Filthy F*ckers: The Complete Series Box Set

by Hildreth, Scott

  I sank my fingers into his flesh with such force that I was sure he’d have scars, but I didn’t care. I mean, I did. But, I didn’t.

  And then, at that instant that he took the last stroke that I can recall, I burst into a million little pieces and showered the room with emotion.

  “Oh. My God!” I muttered, arching my back in the process.

  “I fucking love you,” he exclaimed.

  Together, like everything else we did that night, we came.

  At some point, I returned to earth. When I did, I realized something.

  Tate Reynolds wasn’t normal. He was an anomaly. A systems glitch. An oddity. But. He was mine.

  And I was never going to let him go.

  Chapter Two Hundred Thirty-Seven

  Tate

  Crip, Pee Bee, Cholo, Smokey, The Nut, Stretch and I rode to Chula Vista for Mexican food. The hour-long ride was well worth it, giving us plenty of time to talk, share stories, and enjoy some of Southern California’s finest tacos.

  Crip and I stood by the building and waited for Stretch to get done pissing. After a few minutes of waiting while the rest of the fellas goofed off, I glanced at Crip. “I can’t believe the old man came out today. It’s hot as fuck, and he doesn’t like the heat. Must have really wanted some tacos.”

  Stretch was the oldest member of the club. At 57, he was far from old, but he wasn’t in the best of health after a lengthy battle with pneumonia he simply couldn’t shake. To see him out during the hottest part of the day wasn’t typical.

  Crip glanced at the rest of the fellas, who were standing beside their bikes, and then looked at me. “We’re going to have a meeting when we get back.”

  The tone of his voice was such that I knew something was wrong. We hadn’t come to Chula Vista because Crip wanted a taco. We made the trip for another reason altogether, and I had a feeling it was about Stretch’s health.

  “What’s up?”

  “We’ll talk when we get back, Meat.”

  “Maybe I want to talk now.”

  “And, maybe I don’t.”

  “There’s four of us left. You, Pee Bee, me, and Stretch. I got a right to know. There’s something going on, I know it.”

  “I said we’ll discuss it when get back,” he growled.

  “And, I said I wanted to talk about it now. Stretch has been around since the beginning of this, Boss. Tell me what’s going on.”

  He clenched his jaw, looked at the other men, and then locked eyes with me. “For now, this stays here. I’m telling Pee Bee later. I doubt he’ll take it well.”

  “What?”

  He let out a long sigh, and then looked at me. “He’s been HIV positive for some time, He’s got AIDS.”

  I suspected I reacted the way most people do. I denied it.

  I shook my head. “Impossible. He needs another doctor to have a look at him.”

  “They have.”

  I crossed my arms. “I’ll find a good one.”

  “I’ve had him at the best, believe me.”

  “He’s sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “HIV or AIDS?”

  “AIDS.”

  It made me ache to hear it. I had no idea with modern medicines how much time he may have, but I hoped it was a decade or so.

  “God damn.” I looked at the restaurants entrance, and shook my head in disbelief. “How much time does he have?”

  “Doubt AIDS will kill him, Meat. It’s the complications with everything else. He ain’t doing too good.”

  “How much time? Years, months?”

  “Might be months. Might not.”

  “Son-of-a-bitch. Does he know how he got it?”

  “No. Don’t know that it matters. They said he could have had it for ten years, and not known.”

  “Fucking scary.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Makes a man think about wrapping his junk, huh?”

  “Suppose so.”

  “You and Bobbi going at it yet?”

  “I don’t know that’s much of your business, Boss.”

  He chuckled. “Always been the weird fucker, haven’t ya?”

  “It’s not weird to be a little respectful.”

  “Suppose not.”

  Stretch came outside, rubbing his stomach as he walked through the door. “Took about ten shits in there. That goat cheese tastes good as fuck, but my belly don’t like it.”

  “You ready, old man?” Crip asked.

  “Ready as I’m gonna get.”

  I looked him over, trying to find something about him that gave hint to the fact that he was dying, but found nothing. He was still the six-foot-three-inch one-hundred-and-sixty-pound old man that he always was. Convinced he’d somehow pull through it, I slapped my hand against his back and gave him some advice.

  “Blow the cobs out of that old Shovel, and it might run better.”

  “Runs better than that Evo of yours.”

  He sauntered to his bike, grabbed his helmet, and shot me a glare. “I say ‘prove it’.”

  “Race is on, motherfucker,” I said.

  “Won’t be much of a race.”

  He coughed a few times and then shook his head. “Not if you’re on that piece of shit Evo, it sure won’t.”

  “Stretch and me are racing,” I said. “You others can catch up once we get on the 5.”

  “Can’t wait to see this,” Pee Bee said.

  “Place your bets, fellas.”

  The group, entirely, bet on Stretch.

  We got geared up and started our bikes. Then, Stretch and I pulled out onto the two-lane highway that led to highway 5. While Crip and Pee Bee watched for cross traffic, the two of us tried to get side-by-side in a manner that wouldn’t give either of us the benefit.

  I seriously doubted I’d beat his hopped-up Shovel, but racing him would put a smile on his face, I knew that much.

  After we agreed that neither had the benefit, Crip stepped to the center lane between us.

  “You fuckers ready?” he asked.

  We revved our engines in response.

  He raised his arms.

  While I waited for him to drop them, Stretch released his clutch and shot off like a rocket. In a matter of seconds, he disappeared over the hill. The sound of his exhaust faded into the distance. It get lesser and lesser, until we heard nothing.

  Shocked, we all sat on our bikes and waited for him to return, but he didn’t. After half an hour, we decided to call it a night, and ride home.

  We were damned near to the Del Mar fairgrounds exit on the 5 when we hit the traffic. I knew in my gut that something was wrong. Crip must have, too.

  He signaled to split traffic.

  We rode between the cars that were at a standstill on the highway until we saw the flashing lights. Two ambulances were parked in the center of the freeway, half a mile ahead.

  Crip lowered his left hand and gave the signal to stop.

  Reluctantly, we complied.

  We didn’t find out what happened for another hour. After the coroner pulled away, we watched as they loaded the carcass of his bike onto a flat-bed truck.

  Considering the fact that he’d ridden almost thirty miles without turning around, and that he was one of the best riders I’d ever met, I assumed he committed suicide. The look in Crip’s eyes told me he believed the same thing. Without saying a word, the two of us decided to take Stretch’s secret to our graves.

  As many times as he’d driven us out of harm’s way, we owed him much more. But that was all that was left to give.

  Chapter Two Hundred Thirty-Eight

  Bobbi

  Police funerals had always fascinated me. When an officer died in the line of duty, fellow officers came from other municipalities, jurisdictions, counties, and even states to pay respect to their fallen brother.

  When a 1%er dies on his bike, the same thing happens.

  It was the first time I’d been to a biker funeral. I stood at the top of the hill and stared. Twenty feet from t
he gravesite, I was awestruck by what I saw. Motorcycles lined every street in the cemetery. As far as I could see, chrome glistened, sprinkling the grassy hillsides with man-made stars.

  Men stood with their hands behind their backs, some dressed in kuttes, some in in leather jackets, and some wearing nothing more nothing more than a tee shirt and jeans.

  Colors from a dozen different SoCal clubs merged with the lone riders, mom and pop clubs, and riding clubs. Officers from national clubs stood amongst men they might have considered lesser beings, but on that day, everyone was equal.

  The mood was somber as the preacher gave the eulogy. Contrary to what I expected, no one from the club spoke. It might have been that they’d already grieved, or that they mourned differently than most other men.

  After the service ended, the men mingled, exchanged niceties, and gave their opinions of how Stretch was forced into the back of the semi-truck he hit by someone driving a cage.

  Tate didn’t speak much during the service or on the way to the shop. Once we got there, things changed.

  The men didn’t mingle and eat finger foods, mope around, or wear their somber faces. They threw a celebration. A party to remember the good times, the tough times, and the times they swore they’d never mention again.

  I didn’t keep to myself, nor was I overly outgoing. I spoke when I was spoken to, and tried my best to be respectful to all who were at the clubhouse. I hoped they could find a way to accept the death of their fallen brother without too much pain.

  I recalled the death of my mother, and how she passed without much warning. There are no assurances when someone dies of cancer, and my mother stood as proof. After being diagnosed with lung cancer, she was given six months to live. A week later, she wasn’t with us any longer.

  Trying to figure out such things is impossible.

  Accepting them isn’t.

  It’s difficult.

  Around midnight the men started leaving, each going their separate ways, but all carrying the same baggage.

  Tate and I rode to his house in silence. I knew there would come a time when he was back to his former self, and I further knew it would take time.

  Time was something I had a lot of.

  Now that my book was a top ten bestseller in cookbooks, I had enough money to pay the bills, and a little left over. It wasn’t ranked anything like Tate’s was, but then again, Tate was special. The amount of free time I had was what I liked.

  It allowed me to spend more time with Tate.

  That night we didn’t make love, although we had on every other night since the first. That night, I held him against my chest while we listened to Credence Clearwater Revival’s Greatest Hits, on vinyl.

  It was Stretch’s favorite, according to Tate.

  While John Fogerty sang Vietnam era protest songs, I fell asleep. When I woke, Tate Reynolds was making breakfast.

  Before I had a chance to convince myself to get out of bed, he brought yogurt parfaits to the bedroom.

  And, for the first time in my life, I ate breakfast in bed.

  There would be a lot of first times with Tate Reynolds, that much I was sure of.

  I’d take the bad ones right along with the good. Because, when you’re truly in love with someone, you’re committed.

  And, I was as in love as any woman could ever claim to be.

  Chapter Two Hundred Thirty-Nine

  Tate

  I parked my bike in the drive, walked up the walk, and knocked on the door twice. After a moment, it opened.

  “Well, hell’s bells,” Bobbi’s father said, peering over my shoulder and toward the bike. “Where’s Bobbi?”

  “She’s at home.”

  “Come in. What brings you?”

  I stepped inside. “I wanted to personally invite you to something.”

  “Want a cup of coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  He took off toward the kitchen. “I’m like you. I drink that shit all day. Always have a fresh pot going.”

  I followed him to the kitchen and sat down. He poured two cups, handed me one, and then sat down. “So, what’s going on?”

  “After we buried our buddy, most of us got to thinking about things, me included. Some of the fellas got life insurance policies, some upped their medical insurance, and some just went home and hugged their wife and kids. Our president, Crip, went to another extreme.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Oh. Yeah. It’s fine. He’s been with his Ol’ Lady for some time, and a few days after Stretch’s funeral, he decided it was time to get married.”

  He sipped his coffee. “So, they got hitched?”

  “No, Sir. He asked for her hand in marriage.”

  “They’re engaged?”

  “As of now, yes.”

  He pushed his cup to the side. “Before you go any further, I need to tell you something. If I don’t tell you now, I’ll damned sure forget it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Bobbi. I’ve never seen her happier. And, when I say never, I mean never. I don’t know what your intentions are, and I know nothings etched in stone, but I’d like to ask you if and when you let her go, let her down easy, will ya?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not going to let her go.”

  “That’s not an easy promise to make, and that’s not why I brought it up. I don’t expect an assurance, all I want is to make sure she doesn’t get hurt. She thinks the world of you, Tate. She really does. When a girl feels that way about a man, losing him is never easy. I’m asking that you make it as easy as you can.”

  I pushed my coffee cup to the side and leaned against the edge of the table. “You wear hearing aids?”

  “Not yet, why?”

  “I was going to ask you to turn ‘em up.”

  He chuckled. “Smart ass.”

  “I’m not leaving her, Mr. Madden. Not now, not ever. If we split up, it’ll be because she gets sick of me.”

  “Mr. Madden died twenty years ago. Call me James from here on out, will ya?”

  “Okay, James.”

  He reached for his coffee, took a sip, and then gave me a look of slight confusion. “Well. It sounds like you two are off on the right foot. Color me stupid, but did you stop by here to tell me your president is getting married? Is that the reason?”

  “I wanted to make sure you got an invite from me to the wedding. I want to make sure you’re there.”

  “Is it important to you that I come?”

  “Very.”

  “I’ll be there, then.”

  “Want me to tell you when it is?”

  “At some point, I suppose. When is it?”

  “Two weeks from Saturday.”

  “What time?”

  ‘Two o’clock.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “I’d sure appreciate it.”

  He finished his cup of coffee and then studied me. “You’re unique, Tate. I like that about you.”

  “Unique? How?”

  “Just from all I’ve learned about you. The TV, no sports, no internet. You’re an odd one for sure. Odd in a good way. And, I think you’re good for Bobbi. It makes me happy thinking you two might make it the distance.”

  “We’ll make it the distance.”

  He cocked his head to the side and gave me a look. “How can you be so sure?”

  “When you know, you know,” I said. “And, I know.”

  “You know what?”

  “That she’s the one.”

  “Most think they know. When I met Maddie, I knew. It wasn’t a week, or even a month. I knew on our first date. Asked her to marry me after four weeks.”

  I laughed. “Four weeks?”

  “Four.”

  “If I wrote that in a book, I’d be crucified.”

  His brow furrowed. “For what?”

  “Insta-love.”

  “What’s insta-love?”

  “It’s when a couple falls in love instantly.”

  “It wasn’t instant. It was
a month.”

  “A month’s instant in the book world,” I said.

  He grabbed the empty cup and turned toward the coffee pot. “The book world is stupid as shit.”

  I finished my cup of coffee and stood. “You’re right about that. A man ought to be able to tell the story the way it unravels, and people ought to accept it.”

  “They damned sure ought to,” he said.

  I handed him my empty cup. “But they don’t.”

  “They’re horse’s asses. Tell ‘em to write their own damned books if they don’t like yours.”

  “I wish I could,” I said. “Believe me.”

  “You leaving?”

  “I need to.”

  He shook my hand. “Nice seeing you again, Tate.”

  I tugged at the bottom of my kutte and gave a nod. “Nice seeing you, James.”

  He poured a cup of coffee and turned to the side. “Working on anything yet?”

  “Writing another right now.”

  “Write what you want,” he said. “It’ll appeal to someone. You’ll just need to find ‘em.”

  “That’s the trick. Finding them.”

  “I’m just an old man, but it sure looks to me like you’re good at finding what it is you want.”

  “I’m just stubborn. And, I’m a prick. I don’t take no for an answer.”

  He raised his cup. “See you two weeks from Saturday, you stubborn prick.”

  I grinned and gave a sharp nod. “See you then.”

  Chapter Two Hundred Forty

  Bobbi

  Nervously, I stood and the end of the row of bridesmaids and gazed the length of the red carpet that was stretched the length of Cholo’s back yard. Peyton’s dress trailed behind her as she walked in perfect time with the music. Mesmerized by her beauty, my eyes remained fixed on her until she paused a mere twenty feet from where I was standing.

  The wooden platform and Arbor Trellis that Smokey and Cholo built was breathtaking. The trellis was adorned with various species of pale pink flowers that Tate bought from his favorite florist. He felt it was the least he could do. Every breath I took filled my nostrils with a mixture or peonies, roses, and hydrangeas with an undertone of ocean breeze.