Filthy F*ckers: The Complete Series Box Set

by Hildreth, Scott

  He raised his index finger. “Wait right here.”

  As he walked toward the front door, he dragged his thumb through the inside of his back pocket. It dawned on me that he carried his razor in that pocket, and then I wondered if he might have overheard the surfers.

  I watched through the glass walls of the building as Tate approached the three men. Standing a few feet away from them, he gestured toward me, and then lowered his hands. As the blonde appeared to argue, Tate balled his fists.

  I couldn’t hear what was being said, but it was apparent the blond-haired asshole didn’t agree with what was being said. In opposition, he took a step back and lifted his hands slightly.

  It proved to be a major mistake on his part.

  Tate’s right hand plowed into the blonde’s nose, sending him stumbling toward the counter. While he struggled to keep from falling, Tate faced the other two men.

  Both of their heads shook from side to side frantically, and their open hands shot into the air as if they were being robbed. Tate glanced at the blond, who now had his hands cupping his bloody nose.

  Tate waved his left hand toward the door, and then looked at the blond. He nodded in response.

  Tate stepped aside.

  The three men walked through the door, around the back of their car, and up to the side of the motorcycle.

  “These fellas have something they need to tell you,” Tate said.

  The driver, a lanky mop-haired kid about twenty years old, looked up. “I’m sorry for what I said.”

  Tate cleared his throat.

  The kid’s gaze dropped to the ground. After a few seconds, he looked up. “I’m sorry I said you were fat. It was inconsiderate and childish. I’ll keep my opinions to myself from here on out. It’ll never happen to you or anyone else, ever again.”

  “Thank you.”

  The blond wiped his nose with his thumb and then looked at his bloody hand. His nose had all but stopped bleeding, but his face was smeared with blood. He looked at me and let out a sigh.

  “I apologize for making the comment about what you were wearing. It won’t happen to you or anyone else, ever again.”

  “Thank you.”

  Tate glanced at the three men. “Have a nice day, fellas.”

  The one who didn’t say anything smiled. “You, too.”

  As they walked away, I looked at Tate. “Thank you.”

  He shook his head and reached for his helmet. “Respect.” He buckled his helmet and lifted his leg over the seat. “It never gets old teaching people how to show it to others.”

  Tate Reynolds may not have been able to change the world, but he sure giving it one hell of a try.

  One bloody nose at a time.

  Chapter Two Hundred Twenty-Nine

  Tate

  I was getting out of bed when the phone rang. As it was not quite 6:00 a.m., I suspected it was one of two people. Crip or Michelle. I flipped my phone open and looked at the number. “What’s up, Michelle?”

  “I have three things to tell you. First, I’d ask if you’ve seen this week’s lists, but I know you haven’t.”

  “What lists?”

  “Wall Street Journal. New York Times. The lists.”

  I didn’t want to tell her about going back to prison, so I condensed the truth. “Haven’t had much time.”

  “I can imagine the life of a tattooed bad boy can get pretty busy, especially when you’re on the top of every list out there.”

  “Did I hit the New York Times?” I asked excitedly.

  “Hit it?” she laughed. “You crushed it. You’re number one on the New York Times bestsellers, and number one on Wall Street Journal’s list. Believe it or not, that’s not the main reason for this call. The second thing is this, Fred Freedman called me. The Fred Freedman. His wife read the book at the recommendation of her eldest daughter, who, incidentally, had read the series. Based on Fred’s call, I read it.”

  “Cool.”

  “Cool? That’s your response? Do you know who Fred Freedman is?”

  “Can’t say I do, but I don’t get out much.”

  “He’s a movie producer. Rigger’s Pass, The Vocalist, The Girl with One Blue Eye? Sound familiar?”

  The movies she named were all titles I had heard of, but hadn’t had the luxury of seeing. “I’ve heard of ‘em, yeah.”

  “His wife read your book, Tate. He called me.”

  “Cool. Hope she likes it.”

  “She liked it. He liked it.”

  “He read it?”

  “He sure did.”

  “Cool.”

  “Okay, Mister Humble. Listen. Fred liked the book. A lot. His screenwriting company wants to make an offer to buy the rights to the book. It’s not my recommendation at this point that you sell it, but it’s my job to give you his offer. As your agent, it’s my duty to tell you regardless of how sweet this offer may sound, that it’s my opinion that you should think about it. Realize this is still very early in the game to be selling the rights, especially the exclusive rights.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you ready?”

  “Sure.”

  “Seven-fifty.”

  “Seven fifty what?”

  “Seven hundred and fifty thousand.”

  My heart faltered. “Three quarters of a million bucks for that rag?”

  “It’s not a rag. And, yes. That’s their offer. But. Every cent they make off the movie? You’d get nothing. No matter how successful that movie is, you don’t see a penny.”

  “Tell him to go fuck a goat.”

  “I knew you were going to say that. What would it take to buy it? Do you have a figure?”

  “I don’t know if I want to sell it. It’s kind of about me. In a sense, anyway. I don’t know if I’m ready to have that on a movie screen. To tell the truth, I wish I wouldn’t have written it. At the time it seemed like the thing to do, but I was trying to get a girl to pay attention to me. I was, you know, inspired.”

  “Isn’t that cute,” she said in a snide tone. “Where is she now?”

  “Probably on her way to work.”

  “What does she do.”

  “She’s a prison guard.”

  “You’re fucking kidding me?” she gasped.

  “Nope.”

  “Jesus. This just keeps getting better. Back to the price. Do you have a price in mind?”

  “I already told you. I don’t think I want to sell it. I was sending a message to this girl, and I wanted to touch her heart with the story. I put too much of myself in there, and if it gets to the big screen, it’ll probably take the other books with it, and they’re all just too close to real.”

  “They’re fiction, though. Right?”

  “Pretty much, yeah.”

  “Pretty much?”

  “They’re fiction. Loosely based on fact.”

  “How loosely?”

  “Loosely enough that no one is going to get in trouble. I’m not an idiot.”

  “When I tell them to go fuck a goat, they’ll counter. I suspect it’ll be double.”

  “Jesus.”

  “It’ll be hard to say no to one point five million.”

  There weren’t many people who couldn’t be bought. I was one of them, though. If my mind was made up, no amount of money would convince me to change it. I wasn’t sure that I’d never sell the rights, but I sure wasn’t going to at this juncture in my life.

  “I’ve got all I need right here. One more bedroom than I need, a bike that runs, and a brand-new pack of wife beaters. I went shopping, and splurged.”

  “You might need to splurge again.”

  “On what?”

  “The third thing is this: Ellen’s people got ahold of me.”

  “Ellen who?”

  “Ellen.”

  “Ellen fucking who?’

  “Ellen. Short blond hair, wears sneakers, has a television show? Ellen DeGeneres.”

  “What’d they want?”

  “They want you on the
show. They’re doing a from rags to riches week in two weeks, and they think you’ll be the perfect draw for their ratings slump. A good-looking tattooed bad-boy who writes romance novels.”

  I let out a sigh. “Not interested.”

  “Seriously? This could be the turning point in your career. Whoever hasn’t heard of that book already will sure know about it after the show. You backlist will explode.”

  “I’m good on the explosions for now, thanks.”

  “Your serious? You won’t do it? You might even be able to take your prison guard with you and explain how she inspired you. They’ll love the connection.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Think about that, would you?”

  There was no way I would make it through an interview on a television show without losing my composure. One off-hand comment, rude bystander, or snide remark, and I’d be in a fist fight.

  “I already have,” I said. “The answer’s no.”

  She sighed. “I’ll call Freedman. Expect a counter.”

  “Expect a no answer.”

  “You’re impossible.”

  “Is that all? I need to take a shower. It’s early on the West Coast.”

  “I always forget,” she said. ‘Sorry, I was excited.”

  “So, that’s it?”

  “There’s one more thing.”

  “What?”

  “Write me that manuscript,” she said.

  “I will.”

  “Promises, promises.”

  “Talk to you soon, Michelle.”

  “Bye.”

  I closed the phone, tossed it on the bed, and smiled. I’d somehow managed to achieve a long-standing goal in my writing.

  Now I needed to accomplish one of my long-standing goals in life.

  Chapter Two Hundred Thirty

  Bobbi

  With his hand held at his side, Perry swung his keys by the chain that connected them to his belt. As I alternated glances between my Kindle and the blur of spinning metal, I wondered what the chances were of the key ring coming off the chain and slamming into the glass.

  “Whatcha reading?” he asked.

  I wondered why he spent so much time staring into the cellblock. The inmates were locked in their cells, and there was never anything to look at but closed cell doors, and a polished concrete floor.

  I wondered if he was mentally preparing for one of the men to pull an Andy Dufresne, dig his way out of the cell, and make a break for the fence.

  “A book,” I responded without looking up.

  “One of his?”

  “Depends on who he is, I suppose.”

  “You know who I’m talking about.”

  “I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

  He glanced at me. “Him.”

  Even though I’d been working with Perry only a short time, I’d grown tired of his attitude, his sense of superiority, and his unwarranted arrogance. I met his gaze and gave him a deadpan response. “Oh. Him. No, this is one of the other guy’s books.”

  “Who?”

  “The other guy.”

  “What other guy?”

  I glanced at my Kindle. “The guy that’s none of your business.”

  He released the keys and spun around. “Excuse me?”

  I didn’t bother responding.

  He pressed his hands to his hips. “I asked you a question,” he seethed.

  “It was rhetorical.”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  He sounded like a five-year-old who was trying to settle an argument. I looked up and rolled my eyes. “You said, ‘excuse me’, indicating that you either didn’t hear me, or that you couldn’t believe my gall. Did you hear me? When I said, ‘the guy that’s none of your business’?”

  He stared at me blankly for a moment while he processed what I asked. Upon understanding my explanation, he huffed out his response. “Yes.”

  I sighed. “Then it was rhetoric.”

  “You realize if you fraternize with him that you’re going to be fired? Lose your pension?”

  I chuckled. “All thirty-five bucks that I’ve got in there?”

  “So, you are seeing him?” He coughed out an ‘I told you so’ laugh. “I knew you would. I could tell. I’ve got a sixth sense.”

  A sixth sense, six strands of hair, and six chins.

  His attitude was grinding on my last nerve. I’d only had one official ‘date’ with Tate, but losing him due to a regulation at work wasn’t something I wanted to think about.

  Or listen to.

  “Who I see and what I’m reading is none of your business.”

  He did the hands on the hips thing again. “It is if you’re not complying with rules and reg’s.”

  “I’m reading on my lunch break. You’re not paying me for this hour, so you can’t control what I do. In fact, you’ve taken fifteen minutes of my time and made it yours. Is stealing mentioned in the rules and reg’s?” I asked, my tone sarcastic.

  He nodded toward my Kindle. “Is that pornography? Pornography is prohibited in all forms.”

  “It’s a romance novel. And, you didn’t answer my question regarding theft.”

  “It’s smut,” he barked.

  “That’s a matter of opinion.”

  “Maybe we should get the warden to decide.”

  For the last four months, I’d given him all the respect I could manage. I was done. Done listening to him, done dealing with him, and done having him tell me what I could and couldn’t do.

  “Maybe we should,” I snapped back.

  He stomped to his desk, picked up the phone, and pounded his finger against the buttons. He pressed the receiver to his ear, cocked his head to the side, and shot me a glare.

  “Warden, this is Perry. No. Everything’s fine. Yes, Sir. No. they’re scheduled for this afternoon. Well, Madden and I have a few questions for you. Is there any chance you can stop by the observation station? No, Sir. Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

  He hung up the phone and shot me a look. “He’ll be here in a few minutes.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  My frustration with Perry soon changed to worry. I wondered, if threatened by the warden, just how I might react. Perry’s claim of my book being pornography was ludicrous at best, but the issue of me seeing Tate was real.

  I didn’t do well with ultimatums, and I hoped the warden didn’t give me one.

  After exchanging a few meaningful stares with Perry, the warden walked into the office. Perry straightened his stance as if her were in the presence of a superior military officer.

  I stood. “Good afternoon, Sir.”

  “Perry. Madden. What can I do to assist?”

  “Sir, I believe CO Madden is reviewing pornography on her lunch break.”

  The Warden looked at Perry. “Pornography?”

  Perry nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

  He shifted his eyes to me. “Well?”

  “I’m reading a romance novel.”

  He looked at Perry. “Is this why you called me here?”

  “I also believe she’s intimate with an inmate.”

  “That’s a serious accusation,” the warden said. He turned toward me. “Are you?”

  “Not with an inmate in incarceration, no. I have spent some time with a former inmate, yes.”

  “Who?’

  “I don’t believe that’s relevant, Sir,” I said.

  “I believe it is,” he said.

  “I don’t see how it could be.”

  “Reynolds,” Perry said. “She’s seeing Reynolds.”

  The warden gave Perry a look. “Reynolds?”

  “Tate Reynolds. 18 USC 922 (g). Felon in possession. He was released a few weeks ago, and then returned on a dope charge. Both charges were dropped.”

  “But he’s a felon?”

  Perry nodded. “He sure is. Penal Code 404.6 (a). Inciting a riot. He’s a biker.”

  The warden looked at me. “The employment manual clearly states that no corrections officer ‘
will willfully participate in forming a personal relationship with an inmate, parolee, probationer, or ex-offender.’ If you’re involved with whoever this ‘Reynolds’ is, you’re clearly in the wrong. If the relationship started while he was incarcerated, your actions were far more than contrary to policy, they were criminal.”

  Tate Reynolds happened upon a group of people who were rioting, and was railroaded through the system for doing so. For anyone to tell me that I couldn’t see him because of his actions was to say that Reynolds was a substandard being.

  I shot him a sideways look. “I’ll turn in my resignation at the end of this shift.”

  His brow wrinkled. “I don’t know that your resignation is necessary. All we need to do is--”

  “I’ll turn in my resignation at the end of this shift.”

  He looked at Perry and then at me. “If that’s the way you want to resolve this, I can’t keep you from it.”

  “It’s the only way to resolve this,” I said. “My decision’s final.”

  I had no idea what my next career move would be, but I knew one thing: wherever I went, they weren’t going to be able to tell me who I could allow into my life.

  Chapter Two Hundred Thirty-One

  Tate

  The scent of fresh flowers hit me as soon as I opened the door. I closed my mouth tight, inhaled a long breath through my nose, and peered through the glass doors of the case on my right. Bobbi and I had been seeing each other for two weeks, and I needed to give her some flowers to mark the occasion.

  “Is there something in particular you’re looking for?”

  “Something that lasts forever, and smells wonderful,” I said over my shoulder.

  “Nothing lasts forever,” she said. “But we can make a lasting impression.”

  I chuckled and turned around. “I like that.”

  She was somewhere close to sixty, had short gray hair, and was wearing an outdated yellow pants suit that didn’t seem to fit her personality. A chunky gold necklace hung from her neck like an oversized nuisance.

  “What’s the occasion?” she asked.

  “It’s Wednesday.”

  “It sure is.” She grinned a denture-revealing smile. “What’s the occasion?”

  “It’s Wednesday.”