Filthy F*ckers: The Complete Series Box Set

by Hildreth, Scott

  We circled the lot and parked on the right of the door. I shielded my eyes from the afternoon sun and looked down the long line of motorcycles.

  “All American V-Twins. Looks like it might be a 1%er club,” I said.

  “Might be a bunch of college professors,” Crip said. “Fuck, these days, everyone rides a Harley.”

  “De veras,” Cholo said.

  “You ready?” Crip asked.

  Cholo nodded.

  He looked at me. “You’ve got your serious face on, so I don’t even need to ask you, do I?”

  “Told you at the shop. I was born ready.”

  “Well, Mr. Serious, lead the way. I want your six-foot-eight ass to be the first thing they see.”

  “Wouldn’t want it any other way, Boss. We taking our heat?”

  He patted his hand against his kutte. “I’ve got mine, should be enough to intimidate ‘em if that’s where this ends up.”

  I hung my helmet over the bars, straightened my kutte, and walked to the door. “Any one of these fuckers says anything about me on that Sporty, I’m kicking their ass.”

  Cholo slapped his hand against my shoulder. “Get ready to fight, Peeb. No way if they saw you on it they’ll keep their mouth shut. You look like el payaso baboso.”

  I reached for the door handle and then glanced over my shoulder. “The fuck’s that mean?”

  “A retarded clown.” He lifted his chin slightly. “Open the door, payaso.”

  I was the biggest motherfucker in the MC, the Sergeant-at-Arms, and the butt of all the fucking jokes. I pushed the door open and quickly scanned the bar. Ten men in kuttes were standing at the high-top tables drinking beers.

  Fuck.

  “What’s shakin’, motherfuckers?!” I flexed my biceps, stuck out my chest, and cleared my throat. Every one of them turned to face me at the same time. “Any of you dumb pricks know whose bar you’re in?”

  Crip leaned around me and slapped his hand against my back. “God damn it, Peeb. I’ll take it from here,” he whispered out of the side of his mouth.

  “How’s it going, fellas?” he said.

  With all eyes focused on Crip, I studied the men. There wasn’t one of them who stood out as being terribly threatening, but they didn’t look like pushovers, either.

  One, a guy with a slight beer belly and of average build and height, maneuvered to the front of the crowd of men. He wore a scraggly beard, and what portions of his face weren’t covered in hair were weathered from a life spent in the southern California sun. His kutte didn’t have a 1% patch, and my guess was that we’d all be drinking beer together in no more than a few minutes.

  He set his beer on the table at his side, and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he snarled.

  Bad choice, dumbass.

  It wasn’t the first time I was wrong.

  Crip cleared his throat. “I was the guy who tried to address you and your compadres respectfully. Now I’m the one who’s temper’s flaring because you’re a disrespectful fuck.”

  Beard took a few steps toward Crip, and half of his men followed. He nodded toward me. “Big boy called us pricks. You’re just trying to figure out a way to back out of it, now.”

  “Never backed away from a fight in my life,” Crip said. “But, believe me, this isn’t one you want to start.”

  Beard lifted his kutte slightly, exposing a pistol.

  Crip clapped his hands slowly and softly as if he was applauding a 400-yard tee shot at a prestigious golf tournament. “Hot damn, you’re old enough to buy a gun. Either that, or you’re dumb enough to steal one--”

  “I think it’s time you, big boy, and the Mexican leave,” he said.

  “Fuck yeah, it is,” one of them in the rear shouted.

  I took a step forward. Crip reached to the side and planted his hand against my chest. “Not yet.”

  Beard laughed. “Not yet? What? He bullet proof?”

  “There’s two ways we can do this.” Crip said flatly. He glanced toward the bar, nodded once, and then returned his eyes to Beard. “You and your band of merry men can leave and not come back. Or, you can choose to stay. If you choose to stay, it’s going to get ugly. The bloody kind of ugly. It’s decision time.”

  Beard coughed out a laugh and lowered his chin. His eyes darted downward and then came right back up. “It’s loaded. Ready to drop all three of you turds. I ain’t askin’ you again. Leave.”

  My ears began to ring. It was go time.

  I really didn’t want to get shot, but I wasn’t about to let a bearded idiot with a pistol prevent me from protecting the president of my MC from being disrespected. My guess was that I could drop him with one punch before he got the pistol that was wedged between his tight jeans and his beer belly freed.

  Before I had a chance to react, Crip snatched his own pistol from beneath his kutte and held it at arm’s length. With it pointed directly at Beard’s mouth, he took a few steps forward.

  Beard’s eyes went wide.

  “You’re as dumb as you are ugly,” Crip said as he took one more step.

  With his pistol now a matter of inches away from Beard’s face, Crip slowly reached for the exposed pistol wedged in dumb fuck’s jeans.

  “You so much as twitch, I’ll plaster your brains on that fat little friend of yours who’s standing behind you.”

  As my eyes shifted from man to man, Crip pulled the pistol from Beard’s pants with his free hand.

  He handed it to Cholo.

  “Now, I’m going to talk, and you and your buddies are going to listen.” His tone raised slightly. “This bar is claimed property of Filthy Fuckers MC. For the unknowing, that means if any of you come back here, for any reason, you’ll be trespassing on our territory after being warned not to. Believe me fellas, it won’t end well for you.”

  While I continued to survey the men, the sound of Pete hollering caused my butthole to pucker.

  “You! By the jukebox!” he yelled. “Drop the pistol!”

  I didn’t have to turn around to know that Pete had his shotgun pulled. Realistically, shooting it from where he was positioned wouldn’t be terribly effective, but it was an intimidating sight for those standing on the receiving end of the barrel.

  My eyes shot toward the jukebox. A middle-aged man with a long gray beard held a pistol at his side. His nervous eyes told me he wished that he hadn’t pulled it out. I slowly walked in his direction.

  “Shoot this prick if he moves, Pete,” I said.

  “You got it, Pee Bee.”

  I elbowed my way through the group of men and held out my hand as I stepped in front of him. With reluctance, he lifted the pistol, barrel down.

  “Fucker’s registered to me,” he said as I took it from his grasp.

  “Tough luck.” I shrugged, and then looked around. “Anybody else armed?”

  No one responded.

  “Anyone else pulls out a piece, shoot ‘em, Pete,” I said.

  “Wait a minute,” One of the men coughed out. “I got one, but I ain’t looking to pull it.”

  I looked in his direction.

  Some people had no business with guns. He was obviously one of them. “Give it up,” I said, struggling to keep from laughing at his stupidity.

  He reached behind his back and produced a Colt .45. I took it and shoved it into my belt. “Anybody else?”

  No one said a word.

  “You fellas get on your sleds and go find a bar of your own,” Crip shouted. “This one’s ours. Everyone can head for the door except for my buddy here.”

  Slowly, and as many of them grumbled under their breath, the men filtered toward the door. As soon as the first man’s back was facing me, I shook my head in disbelief.

  On the back of their kuttes, a top rocker with the word Gremlins was over a patch depicting a cartoonish gremlin. Below it was a bottom rocker claiming California as their territory.

  The bottom rocker got my full attention.


  “Hold up, fellas,” I shouted. “Hold. The. Fuck. Up!”

  I turned toward Crip. “Fuckers are flying a bottom rocker, Boss. California.”

  Crip’s eyes went thin and his jaw flared. “Your kutte doesn’t identify you, but I’m guessing you’re the president. Solely based on your big mouth. Am I right?”

  With Crip’s pistol still leveled at his face, Beard swallowed hard and nodded his head.

  “You and your crew are going to drop your kuttes at the door. Did you think for one fucking minute that you’d claim territory without a fight?”

  Beard didn’t respond.

  “You can tell ‘em or I will,” Crip said.

  Beard blinked a few times. “Listen up,” he said in a low, squeaky tone. He cleared his throat. “Everyone needs to take off their kutte. Drop ‘em at the door.”

  “What the fuck?” one of them said.

  I turned toward the door. “You claim territory, you need to be prepared to die for that patch.”

  I raised Gray Beard’s pistol. “Take ‘em off or get shot.”

  “This is bullshit,” one of them said.

  I pointed the pistol at him. “No. What’s bullshit is you dumb fucks just decided to sew a California patch onto a vest you bought on fuckin’ Amazon. You want to wear that patch, there’s protocol to follow.”

  I wagged the barrel of the pistol at him. “Take it off.”

  He tossed the vest aside. The other nine men followed. With their kuttes in a pile beside the door, they sauntered into the lot.

  I looked at Cholo. “Guard the door.”

  “Come here, Peeb,” Crip said.

  I exhaled a breath of relief and walked to Crip’s side. He lowered his pistol, and then held it out to his side.

  “Take this.”

  I did.

  He raised his hands as if prepared to fight. Naturally, Beard followed.

  Crip swung a straight right into Beard’s chin, knocking him backward a few steps. “That was for being disrespectful. And this…”

  While Beard was stumbling to catch his footing, Crip swung a ferocious roundhouse kick with his right foot. The side of his boot slammed against beard’s cheek, and drove him to the floor.

  “…is for even thinking about pulling that pistol on me.”

  As Beard struggled to push himself up from the floor, undoubtedly attempting to hold onto a little slice of pride, Crip stomped his heel into the man’s skull, smashing his face into the hardwood floor.

  “And that’s for claiming territory that you didn’t earn.”

  Blood splattered from his mouth and he went limp.

  “Toss his ass in the parking lot,” Crip growled. “Before I decide to piss on him.”

  Cholo grabbed the man’s boots and dragged him toward the door. Crip turned toward the bar and nodded. “Good lookin’ out, Pete.”

  “Any time, Nick.”

  “Bar rag for this blood?” Crip asked.

  “I’ll get it,” Pete said.

  Half of the men had left as soon as they walked outside, and the remaining few waited for their battered president to regain his senses. Ten minutes after the first group pulled away, the sound of the rumbling exhaust gave warning that the others were on their way out.

  As Pete cleaned the blood from the floor, I peered through the window. After the taillights of the last bike faded away, I turned toward Crip.

  “They’re gone.”

  “That fucker I busted up make it?”

  “Guess so.”

  “You guess so? God damn it Peeb, look out there on the lot. I don’t want any surprises when we stroll through that door. Hell, he might be laying where Cholo left his dumb ass.”

  I crouched down and looked to my right. The lot was empty.

  I looked to the left.

  Crip’s and Cholo’s bikes were still sitting upright, but the Sporty was laying on its side.

  “God damn pricks,” I said through my teeth.

  Crip spun around. “What?”

  “They kicked over the Sporty.”

  “No shit?”

  “Yep.” I headed for the door. “But yours and Cholo’s are still on their kickstands.”

  “You parked in the middle,” he said with a laugh.

  I pressed my hand against the door. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “If the one in the middle’s tipped over, the other two aren’t, I wasn’t an accident. It was intentional.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Looks like a hate crime.”

  “Against big mean fuckers?”

  “No,” Cholo said. “Against payaso babosa’s who ride Sportsters.”

  While Cholo and Crip shared a laugh, I shoved the door open.

  I walked to the Sporty and stared down at it. Frustrated that I was forced to ride it, and even more aggravated that one of the departing idiots chose to push it over, I bent down and grabbed the handlebars of the overturned motorcycle. As I struggled to lift the 550-pound motorcycle, I grew even angrier.

  It seemed every time I turned around, there was another reminder of what Tegan did to my bike.

  And it was high time I got my revenge.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Tegan

  As I sat outside the coffee shop at 7:00 p.m. on a Saturday waiting on Pee Bee to arrive, I wondered just what he did all day – everyday – that prevented him from breaking free for thirty minutes so I could pay him.

  The sound of music blaring over the unmistakable drone of a motorcycle’s exhaust led me to believe he was pulling into the parking lot, but I didn’t bother looking. Sitting outside at a table with my back to the building, I stared straight ahead as if I could care less about him or his motorcycle.

  Dressed in jeans, lace-up boots, and his leather vest, he was either shirtless or was wearing a wife beater, I couldn’t tell. His long muscular arms were bare, and dangled at his sides as he lumbered toward me in more of a galumph than a walk.

  Fascinated by his awkward swagger, I watched intently as he approached.

  I wondered if it was his big feet that caused him to walk in such a way, or if it was something he did intentionally. Before I could decide, he sat down in the chair across from me.

  “See the ride?”

  “Kind of.”

  “What does that mean? Kind of?”

  “I kind of saw it when you pulled in. Like, out of the corner of my eye.”

  “You didn’t look at it when I pulled in?”

  I shook my head and tried not to smile. “No.”

  “Man, you’re a hard little--”

  I glared at him. “You about said it, didn’t you?”

  “Said what?”

  “The B-word.”

  The corner of his mouth curled up. “Maybe.”

  His hair was all one length, and slightly past his shoulders, which surprised me.

  I knew it was long, but not that long, “Why’s your hair so long?”

  He wrinkled his nose. “Huh?”

  “Your hair. That mess of brown straw on top of your head. Why’s it so long?”

  His hands shot up as if to check and make sure it was all still there. He ran his fingers through it, forcing it back along his scalp. “What about it?”

  “Your loud exhaust must be ruining your ears,” I said. “Why. Is. It. So. Long?”

  “Why. Are. You. Such. A…” He raised both hands in the air and gestured with his index and middle fingers.

  I laughed. “Did you just give me air quotes?”

  “Is that what they’re called?”

  I fought the desire to laugh out loud and nodded. “Yep.”

  He shrugged. “Yeah.”

  “Tough guys don’t use air quotes.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says me. They’re reserved for politicians and douchebags. You’ve not in politics, are you?”

  He scoffed. “No.”

  “That explains it, then. Never mind.”

  I reached in my purse, pulled out an envelope, and
tossed it on the table. “There’s a sheet of paper in there I’d like you to sign. Actually, there’s two of them. One for you, and one for me.”

  He opened the envelope and pulled out the folded sheets of paper, looked at them, and then shot me a confused look. “What the fuck is this?”

  “Proof of payment. I figured you preferred cash, and I didn’t want to pay for a money order, so I’m paying you in cash. You need to sign that so I’ve got proof that you’ve been paid.”

  “Just handing me the money ain’t good enough?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  He unfolded one of the sheets of paper and read it. “Why not?”

  “I need proof. To protect me.”

  He peered over the top off the paper. “From what?”

  “From you.”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why?” He ran his fingers through his hair, clearing it away from his eyes. “My hair?”

  I shook my head. “It’s not that.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “’Cause I’m a biker?”

  “Nope.”

  Truthfully, his hair, and his beard were great. They reminded me of a past relationship, and they helped me remember, each time I saw them, just how much I didn’t want to be hurt again.

  “Why?”

  “You’re a man,” I said. “Men can’t be trusted.”

  “Why not?”

  “Just sign it, please.”

  “Tell me why.”

  I leaned onto the edge of the table and met his gaze. “What are you thinking about right now?”

  “You’re all over the fucking place.” He rubbed the heel of his palm against his eye. “You ask questions, and then you’re just on to something else.”

  “I’m not going to beg you to give answers. If you don’t answer me, I’m just going to assume you don’t want to, and I’ll move on.”

  He leaned forward. “I’m like Samson. That’s why I’ve got the hair.”

  It was a cute response. It didn’t make him safe, but it – along with his frequent smiles – made him seem boyish.

  “It makes you strong?” I asked.

  He brushed his hands through his hair and nodded.

  “Do you believe that?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know, yeah.”

  “Interesting.”