Filthy F*ckers: The Complete Series Box Set

by Hildreth, Scott

  “Keep your fucking hands where I can see them!” someone shouted.

  I unfolded my arms and turned my palms up.

  My goggles wearing compadre spread his legs, pointed the barrel of his rifle at my chest, and cocked his head to the side.

  “Search him,” he said dryly.

  One of the many dip-shits behind me began to pat my body down. I was promptly relieved of my wallet, cigarettes, and knife.

  “It’s him,” he said.

  Mr. Goggles nodded toward my feet. “You can make this easy, or you can make it tough. Take a knee.”

  I wasn’t in the mood to get tuned up by a dozen of the federal government’s finest thugs. I lowered myself to one knee, and then the other.

  “Hands behind your head,” he said.

  “I know the fucking drill.”

  The agent at my rear handcuffed me and pulled me to my feet.

  I tilted my head toward my bike. “If there’s one scratch on that motherfucker when we’re done, I guarantee you’ll wish there wasn’t.”

  “You’re not in a position to be making threats.”

  “It wasn’t a threat,” I said flatly. “It’s one of the realities of life.

  “Load him up,” he said.

  As cars slowly drove past, people gawked at the sight. Some took pictures with their phones. One man sat on the adjacent street corner with his phone pointed directly at us, undoubtedly videoing the fiasco.

  “Kid in the jacket’s filming this. Better not make a mistake,” I said, my tone thick with sarcasm. “I know how you pricks tend to fuck things up. Ruby Ridge. Waco, Texas--”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Mr. Goggles snapped.

  Two of the agents lifted me to my feet, loaded me in the SUV on my left, and shut the door.

  * * *

  “What you two fuckers don’t understand is that even though I’m nuts, I’m not your stereotypical dip shit biker.”

  They looked at each other, and then the one with the curly hair sat down. “You’re losing me, Percy.”

  “Call me Percy again, and I’ll plaster a picture of your wife sucking my cock on that blank billboard at exit 53.” I reached for my cigarettes and quickly remembered they’d taken them from me. “Might come as a shock to you two brain surgeons, but this isn’t my first time being apprehended. I know how this shit works. I’m either under arrest, or I’m not. If I’m not, I want you to tell me.”

  He tried to hide the fact that I was getting under his skin, but he didn’t succeed. He covered his ring finger with his right hand and then met my gaze. “We’re investigating the disappearance of an ATF agent. I don’t have to tell you shit.”

  The ATF agent they were looking for hadn’t disappeared. I knew exactly where he was, but I wasn’t about to tell them. They’d find him one day, but only when I was ready to let them. I pushed my chair away from the table and crossed my arms. After giving him a few seconds of my best crazy-eyed stare, I leaned forward, rested my forearms on the edge of the table, and cleared my throat.

  “Am I free to go?”

  Without breaking my gaze or showing an ounce of emotion, he responded. “No, you’re sure as fuck not.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  He looked at his partner, and then at me. “Did either of us say you were under arrest?”

  “Answering a question with a question is a punk move, cop.”

  “I’m not going to tell you again, I’m not a cop,” he snarled. “I’m a Special Agent with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives.”

  “So, I’m not under arrest.” I alternated glances between them, and then locked eyes with my kinky-haired friend. “In accordance with the Fifth Amendment of the US Constitution, I refuse to answer any of your questions without an attorney present, cop.”

  He pushed himself away from the table. “So, it’s going to be like that?”

  “Sure as fuck is,” I said dryly. “Gimme my smokes. I got shit to do.”

  “Got meth to manufacture?” The second cop asked, his voice thick with conjecture. “Gas stations to rob?”

  “No. I need to poke my dick down his wife’s throat.” I tilted my head toward the curly-haired cop and grinned. “Then I need to snap a few pics. We’ll take a vote at the clubhouse to see which one the fellas think will be the best for the billboard.”

  Curly pivoted on the balls of his feet, spun toward me, and then shot me a glare. “I’m not married.”

  “Yes, you are.” I pushed myself away from the table, stood, and nodded toward the tan line on his ring finger. “You’ve got a wife, and you’re worried I’ll find her.”

  He crossed his arms. “You making threats?”

  I wasn’t about to get caught up in a conspiracy charge with the feds. Backing down completely wasn’t an option, either. I shook my head. “Not a threat, cop. A prediction. She’ll like the taste of my dick more than she likes yours. Now. Gimme my fucking smokes.”

  He motioned toward cop number two. “Get him out of here, Clark. I’m tired of listening to his bullshit.”

  I looked at the second cop. “Yeah, Clark. Gimme me my smokes, and let me outta here.”

  “I’ll be in touch,” Curly said.

  “Save us both some trouble, and just give me your wife’s cell phone number,” I said with a laugh.

  “Fuck off, Percy,” he said through his teeth.

  People’s perceptions of me differed. Their opinions were based on how well they knew me, and what portion of my true self I allowed them to see. Most would agree, regardless of their depth of knowledge about me, that I was a man of my word.

  And, I promised Curly that I’d poke my cock down his wife’s throat if he called me Percy again.

  I turned toward him and grinned as I tried to decide who would enjoy it the most.

  Me? His wife? Or the people who drove past the billboard?

  I’d find out soon enough.

  Chapter One Hundred Sixty-Nine

  Joey

  When Percy moved into the neighborhood, I was thirteen. Immediately after he unloaded the last piece of furniture into the house, I introduced myself. At the time I didn’t realize it, but I later admitted that I my admiration of him was two-fold.

  The first reason was that his life mirrored the one I suspected my real father had lived. Intrigued by living next door to a real-life biker, I absorbed everything about him and his way of living, all the while imagining my deceased father had lived in the same fashion.

  Secondly, I detested my stepfather, but desperately needed a male role model in my life. Fate allowed Percy to step into that role when I was a teenager. I asked him questions about life, my feelings, relationships, and motorcycles. He answered them all to the best of his ability, never denying me his time.

  I was young and inexperienced at everything feminine. Subsequently, my makeup skills were nil.

  One day, only a few weeks after his arrival, he laughed at my makeup. He told me a girl as pretty as me didn’t need makeup. I’ never forgot that day, and I’m sure I never will. My inability to apply makeup on that day earned me a nickname.

  Smudge.

  Although my makeup skills improved, the nickname stuck with me.

  Grateful that I eventually became accomplished in the craft, I inspected myself in the bathroom mirror at the dealership.

  My eye was still slightly swollen, but the thick application of foundation and having the blush a little higher on my cheeks hid the bruise.

  Convinced I looked good enough to lie my way out of any inquiries, I washed my hands and meandered to the parts counter.

  “Damn,” Blane said as soon as I walked in. “What happened to your eye?”

  “Bee stung me.”

  “On your eye?”

  “My cheek.”

  He winced. “Damn, that sucks.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Not so much anymore.”

  He took another quick look. “That’s
cool.”

  It was that simple. He didn’t dispute my claim, stare, or ask any other questions.

  Throughout the course of our busy morning, a few of the customers asked, but that was it. Upon hearing a bee stung me, they all replied in the same manner.

  It was unfortunate.

  As I watched Percy walk across the sales floor, my heart initially raced. And then, it sank. Lying to him about my eye wasn’t going to be as easy. And, he wasn’t going to be near as gullible.

  He stepped up the counter, leaned forward, and looked me over. “How’s it going?”

  “Good.”

  His eyes remained fixed on my cheek. “Didn’t see you all weekend. Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Everything’s great. Why?”

  He shifted his gaze to meet mine. “Just wondering.”

  “What brings you in?”

  He took another look at my cheek and then dropped his eyes to the counter. “Looking for a one-piece dash. Got to be H-D, not an aftermarket fucker. I’ve seen an aluminum one. Polished. It’s got flutes that run the length of it. Baseball card deal went well, and I want to give the old chrome on a toss.”

  “Your tank isn’t stretched, is it?”

  I knew it wasn’t, but I asked anyway.

  “No.” He looked up. “Standard tank.”

  “Hold on a sec,” I said.

  I pulled up the color catalog, went to the page of dashes, and turned the monitor so we both could see it.

  I pointed to one of the polished aluminum custom dashes that Harley-Davidson offered. “This one?”

  “Like that one, but fluted.”

  I looked at the three on the following page, none of which were fluted. After a quick check on the internet, I determined the dash he wanted was discontinued.

  I clicked on a Google image, enlarged it, and then pointed to the screen. “Like that?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Discontinued.”

  “What the fuck for?”

  “Hard saying with Harley. Could have been a great seller, and they pulled it because they wanted to introduce something else. Might not have sold well because of the cost. It could be anything. Want me to see if I can find one in stock somewhere?”

  “What’s it cost?”

  “$229.30”

  “Shit. I figured it’d be $500. Fuck yeah. See if you can find it somewhere.”

  A search of dealer stock in our area produced nothing, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t eventually find it.

  I let out a sigh. “It might take me a day or two. Let me see what I can find out. Anything else?”

  “That ought to do it.”

  “So, the baseball card deal went well?”

  “Too well. Checked over my shoulder on the way out of there a couple times, thinking it was a set-up.”

  “That’s good. Good that it went well. And, that it wasn’t a set-up.”

  “Hell, when I’m done selling these fuckers off, I might be able to afford a new couch.”

  “Is your old one in bad shape?”

  “Pretty sad. Bought it for $50 when I moved in. I hate spending money on furniture, so I’ve never done anything about replacing it. Don’t mind spending money on my sled, though.”

  I cocked my head and shrugged one shoulder. “A man has got to have his priorities straight.”

  He folded his arms in front of his chest, lifted his chin slightly, and looked me over. “You going to be around tonight?”

  “Always.”

  “I’ll be in the garage this evening. If you see me in there, stop by.”

  I tried to hide my excitement. “Okay.”

  “Want any beer or anything to drink?”

  “No thank you.”

  “How old are you?”

  I wagged my eyebrows. “Twenty-one.”

  I wasn’t, but I was close enough to claim it.

  “Hot damn,” he said.

  “Hot damn?” I chuckled. “Why’s that?”

  “Old enough to do anything this world has to offer. Rent a car, buy a drink, vote, military. There’s nothing you won’t be able to do, now.”

  In my mind, being twenty-one didn’t change much of anything. My finances were still going to be the same.

  “I suppose so.”

  He clenched his fist and held it over the counter. “See ya, Smudge.”

  I grinned and pounded my fist into his.

  As he walked away I realized the entire time he was talking to me I hadn’t worried about my shirt. Somehow, my cleavage and I had become completely comfortable in his presence.

  I’d always been more comfortable around him than anyone, but I found it fascinating that I’d talked to him for fifteen minutes at work and never once considered where my shirt was, how much cleavage was showing, or if one of my nipples managed to escape the pushup bra I wore, but didn’t necessarily need.

  “Why’s he call you Smudge?” Blane asked.

  It’s none of your business.

  I looked at him and shrugged.

  “I have no idea.”

  Chapter One Hundred Seventy

  P-Nut

  With my ass in a folding lawn chair and a beer in my hand, I sat in the driveway and waited for Smudge to get home. Seeing me enjoy a cold one in the drive wasn’t an uncommon sight for my neighbors. In fact, it was rare that I drank beer in the house.

  I felt free when I was outdoors. The walls of my home – or any home for that matter – made me feel confined. As far as I was concerned, a home was a shelter to sleep under and nothing more.

  I didn’t feel accountable for Smudge as if I was her parent. As a man, and as her friend, however, I felt responsible for her well-being. That feeling of responsibility had me worried about what might have happened to her eye.

  She rolled past the house at 10 miles an hour, and waved. She drove like an old lady, always overly cautious of her surroundings.

  When she needed her first car, I volunteered to help her find one. I found the old Camry on Craigslist, and went with her to buy it. After some negotiating and a few crazy-eyed stares, we got the car for $600.

  She’d saved $300 from babysitting, and I loaned her the other $300, which she paid back promptly.

  The car was ugly as fuck, but served her well.

  After pulling into her drive, she paused, and then backed up. She then turned toward my home, drove the sixty or so feet, and pulled into my drive.

  She got out of the car and grinned. “How’s it going?”

  Out of her Harley uniform and wearing her trademark hoodie, her appearance was a far cry from what she looked like at the dealership. I was relieved to see that she’d changed clothes, seeing her in her Harley gear brought on a string of mixed emotions I wasn’t prepared to deal with.

  I tapped the empty lawn chair on my right and raised my bottle of beer. “Going good, as always. Have a seat.”

  She flopped into the chair. “What’s tonight’s project?”

  “Relaxation.”

  She looked at me. “Not going to tinker on your bike?”

  “Nope.”

  She scrunched her nose. “Just going to sit and stare at Roman’s porch?”

  “Is that his name?”

  “The guy across the street?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah. Roman Aguilar. He’s nice.”

  I shrugged. “He seems okay.”

  I purposely put her chair on my right, so I could get a look at her left eye as we talked. After a few glances in her direction, I finished my beer and set the empty bottle on the drive.

  “Been knowing each other for some time now, huh?”

  “Us?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You and me.”

  “Almost eight years.”

  “I want to ask you some questions. If you think I’m out of line, just tell me. If not, I’d appreciate an honest answer. I think we’re beyond lying to each other, aren’t we?”

  “Oh, I don’t lie. What...” She looked at me. “Wha
t’s wrong?”

  “Tell me what happened to your eye and your cheek. I want to know if there are bruises anywhere else, too.”

  She looked across the street. After a few seconds, her eyes dropped to the drive and she let out a sigh.

  “Do you really want me to tell you?”

  “Yep.”

  She let out a long sigh and then looked at me. “I got smacked.”

  Warmth washed over me. Anger followed right behind it. My fists clenched, and I consciously struggled to keep my temper in control.

  “I’m guessing it wasn’t by a door or some flying piece of debris?”

  Her eyes dropped to her lap. “No.”

  I turned to face her. “Was it a man?”

  Her lower lip began to quiver, and she bit into it. After a moment, a tear rolled down her left cheek.

  She wiped the tear with the heel of her palm and sank into her seat. “Yeah.”

  Mother fucker.

  My jaw clenched.

  I shuffled my chair across the two feet of concrete that separated us, and wrapped my arm around her.

  “I’m going to make sure this doesn’t happen to you again.” I pulled her shoulder against mine. “But I’m going to need you to do a few things for me.”

  “Okay,” she muttered.

  “First, I need you to tell me who he is, and where he is.”

  She tilted her head toward her house. “It was him.”

  I released her shoulder and stood. “Him? Your stepfather?”

  “We got in an argument about me moving out.” She wiped the tears from her cheeks. “He’d been drinking. It got out of hand.”

  Every muscle in my body tensed as the anger filled me. The thought of anyone hitting a woman caused my blood to boil. Her stepfather should be comforting her, supporting her, and protecting her from harm.

  I took a long breath, held it, and clenched my jaw.

  I exhaled through my nostrils and then looked at her. “There’s no excuse for putting a hand on a woman. None. There’s nothing you did – or could ever do – to deserve that.”

  “Okay.”

  “Was that the first time it happened?”

  She stared at her feet.

  It was all the response I needed.