F*CKERS (Biker MC Romance Book 7)

by Scott Hildreth

  She stared at her feet.

  It was all the response I needed.

  His truck wasn’t in the driveway, but I asked anyway. “Is he home now?”

  “Not until late. No.”

  “Go get your shit. Whatever you need to get by for a while. Until we can figure something out.”

  “I don’t. I don’t have anywhere to stay. I haven’t got--”

  “You’ve got me,” I said. “And, you can stay here.”

  She looked up. “Seriously?’

  First, I needed to get her away from him. Then, I could take care of what needed to be taken care of.

  I reached for her hand. “Come on,” I said. “We can go get your stuff together.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Joey

  I wasn’t excited to be staying with Percy for the reasons one might think. The satisfaction I felt about being there wasn’t sexual. I was grateful that his offer wasn’t simply an offer. It was more of a demand.

  He truly cared.

  I hadn’t felt that anyone cared about me since my mother passed.

  I looked around the sparsely furnished – but very tidy – home. There wasn’t a single thing out of place.

  On the far wall, a television sat atop a console. Beside it, a wooden display case with a glass front was filled with various baseball memorabilia. Flanking the console were two low back fabric chairs. Directly across from it, a well-weathered couch sat.

  I motioned toward the display case. “Is that you’re personal collection?”

  “Some of it. The good stuff.”

  I knew how much baseball cards meant to him. Heck, it was how he made a living. I walked to the case, peered through the glass, and admired the neatness of the display.

  Everything was perfectly placed, centered, and in plastic protective cases. Four autographed baseballs in glass cubes, and more than two-dozen cards, one of which was in its own little shrine.

  “What’s the special one here on the top?” I asked.

  “Mickey Mantle #311,” he said.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It’s a 1952 Mickey mantle card. He played for the Yankees. It’s a pretty sought after card. It’s been in my family since 1952.”

  “Oh, wow. That’s impressive.”

  “That’s why it’s on the top.”

  I turned toward him. “I need a hobby.”

  “You’ve got one already,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Finding parts for Harleys.”

  “That’s not a hobby,” I said adamantly. “I’m going to make a career of it.” I looked at my pile of random clothes and the suitcase I’d filled with my belongings. “Where do you want me to--”

  “Second door on the left. It’s a guest room. Smoke stayed in it once, but other than that, nobody’s ever slept in there. Don’t worry.” He chuckled. “I washed the sheets.”

  “Okay.” I glanced down the hallway. “You just want me to put my stuff in there?”

  “Until we figure something else out, that’ll be your bedroom,” he said. “While you’re here, it’s yours. No one will go in there, including me.”

  “Wow. Okay. Thanks.”

  “Smoke and I knocked the wall out when we remodeled the bathroom, so there’s a door that goes into the hall bath. If you’re in there, lock the door.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Do you cook?” I asked.

  He gave me a look. “Me?”

  I nodded.

  “Toast. Maybe an egg from time to time. Other than that, no. Why?”

  I loved to cook. When I was younger, before Josh started his violent fits, I used to cook for him every night.

  “Do you mind if I do?”

  “Not much here to cook, but I don’t give a shit.” He shrugged. “Whatever flips your switch.”

  I motioned toward the bedroom. “I guess I’ll put my stuff up.”

  “I ain’t much on hanging out in here.” He looked around the house nervously. “I’ll be in the driveway staring at that Hernandez guy’s place.”

  “Aguilar.”

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “That’s what I meant.”

  As he turned toward the front door, I carried my things down the hallway and opened the bedroom door.

  The gray bedding and overstuffed pillows wasn’t what I would have expected Percy to choose, but then again, he was different than anyone I’d ever met. After I hung my clothes in the closet and put everything away I looked around the room.

  The bed and two nightstands were along one wall. A matching dresser was positioned against the wall at the side, and three large framed black and white photos of vintage motorcycles were hung in the center of each open wall.

  The hardwood floors were polished to perfection. At the foot of the bed, and at the left side, throw rugs were placed.

  It resembled something out of a magazine.

  I pressed my hand against the comforter. The mattress gave some resistance, but not like the hard one I’d been accustomed to sleeping on.

  I turned and fell onto the bed.

  It was like lying on a cloud. I closed my eyes and let out a sigh.

  A knock on the door startled me. I jumped to my feet, and looked around. Confused for a second as to where I was, my mind eventually caught up with me.

  “Come in.”

  The door opened. Percy stood in the hallway with his hand resting on the doorknob. He wasn’t wearing his leather vest, which I found odd.

  Dressed in a white tank top, jeans, and a pair of lace-up boots, he looked intimidating as hell.

  “Stay in here. No matter what, don’t come out until I come tell you it’s okay. You can come out of the room, just not the house.”

  I swallowed heavily. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. Shithead’s home. I’m headed over there.”

  “Are you uhhm. Are you going to tell him I’m staying here?”

  He barked out a laugh. “I ain’t gonna tell him shit. He’ll see your car sooner or later, though.”

  “I’ll uhhm. Okay.”

  “If the cops come and haul me away, shut the garage door, and lock the house when you leave. I’ll be back sooner or later. Either that, or Smoke will come by and let you know what’s up. Set of keys on the kitchen table for you. One fits the front door, and one fits the back. The little key locks the garage from the outside.”

  “You’re not going to kill him, are you?”

  His face was expressionless. “Depends on how things go, I suppose.”

  He extended his clenched fist.

  I swallowed hard, walked to the door, and pounded my fist against his.

  “See you in a bit, Smudge.”

  I bit against my quivering lip and gave a sharp nod.

  He pulled the door closed behind him.

  Then, it hit me.

  I yanked the door open. “Be careful. He’s uhhm. He’s a former Marine.”

  “A former Marine?” He glanced over his shoulder and let out a laugh. “Well, I’m currently the meanest son-of-a-bitch I know, so this ought to be fun.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Percy

  If a man raises his hand to a woman, he’s earned an ass whipping. But for a man to raise his hand to one of his children, especially his daughter, he’s earned far more than a simple ass whipping.

  I told myself as I walked across the yard that killing him wasn’t the answer, but despite my mind’s thoughts, my soul struggled to accept anything short of burying him in the backyard.

  I stepped on the porch, checked over each of my shoulders, and then knocked on the door.

  The door opened.

  “Something I can do for--”

  I swung a straight right hand as hard as I’d ever thrown one. The punch caught him off guard – and directly in center of his face.

  His nose splattered beneath my knuckles, undoubtedly broken by a punch he had no idea was coming.

  I had no intention of beat
ing him and walking away.

  None whatsoever.

  My plan was to beat him, educate him on matters of moral behavior, and then beat him a little more.

  As he stumbled to catch his footing, I stepped into the house and pulled the door closed behind me.

  He lowered his hands.

  Blood dripped past his lips and down his chin. For an instant, he appeared to be confused. Then his fight or flight instinct kicked in.

  He raised his hands and took a step toward me. It appeared he was choosing fight over flight.

  It wasn’t a wise decision on his part. I inhaled a quick breath, leaned back, and then drove the top of my head into his face with every ounce of energy I could gather.

  What little of his nose had survived the first punch had no chance of making it through the impact of my hard head.

  His hands shot to his face, and he stumbled against the wall.

  Two successive blows to the nose had rendered him senseless. Regardless, I was far from finished. He’d done the unthinkable to one of the few women on earth I cared about, and I wasn’t going to go easy on him.

  Not at all.

  I raised my right foot, planted it against his chest, and kicked him to the floor. He tried to stand, but in his semi-conscious state, his brain and his legs were having a difficult time communicating.

  I reached into my back pocket, removed the roll of electrical tape I’d taken from my garage, and before he could provide much resistance, pulled his hands behind his back and taped his wrists together. Now hillbilly handcuffed and sitting on the floor, he looked up at me with confused eyes.

  He blinked a few times. “You’re the neighbor, right?”

  “Yep. That’s me. Name’s Welsh. Percy L. Welsh. When we’re done, you can call the cops if you’d like. That is, if I don’t kill you.”

  I looked around the living room. A chair in the corner of the room was only a few away. I leaned against the arm of it and looked at him.

  I raised my right foot off the floor a few inches. “If you try to get up, I’m going to plant the toe of this size 12 Doc Marten on your face. Get comfortable.”

  His eyes darted left, and then right.

  Then, he tried to stand.

  I slid off the edge of the chair, raised my right foot, and kicked him in the face as hard as I could.

  Although I’d promised to give him the toe of my boot, his squirming caused my heel to catch his upper cheek. The soft rubber sole gripped the skin of his cheek and tore through it like a knife, leaving a four-inch gash.

  On his back moaning like the little bitch he was, he began to realize I wasn’t there to be nice.

  “What the fuck?” he bellowed. “Why in the fuck--”

  “Shut up,” I said. “Or I’ll give you the boot again.”

  He looked like he’d narrowly escaped death in a bare knuckles MMA fight. Despite his curiosity, he inched toward the wall behind him and leaned his head against it.

  “What are--”

  “What did I tell you?” I asked. “I’m not in the mood to listen to you.”

  I leaned against the chair, let out a sigh, and looked right at him. “Listen to me.”

  One eye was swollen shut, and what little of his nose remained was distorted so bad it was difficult to tell what it was. Regardless, he appeared to give me his full attention.

  “Don’t agree, don’t disagree, just listen. Got it?”

  He nodded.

  I slid off the arm of the chair and began to pace the small living room. “A man has a responsibility on this earth. Respect his parents. Don’t lie to anyone but the cops. Don’t take things that aren’t yours. And never, no matter what, raise your hand to a woman.” I locked eyes with him. “You failed on at least one of those responsibilities.”

  His only available eye fell to the floor in what I suspected was shame.

  “If you ever, and I do mean ever, come near Joey again, if I don’t kill you tonight, I can promise you I will the next time. If you think you want to try something slick, and do something to me, or to my bike, think again. You’ll have the entire MC over here on you so fast you won’t have time to blink. When I leave here tonight, count your losses, realize you’re a piece of human shit, and learn to live with it. Any form of repercussion will only earn you a one-way ticket to meet your maker.”

  He looked up.

  “You think you’re going to come in my house and--”

  I planted my boot against his chin. The impact knocked his head into the wall behind him.

  “Shitty feeling, being beaten when you can’t defend yourself, isn’t it?” I asked. “Now you know how she felt. Defenseless.”

  Saying it caused my blood to boil. The thought of him hitting Smudge hard enough to swell her eye closed sickened me.

  I kicked him again, and again, and again.

  When I came to my senses, I realized he was unconscious.

  I walked to the kitchen, dug through the cabinets, and found a large bowl. After filling it with a few pounds of ice and some water, I carried it into the living room.

  I poured the freezing water on his face.

  He snapped to life. After spitting blood on the floor for a moment, he tilted his head upward. I had my doubts as to whether he could see me or not, but at least he was trying.

  “We in agreement here?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  A puddle of blood had pooled on the floor. The wall behind him was covered in blood splatters from my kicking him.

  The living room and adjacent hallway wall looked like a mass murder crime scene.

  As much as I wanted to continue, I realized beating him any more would be the death of him. He’d require a hundred or so stitches, having his nose fixed, and he surely had a few broken ribs.

  He spat on the floor and looked up.

  I grinned at my handiwork. Dental implants. He’d need a few of those, too.

  As he fumbled to get to his feet, I shook my head and turned away.

  “I meant what I said,” I said over my shoulder. “Don’t come near her. Not for any reason. You lost the right.”

  I opened the door, paused, and then turned around.

  Standing a few feet in front of me with his hands still secured behind his back, he was truly defenseless.

  Just like his stepdaughter was when he beat her.

  I swung the toe of my right boot directly into his nuts.

  He coughed out a mouthful of blood and crumbled to the floor.

  That one was for Smudge, asshole.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Joey

  It had been a week since Josh got his education. With Percy in Vista looking at a baseball card collection, I’d taken it upon myself to cook dinner.

  I couldn’t decide whether to set the table or not, and then chose against it. I didn’t want him to think I perceived the meal as romantic, or that I looked at him that way. I simply wanted to show my gratitude for what he’d done for me, and cooking for him was the only thing I could think of.

  As soon as I pulled the bread from the oven, I heard his motorcycle coming down the block.

  While I adjusted my placement of the food I’d prepared, the front door opened.

  He stepped inside, tilted his head back, and inhaled a long breath through his nose.

  “God damn,” he said.

  Good god damn, or bad god damn?

  “What?”

  “Something smells good as fuck. Did you order Italian? I’m starved.”

  “I uhhm. I cooked Italian.”

  “With what?” His brow wrinkled. “There’s nothing here to cook.”

  “I bought some stuff.”

  “You bought stuff and cooked dinner?”

  I did a half-assed curtsy. “I did.”

  He looked at the food I’d placed on the countertop. “What is it?”

  “Lasagna, homemade bread, a tomato and mozzarella salad, and some sautéed broccoli.”

  “Is it ready to eat?”

 
; “Yes, it is.”

  He rubbed his hands together. “What are we waiting for?”

  Having him express such excitement over a meal was fantastic. Even if he hated my cooking, his eagerness to at least try it was reward enough.

  I opened the cupboard and handed him a plate. “Here.”

  “You first.”

  I grabbed another plate and filled it. He followed right behind me.

  I set the plate down at the table and glanced over my shoulder. “What would you like to drink?”

  “Beer’s fine with me.”

  I poured myself a glass of water, and grabbed him a beer. When I returned to the table, he was sitting across from me with a plate filled to the point it was spilling over the sides.

  Wow.

  I smiled and handed him the bottle of beer. “Long day?”

  “Ran all over southern California. Chula Vista, San Diego, then Vista. Shit, rode about 200 miles, splitting traffic the whole way.”

  “Does that make you nervous?”

  “Does now.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since one of the fellas was going 80 down the 5, and some chick flung her door open and crashed his bagger.”

  “Oh my God,” I gasped. “Is he okay?”

  “He’s fine. And guess what else?”

  “What?”

  “He’s marrying the chick that wrecked him. Long story. I’ll tell you later.” He looked at his plate and then at me. “Can we eat?”

  “Oh. Sure. Sorry.”

  He cut the corner off his lasagna and lifted the fork to his mouth. I looked at my plate, hoping to seem uninterested in his expression, although nothing at that moment was more important than his opinion about what I had prepared.

  “Dear fucking God,” he gasped.

  I looked up. “Too hot?”

  “No.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Wrong? Nothing’s wrong.” He swallowed. “This shit’s the fucking bomb.”

  “You like it?”

  “Best fucking lasagna I ever ate.” He cut off another huge bite. “Better than my mother’s, but don’t tell her that.”

  I grinned. “I won’t.”

  He pointed his fork toward a tomato. “What’s in this salad?”

  “Mozzarella cheese, tomatoes, basil, balsamic vinegar--”