HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  “I told you about my ex-wife, and how I didn’t trust women,” I said.

  She nodded her head as she raised her glass of tea. “Yep.”

  “Well, what if we started doing this every Sunday? As friends and nothing more, just two people enjoying each other’s company. What would you say to that?” I asked.

  She shuffled an ice cube around in her mouth and eventually spit it back into her glass of tea. After wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, she shifted her eyes to meet mine and smiled.

  “I’d like that,” she said.

  And, with those three words, my life was completely changed.

  Chapter Two Hundred Two

  SIENNA

  August 10th, 2014

  My life was much different than what I had become used to, and now included everything I ever wanted it to; with the exception of sex. It was easier for me to dismiss the sex than I would have thought, and I attributed it not to my being satisfied to Vince’s ability to make me happy, but to my feeble mind’s belief that one day the sex would come. It had been two months since the day we met, and as much as I hoped the relationship would develop into something more than us merely being friends, he had made no indication to lead me to believe it ever would.

  It was pretty obvious he loved only one woman in his life, and her infidelity left him feeling alone and cheated, but more than anything, he felt as if someone he trusted had broken a promise. I truly believed of all things, her breaking her vow of marriage was what hurt him the most.

  Vince was a man different than anyone else I had ever met, and was no doubt different than anyone I would ever encounter, regardless of how many men I chose to meet in my lifetime. He collected debts not for his club, but for any and everyone who hired him to do so. I had learned he was well known in the city, and everyone from drug dealers, bail bondsmen, and even local attorneys who didn’t want to get their hands dirty hired him to resolve their money matters or find someone who had skipped out on a debt or a commitment.

  He explained one reason he felt no shame in doing what he did was that men had a responsibility to honor their word, and no one should ever break a promise. He viewed a debt as a promise, and always made sure they understood when he arrived to collect that he was there because they had broken a promise.

  Vince was involved in all of the club’s activities, and viewed the members of the motorcycle club as his family. He had a pretty strong relationship with his mother from what he had said, but his family was the MC. His choice to be alone in life wasn’t some form of self-imposed punishment in my opinion, but a protective measure to make sure he didn’t expose himself to the pain and heartache associated with people not keeping their promises, commitments, or the possibility of them not meeting his expectations.

  On one of our lunch dates, he did take the time to explain that if he had no expectations of anyone, he would never be in a position to be disappointed. Getting him to agree to a standing Sunday lunch was difficult, but he eventually agreed, stating if I ever decided not to show up, to call him at his home, and leave a message on his answering machine. His not having a cell phone made things with him extremely difficult, but if it did nothing else, it kept me conscious of my commitments.

  After this short period of time, I respected Vince almost as much as I respected my father.

  I glanced at the clock on the dash and shook my head. Sunday traffic at noon was ridiculous on the east side of the city, as almost every street had half a dozen churches on it, and church ended at the same time for every one of them.

  Dealing with the indecisive minds of the slow driving idiots in front of me was about to get the best of me. Traveling the last two blocks had taken me fifteen minutes, and in five minutes, I was going to be late. And being late wasn’t an option with Vince.

  You don’t know whether to shit or wind your watch, do you old man?

  In the middle of the city wasn’t a great place to pass a car, nor was it legal. Sometimes, just to keep my sanity, it was necessary. I gripped the steering wheel, peered to the left, and pressed my foot against the gas pedal.

  The transmission shifted down two gears and the rear throttle blades of the massive four barrel carburetor kicked in. With no time to think, and very little time to react, I pulled the steering wheel to the left and passed the three idiots in front of me in just enough time to miss the truck in the oncoming lane.

  Having in excess of six hundred horsepower in a street car sure wasn’t necessary, but it was a hell of a lot of fun. After a few light applications of the brake pedal, I slowed down to eighty miles per hour, only fifty miles an hour above the posted speed limit. Traveling at that speed, I flew past every car on the road, leaving them where they belonged, behind in my wake. The traffic light ahead would be impossible to stop at, and as I continued to blow past the Sunday drivers, I checked the signal. The light changed from green to yellow, so I hammered the gas pedal again, launching the car through the intersection like a rocket. I grinned as I pulled into the restaurant with two minutes to spare.

  A quick search of the parking lot produced no motorcycle, and I sighed in relief as I shut off the engine. As I sat and listened to the end of “Christmas in Hollis,” by Run DMC, someone approaching the car startled me.

  “What the fuck are you listening to?” he asked.

  “Oh shit, I didn’t think you were here,” I said as I opened the glove box and flipped the switch to turn off the stereo.

  I opened the door to the car, admiring his growth of beard as I got out. “Sorry, I was just chillin’.”

  “It’s the middle of summer and you’re listening to Christmas music?” he asked.

  “I like Christmas,” I said as I locked the car.

  He shook his head and laughed. “At Christmas time, maybe.”

  “Run DMC’s “Christmas in Hollis” kicks ass all year round, sorry,” I said.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Run DMC? Christmas rap?”

  “Shit keeps me in a good mood, what can I say. You ready to eat?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I’m starving. It was a late night,” he said.

  We walked toward the entrance side by side. The entire time, I tried not to stare, but he really looked great. His beard was a little thicker than the two or three days growth that he generally wore, and had grown rather full since I had seen him only a week prior. Instead of wearing his normal tee shirt, he had on a wife beater, and his vest was unbuttoned. As he walked his walk of confidence, periodically checking over each shoulder as we made our way to the entrance, I felt safe, secure, and almost blessed.

  “Fuck, maybe I should try listening to it all year round,” he said as he pulled open the door to the restaurant. “Maybe I wouldn’t be so hard to get along with.”

  “You’re not hard to get along with,” I said as I walked inside.

  “As long as you keep showing up for Sunday dinner, we’ll get along fine,” he said.

  “Two,” he said to the young girl at the reception desk.

  “Summer will help you,” she said as she motioned toward a girl with dreadlocks who stood beside her.

  “Follow me,” Summer said cheerily.

  “After you,” Vince said as he pointed toward the bouncing locks of filth in front of us.

  Of all people, I believed I was truly a fan of individuality and expression of one’s true self. I never, however, found much value in dreadlocks. As far as I was concerned, they made whoever was wearing them seem dirty, unhealthy, and just shy of screaming for attention.

  After the dreadlocked girl tossed the menus on the table and walked away, we each sat down.

  “You like that shit?” I asked as I picked up the menu.

  He cocked an eyebrow as he took a sip from his glass of water. “What shit?”

  “Dreads?” I asked as I tossed my head toward the waitress.

  He shook his head. “The Rastafarian chick? Nope.”

  “Yeah, me neither,” I said.

  “Personally, I like your
hair,” he said as he nodded his head toward me. “Dark, clean, well-cut, and always done up a little different. Hell, it never looks the same, but it’s always perfect. I like that.”

  My face felt flush, and I was sure that I was blushing, but the compliment was genuine and it made me feel great. Based on who I had received them from in the past, I generally categorized compliments as attempts to get in my pants. With Vince, I knew better. Whatever he said came from the heart.

  Hearing him say such things made me want him more, and the want was almost a dull pain. As a matter of respect to him, I never asked for anything else, but I wanted him more with each passing week.

  Each time we met, I expected him to finally reveal a portion of his personality or being that would cause me to turn away under the realization he wasn’t what or who I thought he was, but it never happened. If anything, he continued to confirm he was just what I expected – and hoped – him to be. He was a man with tremendous devotion and commitment to what and who he believed in, and it just so happened he used a motorcycle as his means of transportation.

  He intertwined his fingers, turned his palms to face me, and extended his arms as he cracked his knuckles and yawned. Seeing his biceps and chest flare was something I would never get used to, even if we remained nothing but friends for a lifetime. His body did a pretty good job of defining perfection, and although he wasn’t a conceited or arrogant man, he often accidentally flaunted it.

  And each time he did so, my heart stopped for a few beats.

  “So tell me about today’s reviews,” he said as he leaned back in his seat.

  “Uhhm. Well, I’ve got one stepbrother book I finished earlier in the week that was a good solid three and a half, and a werewolf shapeshifter deal that was actually pretty good. I’m back and forth between four and four and a half. We’ll see how I feel after lunch,” I said.

  He leaned forward, pressing his forearms into the edge of the table, and cocked an eyebrow in what had become his signature gesture of concern. “But you only read romance, right?”

  I took a drink of water and nodded my head. “Yep.”

  “Don’t tell me a stepbrother book is…”

  Before he had a chance to continue, I interrupted. “Sure is.”

  “Do they…”

  “Sure do.”

  “The brother and sister?”

  “Uh huh, but they’re ‘steps’ so it’s okay,” I said as I raised my glass.

  He pushed himself away from the table and shook his head. “It’s wrong as fuck. And you’re telling me people like that shit?”

  “Sure seem to,” I responded.

  “And a werewolf what did you say? Shapeshifter? It is a romance, right?” he asked as he leaned onto the edge of the table again.

  “Yeah. He shifts back and forth between being a werewolf and a man. He falls in love with a woman from Massachusetts, but he’s originally from Canada. A long way from the pack, you know,” I said with a laugh.

  He scrunched his nose and shook his head again. “A chick fucking a dog?”

  “Well, they only bone when he’s a man, but in a sense, kind of, yeah,” I said.

  “I fucking swear. And people wonder why I’m a loner. The world’s full of fucking weirdos. Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice, Midsummer Night’s Dream…” he shoved himself away from the table in clear frustration, grabbed the edge of it with his fingertips and pulled himself close to the edge again.

  After shaking his head in disgust, he rested his elbows on the edge of the table and leaned into the center, pressing his palms against his jawline. After a few seconds of staring blankly at me, he cleared his throat.

  “Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh me out of my opinion,” he said. “Have you read that book?”

  “Pride and Prejuduce? Yeah, several times,” I said.

  “Can I interest you in our buffet?” the Rastafarian girl asked.

  “Come back in ten, we’re in a heated discussion,” Vince said with a wave of his hand without so much as shifting his eyes away from me.

  “You notice there weren’t any werewolves or shapeshifters or fucking stepbrothers in it?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I noticed,” I responded.

  “Here’s what I think. I think the world is so full of people that have lost hope in conventional love – all because no one is willing to give it unconditionally anymore – that they read to be shocked, thrilled, or disgusted. They no longer read to be filled with promise or hope, because they no longer believe. A modern love story has become the most unbelievable fairy tale ever. And now, people read those BDSM books like they’re going out of style because it makes them wet. That sure as fuck doesn’t make it a good novel. A porno movie will make them wet too, but it sure doesn’t mean it’s a good movie. I fucking swear,” he said.

  I shrugged and tried to force myself not to smile. He was right. The book world had changed drastically just in the amount of time I had been out of school. It seemed the erotica genre was not only based on sex, but most of the books lacked the base ingredients to give them even a hint of romantic element.

  “You know, in a romance novel, it’s the first kiss. That, Sienna, is the money shot,” he said.

  I coughed out a laugh and tried to keep from spitting my ice cube out. “I thought the money shot was when, you know. When the guy shot his load on a chick’s face.”

  He shook his head and waved his hand in my direction. “See? That’s your perception, based on modern day bullshit books. A money shot, by definition, is the essential element that causes a book, movie, or magazine to succeed. The selling point. In a romance novel, it should be that kiss. Not a face full of cum. Don’t get me wrong, there’s a time and a place for a cum shot, but the money shot? It should be the kiss. The first one.”

  I was really, really starting to like this guy. Before I could give my opinion, he continued.

  “People need to learn to believe in love again. They need to desire that feeling that happens deep down in their inner being that only love can give. And true love sure as fuck isn’t something that causes your crotch to ache, either. That’s where all the confusion lies,” he said as he reached for his glass of water.

  “My heart aches,” he said as he raised his glass and held it in the air.

  I did the same.

  “Here’s to the lost art of loving,” he said as he clanked his glass against mine.

  “Hear, hear!” I said.

  My heart swelled a little as I took a drink of my glass of water. If I was reading a book about a romance novel reading biker who was a debt collecting ass kicking member of a MC, I’d probably laugh until I peed myself. But, he sat before me in the flesh, talking about Pride and Prejudice as if it was sacred and something he held dear to his heart.

  “So, are you ready to order?” Dreadlocks asked.

  Vince turned to face her and grinned, exposing his shiny white teeth. As she smiled in return, he widened his eyes, took a shallow breath, and all but came unraveled.

  “Sure, I’ll have a plate of devotion, a side order of commitment, and a thick slice of I promise not to break your heart. Be sure to make it untoasted and hold the butter, so I don’t choke on it. Oh, and a shot of your best bourbon to wash it all down with,” he said without so much as taking a breath.

  “Huh?” she said as she tossed her dreadlocks over her shoulder.

  “Exactly,” he said as he wagged his eyebrows at me. “See?”

  It was that day. On the Sunday at the buffet place on Webb Road. That was the day that a large part of me fell for Vince.

  And fell hard.

  Chapter Two Hundred Three

  VINCE

  September 11th, 2014

  There were very few men I respected as much as my father. Axton Bishop was one of those men. I didn’t respect him because he demanded it or because he wore the “President” patch. I respected him because his actions, his words, and where his heart was required that I do so. To not respe
ct him for who he was would do nothing but provide support of me being incapable of seeing just what it was he offered me as a man and as a member of the club.

  “Got a minute, boss?” I asked as I leaned inside the office door.

  “I’ve always got time for you, Vince,” Axton said as he closed the ledger.

  “Headed to the bar with Toad,” Otis said as he stood from his seat.

  “Otis,” I said as he began to walk toward the door.

  “Vince,” he said with a nod of his head as he walked past.

  “So what’s on your mind?” Axton asked.

  “Just wondering about a few things,” I said.

  “Flunked mind reading in school, Brother. You’re going to have to enlighten me,” he said as he leaned back in his chair.

  “Got a question about a woman,” I said as I sat down across from him.

  He snapped the rubber band he wore around his wrist a few times, more than likely subconsciously, inhaled a long slow breath through his nose, and then exhaled out his mouth. The process, for Axton, had become somewhat of a ritual.

  “My thoughts on women have been made pretty clear. Don’t have much use for them, they can’t be trusted,” he said. “So what’s your question?”

  “You think a man can be friends with a woman, or does it always turn to shit?” I asked.

  He popped his rubber band once and leaned forward in his chair. “You got a woman friend, have ya, Vince?”

  “Sure do. Just don’t want to hurt her, or have her expecting things of me. You know, things I’m not willing to give,” I said.

  “So this is some girl who’s a friend, and you’re not throwing her any of that cock, right?” he asked.

  “Right,” I said.

  “And you’re not planning on changing that?” he asked.

  “Not planning on it, no. It’ll just fuck things up. She’s cool as a fan, Boss. Drives a ‘65 Continental, she’s pretty as fuck, and kind of a mouthy little bitch, but not in a disrespectful way,” I said.