HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  At no point did the value of another man’s life diminish, but the decision to kill became much less of a struggle. In the end I decided I had become insensitive and damaged.

  A byproduct of war.

  My decision to start the MC was done to rid my mind of the day-to-day demons that seemed to take possession of my soul after the war ended. It worked, but I was left void of the voices in my head that somehow provided justification for the atrocities of war. What remained was a soulless shell with the body and mind of an insensitive killer.

  I pointed the barrel of the pistol at his head and sighed. “I struggled with this, you know. I told myself it wasn’t necessary, but it is.”

  The muscles in his jaw went tight. “Do what you gotta do.”

  It was the first time I’d seen him since our fight in the bar. No differently than Peyton, I regretted decisions that I had made, and wondered if I should have just killed him and Panda the day they came into our bar.

  I could have even done something when they trespassed on our turf.

  Had I acted on either of those occasions, Peyton’s life would have been as it was before. Filled with guilt, sorrow, and a tremendous amount of hatred, I stared back at him. In his eyes, I saw nothing. No regret, no sorrow, not even fear. I wanted to say so much. I had envisioned giving a long speech, telling him how murdering him was the final step in serving justice for the life he had chosen to live. For the pain that he caused so many others.

  Instead, I simply pointed the pistol at his forehead and pulled the trigger.

  He fell to the floor with a heavy thud. The carpet around him slowly darkened as the blood poured out of the cavity in his skull.

  I felt no differently. I expected to be cured. Free of pain. To immediately believe that Peyton’s life would quickly transform back to normal.

  But I wasn’t cured.

  My heart still ached.

  Filled with the belief that the only cure for what I was feeling would be the passage of time, I stepped over Whip’s body and walked away.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Peyton

  I pushed the door open and met the receptionist’s gaze. After scanning the lobby and finding it empty, I proceeded to walk toward her. With each step, my legs felt heavier, a little less capable.

  Eventually, I made it to her work station. She looked up at me and smiled. I smiled in return.

  “Hi. I uhhm. I need to talk to someone.”

  “Are you looking for anyone in particular?”

  “Uhhm. I mean. No. Well, kind of. Someone who. Someone who has. I’d really like it if. Do you have any women?”

  She looked caring. Understanding. And confused.

  “Are you a victim?”

  My lip began to quiver. I clutched my purse and nodded. “Uh huh.”

  She lifted her hand and reached toward me. “I’ll get you one of our counselors, and if needed, an EMDR therapist.”

  I took her hand in mine. I wanted to tell her thank you, but lately it seemed wanting to speak and actually speaking were two totally different things.

  Either her hand was shaking or mine was, but together, we stood there and shook like it was the right thing to do.

  “What’s your name, beautiful?” she asked.

  “I’m Peyton,” I said. “Peyton Price.”

  “I’m Candace,” she said. “I’m a survivor. It’s going to get better, okay?”

  I chewed on my lip and nodded my head.

  A woman walked through the door beside Candace’s desk. She was older than I expected, probably sixty by my guess. She was dressed in a navy pants suit, and was an attractive woman, but I had little desire to talk to someone that had no idea about what I was going through. I wanted to talk to Candace, she was a survivor. I was done being a victim. I wanted to be a survivor.

  “Peyton,” Candace said. “This is Elizabeth. She’ll take you back where you can talk in private, okay.”

  “The woman smiled a genuine smile. “Peyton?”

  I nodded.

  “Hi, I’m Elizabeth. I’m one of the center’s counselors, and I’m a survivor,” she said.

  I felt a little bit better. “Hi, I’m. I’m uhhm. I’m Peyton. Peyton Price.”

  She extended her hand. I glanced at it, and eventually took her hand in mine.

  “Come on back, Peyton,” she said. “Who does your hair?”

  I reached for my head, and pressed my hair to my scalp. It seemed like an odd question. “My hair?”

  “The highlights look wonderful. And I just love the cut. I need to go somewhere new. Mine always looks awful,” she said with a laugh.

  “Uhhm. The highlights are natural. I spend a lot of time in the sun. I surf. And, thank you. I get it cut at Crystals in Old Town.”

  I followed her through the door and down a long corridor.

  “Crystals?” she asked. “I’ll have to give them a try. Who’s your stylist?”

  “Beth.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  She walked through a doorway and into an office. “Have a seat.”

  The office wasn’t like a normal office; it was more like a lounge. I glanced around, sat on an overstuffed chair, and she sat beside me on the edge of a loveseat.

  “We have a little different approach here at SDTT. How’d you find out about us?”

  I looked around the room. “Google.”

  “Isn’t the internet a wonderful tool?”

  I nodded. “Uh huh.”

  “If I told you I knew how you were feeling would you believe me?”

  “Uhhm. Like really believe you?”

  She laughed. “Yes.”

  “Probably not.”

  “I see. Well…” She adjusted herself on the cushion, crossed her legs, and fixed her eyes on mine.

  It was the first time I had really noticed her eyes, but they were a lot like Navarro’s. A memorizing blue, and definitely not easy to look away from.

  “I was seventeen. My husband was twenty-one, and he was at work. We married much younger back then. We’d been married for two years at the time.”

  I was shocked. “You got married when you were fifteen?”

  “I sure did. He was in the military, and we married immediately after he completed his basic training.”

  “Wow.”

  She smiled. “I wanted to be the perfect housewife. I had his dinner ready every night when he got home from work. We lived off-base in a small house – just a one bedroom. We were renting it for $250 a month.”

  I laughed. “Those days are long gone.”

  “Isn’t that the truth,” she said. “Would you like something to drink?”

  Her voice was soothing, and I enjoyed listening to her tell her story. Although she was considerably younger, she reminded me of my grandmother, which I found comforting. “No. I’m good for now.”

  She smiled, rested her hands in her lap, and continued. “So, one day, I had dinner in the oven, and was waiting for my husband to come home. A man knocked at the door, and I answered. Back then, people walked from door to door selling things. Door to door salesmen, that’s what they called them. We didn’t have the internet, or cell phones, for that matter.”

  I grinned at the thought of living back in the day, and not having all of the distractions of the modern world. Life would be so much different, for sure.

  “He was selling vacuum cleaners. I wanted to tell him we couldn’t afford one, but to be really honest, I was interested in seeing what it was capable of. A Kirby. That’s what they called it. Nothing, he said, could get my house cleaner than a Kirby. I had almost an hour to spare before my husband was to get home, so I agreed to see his demonstration.”

  “Was it as good as he said?”

  She shook her head. “We never got that far. He closed the door, locked it, and then he raped me.”

  My heart sank. I had no idea that’s where she was headed with her story. “I’m so sorry.”

  She smiled a faint but genuine smile and
continued. “I felt guilty. For letting him in, you know. I felt responsible, because I was wearing the skirt that my husband liked so much, and though if I had chosen a pants suit, maybe it wouldn’t have happened.”

  She didn’t seem upset at all talking about it, but I felt terribly sorry for her nonetheless. To think of someone doing something like that to an unsuspecting housewife was horrible. I stared back at her, at a complete loss for words.

  “Mood swings, fits of anger, anxiety, and periods of having less than zero self-esteem followed. It lasted for years. We were trying to have a child at the time, so, I told my husband I needed to go to the doctor. I went that day and got help. I talked to someone like me, a counselor. And, here I am. I’ve spent my entire life helping people like you and me.”

  “Thank you. For everything.”

  “So, if I told you now that I knew how you were feeling, would you believe me?”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “Are you ready to talk, Peyton?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I am.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Nick

  She thrust her hip into the door of her Jeep, and swung it closed. I watched as she walked into the shop, a plastic bag dangling from her right fist. She swung it back and forth comically, as if to bring attention to the fact she was carrying it. I hadn’t seen her for an entire week and I didn’t like it much, but she told me she’d come around as soon a she was able.

  By the look on her face, she must have been a little more than able.

  Smiling from ear to ear, she continued to walk toward me, the grin all but covering her entire face. Watching her walk was a treat in itself, and I could do it for as long as she would let me.

  Her jean shorts, Chuck’s, and Jimi Hendrix tee shirt were a reminder of the way things once were.

  “Here,” she said, tossing the bag toward me.

  I wasn’t expecting her to throw it, but caught it before it fell to the floor, nonetheless. It wasn’t heavy, but it was heavier than I expected. “What’s this?”

  “Open it.”

  I opened the bag and removed the box that was inside. Covered in Harley-Davidson wrapping paper, the 12-inch by 12-inch box was perfectly wrapped.

  “Did you wrap it?”

  “No,” she said. “I got some random lady to do it.”

  I nodded and glanced down at the box.

  “Yes, asshole. I wrapped it.”

  “Oh. It looks nice.”

  “Open it.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a fucking gift, you big goon.”

  She’s only been gone for a week, and it seemed in the time that she was away, she’d got her spunk back. Surprised, and feeling like I was feeding off of her playful nature, I tossed the box on the workbench and spun her around by her arm. As soon as I did it, I realized I probably shouldn’t have. Her reaction told me otherwise.

  She bent over and pointed her ass at me. After a few seconds of hovering there bent over, she stood up.

  “I thought you were going to spank me. Fucking tease.”

  “I was just fucking around.”

  She brushed her hair away from her face. “Open it.”

  I peeled the paper away from the box carefully, and placed it aside. After opening one of the flaps to the cardboard box and looking inside, I laughed.

  “You know what it is? she asked.

  I nodded. “Yep.”

  “So, you’ve been aware all along that they existed?”

  “Yep.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “When were you going to tell me?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Dick.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re a dick.”

  I opened the other end of the box. “That’s kind of harsh.”

  “Really?” she snapped back. “Why don’t you ride on that steel fender for a few hours and then find out they make a little suction cup seat for it. I fucking swear. I was so mad.”

  I couldn’t do anything but laugh. “Sorry.”

  “The guy at the shop said it was a one-size-fits-all type affair. Is that right?”

  I nodded. “Sure is.”

  “Asshole.”

  “Enough with the names, you little fucker. Jesus.”

  “I just can’t believe that you’ve had me on the back of that thing sitting on a bare fender. And, there’s another thing I realized after I was looking at some motorcycles at the dealer.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You turned it into a hardtail. It doesn’t even have fucking shocks.”

  I chuckled. “Yep.”

  “Yep it does, or yep it doesn’t?”

  “It’s a hardtail.”

  “Fucker,” she hissed.

  “Thanks for the gift, reporter.”

  “You’re welcome, outlaw.”

  She looked remarkable. The way she was acting led me to believe she was feeling better about everything. I had no way of knowing if the deaths of the four men contributed to her state of mind, but I really couldn’t ask, either. The newspaper had their names listed in the obituaries, but other than that there was nothing on the news, in the newspaper, or on the internet.

  Further proof that their lives, in the grand scheme of things, didn’t really matter.

  “Why are you so fucking giddy today, Peyton?”

  She shrugged. “Dunno. Just happy. Maybe it’s the seat.”

  “Quite a bit of excitement over a little seat.”

  “That little seat’s going to make a huge difference. That’s what the guy said.”

  The thought of having her on the back of my bike excited me. Especially as happy as she was. “Only one way to find out. Have dinner yet?”

  “Not yet, why?”

  I tossed her seat in the air. She caught it and grinned.

  “Let’s roll, reporter.”

  “Music to my ears, asshole,” she snapped back.

  And hearing her smart-assed remarks were music to mine.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Peyton

  Two weeks and five sessions of EMDR therapy later, and I was feeling better than I ever believed could have been possible. One eighty-dollar suction cup seat later, and my ass was in heaven. I felt like kidney-punching Navarro as he leisurely rolled down the street for keeping me in the dark about the possibility of a comfortable ride.

  We rode along Mission Beach Boulevard after our fish taco dinner, and the ride was a completely different experience altogether. The new seat made riding much more pleasurable. I thought I liked it before, but riding without having my teeth jarred with each bump was allowing me to enjoy everything around us.

  I peered beyond the boardwalk and fixed my eyes on the beach. It was late in the evening, and although the sun wasn’t setting yet, the low clouds on the horizon seemed to be reaching for the orange ball of fire as it descended toward the ocean.

  Seeing the beach, ocean, and soon to be setting sun while riding on my new seat took me to a place I hadn’t been since I was a little girl. I tapped Navarro on the shoulder and leaned forward. “Can you pull over?”

  “We’ll hit Belmont,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  After a few more wonderful minutes of riding, he turned into Belmont Park and came to a stop. I pulled off my helmet, climbed off the bike, and waited for him to get off. Instead of hopping off in a rush like he normally did, he gazed toward the beach for a moment, and then looked right at me.

  “Got any plans tonight?”

  I hung my helmet on the handlebars and shook my head. “No, why?”

  “Want to just sit here and watch the sunset?”

  It seemed like an odd question, coming from Navarro. I had hoped that he’d pull over and allow me a few minutes to sit and watch the clouds transform from white marshmallow puffs to picturesque brush strokes of oranges and pinks as they encompassed the sun.

  Actually witnessing the sunset, especially with him, seemed like a d
ream come true.

  “I’d love to,” I said.

  He hung his helmet on the handlebars. I waited for his usual five-steps-ahead I’m bigger and badder than you stroll, but he stepped to my right side and waited.

  “You ready?” he asked.

  I took advantage of the situation, and of him. I gripped his left arm in hand and prepared for his refusal. His eyes met mine, then he looked ahead like nothing had happened. After a few steps, I felt guilty, and released his arm. I really wanted to know if he was going to tell me to get the fuck off of him or if he’d somehow manage to find a way to allow me to touch him.

  Knowing he wasn’t going to browbeat me over it was nice.

  After a few steps, he reached for my wrist, tucked my arm inside of his, and continued walking. No eye contact, no spoken words, just a gentle gesture by a man who probably didn’t have a gentle bone in his body.

  I fought against my urge to grin, not wanting him to know just how special he was making me feel. I realized we were nothing more than associates, but having someone understand exactly when to act like a human wasn’t a common occurrence in the world any longer, and I knew it.

  I accepted his offer of kindness and wore an internal smile all the way to Oceanfront Walk. A thigh-high concrete wall separated the walkway from the beach, and when we reached it, we both naturally stopped.

  I wondered if he planned on standing there or actually going down to the beach. About the time I decided to ask, he turned to face me.

  “You gonna step over that fucker, or you want me to toss you over it?”

  I spread my feet shoulder width apart, and gave him my best fighting stance pose. “If you think you’re big enough.”

  For that fleeting moment, I had forgotten that he possessed the skills of a ninja. He reminded me really quick of it, though.

  In one effortless move, he picked me up and flipped me over his shoulder and onto the other side of the wall. Somehow, while doing so, he retained control, and lowered me to the ground on the other side.

  More than likely some instructional judo move he learned in preparation for combat. No matter how he came to learn it, I was impressed. With him on one side of the wall and me now on the other, I stood there and grinned.