F*CKERS (Biker MC Romance Book 7)

by Scott Hildreth

  “Go shave your face, Brad. Your father’s little clippers are in the bathroom, in the cabinet. I’ll have dinner ready when you’re done.”

  “What are we having?”

  “Fried chicken,” she said. “And maybe a potato. Your father still likes potatoes with his fried chicken.”

  “Sit down, shit head,” my father said. “She’ll never get anything done with you standing there with your gob flopped open.”

  “Bradley!”

  “I’m hungry, Deann. Let’s get this show on the road.”

  I went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. I hadn’t cut my hair in years. I hadn’t trimmed my beard in six months, and I hadn’t cut it in longer than I could remember.

  I tried to remember what I looked like before I had the hair. I pulled it tight to my head with one hand, and pressed my beard back with the other.

  I wondered if my mother was right, and if Tegan’s opinion on matters would change if I looked differently.

  “Dinner’s ready!”

  The bathroom door muffled my mother’s voice, but hearing her brought me back to my senses.

  I’d been daydreaming about fucking Tegan again.

  I looked in the mirror.

  Only time would tell if my mother was right, or if she was wrong.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Tegan

  I stared at the reflection in the rearview mirror and wondered if it was a bad choice or not. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t going to hurt anything, but I made the decision for selfish reasons.

  I ran through the list of things in my head that could be affected if things went awry.

  Toilet paper.

  I had plenty.

  Feminine products.

  I was safe for the time being.

  Food.

  I had enough food to last me for 3 weeks.

  Gas.

  My car had a full tank, and got 27 m.p.g. The gas would last me a month.

  I did my own nails and Marcus cut my hair, so that wouldn’t be an issue. I counted the money in my wallet again, and began to second guess myself.

  It was rare that I did anything special. For whatever reason, I felt like I should treat myself to something nice. Maybe it was because I finally told someone what had happened on that awful day in June.

  I wouldn’t have guessed it, but talking about it made me feel far less responsible.

  To heck with it, I deserve this.

  I stepped out of the side of my car and walked to the door. Through the glass wall I could see the people gathered inside, talking. They all looked so jovial and high-spirited.

  I felt like a heroin junkie going in for my fix at the methadone clinic.

  I pushed the door open. With my eyes fixed on the selections that were displayed on the wall-mounted menu, I walked up to the register.

  “Welcome to Starbucks,” she said. “What can I get for you?”

  I scanned the menu, but none of the names of the drinks rang a bell.

  “Uhhm.” I looked at her. She had fire-engine red hair, porcelain-colored skin, and a tattoo of a dove on the side of her neck. “I’m sorry. I was in here the other day with a guy, and he got me a drink. I was wanting to get it again, but I’m not seeing it up there.”

  “The biker?” she asked.

  Initially it didn’t register. “The biker?” I asked with a laugh. “I don’t think that’s what it was called.”

  “No.” She chuckled. “You were in with the biker, right?”

  I felt stupid.

  “Oh, yeah.” I tossed my head toward the table where we had been sitting. “We were outside. You recognized me?”

  “Yeah, it’s the car. We were all talking about it when you pulled up. What happened?”

  “Just a dose of stupidity.”

  Her long face gave indication that she wanted more. After a few seconds of silence, she shook it off and grinned. “Was it a hot drink or a cold one?”

  “Cold.”

  She glanced over her shoulder, toward the drive-thru window. “Anyone know what Pee Bee got the other day for the girl in the car without the door?”

  “Iced caramel macchiato,” someone shouted.

  “Oh wow. You remembered his name?”

  “Pee Bee?” She laughed. “He’s in here about ten times a week.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Him and Crip. And Peyton. She comes in quite a bit, too. Cholo every now and again. And a few of the others.”

  I was surprised. I didn’t expect him to be such a coffee connoisseur. I wondered who Peyton was, and found myself feeling oddly jealous.

  “Huh. That’s neat. But yeah, it was an iced caramel macchiato. That’s what I need.”

  “What size?”

  I returned a confused stare.

  “Tall. Grande. Or Venti?”

  “The big one,” I said.

  “Venti iced caramel macchiato,” she hollered. “Name?”

  “Uhhm. Actually, I need two. One for Tegan. And one for Marcus.”

  “Okay.” She poked her fingers against the keys on the register, and then looked up. “That’ll be $10.32.”

  It could have been worse.

  I paid for the drinks, put the change in her tip jar, and then looked at the things on display as I waited. Within a few minutes, I was on my way to the apartment, complete with a cute little cardboard carrier.

  As difficult as it was, I made it all the way home without taking so much as a drink. With the cups in the carrier, and the straws neatly placed between them, I shouldered my purse and picked up the drinks.

  Carefully, I walked across the street, through the parking lot, and along the sidewalk between the buildings. By the time I reached our unit, my mouth was salivating at the thought of having a drink of the macchiato.

  It was Marcus’s day off, and he had no idea I was coming. It was a surprise of epic proportion. Finally, I reached his door and knocked on it with the side of my foot.

  “Open up.”

  I heard him moving around.

  “Open up. I’ve got a surprise.”

  He unlocked the door, and then slid the chain from the secondary lock, which seemed weird. I never knew him to use it.

  The door opened a few inches.

  I pushed against it with my foot and stepped inside.

  My jaw – and the drinks – hit the floor at the same time.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Pee Bee

  “Do you have any idea what happened?” he asked.

  I did, but I couldn’t say. I guess I could have, but I wasn’t going to. I didn’t want him – or Tegan for that matter – to know what I was going to do. I laid my helmet on the floor beside the couch and sat down.

  “I don’t know, Pop. She had an emergency. Probably girl stuff.”

  He looked worried. “She’ll be back though, right?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “Do you know where she lives?”

  I hesitated, but decided to tell him the truth. “Yeah. I’ve been there.”

  His face contorted. “You’ve been to her house?”

  “She rode on the bike, Pop. I took her home.”

  “Remember your promise, Son. I meant what I said.”

  I cocked an eyebrow.

  He did his best to flip me off, but his cast prevented it from being noteworthy. “I was just reminding you.”

  “I told you I wouldn’t, and I won’t. You ought to know me well enough to know I’m not going to break a fuckin’ promise.”

  “Hell, I thought I knew you, but then you went and cut off your hair and shaved that mess of shit off your face. You look like a God damned human, now. What’d your buddy Navarro say? He going to kick you out of the gang?”

  “It ain’t a fucking gang. And, he hasn’t seen it yet.”

  “Scared of showing up at your little clubhouse?”

  “No.”

  It was a lie, at least partially so. I wasn’t scared, but Crip was going to shi
t when he saw me. I’d shaved my beard off completely, and then I had Rita cut my hair as if I was going in for a job interview at one of the banks in downtown SD.

  “Well, you look damned fine, Son. You really do. You never said the other night if you were going to ask Tegan on a date. Now that it’s just you and me, I’m going to ask point blank.”

  In anticipation of the imminent barrage of bullshit that I was about to receive, I exhaled heavily and shook my head. I didn’t know what I was going to do about Tegan, and I damned sure didn’t want to discuss it with him.

  I wasn’t eighteen, I was thirty-two.

  “What?” he snarled.

  “I’m not in high school, Pop.”

  “No, you’re not. But you’re as irresponsible as a fuckin’ teenager, that’s for god damned sure.”

  I shot him a glare. “Why do you say shit like that?”

  “How many girls have you had sex with?”

  I looked away. He didn’t want to know. “I don’t know.”

  “You’re a god damned lair. Be a man, Son. Tell me. I’ve got a point to make.”

  I really didn’t know. Telling him an exact amount would be impossible.

  “I really don’t,” I said.

  “Ten?”

  I laughed. “No. You don’t want to know.”

  “More?”

  “Pop…”

  “Twenty?”

  I lowered my head and sank my teeth into my bottom lip as I tried my best to count, focusing only on the women who immediately came to mind.

  “God damn, Son. More?”

  I nodded. “I really don’t know.”

  “How can a man claim to be a man if he’s dipped his dick in twenty women? That’s not manly, it’s chicken-shit. We weren’t put on this earth for that. I know good and god damned well you didn’t love those women.” He leaned forward and widened his eyes. “God damn, Son. Twenty? Jesus jumped up Christ.”

  He looked disgusted. And disappointed. He relaxed against the back of his chair and shook his head.

  I rested my forearms against my knees and gazed down at the floor. This was something I’d avoided discussing with him, for good reason. I reached up to stroke my beard, and then realized it was gone.

  “It’s more than twenty, isn’t it?” he asked. “Christ on a fuckin’ crutch, Son. How many? I’m not here to crucify you, but let’s be men about it. If you’re going to be honest, be honest.”

  “I don’t know for sure, but maybe like fifty or something.” I looked at him. “It’d be hard to say, really.”

  “Fifty? Fifty? Are you fucking around, or being serious?”

  I really didn’t want to have this talk. I took a deep breath, met his gaze, and responded. “Serious. Fifty. Something like that.”

  He sat up in his chair and glared at me. “How in the fuck does a man even do something like that?”

  “Pop…”

  “Go make me a cup of coffee,” he said.

  “Mom said--”

  “I don’t give a shit. I want a cup of fuckin’ coffee. Go make me one. Make you one, too.”

  “Are you sure it won’t--”

  “Go!”

  I made a pot of coffee, then carried the two cups into the living room. “Made ’em just like we used to drink ‘em when I was a kid.”

  He took a sip, and then raised the cup. “Nectar of the Gods.”

  I sat down on the couch, knowing damned good and well that a lecture was coming. I wanted the day to be over, so I could take care of business. I glanced at my watch.

  It wasn’t even 7:00 a.m. yet.

  “Alright. Back to being serious,” he said.

  Well, fuck.

  “Are you an honest man, or are you a liar?” he asked.

  I clenched my teeth at the thought of him even questioning my honesty.

  “I’m honest.”

  “Is your word good?”

  “You know it is,” I insisted. “Good as fuckin’ gold.”

  “So, I’ve raised a man that someone can count on?”

  My heart swelled a little. “God damned right.”

  “If you say it, it’s so. A man can count on you, can’t he? If you give your word, there’s nothing to worry about, right?”

  I nodded. “Yep.”

  He lifted the cup of coffee to his nose, inhaled a deep breath, and then took a drink. “If you sit there and be honest with yourself, and I mean completely honest, do you feel like a good man – an honest man – when you think of those girls you’ve been with? Did you tell each of them that you were going to fuck ‘em and then disappear, or did you bullshit any of them just to get in their pants? Think about that for a minute, and when you’re ready to answer, don’t. I want you to think for another minute about how it’s okay to lie, and then claim you’re an honest man. Because if you’ll lie, you ain’t nothing short of a fuckin’ liar.”

  I stared down at the floor for a long time and thought about what he asked. I didn’t feel like a good man, or an honest man. At least not at that moment. I’d always claimed to be honest, and, in fact, had built a reputation for being so. As I sat and mentally ran through the list of the women I’d been with – and considered the circumstances surrounding each one – I didn’t get very far before I gave up.

  I sighed. It wasn’t easy to admit. My face fell. “I don’t feel very honest.”

  “You saying that because you feel that way, or because you think it’s what I want to hear?”

  “Well, put the way you put it, it made me think. And, fuck, I don’t know, Pop. I feel like it wasn’t right. I mean not all of it. Kind of bad, really.”

  “Kind of bad? Hell, it’s nothing short of insane. You know how many girls I’ve been with?”

  I didn’t, but I doubted it was many.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Care to guess?”

  I looked at him. “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Five.”

  He shook his head. “One. Your mother.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Dead serious. And, I’ll tell you why. When we reached a point that we made love, I knew. It was that simple. I just knew. I knew I didn’t want to be with anyone else, and I also knew I didn’t want anyone – other than your mother – to have something I felt was so special. You know what that special thing was?”

  I felt an odd sense of pride for my father, and for my mother. I grinned. “What’s that?”

  “Me,” he said. “To think another woman could even claim to have been with me seemed wrong. Your mother was special to me, and I wanted her to feel every bit as special as I thought she was. So, I gave her my love. No other woman can claim to have had that. Do you know how many people live on this earth?”

  I had no idea. “I uhhm. No.”

  “7.4 billion, right now. So, your mother has something that 7 billion, three hundred ninety-nine million, nine-hundred ninety-nine thousand, and nine-hundred ninety-nine others don’t. My love.”

  I filled with warmth thinking about his genuine love for my mother, and then I felt like a complete shit for acting the way I had acted toward women. Being with fifty different women was impossible to promote as being honest, kind, or caring.

  “You made your point,” I said.

  “No, I haven’t,” he said. “Not yet.”

  “There comes a point in time that all boys become men. You might be thirty, or forty, or even fifty. It has nothing to do with age, or with experience. It has to do with being honorable. Trustworthy. All the things you and that fuckin’ Navarro talk about when you have your little meetings with your cronies. You spout those words from your mouth like you invented ‘em, and then you go and treat women like they were put on this earth to poke your dick in. Don’t get me wrong, there ain’t a god damned thing wrong with having sex with a woman. A woman, not all women. What you’ve done is nothing short of selfish. You’ve done it for no other reason than your own satisfaction. That is the textbook definition of selfish, and I did not raise you to be that ki
nd of man.”

  He paused for a moment, and I hoped he was finished. I’d been kicked when I was down in a fight, but never in an argument. My father, however, had done just that. Changing wasn’t going to be easy, nor was I even sure that it was be possible.

  When I looked at him, his eyes were closed. His mouth was twisted to the side, and his jaw was tight.

  I stood. “Pop, you alright?”

  He opened his eyes and then inhaled a long breath through his nose. “I’ll be fine. That coffee might not have been such a good idea.”

  “Your heart?”

  “Mind your own fuckin’ business, Son. No, it’s not my god damned heart. It’s my gut. You’ll be old one day, and then you’ll understand. Sit down.”

  Reluctantly, I sat.

  He met my worried gaze. “Let’s say we could find all fifty of those women. If we lined ‘em up out in the street and let them talk with each other about you for half an hour, and then you asked each one of ‘em individually, how many do you think would say you’re a good, honest man?”

  “You made your point.” I turned to face him. “I’ll try my best to be a better man.”

  “Ask that girl on a date,” he said.

  “I might.”

  “I got a feeling about this, Son. I really do. So, ask her. For your old man. If it doesn’t work out. Fine. If it does? Well, that’s fine, too.”

  “Who knows if she’ll even go?”

  “You will,” he said. “If you gather enough guts to ask.”

  “I’ll see what happens.”

  He locked eyes with me. “The two most memorable moments in a man’s life are when he kisses the woman he’s going to marry for the first time, and the day he marries her.”

  “Why’d you tell me that?” I asked.

  “Because.” He relaxed in his chair. “You have yet to experience either.”

  I thought about it for a moment, and then stood. “Hungry?”

  “I could eat.”

  “We done here?” I asked.

  “You feel like someone kicked you in the gut?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Over and over.”

  “Good.” He grinned. “We’re done.”

  We had breakfast, and then spent the day together, talking about my childhood, the club, and how important to me the men of FFMC had become. Although he always called us shit-heads or dip-shits, at least during our discussions on that day, he didn’t.