F*CKERS (Biker MC Romance Book 7)

by Scott Hildreth

  I grinned. “No problem. Good luck with the Chipper Jones.”

  He clenched his fist and extended his arm.

  I pressed my fist into his.

  He gave a sharp nod and turned toward the door. As he walked away, an odd sense of confidence washed over me. My cleavage was no longer my main concern. In fact, at that moment, I had no concerns.

  As I often did after spending time with Percy, I closed my eyes, drifted away, and at least for that fleeting moment, felt normal.

  Chapter Eight

  P-Nut

  Dinner at Smokey’s house was always entertaining, but sometimes it was more so for others, and not so much for me. I took a drink of my beer, all the while glaring at Eddie over the top of the bottle.

  She was Smokey’s seventeen-year-old daughter. Based on her attitude and intellect, a blind man would guess her age at no less than thirty. I loved her as if she were my own daughter, but she was often a thorn in my side.

  “It’s a simple question.” She poked a piece of steak with her fork, paused, and raised both eyebrows. “One you should be able to answer easily, regardless of what your response might be. That is, unless you’re embarrassed.”

  I took another drink and shot her a glare.

  “We’re all family here, P-Nut,” she said. “I was just wondering.”

  I glanced at Smokey, shook my head, and then looked at Eddie. “At what point in time did you become so enthralled in my relationship status?”

  She lowered her fork to her plate and crossed her arms. “We’re answering questions with questions, are we?”

  It was a trademark move of mine. Telling a lie was out of the question, but stretching the truth to its limits – or diverting the line of questioning with a question – was something I did with regularity.

  I nodded toward her. “You just did.”

  “Stop acting like you’re in high school,” she said.

  “Stop acting like your’re thirty-five fucking years old.”

  She cocked an eyebrow and shot me the stink eye. “P-Nut!”

  Shit.

  I’d done the unthinkable. Cussing in her house wasn’t allowed. Neither was smoking. Or farting. Or acting like a biker in any respect. Discussions of sex, fighting, casual blowjobs, or the size of a waitress’ tits were things Smokey and I were forced to enjoy in her absence.

  She damned sure didn’t need to yell at me, but she did every time she got an opportunity. I knew I’d fucked up as soon as the f-bomb fell out of my mouth. Transforming into a respectable human being each time I crossed the threshold of Smokey’s door didn’t come easy, but it was something I’d been working on since Eddie was a pre-teen.

  “Do we cuss in this house?” she asked.

  I tilted my bottle of beer toward her. “My apologies. It slipped out.”

  “Answer my question.”

  “About cussing in the house, or the other one?”

  A sigh shot from her lungs. “The other one.”

  “Yes.”

  She glared at me. “Yes?”

  “You said are we answering questions with questions. My response is yes.”

  “My question was when are you going to settle down and get a girlfriend? Look around you. Crip? He’s got one. Pee Bee? He does, too. Cholo? Check. Dad? Check. Everyone’s growing up but you.”

  I didn’t respond, at least not immediately. Being pinned down to one woman wasn’t something I felt could ever work. At least not for me. I wouldn’t change for anyone, and finding someone who would accept me as I was would be impossible. Finding a woman who would satisfy me beyond the bedroom would be equally impossible.

  “Being single suits me just fine.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  I glanced at Smokey, his Ol’ Lady, Sandy, and then at Eddie. “Can I eat my steak?”

  “I just want you to be happy,” she said.

  “I am happy.”

  “You’re the only single one at this table.”

  “Single and happy.”

  “Happy for now.”

  “What the fu--” I caught myself midway through the word. “What does that mean?”

  “You’re happy until one day you look around and you’re the only fifty-year-old single guy in the club. Then, there won’t be anyone to choose from except for a bunch of divorced fifty-year-old women who have developed a hatred for all the things you are, and a yearning for all the things you’re not.”

  “I’ll just keep doing what I’m doing, thank you.”

  She shrugged. “Just going to get tougher the older you get.”

  “Jesus.” I looked at Smokey. There was no way he put her up to it. I looked at Sandy. “Did you put her up to this? You and your estrogen overload?”

  “Wasn’t me,” she said. “This is between you and her.”

  Eddie had an opinion about everything, and wasn’t afraid to voice it. Depending on the topic of conversation, being on the receiving end of her tongue could be torture.

  I pushed my plate to the side and looked at Eddie. “There’s a new girl at Davina’s. I’m taking her out. There. Happy now?”

  She spit out a laugh. “You’re taking her out?” She looked at Smokey, let out a sigh, and then shot me her signature stink eye glare. “I know what that means.”

  “You don’t know shit.”

  “P-Nut!”

  “Shit’s not a cussword.”

  “If it can’t be said on the six o’clock news, it can’t be said here.”

  I had no idea if they could say shit on the news, I didn’t watch the news. Based on Eddie’s glare, my guess was that I was wrong.

  Again.

  “I wasn’t aware. I’ll add it to the list.”

  She rolled her eyes comically.

  “My meat’s getting cold,” I said. “Let me finish my meal, and if I’m in the mood, we can talk about the waitress when I’m done.”

  “I don’t want to talk about your next hookup, P-Nut. I was looking at the bigger picture.”

  “I don’t want to hear about your hookups, either,” I said. “Let’s change the subject.”

  Her eyes shot wide. “Richard and I aren’t hooking up. We’re hanging out.”

  “Hooking up. Hanging out.” I poked a piece of steak in my mouth and shook my head. “I can’t keep up with what all these phrases mean. If we could use cusswords, I wouldn’t be so confused. Something to consider. The introduction of cusswords. You know, now that you’re a little older.”

  “Hooking up is just. You know. You meet some skank at the bar and have sex. That’s a hook up.”

  Smokey cocked an eyebrow. “Ed…”

  Eddie’s head swiveled toward him. “Dad. Seriously? I’m just trying to explain something to your thick-skulled friend.”

  She looked at me. “Hanging out is just getting to know someone. It’s the first stage of a relationship.”

  “So, if I’m hanging out with someone, I’m not getting any. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Yeah. I’m not interested in that. I’m not seventeen. I’m into hookups.”

  “That’s my point,” she said. “Hookups get you nowhere in life. It’s just sex.”

  “Maybe sex is all I’m after.”

  “I think this conversation has gone far enough,” Smokey said dryly.

  I raised my bottle of beer. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “Fine,” Eddie said. “I came close to making my point. Better than I do most times.”

  “You made your point,” I said.

  “But--”

  “Just because I don’t agree with you doesn’t mean you didn’t make your point, Ed. Let’s just agree that we disagree on this.”

  “I just want you to be happy.”

  “I’ll keep you posted on the waitress. Maybe it’ll be more than a hookup.”

  “What would she have to do to capture your interest?”

  Capture my interest?

  Capture was the perfect choice of words. I finished my b
eer and gave her question some consideration, but not very much. The mere thought of being with a woman on a permanent basis made me feel constrained.

  I wanted to answer her, I really did. I wanted to know myself. Hell, everyone around me was getting married, having babies, or rigging up their Ol’ Lady with a Property Of patch. I wondered if I was just wired differently, or if my lack of trust was so engrained in my being that I’d never let a woman be a part of my life.

  I looked at Smokey. He sat at Sandy’s side, holding a piece of broccoli as she nibbled the head off the stalk.

  Bile rose in my throat.

  I looked at Eddie. “Nothing. There’s nothing she – or any woman – will be able to do to capture my interest.”

  And, I truly believed each and every word.

  Chapter Nine

  Joey

  He’d started drinking early in the evening. Although he had yet to have a fit of anger or a bad word to say, I’d been around him long enough to know if he was drinking that sooner or later he’d do or say something.

  With my covers pulled to my shoulders and my iPod providing a soft barrier of music between us, I stared up at the ceiling and wondered when I realistically might be able to live on my own.

  Rent was going to cost $1,400 a month for the cheapest apartment in town. Utilities would be another $450 by my calculations. Food, fuel, and miscellaneous expenses would be another $600, bringing my total to $2,450.

  I’d need to make at least $2,600 a month to survive comfortably.

  In many states, riding motorcycles was a seasonal activity. In Oceanside, California, it was something a rider could enjoy year-round. Sales at the Harley dealer was an even stream of income, or at least it should be.

  If I could meet my quota each month, and then sell an added $10,000 in accessories, I could make $3,000 a month.

  I decided that would be my goal. If I could achieve it for three months straight, and save every penny I could, I’d be comfortable moving out.

  With my decision made, I turned off my iPod and set it on the dresser.

  The sound of screamo music filtered through the house.

  Perfect.

  He claimed listening to the vile filth calmed him. It didn’t. It seemed to transport him to a place that allowed him to escape from reality. When he returned, and eventually he always did, he was short-tempered and prone to violent outbursts.

  I covered my head with my pillow and hoped that I could fall asleep.

  Nervous with anticipation of what he might do, I tossed and turned while the annoying crap resonated throughout the house.

  Eventually, I somehow relaxed enough that I fell asleep.

  My door opening caused me to wake.

  I opened my eyes and shot to a seated position. He stood just inside the room, leaning against the wall.

  With a bottle of Jack Daniels clenched in his fist, he lowered his chin and fixed his drunken eyes on mine. “We need to have a talk.”

  His glassy eyes and his inability to stand without the wall’s aid told me he was trashed. I knew better than to try to argue with him when he was in such a drunken state. A soft tone and a response that was supportive of his request was my only way to keep the situation from escalating.

  I glanced at my clock.

  1:22

  “It’s almost two o’clock in the morning,” I said in a soft tone. “And, I feel sick. Can we talk tomorrow? In the morning?”

  He pushed himself from the wall, and almost fell. He raised the bottle to his mouth, took a drink, and wiped his mouth with the back of his free hand.

  “We need to talk now.” He took another drink. “You’re going to be twenty-one soon, and you need to be the fuck out of this house before that day comes.”

  My birthday was eight weeks away. By my calculations, I needed twelve stellar weeks of sales to achieve my financial goal. Nervous of what his next step might be if he didn’t find my reply favorable, I carefully formulated my response.

  “I’ll do my best. I’m making some really good sales, and I’ve met my--”

  He lowered the bottle and took a few steps toward the corner of my bed. “Did I ask you for details? Fuck no I didn’t. I don’t give two fucking shits about your stupid fucking job. I want results.”

  My body tensed. I glanced at the bottle of whisky, realized it was almost empty, and swallowed heavily.

  For fear of not having anywhere to go after they arrived, I’d never called the police on him. After our last talk had turned violent, I swore I’d never let him harm me again. Since that night, I held the police in reserve as my only salvation.

  I looked up. “Okay.”

  “Okay?” He waved the bottle in my direction. “Yes, Josh, I’ll be out by my birthday, or no Josh, I won’t. Which is it?”

  I wasn’t going to lie to him, even if it was to get him to go away. If I did, the backlash that followed would be brutal. As much as I knew it wasn’t what he wanted to hear, I had to to give a truthful response.

  One I was comfortable with.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  He leaned forward, grabbed the comforter, and yanked the covers off me completely. “Your best sucks.”

  His glassy eyes and tense muscles told me he was drunk and hoping to start a fight. I jumped off the side of the bed and scrambled toward the dresser.

  I yanked my phone from my purse. Prepared to give my verbal warning for what was next, I spun around, phone in hand.

  I didn’t see it but something struck me on the cheek.

  Hard.

  A bright flash of light followed, and I fell to the floor.

  “What in the fuck do you think you’re going to do?” he growled. “Call the fucking cops? In my house?”

  The punch knocked me senseless. The side of my face was throbbing, and my left eye was swelling closed with each passing second. He’d hit me in the past, but never like that. When I came to my senses, I realized I no longer had my phone, and frantically began to search the room for where it went.

  His eyes found it before I did.

  “Looking for this?”

  He took a quick step forward, raised his foot, and stomped the heel of his boot down on my phone.

  Crap.

  I couldn’t decide whether to stand or to stay on the floor. With calling the police no longer an option, I decided the floor would be the least threatening position to him. It was there that I cowered in fear.

  I soon found out that it wasn’t a good decision.

  The toe of his boot swung into my stomach. The air shot from my lungs. I heaved to breathe, gasping to catch my breath. Now certain that he wasn’t going to stop until I was either crippled or dead, I somehow managed to rise to my feet.

  He cackled a drunken laugh. “Oh, you want to fight me?”

  I realized I was instinctively standing in a defensive posture.

  I lowered my arms. “Please--”

  “Don’t beg. You’re even uglier when you do.”

  His hand landed against my swollen eye. The punch knocked me from my feet. I stumbled halfway across the room.

  I tried to get up, but couldn’t. I wanted to run, somehow sneak past him, or jump out the window and run the Percy’s house. I was too weak to stand, and even if I could, I hadn’t heard his motorcycle come home yet.

  There was nothing I could do.

  Tears streamed down my face. I was done. Done sharing a home with him, done trying to reason with him, and done fighting him. He’d finally managed to break me.

  “I’ll be…I’ll be gone,” I murmured.

  “What’s that?” He chuckled. “Did you say something?”

  “I’ll be gone.”

  He cleared his throat. “By your birthday.”

  “I’ll be gone by my…” I muttered. “I’ll be gone on my birthday.”

  “Better be.”

  The door closed behind him. I collapsed on the floor, covered my face with my hands. and sobbed.

  Chapter Ten

  P
-Nut

  On my way home from the clubhouse after a late-night meeting, I rolled to a stop at the traffic light. While I tapped my fingers to a tune that no one else could hear, an SUV pulled alongside me on the left.

  Then, another on my right.

  I glanced at one, and then the other. They were identical in color, appearance, and stance.

  Fucking feds.

  My asshole puckered.

  I looked at the traffic signal, pulled in the clutch lever, and prepared to run the red light. As I watched for a break in cross traffic, a third – identical – SUV swerved out of the intersection’s traffic and came to a screeching stop in front of me.

  Fuck.

  Twelve doors swung open, and no less than a dozen armed men jumped into the street. As soon as the heels of their boots hit the asphalt, the screaming started.

  A burly bastard wearing a helmet and some ridiculous goggles over his eyes stepped in front of my bike. The barrel of his rifle was fixed on my chest the entire time.

  “Don’t fucking move!” he demanded.

  “Keep your hands where we can see them!” someone on my left said.

  “Don’t move!” another shouted from behind me.

  Dressed in military-style garb and fitted bulletproof vests, the yellow letters stitched to the front of their gear left no doubt as to who I was dealing with.

  The ATF.

  Fuck.

  With the barrels of a dozen rifles pointed at me, my choices were few. I flipped the run switch to off and swept the kickstand down with the toe of my boot.

  The last thing I was going to have happen was to see my bike tipped over when they tried to pull me off it.

  “Evening, fellas,” I said with a broad grin. “Kinda late to be starting a party, isn’t it?”

  The one with the goggles moved the barrel of his rifle within a few feet of my chest. “Percy L. Welsh?”

  “You askin’, or tellin’?”

  “Are you Percy L. Welsh?” he growled.

  “If I say no, are you pricks going to get back in your cages and roll out of here?”

  “With. Your. Hands. Fixed. On. The. Handlebars,” he shouted, annunciating each word. “Lift your right leg over the rear fender and stand beside your motorcycle.”