HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  “No,” I said.

  She took me by the hand and led me to the oven. “Stand right there, and let me get everything. We’ll make it together, how’s that?”

  I grinned. “Sounds good.”

  “Sounds good?” She chuckled, then opened the refrigerator door. “Nicholas says that all the time, and now he’s got you saying it. It’s nice to see he’s rubbing off on you. He’s a nice boy.”

  I nodded. “He is.”

  She placed everything on the countertop.

  “All he’s ever needed was a nice girl.” She looked me in the eye, and smiled. “I’m so glad he finally found one.”

  She wrapped her arms around me and held me tight.

  I loved having Nick hold me and hug me, but there would never be anything that would come close to be being held in a mother’s arms.

  Elizabeth may not have been my mother, but my heart sure didn’t know it.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Peyton

  I sat at my desk with my fingers hovering over the keyboard, knowing I was on the verge of losing my job.

  If it bleeds, it sells.

  Words to live by in the world of journalism.

  Children being saved from a burning building were never as popular as a mass shooting. A front page color photo of a sunset would sit stagnant, while a front page color photo of a grotesquely graphic car wreck would sell out.

  I needed something graphic, something gut-wrenching, something memorable.

  But, I refused to use Nick or his club as a vehicle to sell newspapers. There were many stories to tell, but none that I was willing to divulge. Camden Rollins III would probably fire me when it was all over, but I could not pen a vicious story about Nick and the FFMC.

  At least not something worth reading.

  I decided, above all, I needed to write a story that made a difference. Something that was gut-wrenching, but not too gory. A heartfelt, but tear-jerking story that stuck with the reader long after they were done reading it. Something that made them say, what the fuck was that about?

  Something they may even read again. After they thought about it.

  I relaxed in my chair, stared at my monitor, and sighed. After a long period of silence, it came to me.

  My fingers no longer hovered over the keyboard. They tapped at record pace. In a few hours, I had the story.

  I read it, re-read it, and printed a copy.

  Proudly, I walked into Mr. Rollins’ office, tossed it on his desk, and grinned. “Sorry I’m a few months late.”

  His eyes met mine. After a short glare, he picked it up. A few seconds later, he looked up, but his eyes fell right back down to the page.

  When he finished, he dropped it onto his desk.

  “This? This is why I let you do what you want, when you want.”

  I grinned. “Like it?”

  He shook his head. “Love it.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “I’m rolling with this on Sunday. What’ll the headline say, Peyton?”

  I shrugged. “Call it what it is.”

  He widened his eyes.

  “Hard,” I said. “Call it hard.”

  Because it was.

  Epilogue

  Nick

  Peyton, Pee Bee, and I were at the shop, trying to decide where to go to lunch.

  “It’s Sunday,” Pee Bee said. “Nothing’s fucking open that’s good.”

  “Pizza?” Peyton asked. “Haven’t had pizza in forever.”

  “I’m not interested,” I said.

  “Shit,” Pee Bee said, his voice a few octaves lower than normal.

  “What?”

  “Behind you,” he said. “Your fucking buddy.”

  I turned around just in time to see the detective pull into the parking lot.

  My asshole puckered at the thought of being arrested again, or being questioned in front of Peyton.

  His car came to a stop beside us. He rolled his window down, and reached into the passenger seat. After turning around, he stuck his head out the window and grinned. “Can you read, Navarro?”

  I nodded. “Comics and shit, yeah?”

  He tossed me a newspaper. “Read that,” he said. “That right there? The front page? That’s good shit.”

  “Peanut Butter, Navarro, Mrs. Price.” He nodded toward each of us as he said our names. “Have a nice day.”

  He grinned and drove away.

  I opened the paper, saw the headline, and made note of the reporter’s name. I looked at Peyton.

  She shrugged.

  And, I began to read.

  A mother dies in a horrific car crash, leaving her children to be raised by an overworked father and an immigrant babysitter. No one cares, because there wasn’t a photo attached to the story of her death.

  A pic or it didn’t happen.

  If it bleeds, it sells. But that shouldn’t be the case. The world has changed. A best-selling love story will soon be a thing of the past. If it hasn’t happened yet, it’ll be here before you know it. The romance world has been turned on its ear by step-brother romances, slaughterotica, and priests with a penchant for girls.

  It must be shocking, or it won’t sell. If it’s a tale of love, hatred – or anything in between – it doesn’t sell. And it won’t.

  Be the first to pen a new way to have sex with a corpse, and you’ll hit the New York Times best-sellers list. Write a book about two people who fall in love, get married, and have triplets, and you’ll go broke.

  Front page articles are used to sell the newspaper. The cover story. Lure them in at any and all costs. Write it long enough to require them to flip to two or three more pages, and you’ve done your job.

  How does a journalist tell a tale of love and still capture the interest of the reader enough to provoke them to complete the story?

  Make it a shocker.

  Race. Color. Creed. Religion. In the eyes of the almighty, we’re equal and we should remain so, but we don’t. As a nation, we’ve been taught to judge. The world, in fact, has been taught to judge.

  We tell ourselves we don’t, but we do.

  A man at a red light sits quietly with his wife and children, listening to his favorite music. A sound in the distance makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He fills with fear, for he has heard the sound before, and he knows what it brings.

  “Don’t look,” he warns the family.

  A group of men on motorcycles pull alongside the Buick. The man, petrified, stares straight ahead and prays to his maker for the traffic light to turn green before something happens.

  Because something, he is certain, will happen.

  The light turns, and he speeds away.

  Is he right, or is he wrong?

  At a bar the motorcyclists stop. Once inside, they notice a woman. A woman who is alone. One-by-one, they take their turn, raping her. They rape her of her innocence, of her trust, and of her ability to sleep at night. They rape her of her life.

  Yet, somehow, she survives.

  She stumbles through her days and nights that follow, not knowing how – or even if – she’ll ever survive.

  The rapists are eventually caught, taken to court, and tried for the horrific crime they committed. After a lengthy trial, they are convicted and await sentencing. On judgment day, they receive six months in the county jail – in protective custody.

  Even jailhouse justice is impossible. They’re protected from harm.

  The girl, once again, is raped.

  By the judicial system.

  Downtrodden and beaten, she stumbles to the bar, hoping to dull the pain. Halfway through her first pitcher of beer, she hears a familiar rumble. Through the window, she confirms her suspicions.

  A motorcycle club.

  In fear for her life, she attempts to grab her things and go. Before she is able, however, they are upon her. Slowly, and without expression, one of the men approaches her. She cowers in her seat. He reaches for her.

  She flinches.
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  And he picks a piece of lint from her coat.

  “We heard about your case,” he says. “Don’t worry. Justice will prevail.”

  She swallows hard, and attempts to acknowledge his presence, but the words do not come.

  He physically looks no different than the men who haunt her dreams, but somehow she feels that he is.

  With a glimmer of hope, her eyes meet his. Memorizing and blue, they provide her with comfort.

  Embarrassed for her initial fear of the club’s intentions, her eyes fall to the floor. When she looks up, the men are gone.

  She hears the rumble. Through the window, she watches as the taillights fade off into the darkness of the night, and her heart fills with warmth.

  Is she right, or is she wrong?

  Six months later, on the eve of their release, the rapists leave their protective cells. One by one, they walk away.

  And one by one they meet their fate.

  When the woman gets the news, she feels justice is served.

  Right, I ask you? Or wrong?

  For the first time since that horrific night, she falls into a deep uninterrupted sleep.

  And she dreams.

  She dreams of equality.

  Of love.

  And of a world that does not, will not, and cannot hate.

  The familiar rumble wakes her from her sleep. Through the window she sees the man, sitting on his motorcycle.

  Waiting.

  And, without hesitation, she climbs on the back of the motorcycle, and she rides away.

  Forever.

  Right, or wrong?

  Ask her the next time she crosses your path.

  She is any survivor.

  Signed, a survivor.

  Dedication

  Pop.

  Don’t know what else to say other than I wrote this one with you in mind. I miss you dearly.

  Hoot

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, are coincidental.

  ROUGH 1st Edition Copyright © 2016 by Scott Hildreth

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at designconceptswichita@gmail.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Cover model: Connor Smith

  Photography by: Reggie Deanching @ R+M Photography

  Cover design by Jessica www.creativebookconcepts.wordpress.com

  Follow me on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/sd.hildreth

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  Created with Vellum

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Tegan

  Of California’s 38,000,000 residents, I was probably the only one with no air-conditioning and two faulty electric window motors. I fanned my face with the brochure of my dream car that I couldn’t qualify for, then pushed the A/C button repeatedly, hoping for a moment’s relief from the sweltering heat.

  Nothing.

  I pressed my finger against the electric window button.

  More nothing.

  The mass of stationary vehicles ahead were forced to share the one thing with me I had grown to hate about the nation’s most heavily populated state.

  Traffic jams.

  I’d been sitting in the same spot for no less than half an hour, and the late afternoon sun had turned the interior of my car into a sauna. I pushed my sunglasses up the bridge of my nose, pressed the side of my face against the window glass, and gazed through the corner of the windshield.

  A winding six-vehicle-wide line of bumper-to-bumper traffic for as far as I could see gave no indication of what the problem was, or when it might end.

  It was quite possible that paying my cell phone bill would have to wait one more day.

  My gaze fell to my lap. My glistening legs stood as a reminder of the scorching temperature inside my thirty-year-old Toyota. As I choked on a shallow breath of the thick air, the roar of a passing motorcycle startled me. I looked up in enough time to catch a glimpse of the black blur; a biker splitting lanes between me and the car to my left. Envious of his ability to thread his way between two fixed lanes of traffic, I let out a sigh as one of his brethren sped past.

  In perfect timing, they continued to shoot by me, each one of them wearing a leather vest fitted with a patch that named their motorcycle club. Their speed, however, prevented me from reading it.

  I watched in awe as one after another flew by, their handlebars clearing the cars that sat on either side of them by nothing more than inches as they rushed through the long line of traffic that had me trapped.

  And then, silence.

  Intrigued and overheated, I pulled lightly on the door handle while pressing my shoulder against the glass – the gentle persuasion that was typically required to open it. The door sprung free, and I all but flopped out onto the freeway. The slight ocean breeze offered a welcome relief, and although the outside temperature was more than 90 degrees, it felt like a blast of Artic air.

  My eyes fluttered as the moisture began to evaporate from my sweat-soaked shirt.

  Refreshed, but still frustrated, I leaned against the open door and gazed along the endless line of traffic. Hoping to see something in the distance that would give a hint as to when the traffic might clear, I fixed my eyes on the most distant car and hoped for it to move.

  Another dose of nothing.

  I closed my eyes and forced out a sigh.

  The sound of screeching tires startled me out of my light slumber. My eyes shot open. I spun around just in time to see a motorcycle heading straight for me. Scared for my life, I jerked myself inside and reached for the door handle, but it was too late.

  The motorcycle slammed into my car’s open door and ripped it from my grasp.

  You’ve got to be kidding me…

  Wide-eyed, I watched as the force of the impact tore the door completely from the hinges.

  Squealing tires, tumbling steel, and breaking glass meshed into one awful sound. In absolute shock – and horrified by what was unfolding before my very eyes – I gawked as the door toppled against the side of the van parked in front of me. In what appeared to be an intentional maneuver, the motorcyclist laid the motorcycle down, and then gracefully slid alongside it feet-first.

  The motorcycle came to an abrupt stop against the back bumper of a truck two vehicles ahead of the van. The motorcyclist slid another thirty feet or so, and then slowly rose to his feet.

  Thank. God.

  Grateful that he was alive, I pulled the emergency brake handle, shut off the vehicle, and swallowed heavily. Without a second’s thought, I stepped through the unobstructed opening and began to walk toward the downed motorcycle and its colossal – and very pissed off – owner.

  The behemoth of a man took several long-legged strides in my direction, spouting out cuss words with each step. As he reached the back of the truck, he pulled off his helmet and then gazed down at his damaged motorcycle. With shoulder-length hair, an unruly beard, and tanned muscular arms that were covered in tattoos, he defined intimidating.

  After getting an eyeful of his smashed bike, he looked up and fixed his eyes on me. Blood dripped from the knuckles of his left hand, and his arm was covered in abrasions from his wrist to his shoulder.

  He picked a few rocks from his wound, and then met my gaze. His eyes thinned. “You dumb bitch! What in the fuck were you thinking?”

  Being called a bitch wasn’t something I ever allowed, but considering the circumstances, I decided to offer no objection. It was
n’t easy, but it was the right thing to do.

  Just this once.

  I stopped and raised my hands in apology. “I’m so sorry.”

  He crouched down, lifted the motorcycle upright, and then shook his head. “Sorry?”

  I’d never seen anyone as massive as he was, and although my focus should have been his well-being – and how I was going to pay for repairing the damage – it wasn’t. Partially mesmerized by his sheer size, and more so by his threatening looks, I gawked at him like an awe-struck schoolgirl who had been asked on a date by the quarterback of the football team.

  I gave my response in the form of a nod.

  “That’s it?” he fumed. Wrinkles formed on his brow.

  “You’re fuckin’ sorry?” he hissed. “That’s it?”

  I pushed my hands into my pockets and twisted my hips back and forth nervously. “I thought all of you guys had passed.”

  He looked me up and down. “Well, all of us guys hadn’t passed. Obviously.”

  I took a breath, met his narrow gaze, and sighed. “Look. I just. I’m really, really sorry. My air-conditioner is broken, and I was just wanting to see if traffic had maybe--”

  He brushed his right hand along the bloody flesh of his left bicep, and then looked at his palm. The muscles in his jaw went tight and he shot me a glare.

  “Your fuckin’ air conditioner’s broken?” he spit the words from his mouth as if their taste was repulsive.

  An inaudible uh huh escaped my lips.

  He wiped his hand against the thigh of his jeans, leaving a bloody smear on the otherwise clean denim. “This was a $40,000 bike. Your broken air-conditioner is the least of your worries, now. I hope you’ve got good insurance.”

  I hadn’t paid my premium in months. Six weeks out of college, I was working a part-time nursing job that barely paid the rent, let alone afforded me any such luxuries as auto insurance, air-conditioning repairs, or sometimes, even food.

  I knew lane splitting was allowed, but wasn’t sure about the laws in respect to collisions. Nonetheless, I felt the need to correct him before he got any wild ideas of attempting to call my non-existent insurance company.