HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  God damned right, he lied.

  “I object!” the prosecutor yelled.

  “Your honor, the witness stated he provided inaccurate information to the group during his investigation. I’m simply…”

  He shook his head in clear frustration. “I’ll rephrase the question.”

  “Was the information you provided the bikers regarding your background and your name the truth?” he asked.

  “No,” Blackburn snapped.

  “Was it a lie?” he asked.

  “Objection, your honor,” the prosecutor hollered.

  “I’ll allow it, but you shall make your point in a timely manner, counsel,” the judge stated.

  “Yes,” Blackburn said through his teeth.

  “Explain your thought process to me on lying to these men during the investigation. Why would you feel compelled to tell them lies?”

  “To preserve the investigation, we are taught to give either limited information, or false information. It provides protection to the bureau and to the agent,” Blackburn responded.

  “You’re taught to lie during your investigations?” Kurt asked.

  Blackburn glanced toward the judge. The judge nodded his head.

  “Yes,” Blackburn muttered.

  “So, through the course of your work, you may tell a lie, but it’s not necessarily a lie in a conventional sense, because you’re working, correct?”

  “Objection, your honor, asked and answered,” the prosecutor hollered.

  “I’ll allow it,” the judge said.

  I studied Blackburn. This was an interesting approach, making him out to be a liar.

  “I’ll ask the question again. Through the course of your work, you may tell a lie, but it’s not necessarily a lie in a conventional sense, because you’re working, correct?”

  “Correct, we’re often required to lie, as you say, to preserve the investigation,” Blackburn responded.

  “Do you only lie during the course of work?”

  “Yes, during the course of my work, and when required for my work,” Blackburn responded.

  “Are you being paid for your testimony today, agent Blackburn?”

  I locked eyes with him and waited for him to respond. He sat motionless with his lips pursed.

  “You must not have heard me. You testified that you told lies through the course of your work to preserve the investigation. My question was this: Are you being paid for your testimony today? Are you working?”

  “Yes, I am,” Blackburn murmured.

  My attorney raised his finger in the air and spoke. “No further questions, your honor.”

  Fuck yes, you lying son-of-a-bitch.

  After the prosecution rested, both attorneys gave their closing arguments and we were released while the jury went to deliberate. Having no idea whether it was going to take hours, days, or a week, I was thrilled to be taken to the county jail and not back to the USP at Big Sandy - at least not yet. The new scenery and different living quarters might have been temporary, but it was a welcomed change. As the US Marshall loaded me onto the elevator, he pressed his hand to his earpiece as if he was receiving a message.

  “Looks like you’re going back to court,” he said as he released the earpiece and reached for the button to open the door.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Jury reached a decision,” he said as the elevator doors opened.

  “In ten minutes? That can’t be good,” I said.

  He shook his head. “Hard saying. Might be good, might be bad.”

  In a slight state of shock, I followed him into the courtroom. After finding my seat beside my attorney, I gazed around the courtroom and eventually fixed my eyes on Sydney and her friends. Win, lose, or draw, I appreciated all they had done for me. If nothing else, Avery had secured Sydney a spot in my life as a pen pal forever.

  “Counsel, please stand,” the judge said into the microphone.

  My attorney and I stood. He turned his head to face me and whispered.

  “No matter what the outcome, hold your head high,” he said.

  I swallowed heavily and nodded my head once. “I will.”

  The judge cleared his throat and gazed out into the courtroom as he spoke. “I want it understood there will be no outbursts in my courtroom, regardless of the verdict.”

  The judge turned toward the jury.

  “Has the jury reached a verdict?” the judge asked.

  The foreman nodded his head. “Yes, your honor, we have.”

  “In the matter of Jackson Shephard versus the United States of America, what say you?” the judge asked.

  I gazed down at the floor.

  Your will, not mine, Lord.

  “In the matter of Jackson Shephard versus the United States, we the jury, find him not guilty; as he was entrapped by the ATF to commit the crime listed in the indictment, your honor,” the foreperson responded.

  Not guilty?

  Not?

  I glanced over my left shoulder. Sydney sat between a man and a woman with her hands covering her mouth, crying. I shifted my eyes toward my attorney.

  They said ‘not guilty’.

  Not.

  Guilty.

  I swallowed the apple sized lump in my throat and tried my best to appear to be level-headed.

  “So now what? Back to Big Sandy for a bit? Another appeal on their part?” I asked.

  He shook his head and grinned as he patted me on the shoulder.

  “In the court’s eyes, the government forced you to commit a crime. They entrapped you. You’re not guilty, you’re a free man, Mr. Shephard,” he responded as he reached toward the mound of paperwork in front of him.

  My throat constricted. I stood and stared blankly beyond him as the jury walked away. My eyes welled with tears. I gazed down at the floor and stared for a few seconds. Finally, I swallowed heavily and shifted my tear filled eyes upward.

  “Free?” I asked. “It’s over? That’s it?”

  “Free to do whatever you want. As a matter of law, you’ve never been convicted of a felony. Congratulations,” he said.

  There was really only one thing I wanted. Well, two, but only one I could take care of immediately.

  “Can I go hug my sis?” I asked.

  “You can do whatever you want, Mr. Shephard, you’re a free man,” he responded.

  Free? How free?

  I turned and attempted to stay standing on my shaking legs. Although I fully expected to be tackled and handcuffed by US Marshall’s if I continued, I took a few steps toward Sydney. Nothing happened. I continued to walk toward her. She stood beside a man crying. He stood an easy six foot six and seemed to be solid muscle. I wondered if he was her boyfriend. Slowly, I continued walking in her direction, peering over my shoulder as I approached, expecting a guard to stop me before I got to where she stood. I bit my lower lip and continued until I had walked all the way across the courtroom.

  This can’t be happening.

  I released my quivering lip, opened my arms, and grinned. Somehow, I managed to speak.

  “Gimme a hug, sis,” I said.

  She vaulted herself over the handrail and onto the floor beside me, almost tackling me as she did so. As she held me in her arms, she blubbered into my shoulder. Half embarrassed by my emotional state, I leaned into her and wiped my eyes on the shoulders of her jacket. After a few minutes of sobbing, she collected herself and looked up into my eyes.

  “We’ve got a place for you to stay for as long as you want. You’ll have your own room. And Cambio’s got a bike you can ride. His old Softail, he said you can have it. He said you won’t be truly free until you can ride,” she said excitedly, wiping tears from her face as she spoke.

  I glanced to her left. A man wearing a cut with the Sergeant-At-Arms ribbon stood at her side. His patch read Toad.

  I cleared my throat and extended my hand. “You Syd’s man?”

  He nodded his head as he reached for my hand. “Toad.”

  “
Jack,” I said as I shook his hand.

  “Well, you ready to get out of this shit-hole?” he asked.

  I glanced around the courtroom. With the exception of us, the room was empty. As hard as it was to believe, it appeared I truly was a free man. The thought of not going back to prison still hadn’t quite sank in. I turned toward Toad, realized I probably shouldn’t try and speak, and chose to simply nod my head once.

  “You up for a ride?” he asked.

  I nodded my head again in agreement.

  The man standing behind him raised his hand in the air. “Saddle up,” he said.

  Saddle up.

  I never thought I’d hear those words again.

  Sydney stood beside me, grinning and crying softly. I glanced around the courtroom as all of the fellas began walking toward the door. Normally, hearing my little sis cry would cause me pain, but at that moment it was music to my ears.

  I still didn’t feel free, and as awkward as it seemed as I walked out of the courtroom, a certain comfort washed over me.

  I had a second chance to live my life.

  And I intended to do just that.

  Live my life.

  Chapter One Hundred Eighty

  JACK

  Very few men were provided a second chance in life. Having an opportunity to make changes in life, once the time has passed, is procedurally and physically impossible. For some reason, however, I was being given a chance to do so.

  And, I intended to make it count.

  “So you’re telling me I can ride that little softie anywhere I want?” I asked.

  Toad glanced up from polishing the tank on his bagger.

  “Sure can,” he said. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s yours.”

  “It’s yours, and as soon as I get a few things taken care of, I’ll pay you for it. Just really needing to know if I can take it out on the road alone,” I asked as I pushed the plug into the top of the oil tank.

  “You can do anything you want with it. I realize it’s not as road worthy as a bagger, but it’ll have to do,” he said over his shoulder.

  “No disrespect, I see you and a few of the other fellas ride baggers, but I never had much use for ‘em. Riding a house on wheels isn’t riding as far as I’m concerned. Hell, I’ve ridden from one coast to the other on a Softail. Anything I need can be strapped down or worn. I’ll strap a bedroll to the ape hangers and wash my clothes in a river. That’s fucking riding,” I said.

  “That’s old school as fuck,” he said with a laugh.

  “So, you ain’t gonna trip if I take it for a day or so?” I asked, realizing I was still talking in prison speak.

  “Take it wherever you want,” he said. “I mean it. Consider it yours.”

  “Appreciate ya,” I said with a nod as I turned away.

  I walked to the workbench and picked up a clean rag. After several minutes of wiping the dust from areas that seemed to have never been cleaned, I stood back and admired the bike. It was black, covered in chrome, and actually just as nice as the bike I had ridden for most of my life. Many men felt a need to upgrade, buy accessories, and add useless pieces of attached shit to their motorcycles. I, on the other hand, had always felt less was more; leaving my motorcycle as stripped down as possible.

  Having only what I needed and nothing more allowed me to truly feel free when I rode. There was never a feeling of need on my part for creature comforts on a motorcycle. A CD player, cruise control, a windshield, and hard saddle bags would cause me to feel no differently than if I was riding in a car, and as far as I was concerned, cages were reserved for my ride to my final destination.

  The cemetery.

  And I was far from dying.

  “Good looking little sled,” I said as I admired the bike.

  Toad nodded his head and grinned. “It’s alright.”

  He was a man of few words, but from everything I could see, and what little I had heard, he was rock solid. After hearing the story of how he stepped in front of a man who was trying to shoot one of his former Marine brethren, I realized I wasn’t the only one who took protecting the ones I loved as a way of life and not a choice. He explained he didn’t make a decision to step in front of the gun and get shot, but that it was his natural reaction to a potentially violent situation. Something inside of him caused him to naturally react. No differently, from what he said, than swatting at a mosquito or scratching an itch. In the end, he was shot in the chest, and hospitalized with a collapsed lung, broken collar bone, and comatose.

  By the grace of God he pulled out of the coma and recovered fully. He, not unlike me, was given a second chance.

  “It’s fucking perfect, is what it is,” I stated.

  “Well, brother, if you’re happy, I’m happy,” he said over his shoulder.

  Almost immediately I felt closer to him than I had ever felt to any of my brothers in Hell’s Fury, partially because he reminded me of me. His suffering from PTSD and the fact he was provided with what I perceived to be another chance at living life made me more comfortable accepting him than most of the other men I had met, because I realized I also suffered from PTSD, and I was given a second chance.

  Damned near a decade in prison would cause even the most stable of souls to suffer.

  I felt I was accepting Toad as more of an actual brother - the one I never had growing up - than a brother in the MC sense. My sister was happy with him, engaged to be married, and so deeply in love that it was almost difficult for me to witness. Each and every time I saw their expressed love for each other, and it was quite frequent, it reminded me of my loss.

  “Syd’s cooking dinner, should be ready in a few,” he said as he wiped his hands on a rag.

  I shook my head. “Love to stay, but I have a few things I got to take care of. Might be a day or two, but I’ll be back.”

  He lifted his chin slightly and locked his eyes on mine. “Need someone to roll with ya?”

  I shifted my gaze down to my feet.

  “No. Just have a few things I need to take care of,” I said.

  I missed Em deeply. A hollow shell of my former self, I wondered if it would even be possible that I would one day return to the loving, caring man I had once been. Expressing emotion in prison made a man an easy target, and over time, all prisoners became hardened and not only less willing, but less capable of feeling anything at all. In prison, letting go of the ability to feel emotion was the only thing that allowed a man to truly survive.

  Now, trying to remember how to allow emotion to become a part of my day-to-day activities wasn’t difficult, it was proving to be impossible. Although I didn’t share my thoughts with anyone regarding my feelings of being insensitive, I hoped one day I would be able to return to the living.

  “Sure you don’t want to eat first?” he asked.

  “Get something on the road,” I responded.

  “Tell Sydney I’ll see her in a couple days,” I said.

  “Tell her yourself?” he asked, his voice filled with a slight bit of hope.

  I shifted my eyes up from the bike and stared at him for a short time.

  “Alright. Well, be safe, brother,” he said.

  I rolled the pair of jeans, clean boxers, and a few wife beaters I had brought into the garage in a blanket and strapped the roll to the handlebars. As he stood and studied me, I started the bike, backed it out of the garage, and offered a nod of my head as I released the clutch and pointed the bike north. My only hope was that I didn’t get pulled over by the police, because one thing I didn’t have was a driver’s license; something on my list, but far from a priority.

  The Selected Sinners had all but immediately voted to make me a fully patched member, providing me with a sense of family, brotherhood, and self-worth. For reasons I wasn’t able to explain, I hadn’t quite accepted brotherhood as being something I was quite ready for. I accepted the patch and the responsibility that came along with it, but accepting a group of men as necessary part of my life wasn’t something that was coming
to me naturally.

  For now, physically, I was somewhat of a loner.

  And emotionally, I was alone.

  Chapter One Hundred Eighty-One

  JACK

  After a ninety mile ride, I rolled into town feeling alone, nervous, and for the first time I could ever remember, scared. Rolling along so slowly the motorcycle barely stayed upright, I turned each corner without thought. The town had changed very little, no differently than I expected. Finally, I turned the last corner, and came down the small hill.

  The car in the driveway was my first hint. The perfectly manicured lawn was my second. As I rolled closer, the sound of the exhaust popping behind me, the name on the mailbox provided all of the confirmation I needed. I killed the ignition, rolled to a stop, and swept the kickstand down with the heel of my boot.

  I attempted to swallow, almost choked, and stepped over the seat. The last time I had seen the outside of the house, I was being dragged into a government Suburban by two ATF agents. The memories were more than I was prepared to deal with, and although the majority of them were good ones, it seemed like the life was being choked out of me as I gazed at the front porch. I inhaled a deep breath, tilted my head to the sky, and exhaled. As I sauntered up the sidewalk toward the front door, my heart began to race in anticipation of what I expected was sure to come.

  I rang the doorbell and stepped back two steps. After a moment, the door opened.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  I bit my lower lip, nodded my head, and attempted to maintain my composure.

  “Yes, ma’am…I uhhm…I used to live here. It’s been a bit, say almost ten years, but I was uhhm…I was…I was shipped out in kind of a hurry, and I left someone here. Her name was Emily Stewart. Would you have any idea of where she might have gone?” I asked, fighting against the emotion that boiled within me as I spoke.

  She shook her head.

  “I’m sorry, I moved in last October. It’s just a place I’m renting while I’m working out at the airport. Sorry,” she responded.