short time, it was in that amount of time Jackson and I had become inseparable.

  I drained the grease from the skillet, added the sausage to the mixture, and poured it into the casserole dish. After placing it into the oven, I leaned over the kitchen sink to clean up what little mess I had made. Cleaning up as I cooked was a habit I more than likely inherited from my mother, who was always cooking and cleaning. As a little girl, regardless of what point I ever encountered her in the process of cooking, the kitchen was always clean. She made it a point to pick up after herself and clean as she cooked, never leaving a mess for anyone to see.

  As I tidied up the kitchen, I wondered just how much of my mother was within me. She was more than likely an older submissive version of me. Cooking, cleaning, sewing, and waiting on my father hand and foot were common traits of hers, and far from typical of what I had seen of other mothers. As I gazed out the kitchen window at the rose bush we had planted, I laughed to myself at the thought of my mother and me being so much alike.

  Gazing blankly at the bush and sinking into a sense of love, family, and complete bliss, I thanked God for Jackson and everything he provided me. While I relished in my thoughts, a dozen men wearing military type gear and carrying rifles stormed into the back yard. Scared beyond belief, I opened my mouth and tried to scream.

  Petrified, and more than likely in complete shock, my tongue didn’t follow my brain’s instructions. I swallowed heavily as they continued to surround our home.

  “Jackson, people are in the yard!” I eventually screamed.

  “What?’ he yelled from the back room.

  I turned and ran toward the hallway. They looked like men in the military, and there were dozens of them, all armed with guns. I didn’t know what else to do, so I began screaming at the top of my lungs.

  “Help!” I screamed as I ran toward the back bedroom.

  Jackson met me in the middle of the hallway wide-eyed and wondering what had happened. As I attem
pted to catch my breath and explain, the windows began to break, the doors were kicked in, and everyone began screaming at once.

  “Get down, get down, get the fuck on the floor!” a man screamed at Jackson as he pointed a gun directly at his head.

  They were everywhere, screaming, pointing guns in front of them, and running in every direction.

  “Jackson,” I cried. “What’s happening?”

  “Get on the fucking floor!” a man demanded as he pointed a gun in my face.

  “You fucking touch her, and I’ll god damned kill you,” I heard Jackson scream.

  “Jackson!” I blubbered as I waved my hands at my sides.

  I was scared, confused, and had no idea what to do.

  Jackson was on the floor beside me, down on his knees with a gun pressed against the back of his head. The man pushed his knee between Jackson’s shoulders and pulled his hands behind his back while another pointed a gun at his chest.

  “Stop it, you’re hurting him,” I cried.

  “Keep your fucking hands where I can see them,” another man screamed as he pointed a gun in my face.

  “Are there any weapons in the house?” A man asked Jackson.

  “Ma’am, get on the ground…”

  “Clear…”

  “Are there any weapons in the house?”

  “Ma’am, you need to get down on the ground. Do you have a weapon?”

  “Leave her alone, I’ll kill the entire lot of you if she’s even fucking touched,” Jackson bellowed.

  “Are there any weapons in the house?”

  “Clear…”

  “Ma’am, get on the god damned floor.”

  I watched as two men grabbed Jackson’s arms and lifted him from the floor.

  “Come on, Shephard.”

  “All clear…”

  “I want to exercise my right to remain silent, and I want an attorney,” Jackson said as they hoisted him to his feet.

  “Same goes for her,” he hollered as they dragged him toward the door.

  “Don’t answer their questions, Em,” he yelled as another man pushed his way past Jackson and entered the house.