Filthy F*ckers: The Complete Series Box Set

by Hildreth, Scott

  I decided a change in subject matter was necessary to clear the air. “So, other than Tank being a fucking cop and P-Nut shacking up with his gay neighbor, has anything else happened?”

  “Not much,” Crip said with a laugh. “Same old shit.”

  Tank being a cop and setting me up on a crime hung heavily on my mind. I’d been deceived, and I didn’t like it one bit. I finished my beer, tossed the bottle in the trash, and turned around. “How’d we find out Tank was a cop?”

  Smokey looked at the men, and then cleared his throat. “Remember the cop that arrested Crip for murdering Whipple’s brother?”

  Him and three or four other cops stormed into the clubhouse one day while we were in the middle of a meeting. After demanding that Crip surrender, he arrested him at gunpoint and took him to jail on murder charges.

  The charges were later dropped and Crip was released, but the cop – and his attitude – weren’t something I’d soon forget. His arrogance preceded him, and he looked like he belonged on one of my book covers, not in a police station.

  “Smart mouthed fucker that pulled out his gun here in the shop?” I asked. “Looked like he ought to be managing The Gap in San Diego?”

  Smoke nodded.

  “Yeah, I remember him, why?”

  “I took Tank as a prospect when you got arrested.” Smokey said. “The fucker was trying to get on my good side and pump me for information. He set up a mock fight at a diner one day with another undercover ATF agent. Made it look like the other cop was trying to steal my bike. Hell, the bastard had me fooled. Then, one night, the cop that arrested Crip came by my house and told me Tank was an ATF agent. Explained how he set you up on the gun charge. Handed you the gun while he had ATF agents waiting to arrest you. The whole thing was a set up.”

  The entire thing was starting to sound like an embellished scene out of one of my biker books. I crossed my arms over my chest and looked at Smokey in disbelief. “That asshole cop just came to your house and said, ‘Hey, there’s something I think you should know. Tank’s a cop and he set Meathead up on a gun charge.’”

  “Pretty much, yeah.” He motioned toward P-Nut. “I told ‘Nut, and the next thing we know, Tank goes missing. ‘Nut kept his ass in that metal box for two months before we knew what really happened.”

  I glanced at P-Nut, and then at the other men. Each of them gave me a reassuring look. Uncertainty sank into the pit of my stomach.

  We were a club that wasn’t involved in an ongoing criminal enterprise like drugs, extortion, or prostitution. We did, however, spend a fair amount of time protecting our turf, and standing up for people who were being victimized by others – and those actions were often criminal.

  There were far too many cops involved in the club’s recent activities for my comfort.

  I looked at Crip. “Sounds to me like we’ve got a few too many cops in the mix, Boss.”

  “Tank’s gone for good,” he said. “That other cop? I don’t know what to think about that prick. He keeps showing up, but nothing ever comes of it.”

  “He’s a fucking cop, Crip. You said it earlier. A cop’s a cop.”

  “I second that,” P-Nut said.

  Everyone else chimed in with an agreement of some sort.

  Therein was my answer. I didn’t like it, but it wasn’t something I could argue. I could thank Officer Madden for her hospitality, but going further than that wasn’t something that was in my – or the club’s – best interest.

  Chapter Two Hundred Twelve

  Bobbi

  Tate had been gone for two weeks. His leaving caused me to realize just how much I looked forward to the conversations we had during his stay at the institution.

  As a matter of choice, I had very few people in my life. There was a handful of girls I was friendly with, but I really didn’t have any close girlfriends. When it came to men, matters weren’t much different.

  Early in life, I eagerly hooked up with whoever was willing to pay me a moment’s attention. It took a few years and a plethora of sucked dicks to learn my lesson, but my experiences told me that when it came to women my size, men weren’t interested in relationships. They only wanted a blowjob or a booty call.

  As a result, I now shied away from most men.

  Tate was different. He obviously wasn’t driven by sex. He seemed to genuinely be interested in me as a person. Naturally, I wondered how much of the attention he gave me was due to my being the only woman he came in contact with.

  I now found him more intriguing. The stories weren’t what I would expect any man to write, let alone someone who spent his leisure time riding a motorcycle in a gang. I was convinced he was a hopeless romantic. No one could write the way he did and not be. So far, his heroes had two things in common: they never cheated, and they were protective over women – all women – who were being victimized.

  I told myself those were traits that he, too, possessed.

  Eleven books into his collection of works, I had just finished the last book of a three-book BDSM series about a Dom/sub relationship. I’d gone through two sets of batteries during my reading journey, and had worn my lower region into a tender mess.

  I felt sorry for women who had yet to experience a remote-controlled vibrator. Being filled with eight inches of vibrating purple silicone while having two free hands often left me feeling like I’d been groped by a group of horny teens. But, I was always satisfied in the end, and there were never any unkept promises or broken hearts.

  Sitting on my couch holding a remote control that was remote but wouldn’t control, I frantically searched Amazon Prime for a battery-operated-boyfriend that qualified for next day delivery. IMO had a two-pronged device that looked promising, and it came in my favorite color.

  Purple.

  My one-click finger made the purchase before I finished reading the rave reviews. Convinced I needed a break from reading – and from pleasuring myself – I set my Kindle aside and tossed the broken remote control across the floor of my apartment.

  Dressed in my typical evening attire of sweats and an oversized tee, I stared blankly at the television as TNT’s Animal Kingdom silently played. The movement on the screen was a distraction to the fact that I lived alone. I was one season into the series, and enjoyed looking at the handsome men. But, no differently than any of the other shows I watched, the sound was muted the entire time it played.

  I missed Tate, and was angry for allowing myself to become attached to how he made me feel. There was some merit to the rule regarding guards interacting with inmates. Becoming attached, even if it wasn’t romantic, eventually exposed the staff member to the anxiety of separation. The prisoners in the facility had one thing in common.

  They eventually left. All of them.

  Convinced I’d accomplished nothing in the last two weeks short of reading and whacking off, I decided to clean my apartment. After no more than standing and scanning the small living area, there was a dull knock at my door.

  There was only one person that came to my home unannounced. Fully expecting to see my neighbor, Andy, I walked across the room and peered through the peephole. Just as I suspected, his distorted body stood on the landing. He had a few issues when it came to cleanliness and contamination, and always knocked by lightly kicking my door. He was equal parts annoying and cute.

  I pulled it open. “Yes?”

  Andy was in his early sixties, very friendly, and slightly over protective. His hair was solid gray, and he kept it cut short, neatly combed, and fixed in place with plenty of product. He was six inches shorter than me, and rather slight in build.

  Despite his size, he had a huge heart.

  Dressed in khaki-colored slacks and a sky blue short-sleeved button-down shirt, he peered beyond me and into the living room. “Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine,” I said. “Why?”

  Being cautious not to touch the door, he pushed his way past me and surveyed the living room.

  “Sounded like someone
was slaughtering a moose. I was in the middle of showering, and heard the commotion. Took me a minute to get dried off and dressed, or I would have been here a few minutes ago.”

  I motioned toward the vacant room. “There’s no moose here.”

  “It sounded horrific.” He turned around and looked right at me. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”

  “I promise.”

  His eyes darted toward the door repeatedly.

  I chuckled. “I’m serious. Everything’s fine.”

  He pushed his hands into his pockets and exhaled heavily. “I was sure I was going to end up escorting someone out of here by their ear.”

  Undoubtedly, he’d heard me masturbating. At least until my remote control went on the fritz. My mouth curled into a grin. “Not tonight.”

  He glanced at the television, and then at me. “That’s one you should turn the volume up for. It’s exciting. Filmed in Oceanside, too.”

  “Is it?”

  “That’s what they say. Filmed on location. That Baz fellow is a horse’s ass, though. He cheats on his wife with some gal down in Mexico. I know it’s just a TV show, but it makes me mad that he does that. It’s tense from beginning to end.”

  “I don’t listen to any of them, so I’ll just take your word for it.”

  “I can’t understand why you pay for the cable service, and don’t watch the shows.”

  “I do watch them. I just don’t listen to them.”

  His brows knitted together. “I find it odd.”

  I cocked my head to the side. “How many showers did you take today?”

  He pursed his lips and gazed down at the floor. After a moment, he looked up. “Oh, I don’t know, why?”

  “Take a guess.”

  “Six.” He shrugged. “Maybe seven.”

  “We all have our quirks, Andy.”

  “Point taken.” He gave the room another look. “I can’t think of what that noise might have been.”

  “Hard saying,” I said.

  “You know how noise travels through these floors. Damned things are like paper. Might have been Ms. Mayberry’s dog down in 202.”

  “Might have been.”

  His eyebrows raised. “How many points do you have left?”

  I’d been in Weight Watchers since meeting Andy. He was well aware of my devotion to the program, and was fairly supportive of my adherence to their system of applying points to all things edible.

  I extended my index and middle finger. “Two.”

  “Two?” he sighed. “Sounds like you’ll be having string cheese for a snack. I was going to see if you wanted some sorbet.”

  “We’ll have to do it some other time. I splurged on dinner and had rice with my chicken.”

  “Too bad you can’t use some of tomorrow’s point tonight.”

  “I’m not going to get caught in that trap,” I said with a laugh.

  “I understand.” He pushed his hands deep into his pockets and then looked at me with hopeful eyes. “Maybe we’ll do it later this week.”

  I smiled. “Sounds good.”

  “I’m going to go down and check on Ms. Mayberry.” He walked to the door and then paused. “I’ll let you know what I find.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. Using it to protect his hand from contamination, he reached for the door handle.

  “Save some points on Thursday,” he said over his shoulder.

  “I’ll do that.”

  I hadn’t lost weight since I’d been on the program, but I hadn’t gained any, either. Before I committed to diet, my weight fluctuated. When it was up, I exercised madly, and starved myself. When it was down, I celebrated with bread and cheeses.

  Now, my exercise – and my weight – were steady. I’d finally found a place where my body was comfortable.

  I glanced at the remote control that lay at the edge of the living room floor and hoped that one day I could find a man who was comfortable with my body.

  Chapter Two Hundred Thirteen

  Tate

  There were many things I felt I should be doing, but none of them held the importance of finishing the book I was working on. It would stand to reason that after being confined to a jail cell for 23 hours a day, I’d rather be riding my bike or walking along the beach than be restricted to my spare bedroom pecking away on my laptop.

  But there I was, doing just that. I’d been locked in the room 14 hours a day for two weeks straight, honing the manuscript into what I hoped would be a masterpiece. My stories typically had no outline, nor did they have a preconceived storyline that I followed. I simply developed characters, allowed them to meet, and let what happened in their lives come to life in the pages of my book.

  As far as I was concerned, what happened in my books was as real as life itself. In writing more than three-dozen manuscripts, I’d befriended an eccentric millionaire, a boxer, street fighter, detective, mafia boss, CIA agent, countless military heroes, a murdering psychopath, a few tattoo artists, and several bikers.

  Until now, however, I’d never befriended a convict.

  My current hero was a biker and a felon. He’d been convicted of a crime that he didn’t commit – simply because he fit the profile. Through the course of his incarceration, he became close with the guard who worked at the waiting room of the prison’s infirmary.

  She was the only person in the penitentiary who didn’t judge him. Through her eyes, she saw a man who needed medical care. A man, while imprisoned, had been diagnosed with cancer. A man who she was sure wouldn’t get the care he deserved – or needed – behind the walls of the institution.

  During his once a month visits, she gave him what little she could offer. Initially, a smile and a nod when the guard dropped him off. As time passed, she offered him a kind ear. She gave suggestions of inspirational books that may help him cope with the fear associated with what she expected would be terminal cancer.

  As his condition worsened, his trips to the prison’s hospital increased in frequency. Despite seeing her more often, he felt empty and alone. He needed more, but feared asking. Without provocation, she provided it.

  He spoke not of his sickness, but of his love of riding. Of being free. The smell of the ocean. The sound of the wind as it rushed past him. With each tale he told, she was drawn a little closer to him and to his love of living life.

  In time, the topics of their conversations became more personal. As he sat in his cell, he yearned to hear her voice. She learned to laugh again, and looked forward to hearing of his life’s experiences. As he slowly withered, inching closer to death, their relationship blossomed.

  In her spare time, she researched his legal case. After learning that his attorney had provided an inadequate defense, she secretly prepared an appeal of his conviction. While she spent nights collecting shreds of evidence, his cancer spread.

  Driven by the thought of having his conviction overturned, she slept very little. In her waking hours, she imagined a life with him in it. In his current medical state, he could barely stay awake. As he slept, he dreamed not of freedom, but of the relationship he’d developed with her.

  Unbeknownst to him, she filed an appeal with the appellate court. Unbeknownst to her, he mentally prepared to die. Then, on one Thursday, she received the word. A second trial was granted. Certain that no court would convict him after considering the new evidence, she stood proudly on the following Friday, waiting for him to come to his visit.

  Each time the hallway door opened, she craned her neck, hoping it was him.

  But.

  He never came.

  I stared at the manuscript. It wasn’t unfolding the way I wanted it to, and certainly didn’t follow the recipe for a typical romance. I wondered if my readers were going to throw a fit. There was only one way to know for sure.

  I called my agent. After three rings, she answered. “I was just thinking about you.”

  “I’ve got a question,” I said.

&nb
sp; “So do I.”

  “Okay. Yours first.”

  “When are you going to write me a stand-alone romance novel?” she asked. “I was just talking to an editor at Random House, and she sure could use something about right now.”

  The thought of writing another book for a publisher made me cringe. I’d done it before, and the entire process went against the grain of my very existence. “As soon as I’m done with the one I’m working on,” I said, knowing good and well that I wouldn’t.

  “You always say that. Okay, what brings you to call on this beautiful Wednesday?”

  “I’m writing the last biker book in my series. The heroes dying of cancer. Can he die?”

  “No!” she screeched. “Not in a romance. In women’s fiction? Sure. In romance? No. It has to have an HEA or an HFN, Tate. We’ve been over this. Let the man live.”

  “He’s knocking on death’s door right now.”

  “Give me the elevator pitch.”

  I hated summarizing my books into a three-sentence sales pitch. I sighed heavily into the phone. After a moment, I responded to her request.

  “Biker falls for prison guard in this heartwarming tale of sacrifice and--”

  “Stop,” she blurted. “Tell me this guy’s a prisoner.”

  “He is.”

  “Oh, my God. This is going to be gold.”

  “Even if he dies?”

  “Why does he have to die? Give me the details.”

  “He meets the woman who stands guard at the hospital entrance. He’s being given second-rate healthcare for colon cancer. They develop a friendship. She learns that his legal case is a crock of shit, and she appeals it without him knowing. Meanwhile, he’s dying of cancer, and he knows it. She knows he’s being treated, but has no idea of the extent of it. At the same time they accept her appeal for his new trial, he dies.”

  “What the fuck?” she gasped. “Let him live. You’re a big boy. Figure it out, and write it. If it wasn’t the last book of that series you’re writing, I’d take it to Random House. Send me a copy when you’re done.”