BAKER

by Scott Hildreth

  I hoped so, anyway. Even though all we shared was sex, I missed out time together.

  “Not yet,” I said.

  She walked to the window and peered down at the street. “You don’t see that as weird?”

  “Everything’s weird to you.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Hank started doing weird stuff. Six months later, I found out he was having sex with that Simon chick.”

  “Sierra,” I said. “Her name was Sierra Simon.”

  She gave me a condescending look and then turned toward the window. “Yeah. Sierra. Fucking bitch.”

  Holly placed blame for the affair on the waitress, saying that she should have had enough common sense not to fuck a married man. She set up fake accounts on every social media platform imaginable, and friended her on Facebook while posing as another person. After a few years of stalking her, she eventually let it go.

  But she never found fault in Hank’s actions.

  I, on the other hand, viewed it no differently than I viewed my father’s decision to cheat on my mother. He had a responsibility to be faithful to her, and he didn’t meet it. He made a conscious decision to crush her belief that he loved her and her alone. I viewed the aftermath, entirely, as being his fault.

  It wasn’t a matter of if a man would cheat, it was a matter of when. For men, it seemed lying was second nature.

  “Hey!” Holly shouted. “Is this him?”

  Her voice brought me back to reality. I wiped my watering eyes as I walked toward the window. “Huh?”

  She pointed toward the glass. “Is this your guy?”

  The faint sound of a motorcycle running grew louder as I approached her. I stepped to her side and looked out the window. A man with crazy hair was seated on a motorcycle that was parked at the curb in front of the adjoining building. Standing on the sidewalk beside the man’s motorcycle, was Baker.

  “Oh wow. Yeah. He’s the one on the sidewalk with the beard and tattoos.”

  Holly pressed her forehead against the glass. “That guy on the motorcycle took off his helmet, and I was like, holy crap.”

  I looked at her. “What?”

  “He’s sexy.”

  I took another look at him. His long hair hung in his face, and his arms weren’t completely tattooed, like Baker’s. Instead, they were spotted with small pieces of illegible artwork. “He looks like a thug.”

  “So does that other guy.”

  “Whatever.”

  Baker seemed nervous. Every few seconds, he glanced over each shoulder. After a moment, the man on the motorcycle nodded and put his helmet on. Then, Baker turned toward the building, and the man rode away.

  Holly took a step back and looked at me. “Looks like they were doing something shady.”

  “Looked to me like two friends talking.”

  She made a face as if she’d swallowed a worm. “Your guy looks sketchy.”

  “Not as sketchy as that ex-con on the motorcycle.”

  “He kept looking over his shoulder, like he thought the cops were coming.”

  “Who? The ex-con?” I asked, although I knew she meant Baker. For some reason, I felt the need to defend him.

  “No. Your guy.”

  I gave her a cross look. “His name is Baker.”

  “He looks sketchy. He acts sketchy. I say he’s sketchy.”

  I tossed my hands in the air. “He might be,” I said. “I don’t care. I’m not married to him, I’m just riding his dick.”

  As much as I told myself that was the case, the spasm in the pit of my stomach said otherwise.

  EIGHTEEN - Baker

  Our MC had several rituals, most of which were a result of my superstitious beliefs. For one, on the eve of every job, we went out to eat as a group. Our choice for the night was Hunter Steakhouse. A no-frills dive with a small seating area and large portions, it was known for mouth-watering Prime Rib.

  Unlike most motorcycle clubs, we didn’t wear colors. In our opinions, donning a leather vest with a patch stitched on the back wasn’t enough of a commitment. Additionally, the vests drew unwanted attention to the group, making the members a target of the local, state, and federal authorities.

  We chose to have the MC’s patch tattooed on our backs. In the club’s eyes, joining the MC was a lifelong pledge; therefore, the patch should be a comparable commitment.

  We rode our motorcycles side-by-side, and equally spaced. That formation was maintained regardless of speed, and our speed was ever changing. Cash and I set the pace, as we were in front. If we sped up, the group sped up. If we slowed, the group slowed.

  Although we had many choices, we rode our Harleys when riding as a group. A mismatched group of bikes that spanned four decades in age, their only common theme was loud exhaust pipes.

  Cash twisted his throttle back and held it in place. I accepted the challenge without question. The high speed would test my body’s ability to absorb the imperfections of California’s roadways.

  In half a mile, the group was veering in and out of traffic, changing lanes three at a time, and speeding past vehicles that were moving much slower than the MC’s one hundred miles an hour. The sound from the motorcycle’s exhaust was close to deafening, and stood as a warning against anyone considering getting in our path.

  When our headlights illuminated the exit sign to Highway 8, Cash let off the throttle. The laughter and shit-talking started as soon as the sound of our exhaust cackled to a dull roar.

  As we rolled into the restaurant’s parking lot, Reno shouted at Cash. “I had mine about half-throttle. Might want to get that ‘Glide checked out. Probably needs a set of rings.”

  “Motherfucker doesn’t need rings, asshole,” Cash retorted.

  Reno backed his bike into the stall beside Cash and peered over his left shoulder. “Sure acts like something’s wrong with it.”

  “Fuck you,” Cash seethed. “There isn’t--”

  Ghost backed in beside Reno, positioning his rear tire to be even with the three that were already parked. “Had mine about half-throttle, too. If I’d have pegged it, I’d have climbed up your back fender.”

  “Same here,” Goose said dryly. “Had to let off mine. Damned near hit Reno when we took off. I twisted that bitch all the way back, and then I decided you must have just been dicking around. You didn’t have yours pegged, did ya?”

  Cash looked at Tito and cocked an eyebrow. “Well?”

  Tito situated his bike beside Goose’s and shut it off. “I’m with Reno. I thought I was going to hit Ghost. Maybe there’s something wrong with yours. Plugged exhaust or a bent valve. Something.”

  Cash glanced at me, pulled off his helmet, and let out a long breath. “What do you have to say?”

  I draped the chin strap of my helmet over the handlebars. “Me?”

  “No, motherfucker. I’m talking to the palm tree behind you.”

  I turned toward the entrance and brushed the wrinkles from my jeans.

  “God damn it, Bake,” Cash whined. “There ain’t nothing wrong with Mary, is there?”

  A stripper in Austin, Texas once sucked Cash’s cock so aggressively that one of his nuts swelled to the size of a baseball the next morning. We rode to Phoenix, Arizona, but he couldn’t go another mile. The swollen testicle required thirty-two thousand dollars’ worth of surgery and ten days of antibiotics. Even though he limped for a month afterward, he swore it was the best blowjob he’d ever received.

  The human vacuum cleaner’s stage name was Mother Mary. In her memory, Cash graced every post-blowjob Harley he owned with her name.

  I turned around and situated my bracelets. “I had another half inch of throttle,” I lied. “You were just playing, weren’t you?”

  “Son of a fucking bitch.” He looked at his bike, and then at me. “Seriously?”

  “Half, maybe three quarters of an inch, yeah. Why?”

  “I had her pegged, Bake. All the way back.”

  “Have Reno tear it down and rebuild it,” I said dryly. �
��I’d say the cam’s flat. Might be rings. Who knows?”

  “God damn it. That motor’s not that old.”

  “Age has nothing to do with it,” I said. “Just like the woman you named her after, Mary’s had a rough life.”

  “Mary was hot as fuck. You don’t even remember what she looked like.”

  I choked on a laugh. “She looked like haggard shit. One tit was bigger than the other, she had a two-inch scar on her belly, a mole on the left side of her neck, and her son’s name was Jesus. How’s that?”

  He walked past me and pulled open the door. “I don’t remember the mole.”

  The waitress pushed two tables together, seated us, and then tried to hand out menus. When she held an extended arm over Ghost’s lap with a menu in tow, he shook his head.

  “Glass of water to drink,” he said with a nod. “Prime rib medium rare. Horseradish sauce and au jus. Baked potato. Butter. Sour cream. Whatever the vegetable of the night is will be fine. Please, and thank you.”

  She tried to hand a menu to Reno.

  Reno raised his hand in protest and shook his head. “Same.”

  She looked at Goose.

  “Ditto.”

  She looked at me. I stroked my beard, gave a crisp nod, and grinned. “Same. Thank you.”

  “I’ll follow suit,” Cash said.

  “I’ll have the same,” Tito said. “No horseradish, though. Thanks.”

  Cash leaned onto the edge of the table and cleared his throat.

  Tito shifted his eyes from the waitress to Cash. “What?”

  Cash glared. “You know the rule.”

  Tito turned up his palms. “It’s a condiment, and I don’t eat the shit.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I said flatly. “Leave it on your plate. But, we’re all served the same.”

  “Alright,” Tito said. “Horseradish it is.”

  Beside the meal, another ritual – or rule – was that we did not discuss our jobs in public. Ever. We made our plans in the office or the clubhouse, and that was it.

  No exceptions.

  The group meal was a time to relax, get our heads straight, and nourish our bodies.

  Cash shook a toothpick out of the holder and clenched it between his teeth. “Bake’s fucking a Brazilian chick.” He glanced at each of the men. “Got a twat the size of a dime, and an ass the size of Alaska.”

  I gave him a side-eyed look. “You dumb fuck.”

  He fixed his eyes on Ghost. “True story. Say’s she’s got voodoo pussy. Ever heard that one? Voodoo pussy?”

  “Had a chick in Japan once,” Reno said. “Had wide hips and a snapper so small she squealed when I put my finger in it.”

  “What’d she do when you fucked her?” Cash asked.

  “Grunted a lot and cried a little.”

  Cash pulled the toothpick from his mouth. “Cried?”

  Reno nodded. “Tears ran down her cheeks. Every time. She loved it, though.”

  Cash looked at me. “Does your girl cry?”

  I lowered my chin and glared. “Change the subject.”

  “Our superstitious Prez slipped off the edge of the celibacy cliff?” Ghost chuckled. “Tell us about voodoo pussy.”

  Pussy made a man weak. That was my claim, at least. When a man gets wrapped up in fucking a woman, emotions get in the way. Eventually, the small head begins to make the decisions. Undoubtedly, the day comes when the man looks around him and realizes his life – and everything in it – has changed. My fear of change caused the men to view me as superstitious.

  I gave Cash a dose of stink eye, and then looked at Ghost. “I’m not fucking her. I fucked her. Past tense. She had a tight pussy. Deep and tight. That’s pretty much it.”

  “Tell ‘em what you called it,” Cash spouted. “Called it voodoo pussy, didn’t ya?”

  Ghost cracked his knuckles and then grinned a sly grin. “Well? Did ya?”

  I massaged my temples with the tips of my fingers. I’d always thought with my big head, not my little one. In fact, my dick never made decisions for me. Somehow, with Andy, my cock became the decision maker. Now, with ten eyes staring back at me in wait of an answer, I began to fill with regret.

  “I did.”

  “Let’s hear it,” he said. “Why voodoo pussy?”

  Andy’s pussy was unexplainable. It felt unlike anything I’d ever had the pleasure of sticking my dick in. After experiencing the feeling it provided, being satisfied by anything lesser was improbable. I hadn’t fucked her for damned near a week. I had my doubts, however, that I’d last much longer.

  “Girl’s got a magic pussy,” I said without an ounce of emotion. “What? You’ve never fucked a chick that’s got a nice twat?”

  “Is that it? She’s got a nice puss?”

  “That’s the beginning and the end of it, yeah.”

  He clasped his palms together and locked eyes with me. “Well, if that’s all it is, I guess we don’t have anything to worry about tomorrow, do we?”

  I alternated glances between the men. “If anything happens tomorrow, her pussy won’t have anything to do with it. That much I can guarantee.”

  As the words rolled from the tip of my tongue, I almost believed them.

  NINETEEN - Andy

  I had no more than finished the Gala Christmas flier, and the door opened. With an old-school briefcase clenched in his right hand, Mister Greene stepped through the door. Dressed in a dark gray pinstriped business suit and blue tie, he looked cute. After a quick smile, he looked the office over, and then sat down.

  He glanced over his shoulder and fixed his eyes on the long brick wall. “Looks pretty bare in here, Andy.”

  I realized that during his arrival, I’d managed to stand. I sat down and let out a sigh at the same time. “I’m cash strapped right now. But, as soon as I get a few bills paid, I plan on doing some decorating.”

  He shifted his eyes from the wall to me. “It’s not your responsibility to make this office presentable. It’s mine.” He lifted his briefcase to his lap, opened it, and then handed me an envelope. “Get whatever you think you need.”

  I looked at the envelope. Chase Bank was printed on the corner, and I wondered if it was a collections notice.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “It’s your company credit card. It came in yesterday. Use it for anything you need where we don’t have accounts established. And for decorating this office.” He cocked one of his out of control eyebrows. “Within reason.”

  Excited, I stood and walked to the bare wall. “I was thinking about some black and white prints on the wall. Architecture stuff.” I gestured toward the floor and spread my arms wide. “And then I thought a long table might look nice in the center of this wall. Something clunky that kind of matches the theme we’ve already got going on. I’d put some decorative stuff on it, but not too girly. Maybe announcements and fliers, and stuff. Just things that make it a little more homey and less like an office.”

  “Sounds like you have it all figured out. If they don’t have a delivery service, ask Mort to pick your things up.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  He closed his briefcase and set it on the floor beside him. “Mort tells me you’ve decided to take occupancy of 3A.”

  I slid the envelope aside and wondered if the card had my name on it or the company’s name. Maybe both, I decided. “I did,” I said. “And, I have.”

  “I prefer that the manager stay on the premises. It encourages the tenants to be responsible. No problems, I take it?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  He waved his hand toward the door. “I see the door’s been repaired.”

  The hand-written bill for the door simply stated repair steel door and gave an amount. I decided a little white lie was in Mort’s best interest. “Nothing more than repositioning a few things.”

  “I’m pleased that’s resolved. It was annoying.”

  “I thought so, too.”

  “There is one other thing.” He c
lasped his hands together. “One would think it’s common knowledge, but considering the problems we had with the last property manager, I feel compelled to say something.”

  “I don’t use drugs,” I said adamantly. “Never have, never will.”

  “The thought never crossed my mind. There’s a matter we need to discuss that is outlined in the employee handbook, but no one ever bothers to read it.” His brows raised. “Have you read it?”

  “I uhhm.” I lowered my head in mock shame. “No.”

  “Fraternization with tenants is not allowed. No exceptions.” He wagged his index finger at me playfully. “Disobeying that clause will be grounds for dismissal.”

  “You won’t have to worry about that,” I said. “I’m a man hater.”

  His expression changed to surprise. “I didn’t. I had no idea. We do have two female tenants. I don’t think either of them are, you know. But one never knows.”

  “No.” I couldn’t help but laugh at his thoughts, so I did. “Not that kind of man hater. I just don’t really date. I’ve had some bad luck with men, and I don’t really trust them.”

  He seemed embarrassed. “My apologies for jumping to conclusions.” He crossed his legs and placed his hands in his lap. “Men are like latkes.”

  I was perplexed at his slice of advice. I gave him a confused look. “I don’t understand.”

  “I was going to explain, but your mind is quicker than mine.”

  “I’ll listen.”

  The expression on his face changed to serious, but he smiled just a little. “Latkes are potato cakes that we eat on Hanukkah. It seems they’d be simple enough to make: potatoes, eggs, onions, salt, Matzo meal, and a little flour. They’re formed into a flat cake, and fried in oil. That’s it.” He turned his palms up and raised one hand slightly higher than the other. “But not all latkes are created equal. And, you can’t tell a good latke from a bad one by looking at it. To find out if they’re suitable, one must get to what’s inside. Only then do you know.”