Filthy F*ckers: The Complete Series Box Set

by Hildreth, Scott

  With my boots propped on the chair beside me, I closed my eyes and relaxed in the warmth of the early afternoon sun. Living in southern California had its benefits, most of which had to do with the weather. Personally, living in the seclusion of Oregon, Idaho, or Wyoming would better suit me, but I realized I would never leave my home.

  “Here you go.”

  I opened my eyes.

  Standing before me with my bottle of beer dangling loosely between her thumb and forefinger, she stood just beyond my arm’s reach. I lowered my boots to the concrete floor, turned to the side, and met the gaze of her glistening honey-colored eyes.

  “Seems strange,” I said dryly. “Cute as you are, I would have guessed you’d to be taken.”

  She tilted her head to the side. “Who says I’m not?”

  “I do.”

  She cocked her hip. “And why’s that?”

  “Because you’re single. Either that, or you’re mentally separated from your partner.”

  “Maybe I am, maybe I’m not.”

  I took a sip of beer and then motioned to the seat across from me. “Have a seat.”

  “I can’t. I’ll get--”

  I pushed the chair I’d used as a footstool toward her with the heel of my boot.

  She glanced over each shoulder, and then looked at me. “Just for a minute.”

  I rested my forearms on my thighs, leaned forward, and locked eyes with her. “You’re an adventurous little bitch. I like that.”

  She looked surprised. “Why do you say that?”

  “Same reason I said you were single. Because you are.”

  “Maybe I am, maybe I’m not.” She brushed her hair behind her ears. “You sure seem to think you know a lot about me.”

  “I know people.”

  “You think you know people.”

  “I know enough about you that I asked you to sit down.”

  “You’d probably ask anyone to sit down.”

  I chuckled a light laugh and reached for my beer. “Obviously, you don’t read people as well as I do.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I’d rather sit here alone than have anyone join me. You haven’t worked here for more than a few days, but if you had, you’d know I come in here a couple times a week. Ask the other waitresses. If anyone is ever sitting here with me, it’s one of the fellas.”

  A content look washed over her. Her eyes fell to my boots for an instant, and then she looked up. “So, why me?”

  “We’re sexually compatible, that’s why.”

  She let out a laugh and looked away. After regaining her composure, she began to twist her hair with her index finger. “How would you know that?”

  “Like I said, I know people.”

  “And you think you know my sexual preferences or whatever?”

  “Pretty sure, yeah.”

  “Bullshit.”

  I shrugged. “Okay.”

  It seemed she was going to stand and walk away, but her curiosity eventually got the best of her.

  She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “What are they?”

  “Rather not say.”

  “You can’t say something like that and then say, rather not say when someone asks you to explain.”

  “Look, I asked you to sit down. You’re the one that prompted all the questions. And, you and your questions led us to this. In short, Rachel, you brought this session of dialogue on yourself.” I took a drink of my beer. “It wasn’t my intention to sit here and talk about sex.”

  The statement was damned close to a lie. I did want to talk about sex. Furthermore, she wasn’t the one who started the discussion about sexual preferences, but I wanted her to think she was. The conversation had happened so fast that I was sure she wasn’t going to challenge me on the matter.

  She looked around the sparsely occupied patio. Convinced she wasn’t depriving her handful of customers of anything, she looked at me.

  Her mouth curled into a guilty grin. “You don’t talk like a biker.”

  “I’m about as much a typical of a biker as you are a typical woman.”

  “Tell me what you think.” She blinked a few times. “Please.”

  “I know you’d rather have a finger in your ass than a hand around your neck.”

  Her eyebrows raised. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me,” I said. “And, you can lose the innocent act. You’re cute as fuck, but you’re a horrible actress.”

  She glanced over her shoulder and then looked at me. “I don’t even know what that means. I’d rather have a finger in--” She shook her head. “You’re wrong.”

  “Sexually, you’re adventurous. Or, at least you think you are. The thought of a guy choking you intrigues you, but not enough to let him do it. But, if you’re getting it from behind and he pokes a finger in your ass, you light up like a Christmas tree.”

  She crossed her legs. “I have no idea where you come up with this stuff.”

  I curled my index finger toward my palm. “Come here, Rachel.”

  “How do you…how do you know my… my name?” she stammered.

  In a non-threatening gesture, I lifted my hand, hooked my finger between her choker and her neck, and pulled her close to me.

  She didn’t resist one bit.

  I moved my mouth to her ear. “I’m going to finish this beer and leave,” I whispered, exhaling into her ear as I spoke. “You work the same shift every day?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “What time do you get off?”

  After a few seconds of silence, she squeaked out here response. “Eight.”

  “I’m going to come in here at closing time one of these days, and I’m going to teach you a few things about being sexually adventurous.”

  I released her choker.

  She slumped into her chair as if she’d just finished running a 10k. With her eyes fixed on mine, she blinked a few times and then swallowed heavily. “Okay.”

  I raised my beer, downed it in one gulp, and tossed $20 on the table. Stuffing her full of nine inches of biker cock wouldn’t satisfy me, but it would break up the day to day monotony of my life. Teaching her a few things about what her sexual desires were, however, would undoubtedly entertain the absolute fuck out of me for much more than one night.

  I stood, reached toward her uniform, and tapped the tip of my finger against her nametag. “If you don’t want people to know your name, don’t wear a nametag.”

  Then, I turned and walked away.

  Chapter One Hundred Sixty-One

  Joey

  I tugged against the tail of my shirt, and then pulled up on the collar. Despite my attempts to hide my cleavage, my boobs seemed to boil out the top of my issued uniform. Wearing the tailored Harley-Davidson button-down shirt was a far cry from how I normally dressed, but it was a requirement of the job. The shirt needed a few more buttons to be appropriate, but in the eyes of the dealership, the revealing nature of the garment was attractive.

  An older man with a well-established full beard and a broad chest walked through the dealership as if he were on a mission. It was easy to tell the men who were dreaming of owning a Harley from the men who already owned one. The dreamers gawked at each of the bikes on display, taking time to admire the different details of each one, where the owners typically walked directly to what it was they wanted.

  I gave up on adjusting my shirt, and watched him as he walked straight to where I stood. He glanced at me, paused to ogle my tits for a split-second, and then looked at Blane. No differently than most of the parts counter patrons, he wanted to gawk at me, but preferred to talk to someone else.

  My coworker was a 19-year-old wannabe biker. He was hired because he was the son of a motorcycle salesman, and probably because he bought a Harley right out of high school. His desire to learn the business was nil, and he had a shitty the world owes me attitude.

  I was sure I was hired in part because I had nice tits, a curvy butt, and a great smile, but I hoped at least some of
the reason was because I loved Harley-Davidsons. Nevertheless, I was a good salesperson, and I knew it.

  For the time being, it was only the two of us working, as the manager had a fractured vertebra from a swimming pool accident that I guessed was alcohol induced.

  The man with the beard stepped in front of Blane, pressed his massive forearms against the edge of the counter, and leaned forward. “Need a set of tank emblems.”

  He shook the computer’s mouse back and forth while he gazed at the monitor. “What year, and what model?”

  “2002 Heritage Softie,” the man said. “But I want old-school Panhead emblems.”

  “Panhead emblems?”

  He nodded. “Yep.”

  The Panhead was an engine that Harley manufactured from 1948 through 1965. The motorcycles manufactured through that era were simply referred to as Panheads. I doubted that Blane knew what the man was talking about.

  I watched as he scrolled through the catalog, obviously completely lost as to what it was he was looking for. Strangely, I had looked for the exact same emblem a few weeks prior. From what little research I had done, fitting the old-school emblem on a newer model’s tank was a common modification, and gave a new bike an old-school nostalgic look.

  I grabbed my computer’s mouse and cleared my throat. “The type that look like they have a four-pointed star in the center of a circle?”

  He shot me a look of surprise. “That’s the one.”

  I glanced at my monitor, clicked through a few pages, and quickly found the part.

  “61776-61T,” I said. “Fuel tank Nameplate 1961-1962.”

  He looked at me and grinned. “Are they available?”

  I turned the monitor to face him. He looked at the photo of the part and nodded. “That’s it.”

  “They’re not in stock, but we can have it tomorrow from LA for $48.95. That’s a pair, one for each side. It includes the mounting kit, which you’ll need to screw the emblem to. If you want to wait a few more days, we can sell it for $43.06 and get it from the factory.”

  “I’ll take it tomorrow. Five bucks isn’t going to kill me”

  “Special order has to be paid in advance. You okay with that?”

  He reached for his wallet, pulled out a fifty-dollar bill, and tossed it on the counter. “Yep.”

  “Second guy in the last month to buy a set of those.”

  He squinted. “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  “Saw a scoot in San Diego with ‘em on it. Thought it’d make mine look a little retro.”

  “Have you got apes on it?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Twenty-four inchers.”

  “Whitewalls?”

  “Yep.”

  “21-incher up front?”

  “Yep.”

  “Fishtails?”

  “Not yet, but that’s next.” He leaned away from the counter and gave me a look. “You know your shit, don’t you?”

  “It’s easy to know what you love.” I smiled. “The more they’re modified, the more I like them.”

  He nodded. “Fishtails look good on a Heritage, that’s for sure.”

  “We have the 39” Samson pipes on sale for $1,050, and the 42” for $1,200. Both are in stock. They’re true duals, and they sound badass.”

  “In stock?” He cocked an eyebrow. “No shit?”

  I pushed my hands into my back pockets and cocked my head slightly. “No shit.”

  He inhaled a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then let it out. “I’d hate to spend that much right now.”

  I shrugged. “Up to you. Sale lasts until the end of the day on Sunday.”

  He glanced at the many random pieces of custom chrome we had on display behind the counter, and then began to stroke his beard. It was obvious his mind wasn’t made up. At least not yet. He was thinking.

  I was paid hourly, but also made a commission on sales if I exceeded my sales goal. I never wanted to be perceived as pushy, but I also needed to make as much money as possible. Hoping he didn’t perceive me as being overbearing, I gave him a little nudge.

  “There’s probably six black Heritages for sale outside. I bet there’s at least a few thousand of them on the freeway at any given moment. And, you know what?” I shook my head. “They all look the same. I’m glad I don’t ride one of them. Hell, I’d come out of the bar and probably get on the wrong one. Can’t tell ‘em apart if they’re not modified. Is yours black?”

  “Sure is.”

  I raised my eyebrows and dropped my gaze to the floor.

  He reached for his wallet. “Take American Express?”

  I looked up. “Does a shark shit in the ocean?”

  He chuckled. “You’re one hell of a sales–what do I call you? Sales girl? Woman? Lady? Person?”

  “Call me Joey,” I said.

  He handed me his credit card. “Well, Joey. Ring up the 42” ones before I change my mind. I’ll pick ‘em up tomorrow when I get the emblems.”

  I rang up the sale, handed him the receipt, and smiled. “With the emblems, apes, whitewalls, and those fishtails, you’ll have the gangster Harley thing going on. For what it’s worth, that’s my favorite look for a Harley. When you get a wild hair, you should take a look at the Shotgun Shock. One shock sets ride height, and the other is used for dampening. You can raise and lower it to whatever height you want with the flip of a switch. The air compressor mounts under the frame, right by the transmission. They’re made in the USA, right here in California.”

  “It’s already on the list,” he said.

  “Bring it by when you get the pipes on it,” I said with a smile. “I’d like to see it.”

  “I’ll do that.” He gave a nod, dragged his hand along the length of his beard, and then turned away.

  As he walked toward the door, Blane looked at me and shook his head. “I hate you.”

  I shot him a playful glare. “You bought a Harley, and you think that makes you a biker. I love Harleys, and most of the people that ride them.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You make sales because you’re a girl.”

  “I made that sale because I knew what he wanted. I knew what he wanted because after another guy wanted it a few weeks ago, I went home and researched the Panhead model. You can talk shit all you want, but you had no idea what he was after.”

  He gave me a dismissive look. “You made the sale because you’ve got tits.”

  “Yeah, that guy walked right up to me, looked at my tits, and then talked to you. Guys don’t want to deal with a girl when it comes to their Harley. You’ve got muscles, a tattoo, and a dick. You fit right in.”

  “You don’t even ride,” he said. “I don’t know why you work here. You don’t fit in.”

  “You ride a Sportster.” I forced a dry laugh “That’s a girl bike.”

  “Bullshit. Sportsters are fast as fuck.”

  “A 1200 can be. You’re on an old 883. It’s a turd,” I said. “They’re for girls and wannabes.”

  “You calling me a wannabe?”

  “Assuming you’ve got a dick, that was the only other option, right?”

  “At least I ride,” he scoffed.

  “I might not ride, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy riding on the back of one. Rode on the back of a 1%er’s bike the other day.”

  “Bullshit.”

  I shrugged. “Baddest club in SoCal.”

  “Hells Angels?”

  I shook my head.

  “Mongols?”

  “Nunya.”

  His brow wrinkled. “Nunyas? Never heard of ‘em.”

  “No,” I said with a laugh. “Nunya. Nun ya business.”

  He rolled his eyes, extended his forearm, and admired his six-week-old Budweiser tattoo. It was well-made, but I found it ridiculous that he’d have it tattooed on his forearm.

  “What are you going to do when you discover you like PBR more than Budweiser?” I asked. “Get the PBR logo on your other arm?”

  “Budweiser is the only beer as
far as I’m concerned.”

  “Tried them all, have you?”

  He rubbed his thumb along the center of the tattoo, stretching it out of proportion as he looked at it. “Don’t need to. King. Of. Beers. Enough said.”

  I glanced at the ridiculous bowtie-like banner, coughed a light laugh, and turned toward the sales floor.

  I found tattoos fascinating – if they were the right tattoos on the right person. Percy’s tattoos were interesting, and he had no product branding on him, at least not that I could see. I wondered what percentage of tattooed men had beer – or other similar product tattoos – and if I was out of line in my thoughts.

  After searching my memory for anyone else with a beer tattoo and coming up with nothing, I decided Blane’s tattoo was, in fact, ridiculous.

  “You know, I really like Noxzema Skin Cream, but I’m not going to get their logo tattooed on me.”

  “Must not like it as much as I like Budweiser.”

  “I guess it’d either be that, or I have more common sense than you.” I shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “Definitely not the common-sense thing,” he said flatly.

  “Yeah” I slumped my shoulders and gazed down at the floor. “You’re probably right. Girls have smaller brains than men. It stands to reason that we’d have less common sense.”

  He looked up from admiring his King of Beers tattoo. “Seriously?”

  I gazed beyond him, and blinked a few times, and then met his wondrous gaze. “It’s true, I read a study. Girl’s brains weigh, on average, 25% less than a man’s. It’s sad.”

  His eyes slowly widened. “Doesn’t surprise me.”

  I was hanging shit on him, and he was too dumb to figure it out. It was no wonder I wasn’t attracted to guys anywhere close to my age. Although they were technically men, they were really nothing more than boys who could legally vote and buy cigarettes.

  I desperately needed a real man in my life.

  But. I had no idea where I was going to find one.

  Chapter One Hundred Sixty-Two

  P-Nut

  Wearing a two-button blazer, a navy skirt, and navy heels, my mother looked like she could be headed to a business meeting. She hadn’t worked a day in her life, and even if she had, she was well into the age of retirement. She was dressed no differently than she’d dressed her entire life, and neither her age nor her deteriorating mental state prevented her from continuing that tradition.