HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  “Sounds interesting,” he said as he leaned back in his seat. “Well, you and her can be friends no doubt, and I wouldn’t tell all of the fellas this, believe me. You’re a weird fucker, Vince, and we both know it. I’m sure if you say you’re not going to give her any dick, you sure won’t. But I can tell you one thing for fucking sure…”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  He rubbed his jaw between his thumb and his forefinger and lowered his chin as he locked his eyes on mine.

  “There’ll come a day when she wants that dick. And it’ll be a deal breaker. Then you’ll have to decide for sure,” he said.

  “Always comes to that, doesn’t it?” I asked blankly.

  “Sure does,” he responded. “Damned sure does.”

  “So how’s business?” he asked.

  “Pretty good, thanks,” I responded.

  “Face looks better now that it’s good and healed. Scars make you look more like a one percenter and less like a book reading hermit,” he said with a laugh.

  “You’re one to talk. You read as much as I do,” I said as I stood.

  “I read a lot, that’s a fact. Now don’t leave mad. You still need to talk?” he asked as he stood.

  “Ain’t mad,” I said. “Just thinking.”

  “You wanting to start fucking this girl? Just between you and me?” he asked.

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

  “So what you’re really wanting to know is if you can fuck her without fucking up the friendship, right?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure. It’s just. Fuck, I don’t know. I’ve never been around a woman as cool as she is. She reads books. Reviews them online and stuff. We meet every Sunday for lunch, and have been for three or four months now. We sit and talk about books, cars, bikes, people, politics…” I paused and shrugged my shoulders before I continued. “Shit, you name it, and we’ve discussed it. God damned woman is drop dead gorgeous, but that ain’t what I like about her. I like it that she’s so down to earth. No fucking drama. No bullshit. No whining, bitching, or acting like a little girl.”

  “Believe me, that’ll all change,” he said.

  I turned to face him and nodded my head. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “Listen, I’ll never shack up with a woman. Every motherfucker in this club knows that. They’re good for one thing and one thing only, and that’s shovin’ ‘em full of dick. That’s it. Beyond that, I don’t have much use for ‘em. But my opinion on women shouldn’t be your opinion on women. There’s sure plenty of men on this earth who are happily married, in solid relationships, or shovin’ the single neighbor gal next door full of cock, and doing it successfully. Does it mean this girl’s for you? Only you can answer that question, Vince. Only you,” he said.

  “I think I’ll probably keep doing what I’m doing and see what happens,” I said.

  “Sounds like a good move,” he said.

  “Devil looks after his own,” I said as I clenched my fist and held it at arm’s length.

  He pounded his fist against mine and grinned. “He damned sure does.”

  As I walked out of his office and into the shop, I didn’t feel any better about the situation I was in. Axton was right, the only one who knew what was best for me was me, and no one else.

  What it came down to was whether or not I was ready to take the risk of being hurt again.

  And I didn’t know much, but I knew the answer to that question.

  I wasn’t.

  Chapter Two Hundred Four

  SIENNA

  October 5th, 2014

  I stared blankly at the monitor. The book was a disaster, the wine was aplenty, and the night was yet another spent at home alone. I wondered if I died in my sleep some night or fell into a wine induced coma and was unplugged from life support by some nurse who hated cool bitches just who would write and read my eulogy. I considered what it might say, based on them somehow finding someone who knew me well enough to write something.

  She drove a cool car and her hair was awesome.

  She had a nice butt when she wore those jeans from The Limited.

  Her nail beds were nice, but she rarely chose a good color of polish.

  Her eyebrows needed work.

  Thinking about it, I came close to crying. I had no one, was falling for a man that would probably never fall for me, yet I couldn’t fathom ever wanting any other man. My life had become a disaster. I was twenty-six, single, and had spent a lifetime in and out of relationships with losers. My father was probably turning over in his grave at the thought of his precious daughter withering away as an unmarried woman now pushing thirty years old.

  My father, not unlike me, was constantly reading something. Everything from cookbooks to old folklore could be found beside his bed on any given day. He was a sponge willing to soak up anything he could gather from reading. Me? I became a dreamer while he was away in prison, and began reading romance novels as fast as I could flip the pages. As soon as I got a Kindle and learned of the one-click option, my savings account began to dwindle, and my TBR list grew into the thousands.

  Romance novels were my weakness, and living the life depicted in them had become my dream.

  Before my father went to prison, he told me persistence is rewarded in a manner indifference will never know. I applied it all through high school, and my grades were a reflection of his wise words and my desire to make him proud of his little girl.

  I considered the advice of my father, and decided unless I applied it to my life, I would simply fall back into a proven pattern of slipping further and further away from what it was I deserved.

  I deserved to be loved as much as I was able to love.

  My eyes eventually focused on the monitor, and I realized I had spent an immeasurable amount of time wallowing in my sorrows. Spiraling into a state of self-pity wasn’t something I needed to do, and I knew focusing on my review should resolve the issue.

  I grabbed the bottle of wine, raised it to my lips, and took a long drink. Much to my surprise, the flow of the sweet substance abruptly stopped, leaving me holding a useless glass paperweight over my bobbing head.

  How in the fuck did that happen?

  I blinked my eyes and stared at the bottle. It was definitely empty, even though I had opened it only a few minutes prior.

  I swear, they’re making these bottles smaller. Maybe the glass is thicker and they hold less...

  I shook the bottle, gazed blankly at the bottom, and shoved it onto the desk beside my monitor. After teetering back and forth for a few seconds, it stopped quivering and came to rest upright and…

  Empty.

  The bottle’s ability to hold itself upright after I tossed it across my desk was all the proof I needed that the wineries were making the glass thicker, and providing me with much less of the nerve soothing potion I required to complete my Sunday night ritual.

  Fuckers.

  I glared at the screen, angry about the wine situation. “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” by The Pretenders calmed my nerves as I began to read my glorious review.

  You’re probably reading this review wondering just what book I read. Well, don’t let all the five star reviews fool you. I’m drunk enough, experienced enough, and lack fear of retribution enough to give an honest opinion.

  And here it is.

  This book was awful.

  And regardless of how many tens of thousands of followers the author has, I’m not afraid to admit it.

  I refuse to fall in line with every other reader or reviewer who states this book is a “great read” or “fabulous” just because the author is a well-recognized figure in the industry.

  Newsflash.

  Five star reads are NOT books that have unbelievable characters doing unbelievable things.

  This book read like an episode of the Jerry fucking Springer Show.

  I fell in love with the guy who raped me as a teen, and used to come to my house as a babysitter
and tie me up in the basement and stick broom handles in my twat. He beat me unconscious when I was twenty, and my family moved away, but I decided to stay because I truly loved him.

  Then, after a few years of suggesting and me willingly complying with his requests to have threesomes with him and his brother, I woke up and decided to break it off.

  After six months of sulking and smoking meth, I decided to give his other brother a try, only to fall in love with the stepfather.

  Are you fucking kidding me right now?

  As I read this worthless piece of shit, I held my breath in wait of the trip to Tijuana and the Shetland pony show. That’s really all this book was missing.

  Great read?

  I think not.

  Hot sex scenes?

  No.

  Well written?

  Yes.

  But I don’t care to read another hot sex scene when the h is mentally challenged and incapable of standing up for herself against an H who is overbearing, has a thirteen inch cock, and can fuck for twelve hours straight without the aid of a Viagra.

  “Fuck me and my brother, okay?”

  “I don’t want to, it’s not right…”

  “How can it be wrong if I want it and you love me, Aphilia?”

  “I guess it can’t. Okay, I’ll do it, but only because I love you…”

  That, ladies and gentlemen, is a direct quote from this five star read. I’m sorry, but I about barfed.

  And who in the absolute fuck names their kid Aphilia, anyway?

  Nobody.

  Want a five star review?

  Write me a book about a girl named Sienna who gets her brains fucked out by a bearded biker.

  My rating? Half a star because I liked the dedication, but with great reluctance I must give it one star because Goodreads won’t allow zero.

  I published the review and reached for the bottle of wine. After raising it to my lips, I realized it was the same empty bottle I had so eagerly abandoned earlier.

  Heavy, but empty.

  Fuck.

  After removing my glasses and tossing them to the side, I pushed myself away from my desk, stood, and sang backup for Madonna’s “Santa Baby,” which was the only thing that saved me from my wine deprived state of being. As the song came to a close, I smiled and fell back onto my bed with my arms outstretched.

  After a moment of staring at the ceiling I rolled over and smashed my face into the closest pillow.

  My lunch with Vince earlier in the day had been perfect.

  Vince was perfect.

  And I was sure I could be perfect for him, I just needed an opportunity.

  I wrapped my arms around the pillow, squeezed it tight, and within a few seconds, began to softly cry.

  And on that night, in a slightly drunken state of being, I cried myself to sleep for the first time in five years.

  Chapter Two Hundred Five

  VINCE

  November 6th, 2014

  Our meeting ended, and a mandatory ride supporting Toys For Tots had been discussed at length. With Christmas fast approaching, the weather was less than favorable to ride, but as long as there wasn’t snow on the ground, we continued, regardless of the temperature. With all of the club’s heavies gathered on the side of the shop, I sauntered toward my bike as I pulled my stocking cap over my head.

  “Vince,” Otis said with a nod as I walked past.

  I raised my right hand slightly and nodded my head. “Fellas.”

  “Headed to Toad’s barbeque joint for a few beers and some chow if you’re interested,” Axton said.

  “Appreciate it. I think I’ll just…”

  “Excuses are like fuckin’ assholes,” Biscuit said. “Everybody’s got one.”

  I turned to face the group. Toad, Axton, Otis, Hollywood, and Biscuit were a club within the club, and for the most part, were a closer knit group than the club was as a whole. They really didn’t let the other fellas in their little group, other than to meet for a drink or take a short unscheduled ride out of town for a show of presence.

  “I need to…”

  “Need to loosen up, Brother,” Biscuit said. “Tell you the truth, you ought to knock you off some pussy. Been walkin’ around this motherfucker for the last year like a motherfuckin’ zombie. Come on, I got a story to tell that’ll make your toes curl.”

  I glanced at my watch out of habit. Still stuck at three o’clock, it wasn’t much help. Hell, I didn’t have anything else to do, and I did need to eat something.

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  “Saddle up,” Axton said as he tossed his head toward his bike.

  “Last one out lock up,” Axton said over his shoulder as he fired up his sled.

  The thought of being part of their group for a short period of time was satisfying, but doing so on a long term basis wasn’t something I could ever do. It was far too easy to get caught up in patterns, routines, and eventually develop expectations of the men as friends, and eventually someone would fuck up and I knew enough about myself to know I would lose faith not only in the men, but in the club as a whole. Not exposing myself to the members as individuals protected me from being disappointed in their actions or broken promises, which, over time, were bound to happen.

  The six of us rode the half mile to Toad’s barbeque joint, and carefully parked our bikes in front of the building side-by-side. After confirming my bike was perfectly parked beside Otis’, I turned toward the entrance and shoved my keys into my pocket.

  “Hardcore motherfucker, ridin’ that Shovel. You work on that pig all the time or what?” Biscuit asked as we walked toward the door.

  “Quite a bit, yeah,” I responded. “But it was my Pop’s bike, and…”

  “Yeah, I heard that. Cool as fuck you kept it and all,” he said.

  “Shovel’s are powerless,” Otis said as we walked inside.

  I shook my head in disagreement. Harley replaced the Panhead motor with the Shovelhead in 1966, and in 1971 a world record was set by a man on a Shovelhead powered Harley. The bike was the first in the world to travel the quarter mile in less than nine seconds in a drag race. Propelling two wheels from zero to one hundred and sixty-eight miles an hour in less than nine seconds, and doing so in 1971, was a tremendous accomplishment.

  “The first nine second bike in the quarter mile was a Shovel,” I said.

  “Bullshit,” Otis snapped back.

  “God damned truth,” Axton interrupted. “Man’s name was Joe Smith. Out in San Diego, I think.”

  “Los Angeles. West Covina to be exact,” I said.

  Biscuit coughed a laugh as we walked up to a table large enough to seat us. “Fuckin’ bookworm.”

  “But the man’s got his facts straight. A god damned Shovel is bulletproof,” Axton said.

  I nodded my head in his direction as we sat down, appreciative of his support of my bike in the presence of the other men. Each of them rode an almost brand new Harley, and with the exception of Axton’s bike, they were all pretty much unaltered and had very little personality.

  My bike was a hodgepodge of parts, and looked the part of an old school hard-core biker’s bike. With faded black paint and very little chrome, it was loud enough to wake the dead. It had the same straight pipe exhaust my father rode it with, and the ape hanger handlebars were the only modification I made to it since obtaining it from my father. Older bikers gathered around it at every rally and poker run I attended. The younger bikers simply walked past it, most not even knowing what it was or what it was capable of.

  Personally, I loved the thing.

  “Cool old bike, if you ask me,” Biscuit said as we sat down.

  Excluding Axton, of all of the men, Biscuit was the most genuine. He was the club story teller, and a practical joker. He reminded me a little of me, as he was against technology in many respects. He didn’t have a television, rarely carried his phone, and never cared to read the newspaper or hear anything about the world’s current events. Toad was a war hero of sorts, and
had never really mentally came back to civilization after the war. He had a quick temper, was a martial arts specialist in addition to being a Marine, and was a walking time bomb. Otis was the Sergeant-at-Arms and acted as the protector of the club, but no one short of Axton ever really knew what he was thinking. He was six foot six and muscle from head to toe, so the SAA slot was a great place for him to be. Hollywood was another loner of sorts, and lived in the middle of nowhere, keeping to himself if he wasn’t with the smaller group of men. Of the group, I trusted him the least. My father always said the eyes don’t lie, and Hollywood’s eyes always were constantly filled with concern or worry. He was a club brother, and as much a Sinner as me, but it didn’t mean I had to trust him wholly.

  And I didn’t.

  “Everyone hungry?” Toad asked as he turned toward the kitchen.

  The five of us glanced around the table and nodded our heads in confirmation.

  “I’ll get ribs, links, and brisket coming. Sound good?” he asked.

  “Sounds good, I appreciate it,” I said over the others grunting and nodding their heads.

  After being gone a few minutes, Toad returned with a round steel tray filled with bottles of beer. As he reached for one of the beers, Biscuit began to tell his story.

  “So, this gal was a waitress at Hooters, and built like a brick shithouse. She had tits the size of that pumpkin that was sittin’ on my porch ‘till Halloween and a waist about twenty-six inches at most. So, one of the El Forastero’s and me was havin’ a beer and this gal walks up to the table. ‘Are you a real biker?’ she asks. I said, ‘If having a Harley and a ten-inch cock makes me a real biker, I guess so.’ She stands there for a minute, tilts her head to the side, and says, ‘show it to me.’ ‘Shit,’ I said, ‘the motherfucker’s right outside the window, see for yourself.’ She grins like a shit eatin’ possum and shakes her head. ‘Not the bike,’ she says. ‘Show me your cock.’” he paused and scanned the group for a reaction.