Filthy F*ckers: The Complete Series Box Set

by Hildreth, Scott

  She seemed nice, and I felt bad about thinking she was a bimbo. “Well, they look fanfuckingtastic.”

  “Awwe, thank you. Yours do too.”

  I looked in the mirror again. I liked my new look, and the transformation would equate to more tips. My mouth curled into a sly grin. I turned to face Sandy. “Do I get to waitress today, or will I be training?”

  “Depends on if you can memorize the lunch specials.”

  “How many specials?”

  “Three.”

  I spit out a laugh. “Looks like I’ll be waiting tables.”

  She unlocked the door. “I have a hard time remembering anything, but nobody cares.”

  I had the brains and she had the body. I decided even though I normally didn’t like girls that I’d give her a chance.

  Two hours later, the small restaurant was slammed with customers, and I was waiting on half of them while Sandy waited the other half.

  When the lunch rush was over, she and I sat in the break room and talked while we snacked on stuffed mushrooms and fried lobster.

  I poked one of the mushrooms with my fork, and then studied it. “Are you always this busy at lunch?”

  “Every day.”

  “Wow.”

  I took a bite if the mushroom, and quickly realized why they were so busy. It was incredible.

  “I work four days a week and make about two grand,” she said.

  “A month?”

  She laughed. “A week.”

  I made $40 a day at my previous job. I swallowed my mouthful of crab-stuffed heaven and looked at her.

  “Jesus.” I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “Do you always work the lunch shift?”

  “Yep.” She popped one of the lobster bites into her mouth and grinned after she swallowed it. “I dance at night. Well, two nights a week.”

  I shot her a look. “Dance?”

  She nodded. “At the Main Attraction.”

  I choked mushroom residue. The Main Attraction was a stripper bar known for catering to bikers. “You’re a stripper?”

  She grabbed a mushroom. “Uh huh.”

  I’d always considered stripping to be a substandard career. After what I experienced, though, for me to look at anyone as lesser than me was impossible. In an odd circumstance, I’d offered myself to a man who was the lowest form of life on earth, and I did so repeatedly.

  Unique circumstances support unique reactions. I didn’t know the intricacies of her life or her needs, and for me to be critical of her would be inconsiderate and none of my business, really.

  “Cool,” I said. “I bet you’ve got a lot of interesting stories to tell.”

  “Every night, it’s something. It’s crazy some of the shit people do and say.”

  I wondered if Cholo went to the strip club. I felt a strange attraction to him after the night we met, and I initially attributed it to his heroic actions. After he came by my mother’s house, I realized the attraction was more conventional.

  Or, at least I thought it was. I grabbed another mushroom and wondered if – and when – I may see him again. I took a bite of the mushroom. While she picked at a piece of lobster, I swallowed and wiped my teeth clean with the tip of my tongue.

  “Do any of the Filthy Fuckers come in there? The MC, not just a random filthy fucker.”

  Without looking up, she responded. “All the time.”

  “Really?”

  She looked at me as if surprised I asked. “Do you know any of them?”

  I shrugged. “A few.”

  “Really? Who?”

  I thought of the names I’d heard at their clubhouse. “Lefty. Pee Bee. Let’s see. One’s name is Smokey. And Cholo. Oh, and Crip.”

  She nodded. “I know all those guys. Well, except for Cholo. Unless he goes by something else.”

  I shook my head. “Not that I know of.”

  “Don’t know him,” she said. “But yeah. I know the others. A few more, too. They’re nice. Rowdy, but nice.”

  “Rowdy? How?”

  She tossed the piece of lobster into the Styrofoam container. “Not with the girls. They just get into a lot of fights. Well, not a lot. But. I don’t know. They just don’t take any shit. You know how bikers are.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I do.”

  Having a friend like Sandy was going to be fun. I could already tell we were going to get along just fine.

  She picked the piece of lobster up again. “I think bikers are hot.”

  “Yeah.” I choked on my laugh. “I do, too.”

  Chapter Eighty-One

  Cholo

  Most thirty-one-year-old men didn’t spend a lot of time with their mother, but I did. I loved her dearly, but the amount of time I spent with her wasn’t all by choice. She was more demanding of my time than I was willing to offer her by choice.

  In her eyes, I was the man in the family.

  I took a sip of coffee. “Do you remember Lucy?”

  My mother was always cooking something. It was her way of relaxing. She spread masa on a cornhusk, sprinkled pork on top, and then added a few thin slices of green chile. She rolled it methodically, and then glanced over her shoulder.

  “Lucy? The little puta across the street?”

  Puta meant whore in Spanish. It didn’t surprise me to hear my mother say such a thing, but I was shocked to hear her say it about Lucy.

  “Mother,” I howled. “She was--”

  “She had a baby, and they said it was her little sister.” She shook her head. “We knew. I saw her when she was embarazada.”

  “You knew Alexandra was her daughter?”

  “Was that her name? Alexandra? A pretty name for the daughter of a--”

  I glared at her. “Don’t say it.”

  She grinned. “Whore.”

  My mother was the daughter of Mexican immigrants who had both become US citizens. She was raised by Spanish speaking parents who did their best to instill traditional Hispanic values in her.

  Despite their efforts, when she was in her early twenties, she married an Irish-Catholic man she was madly in love with. Her husband fathered my sister, and then me. One day, weeks before my first birthday, he went to work and never returned home.

  He was never seen or heard from again. By anyone.

  To this day, she still loves him, and has never been in another relationship. The separation, at least in my opinion, left her bitter.

  “She’s not a whore,” I said.

  She turned to face me and wiped her hands on her apron. “She paraded up and down the street in clothes that would fit her daughter. Tetas everywhere. No brasier. She came home from the bars when you were getting up to go to school.”

  “I thought she worked nights.”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “You’re no idiota. Don’t act like one.”

  I let out a sigh and then took another sip of coffee. It was quite possible my unresolved teenage crush had left me blind to who Lucy really was. I tried to recall specific things about her, but fell short.

  She prepared another tamale. “Why do you ask about her? Are you lonely for a wife?”

  “I’m not getting married, mother. I just…” I stood and walked to the sink. “I saw her the other day.”

  As I rinsed my cup, she set the tamale aside and started on another.

  “Don’t get mad and leave. I’m not done talking,” she snapped.

  “I’m not leaving,” I said.

  “Sit down,” she said over her shoulder. “You need to eat something before you go.”

  “I’ve eaten. I ate early.”

  “Eat again. You’re a big boy. You need to eat.”

  “I need to get to work.”

  “Tell me why you ask about the puta.”

  I rolled my eyes and sat down. “I saw her. I was just asking.”

  “You see people every day, and no questions,” she said, still focused on her tamale production. “Why you ask?”

  “Her daughter was in trouble. She came to me lo
oking for help. I just wondered what you remembered about her.”

  “In trouble how?”

  “Not really trouble. She was…” I paused, struggling with how to continue. Before I had a chance to structure what I was going to say, she asked again.

  “In trouble how?”

  “Her boyfriend was beating her,” I said. It was the truth, but not the entire truth.

  She glanced over her shoulder and locked eyes with me. “Did you fix it?”

  I let out a sigh. “I did.”

  She smiled and turned around. “You’re a good boy.”

  “How old is Alexandra? Fifteen?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  “It’s not possible,” she said.

  “She was eleven when they moved. It’s been ten years.”

  She looked at me. “Ten years? Are you sure?”

  I nodded. “I was twenty-one.”

  “So why you ask about the puta?” she asked. “She’s no good for you.”

  “I was just asking. Making conversation, mother.”

  “We make conversations about what we wish to speak of. Listen to your mother. She’s no good for you.”

  She was right. I wanted her opinion of Alexandra, and whether or not she thought my interest in her would be awkward, disrespectful, or too lop-sided regarding age. Asking while she was in one of her moods could produce answers I didn’t want to hear.

  I stood. “I was thinking about going by to check on Alexandra.”

  She turned around and wiped her hands against her apron. She looked into my eyes, and while she did, her mouth curled into a sly grin. “You like the daughter?”

  I leaned toward her and kissed her on the cheek. “I’m just checking on her. I’ve got to go.”

  “Is she pretty?” she asked, her voice hopeful.

  “She looks like her mother.”

  She wrinkled her brow. “She looks like a whore?”

  “She’s beautiful. She looks like the Virgin Mary,” I said sarcastically.

  “Bring her for dinner,” she said. “But not the puta.”

  I kissed her again. “I’m going to work.”

  “Bring her for dinner.”

  I shook my head and turned toward the door. “I’m going to work.”

  “Everyone must eat. Bring her for dinner.”

  “Goodbye mother.”

  “You’re growing old,” she said. “You need to get married.”

  Marriage was the furthest thing from my mind. I had always told myself whenever I decided to marry, my devotions would be sincere, and I’d remain a one-woman man for the rest of my life.

  For me to be tied down now – and limited to one woman – was laughable. My previous intentions with women had never been bad, but they certainly hadn’t been good, either. My thoughts about Alexandra, however, had been limited to curiosity.

  At least that’s what I was trying to convince myself.

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Lex

  I’d spent the last five years or so waiting for the day I turned twenty-one to arrive. I envisioned a huge party, drunken acts I’d later regret, and all-night sex that I’d remember for a lifetime.

  Instead, I sat alone in my mother’s living room binge-watching the Girlfriends’ Guide to Divorce while contemplating making tacos.

  My previous relationship was an unhealthy one, and it took me a while to realize it. By the time I recognized my need to escape the punishing behavior, I’d already lost touch with most of my girlfriends and acquaintances.

  Sandy offered to throw a small party for me at the strip club, but going to a place like that scared me.

  While I watched the female lead in the show screw her fictitious ex-husband for the tenth time I wondered if a one-night stand with Josh was even possible.

  I cradled my phone in my hand and toyed with the idea. After a moment, the faint rumble of a Harley’s exhaust sent a chill down my spine. I listened intently as the motorcycle sped up, slowed down, and speed up again. My thoughts quickly changed from a fling with my abusive ex to Cholo.

  The sound grew louder. I paused the T.V. and walked to the door. I twisted the lock, pulled it open, and peered up the street.

  Nothing.

  I smiled at the thought of someone enjoying a ride, and quickly came to miss the freedom of riding on the back of Cholo’s bike. It was difficult to explain, but riding was unlike anything I’d ever done. Understanding why the men who chose to ride did so made me view them differently.

  Instead of seeing them as thugs and criminals, I looked at them as people who simply sought solace out of something strangely close to flying.

  The sound of the motorcycle’s exhaust went from being distant to being close in an instant. I looked up, realizing I had all but floated into a daydream. Over the crest of the hill a motorcycle emerged, and upon recognizing the rider, I flushed with emotion.

  His bare arms were stretched out and up to reach his high handlebars. The sleeves of his white tee shirt did little to conceal his massive arms, and I enjoyed every moment of watching him flaring biceps as he approached.

  He rolled into the driveway, flipped off the engine, and grinned.

  As he pulled off his helmet I walked toward him. “Hey, stranger.”

  He smeared his palms along the top of his cleanly shaven head. “How’s it going?”

  “Was just chilling to some T.V., and I heard a bike. Came out hoping it was you.”

  He pulled on his hat, stepped off the bike, and stepped right in front of me. I felt small, and suddenly felt shy.

  His hand slowly reached for my face.

  My heart raced.

  He lifted my chin slightly and looked me over. I inhaled a choppy shallow breath and hoped he didn’t notice. Consciously, I held it deep in my lungs as he inspected me.

  While his eyes searched my face, I admired his handsome looks and the muscularity of his upper body. He’d shaved since I’d seen him last, and no longer had his growth of beard. While I tried to envision him with the facial hair again, he nodded lightly and lowered his hand.

  I turned my head to the side, exhaled, and then looked at him. “What?”

  “Just looking you over. All the bruises are gone, aren’t they?”

  I grinned pridefully. “Yeah.”

  “How are you doing?”

  I twisted my hair with my finger. “Good.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Really,” he said. “Are you--”

  “I’m doing just fine,” I said. “Really. I migrated from paralysis to analysis. Now I’m doing great.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Instead of letting the thing suffocate me, I dissected everything. When I did, I realized I did nothing wrong. It wasn’t my fault. It was just something that happened.”

  “You believe that?”

  “Uh huh.”

  He grinned. “Good.”

  He rubbed the side of his nose with his index finger, and I noticed the back side of his hand was covered in scars. Surprised that I hadn’t noticed before, my eyes followed as he lowered it to his side.

  “What happened to your hand?”

  He rubbed his palm against his knuckles. “What do you mean?”

  “It looks like…” I shrugged. “Like it was…like you were in an accident or something.”

  He looked embarrassed. “It’s from fighting,” he said.

  I couldn’t imagine a side of him so eager to fight. He had a calm demeanor, was polite, and contrary to his massive size and rough exterior, was rather calm. “Holy crap,” I said. “You’ve been in so many fights that your hand’s all scarred?”

  He shrugged. “I boxed for years.”

  “Without gloves?”

  He laughed. “Yeah, that too. Still do, sometimes.”

  “Box? Or fight without gloves?”

  “Without gloves.”

  I was intrigued. “Why?”

  “Not sure.” The look on his face matched his response. “Maybe for the thrill. I don
’t know.”

  “Huh.” I imagined him fighting in the back yard of a run-down house in the barrio with a crowd of people gathered around, all waving wads of cash in the air. “I’d like to watch you sometime.”

  He shook his head. “Not a place for a girl to be.”

  I arched an eyebrow and shot him a sideways look.

  He grinned a slight grin. “Not a place for most girls.”

  I motioned toward the door. “Want to come in?”

  “Where’s your mother?”

  I stepped onto the porch. “Working late.”

  “I can stop by some other time--”

  I felt like I was in a competition with my mother for his attention, and I didn’t like it. After their mad dash to get more liquor, she seemed to cling to him for the rest of the night.

  We exchanged several glances throughout the night, but with my mother at his side there was never a time I could speak to him privately.

  “Did you come by to see her, or to see me?” I turned around and waited for him to respond.

  His lips parted slightly but he didn’t speak.

  “Well?”

  “I just…I came by…to see…” he stammered.

  I cocked my hip playfully. “Do I make you nervous?”

  He chuckled and stepped onto the porch beside me. “Maybe a little bit.”

  Pleased with his response, I turned and walked into the living room. As I sat down on the couch, he shut the door and sat in the chair beside me.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Why what?”

  “Why do I make you nervous?”

  “Not sure,” he said. “Didn’t really notice it until now.”

  To think I made someone as big and as tough as Cholo nervous made me smile inside. I slouched into the corner of the couch. “What’s your real name?”

  “Adam.”

  “Adam what?”

  “Downey.”

  “Downey? Is that Irish?”

  He nodded. “Yep.”

  “You’re Irish?”

  “Half Irish, half Hispanic.”

  I sat up. “Your half--” I started to say Mexican, and caught myself mid-sentence. “Your half Hispanic?”

  Every muscle in my body tensed. I found the thought of it a little repulsive.

  “Yep.”