F*CKERS (Biker MC Romance Book 7)

by Scott Hildreth

  “I’ve got plenty of other shit to--”

  He nodded toward my bike. “Have him put cams in your bike. Have him help you with tile work. Use him up.”

  I was an asshole, there was no denying it. I’d been one my entire adult life, and for good reason. If people’s perception of me was that I was a complete prick, they didn’t attach themselves to me emotionally. And, if we left feelings at the door, I didn’t have to worry about being hurt by another rotten cold-hearted bitch.

  Truth be known, deep down inside, I wasn’t a prick. It was a façade. A mask. Something I wore to protect me from the throngs of people I was sure were destined to cause me harm.

  I looked at my bike, and then at Crip. Ultimately, I wanted what was best for the club. I was sure there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that this kid was going to do anything to hurt me. He might be a pain in the ass for eight months, but I could stand anything for eight months.

  “Fine, I’ll mentor the little prick.”

  Crip slapped his hand against my bicep and then made a fist. “Appreciate ya, Smoke.”

  I pounded my fist into his. “Just want what’s best for the club.”

  The next eight months were going to be hell for at least one of us, that was for sure.

  Chapter Nine

  Sandy

  I sat up, looked around the bedroom, and then glanced at the clock. I normally didn’t wake up at 6:30 in the morning, especially after closing at the club. My growling stomach gave a hint as to why I woke up early, and although I considered going back to sleep, the continued protest from my digestive system won the argument.

  I rolled out of bed, walked to the kitchen, and made some toast. I tried to remember the last time I’d eaten, and realized the Thai food I’d eaten thirty-six hours earlier was my last meal. I devoured the first piece, making a cup of espresso as I ate. After drinking half the coffee, I bit into the second piece of toast and paused.

  Oh shit.

  I ran to the bathroom and slid to a stop with my arms wrapped around the toilet. Five minutes later, my toast and the morning’s caffeine were in the toilet, and I was back at square one.

  What in the Thai-co fuck?

  I washed my face, looked in the mirror, and wondered just what happened when I took the Mex-Asian buffet adventure. Certain I was battling a bad case of food poisoning, I walked to the bedroom, got my phone, and asked my all-knowing friend, Google.

  I typed in my question, how long does food poisoning last, pressed the search button and waited for the page to load. In a few seconds, I was astounded at the results. I could expect to be sick for between 2 and 10 days.

  Jesus.

  Aggravated at Google’s response, and hoping it might be something else, I typed in, what causes nausea after eating breakfast, and pressed search.

  I opened the first page, and then read the potential causes in order.

  Food allergies.

  I knew I wasn’t allergic to toast or coffee, so I scrolled to the next one.

  Food poisoning

  I already knew the possibilities of food poisoning, the symptoms, and the recovery time, so I scrolled past it and to the next.

  Stomach virus

  I decided it was quite possible that I had the flu, but the symptoms were more erratic, and inconsistent than any flu I’d previously experienced. Certain it wasn’t the flu, I thumbed the page up.

  Pregnancy

  I laughed. Then, I stared at the phone. In a moment, my stomach sank. My mind raced, arguing with itself about the possibility. I was on the pill, and Smokey had a vasectomy, so it wasn’t even possible, but for whatever reason, I couldn’t convince myself otherwise.

  I Googled morning sickness symptoms, then stared blankly at the results.

  Persistent excessive vomiting (more than 3 or 4 times a day)

  Unrelenting, severe nausea.

  Dehydration.

  A decrease in urination due to dehydration.

  Maternal weight loss or failure to gain weight.

  Rapid heartbeat.

  Headaches and confusion.

  Short of the rapid heartbeat, I was experiencing them all. Frantic, I searched early symptoms of pregnancy. The results weren’t what I was hoping for.

  Food aversions. Mood swings. Frequent urination Fatigue. Sore breasts. Light bleeding. Spotting. Nausea.

  I swallowed heavily, then re-read them.

  It was impossible, and it wasn’t what I wanted. Not at all. The situation, if it was in fact the situation, couldn’t be worse.

  Furthermore, being pregnant with Smokey’s baby would ruin my life’s dreams, completely. I wanted to fall in love, get engaged, marry, buy a home, and then have a baby. I’d saved almost every cent I’d made over the last three years, but it was nowhere near enough to raise a child.

  Especially alone.

  I tossed my phone on the couch, flopped my head in my hands, and began to cry. When the crying stopped, I came to my senses and realized although my little fairy tale didn’t work out, my life still could.

  All I needed to do was allow whatever was supposed to happen, happen.

  God’s will, not mine.

  The first thing I needed to do was to take a pregnancy test.

  Regardless of the outcome, I’d have to find a way to live with the results.

  My uncle Ramon always used to say, there’s only one way to keep from getting pregnant. Abstinence.

  If I was willing to take the risk, I had to be willing to live with the results. I wiped my tears, stared at my phone, and prayed for God’s will, not mine.

  Then, I drove to the CVS.

  Until I met Lex, I really didn’t have any friends that were girls. I’d always found girls to be catty and spiteful, so my friends were limited to the bouncers at the bar, or the man I was dating. The men I dated was an ever-changing list, but there was one person I remained close to, regardless.

  Craig gave me a hug, and then looked me over. He raised his hands to my face, swept his thumbs beneath my eyes, and did his best to clear the mascara from my cheeks. “There.”

  “Was it bad?”

  The corner of his mouth curled up. “You looked like you were trying out for an M. Night Shyamalan movie.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “It doesn’t…never mind. You look great now, and that’s all that matters.” He stepped to the side and waved his arm toward the living room. “Come in.”

  I slipped past him, and upon seeing his living room, stopped and stared. It looked totally different than the last time I had visited.

  “Oh my God, this looks fantastic. Everything’s new.”

  “I got bored.”

  An awesome display of retro contemporary furniture was neatly fitted into his small condo. I found the various shapes and colors exciting, and wished my apartment looked the same. I considered sitting on the white leather sectional, and then opted for an orange fabric chair that had a wide seat cushion, high arms, and a very shallow back.

  “That’s great to look at, but it’s terrible to sit in,” he said.

  I sat down, and immediately agreed. I pointed toward a turquoise leather chair across from the sectional. “What about that?”

  He nodded. “It’s fun.”

  I tossed my purse on the coffee table, sank into the turquoise chair, and looked around the room. “This is awesome.”

  “Thank you. Would you like something to drink?”

  “Water?”

  “You’re so easy.”

  If you only knew.

  He returned in a moment, and handed me a bottle of water and a glass. “What’s going on? I know you didn’t come over for a glass of water.”

  “I need an opinion.”

  He smiled and sat down on the sectional. “You came to the right place.”

  Dressed in black and gray spandex exercise pants and a dark gray Under Armour shirt, he reminded me of Dwayne Johnson. He even cocked his eyebrow the same manner, and I often wondered if he practiced in f
ront of the mirror.

  I took a drink from the bottle, and then poured the glass full. As I watched the bubbles come to the surface, I considered how I wanted to start the conversation.

  I’d spent the last hour and a half feeling a wide range of emotions. Initially angry, my anger soon changed to fear. Then, I felt content. Happy. Somehow, I became satisfied that I could handle the situation. Throughout it all, though, there was one constant.

  I was alone.

  I picked up the glass and gazed into it. “I’ve got myself into a situation.”

  “I’m sure we can figure it out. Want to enlighten me a little more?”

  I nodded, but didn’t immediately respond. I didn’t know if I could. There was a big difference between silently accepting my pregnancy and speaking about it.

  “I uhhm.” I looked up, inhaled a deep breath, and then gave the news. “I’m. I’m pregnant.”

  He smiled and raised his glass. “Congratulations.”

  Of all the things he could have said, he said that. At first, I was shocked. Then, I was grateful. He knew I’d been out of a relationship for a few months, and I would have expected his reaction to be one of shock. His immediate acceptance was reassuring, but seemed out of place.

  “Thanks,” I said, my voice thick with sarcasm.

  “You don’t sound happy.”

  “Should I be?”

  “I think so.” He sat up straight and locked eyes with me. “Do you know how many people it takes to make a difference in this world?”

  “Uhhm. I don’t know. A lot. Why?”

  “It takes one.”

  Our conversation had taken a left turn, and I wasn’t prepared. I wanted to talk about my pregnancy, and it seemed he wanted to talk about something totally different. I lowered my glass and blinked a few times. “Huh?”

  “William Shakespeare. Nelson Mandela. Charles Darwin. Albert Einstein. As individuals, they each made a contribution that changed the course of history. God has given you an opportunity to raise a child. Someone that very well could be the next Martin Luther King. You should be grateful. It was his gift to you.”

  It was an interesting concept, but I had hoped for a less philosophical approach. I set my glass on the coffee table and let out a sigh. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Be responsible. Do the right thing.”

  I didn’t want him to tell me what to do, I wanted him to tell me what not to do. “What would be the wrong thing?”

  He shrugged. “Neglect?”

  Once again, not what I was after. Frustrated, I shook my head and then looked right at him. “The father has a grown kid, and he doesn’t do relationships. Well, she’s kind of grown. She’s seventeen.”

  He scrunched his nose. “He was absent in the child’s and the mother’s lives?”

  “No. The mother left when the baby was born, and he raised the baby. She lives with him. But, she’s not a baby. Not anymore, anyway.”

  “Single father?”

  I nodded. “Yep.”

  “Has he always been single? Since the baby was born?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Is he nice looking? Does he have a good personality? Is he a good person?” he asked, extending one finger with each question.

  “He’s gorgeous. And he’s got a great personality. From what he’s shown me so far, I think he’s a good person, but I don’t know him that well. I met him a month ago, and we had sex twice. He’s had a vasectomy, and I’m on the pill. Imagine that.”

  “He doesn’t sound like someone who doesn’t do relationships. He sounds like someone who wants to protect his child from heartbreak.”

  I hadn’t looked at it that way, but after he mentioned it, it made perfect sense. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “So, what did he say? When you told him?”

  “That’s just it. I haven’t told him.”

  His eyes went wide. “What? You’re not serious?”

  “That’s why I’m here. I need to decide what to do.”

  He cocked his head to the side, and did the eyebrow thing. “Are you considering not telling him?”

  My eyes dropped. “Uh huh.”

  He wagged his finger at me as if scolding me. “You didn’t conceive this child alone. You owe it to him – and to the child – to tell him.”

  His response made sense. It wasn’t what I’d hoped for, but I couldn’t argue his with his logic.

  “Okay. I’ll see if he’ll meet me and have a talk.”

  “Is everything friendly between you two?”

  “Well,” I said. “That’s where things get sticky.”

  Chapter Ten

  Smokey

  I started riding a motorcycle when I was 18 years old, and never looked back. I found it satisfying for many reasons, the main one being the sense of freedom I felt when I had the wind in my face. Having been charged with the task of mentoring a prospect changed everything. In one afternoon, riding went from an escape to being a pain in my ass.

  We rolled into the shop and came to a stop, with Tank parking twenty feet ahead of me. I pulled off my helmet and hopped off the bike in fluid motion.

  Tank pulled off his helmet, and turned to face me. “I don’t understand--”

  I took a few steps in his direction. “That’s the problem, prospect. You don’t fucking understand. You’re a prospect. You want to be an outlaw biker, but you’re not one. I am. You listen to me. Like it or fucking not, I’m in charge of this clusterfuck, and you’re along for the God damned ride.”

  He lifted his leg over the tank, brushed his hands against the thighs of his jeans, and looked at me. He did a pretty poor job of hiding his regret, but I didn’t give a fuck. I wasn’t going to let up on him one bit.

  Not now, not ever.

  If it was my job to train him how to be a Filthy Fucker, he was going to be the best the club had to offer when he went from prospect to patch.

  “I’ll quit fucking around. I’m sorry.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Crip approaching. He stopped behind my bike, crossed his arms, and waited. After taking a few more steps toward Tank, I paused. I took a long hit off my vape, stared blankly at him while I savored the taste, and then blew the cloud to the side.

  “When you were in the Corps, did you march like a fucking slob, going wherever you wanted, while the rest of the Marines marched in formation?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “No, Sir.”

  “What would have happened if you did?”

  “I’d have been written up.”

  “Called on the carpet, and then punished, right?”

  He nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

  “When there were two of you going somewhere, did you have a procedure, or did you just nonchalantly walk?”

  I knew the answers to the questions I asked, I was the son of a Marine. Knowing allowed me to ask the right questions, make valid points, and not sound like an idiot in the process.

  “If there were two of us, we walked everywhere in step.”

  “You walked side by side. His left foot went forward, your left foot went forward. His right, your right, correct?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “In the army, they walk around with their hands in their pockets. One soldier walking at one speed, and the other just slobbing along at another speed. Did you know that?”

  He nodded. “I’ve seen them.”

  “Which looks better?”

  “The Marines.”

  “They look organized, right? Side by side, going everywhere at the same pace. They look like they’re marching, even if they’re walking to the store.”

  He nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

  “We do the same fucking thing here, prospect. It makes us look organized. When there’s two of us, we ride two abreast. Always. Any more of that hotdogging shit will get your ass written up. Believe me, I’m keeping track.”

  “It won’t happen again.”

  “Did Meat let you do that shit?”
>
  He didn’t respond. Hell, he didn’t need to. I could tell by the look on his face that Meat didn’t give a shit. At least Tank wasn’t the type to snitch Meat out.

  “You’re not riding with him anymore,” I said, my tone stern. “I won’t put up with an ounce of your shit, understand?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  I shook my head. “How long you been out of the Marines?”

  “A little over a year.”

  “How long was your basic training? The amount of time it took you to go from civilian to Marine?”

  “Thirteen weeks, Sir.”

  “Thirteen weeks?” I nodded as if he’d revealed something I was unaware of. “Well, guess what? Your training here is 52 fucking weeks. That ought to give you an idea of how cautious we are of letting the wrong motherfucker wear our patch. Our training is longer than the Marines, and we spend most of that extra time weeding out the fucktards, understand?”

  He gave a sharp nod. “Yes, Sir.”

  “That’s another thing. Call me sir again, and I’ll put a bullet in your thigh. We’ll change your name from Tank to Gimp. Got it?”

  “Yes, S--” His eyes fell to the floor. He let out a sigh, and then he looked up. “What do I call you?”

  “Smoke. Smokey. Or, Boss.” I grinned at the thought of him calling me Boss. “Yeah, let’s go with Boss. I like that. Forget the other two. Call me Boss.”

  “Yes, Boss.”

  I liked the sound of it.

  “I thought I was the boss,” Crip said from behind me.

  I glanced over my shoulder. “You’re the boss of all patched members. He’s a fucking prospect, and damned poor one at that. I’m Boss, as far as he’s concerned, until I say otherwise.”

  Crip gave a nod. “Fair enough.”

  “Got a minute?” Crip asked.

  I lifted my chin slightly, and made eye contact with Tank. “Go count the fence posts out in the parking lot, prospect. Twice.”

  “Yes, Boss.”

  As Tank walked toward the parking lot, Crip turned toward me and chuckled. “See? All that shit you were asking him? It’s shit he can relate to.”

  “Gotta speak a subordinate’s language,” I said. “Just like talking to a child. You gotta speak to ‘em in a language they can understand.”