HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  “You’re supposed to provide me with a defense.” I tried to remain calm, but it didn’t come easily. “That’s what I paid you for. It’s your job.”

  He adjusted his tie, and then gave me a smug look. “It’s my job to give recommendations based on the facts of each case.” He looked away. “It’s difficult to defend someone who was caught red-handed.”

  I was ready to fire the condescending asshole. Being patronized was high on my list of pet peeves, and having a man with his experience do so made matters that much worse. I clenched my jaw, inhaled a long breath through my nose, and then exhaled.

  “If I plead guilty, I go to prison for five years. If I go to trial and they find me guilty, I go to prison for the same five fucking years,” I explained. “There’s no risk in going to trial, only the possibility of reward.”

  He gave me a confused look. “I don’t follow your logic.”

  “You know, I’m really not surprised,” I said with a dry laugh. “If I take this case to trial, some juror might side with me and hold out on a verdict. Then, the case ends up in a hung jury. The judge thanks everyone for their service and declares a mistrial. In the end, I go free. I’m not pleading guilty. I’m going to trial. Maybe you’ll get a sympathetic biker on the jury.”

  “Trials cost the taxpayers money,” he said flatly. “A guilty man going to trial is frowned upon by the system.”

  I tried to keep from laughing. “Frowned upon?”

  He gave a pompous nod. “Looked down upon.”

  “I know what it means, asshole. You act like taxpayers are a separate entity of people. I’m a fucking taxpayer. It’s rare that I get anything for all the money I pay, so I’m going to spend some of my tax dollars on a God damned trial.”

  “I suggest the contrary.”

  “I made note of that,” I said, stone-faced. “Earlier. When you recommended that I plead guilty.”

  He clutched his briefcase against his chest. “I’m not prepared to take this case to trial.”

  I looked him up and down. “You better get prepared, motherfucker. If you don’t, I’ll file a motion for Ineffective Assistance of Counsel.”

  He gasped. His briefcase lowered to his lap in the process. “I--”

  “You what? This isn’t my first rodeo, counselor. Remember, I’m a felon in possession of a firearm. That means I’ve already been down this road at least once. I’m not pleading guilty. I made the mistake of doing that last time. We’re going to trial. I suggest you either get prepared or return my fucking retainer.”

  He stood and then brushed the wrinkles from his suit. “In an effort to save the taxpayers tremendous cost, and the court tremendous time, it’s my professional recommendation that you consider pleading guilty.”

  “Considered, and denied.” I looked up and met his gaze. “We’re going to trial.”

  He let out an exhaustive breath and then shook his head in clear disgust of my decision.

  I lifted my cuffed hand until the chain went taut. “Remind that wad of shit standing in the hallway that I’m in here, will ya?”

  He pushed the door open and then glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll let the prosecution know we’re taking this to trial. They’re not going to be happy.”

  “I’m locked in a 6-foot by 12-foot cell for 23 hours a day,” I said, my tone beginning to convey my anger. “I’m not very fucking happy, either.”

  The door closed behind him.

  The charges in my first criminal case weren’t what most would expect from an outlaw biker. While rolling through a neighborhood looking for a gas station, I happened upon group of people who had gathered to protest the shooting of a black motorist by a white police officer. Having previously seen the video footage of the shooting on the news, I was sympathetic to their cause. In complete support of the protest, I pulled my motorcycle to the curb and watched in awe while the people waved their signs and chanted.

  I leaned against the seat of my bike and raised my clenched fist as they marched past. When the cops arrived, I was arrested along with many others who had refused to stand down when directed to do so. Because of my smart mouth – and the kutte I was wearing – I was segregated from the group.

  Later that night, I was charged with inciting a riot.

  I viewed the crime as a joke, but the prosecution certainly saw it differently. At the recommendation of a public defender, I pleaded guilty under the assumption I would receive probation for the criminal infraction.

  Instead, I received 27 months behind bars. Because of my gang affiliation, they sent me to the same prison as if I had robbed a bank.

  What little respect I had for the judicial system dwindled to nothing. I did my 27 months without incident, and returned to society with the label of a convict.

  Fast forward five years, and I was in trouble again.

  While having a few drinks in a bar in Los Angeles with a new prospect for the MC, we saw a fight break out no more than twenty feet from where we were sitting. A lop-sided affair, with one man standing up against four, it was difficult for me to witness without intervening.

  So, I intervened.

  A flurry of fists, feet, chairs and teeth went flying. Then, at some point, a knife was pulled. The prospect handed me a gun to even the odds. As fate would have it, two undercover ATF agents were in the crowd, and I was subsequently arrested.

  Having already seen the ways of a public defender, and now facing five years in prison for being a felon in possession of a firearm, I opted to hire an attorney. A very expensive attorney. It frustrated me that his desire to defend my case was measurably less than my desire to stay out of prison.

  The door opened and Officer Perry stepped in. He was the jail’s senior officer, and an absolute asshole. When he walked the cellblock, he always reminded the inmates that he was the one in charge, and we were the lowly filth who he was hired to protect the innocent from.

  He was a man who obviously masked his own insecurities by being a prison guard. What deficiencies he had in the real world were left at the entrance of the jail, and for eight hours a day, he could be the man everyone had to answer to.

  “Hands on the table,” he growled. “Palms up.”

  “Hands down, palms up.” I shifted my eyes to the floor, paused, and then met his gaze. “That reminds me of what I tell your wife when I see her. Kind of. Head down, ass up is her cue. Ironic how they resemble one another, isn’t it?”

  “Keep up with the smart mouth, Reynolds, and I’ll toss your ass in segregation.”

  I believed in treating people with respect, but only if they were respectful to me. Officer Perry was a disrespectful fuck if I’d ever met one. Therefore, he got my ugly side.

  He unlocked the handcuffs, slipped one through the restraint loop, and then secured it to my wrists.

  “If I keep it up, and you toss me in the SHU…” I looked right at him. “Can she come up there and give me a handy through the bean slot?”

  “I mean it,” he snarled.

  “So do I,” I said flatly. “I wonder if I could get my cock through that thing.”

  “One more remark…” he warned.

  Normally, I would have given him – or anyone who challenged me – two more remarks. Hell, maybe a dozen. Doing so would land me in the Special Housing Unit, or SHU, and I’d be on lockdown for 24 hours a day.

  I’d been tossed in the hole plenty of times during my tenure in prison, so his threat fell on deaf ears. The thought of not seeing Officer Madden, however, prevented me from proceeding with my torturous comments. Talking to her for a few minutes each morning was the highlight of my day.

  Had we met under any other circumstances, I wondered if things might be different. Without a hung jury or a miracle, the only relationship I’d ever have with her would be a continuation of our five-minute-long conversations through a two-inch-thick piece of glass.

  I seriously doubted I’d get a hung jury. So, I pursed my lips, flattened my hands against the table, and prayed for the mira
cle.

  Chapter Two Hundred Eight

  Bobbi

  Perry’s comments came to mind as I pushed the cart to Reynolds’ cell. The thought of him shanking me with a sharpened spoon handle was laughable. I had, however, realized I knew absolutely nothing about him.

  I unlocked the slot and reached for his tray. “Reynolds, it’s time for breakfast.”

  I peered into his cell. On the floor doing sit-ups, he turned his head to the side. “Ten seconds.”

  He did two more and then stood. “I hate stopping short of a set. I feel like it’s cheating.” He looked at me and smiled. “What’s for breakfast?”

  “Oatmeal. Eggs. Coffee.”

  He grabbed the tray and set it on his sink. “Sounds filling.”

  “I don’t know how you do it,” I said.

  He arched an eyebrow. “Do what?”

  “Keep up your positive attitude. You’re consistently happy.”

  “I’m not happy. I’m content. There’s a difference.”

  “Okay. I don’t know how you stay content.”

  “I don’t like it here,” he said. “No offense, but this place is a shit-hole. But. You know what?”

  “What?”

  “I can’t change the fact that I’m here. I can either accept it, or I can sulk. I choose to accept it.”

  “I like your way of thinking.”

  He leaned toward the door, looked me over, and then straightened his posture. “I like your hair. It looks nice.”

  I had it highlighted the night before. So far, he was the only one who noticed. It made the money I spent getting it done seem like it was worth it. “I just got it done,” I whispered. “$150. It makes me sick what they charge.”

  “Money well spent. It looks great.”

  Officer Perry was wrong about Reynolds, I was sure of it. Well, pretty sure of it. I glanced down the cellblock and let out a sigh. There were six more cells to go, and if I took too much time talking, the remaining inmates would start banging on their cell doors.

  I shifted my eyes to Reynolds. “Can I ask you a question?”

  He crossed his arms. “Sure.”

  “Other than riding in the motorcycle club, did you have a job? You know, before you were arrested?” I asked, hoping not to sound too intrusive.

  “I do. Or, I did. Kind of. It was unconventional, but a job nonetheless.”

  I wanted to know more about him. I needed to know that he was the person I perceived him as being, and that Perry was wrong about him.

  “What did…what did you do?” I stammered.

  “I write books.”

  I was shocked. I know I shouldn’t have been, but I was. I loved to read, and writing for a living would be a dream come true.

  “You’re an author?” I asked excitedly. “What kind of books?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing you’d want to read.”

  “What are they?”

  “Romance.”

  Romance was the only genre I read. My eyes went wide. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  I chuckled and looked away. After regaining my composure, I shifted my eyes back to him. With his arms crossed, and his head cocked slightly, he looked back at me straight-faced. His arms were tattooed to his wrists, his face was covered in stubble, and his muscles were swollen from his early morning workout. He reeked of male bravado, and looked like a man no one would want to piss off.

  One thing he didn’t look like was a romance novelist.

  “Seriously,” I said. “I want to know. I mean, if you don’t mind telling me.”

  “I am serious,” he said, his tone flat and convincing. “I write steamy contemporary romance novels.”

  It seemed he was being serious. At least he looked like he was. Still, I felt compelled to ask again. “You’re serious?”

  “Dead serious.”

  “You write romance novels?” I asked, more trying to convince myself than have him actually answer me. “That’s what you do for a living?”

  “It sure is. It was a crappy living at first. Now it’s pretty damned good. Took some time and quite a bit of dedication, though.”

  I already found him intriguing. Now I found him a whole new level of intriguing, if there was such a thing.

  “Under your name?” I asked excitedly. “Can I read them?”

  “Sure. As long as you’re not easily embarrassed. Google TD Reynolds. That’s the name I write under. My early stuff is pretty hit and miss, but my new stuff is right up there with the rest of the independent published smut that’s out there.”

  “You are serious, aren’t you?”

  He shrugged. “You asked.”

  “I just…”

  He leaned back and shot me a look. “You just what? You thought because I was a biker that I had to work at a Harley shop, deal dope, or bust skulls for a living?”

  “I’m generally not that way. In fact, I was raised to think differently. But, yeah.” I smiled. “Kind of.”

  “Me writing romance novels is no different than you working here,” he said. “If asked, most men would say you should be home doing laundry, making dinner, or working as a receptionist somewhere. Maybe a hairstylist. Not a prison guard, that’s for sure. I don’t want people having a mind filled with preconceived notions about me, so I try to look at everyone with an open mind.”

  “I try to. But, it isn’t always easy. Especially in here,” I said in an apologetic tone.

  “Well, I’m a biker, and I write romance novels. The fellas I ride with don’t know it, though.”

  I was shocked. “They don’t?”

  “I used to be a freelance editor. They all assume that’s what I’m still doing. I never really felt the need to tell them otherwise, and no one’s asked. They’d give me a mile of shit if they knew.”

  I laughed at the thought. “I bet they would.”

  “One of these days they’re sure to figure it out, though.”

  “How’d you get started writing?”

  “When Amazon made independent publishing easy, I wrote a coming of age novel. It failed miserably. A literary agent told me to write an erotic novel, so I did. Damned thing went to #1 in Erotic Romance. I’ve written forty or so since. Seem to have a knack for it.”

  “Forty?” I gasped. “Over how much time?”

  “Four years.” He shrugged. “Almost five.”

  “Oh. Wow.”

  One inmate began kicking his cell door, and then a few others followed suit. In no time, the cell block was filled with the sound of their pounding and screaming. As much as I didn’t want to, I needed to stop talking to Reynolds and return to my duties.

  “Okay. I’ll look you up.” I pushed the cart forward a few inches, and then took one last look at him. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He grinned. “I look forward to it.”

  I couldn’t wait to find his books. I wondered if they’d give me any insight as to who he was, or if the content of his romantic novels was nothing more than fantasies, hopeful scenarios, and fabricated tales.

  Twenty-two hours later, I was driving back to work on zero hours sleep with a clit that was so sensitive I couldn’t cross my legs. Tate Reynolds may have had many talents, but the one that kept me up all night was his ability to write a sex scene.

  I had a lot of questions for him, most of which I normally wouldn’t have the guts to ask. Considering there was a two-inch thick steel door separating us, and knowing I’d never see him again outside the walls of the jail, I hoped I could somehow manage the courage to do so.

  In half an hour, I was going to find out.

  I just hoped my clit stopped vibrating by the time I got there.

  Chapter Two Hundred Nine

  Tate

  The sound of the key being inserted into the bean slot caught my attention. Almost finished with a set of pushups, I did four more and paused.

  “Reynolds, it’s time for breakfast.”

  My days began with one testosterone-filled conversa
tion after another, generally shouted from cell to cell. When we were removed from our cells to spend time on the yard, muscles were flared, a pecking order was established, and arguments were settled.

  Bobbi’s voice was the only thing feminine about the entire institution. I looked forward to hearing it every morning. In the months that I’d been incarcerated, I’d grown fond of the time we spent together. Sharing bits and pieces of my life with her kept me sane, and gave me hope that there was humanity within the walls of the institution.

  I stood and turned to face her. “Let me guess? My favorite?”

  She pushed the tray into the slot and grinned. “Oatmeal, eggs, and coffee.”

  “Thank God. I was afraid it was going to be eggs and bacon.”

  I set the tray aside and looked her over. She was an attractive woman, and not simply because she was the only female in the prison. Her lips were blood red in color, and needed no lipstick to draw attention to the fact they were full and sensual. Her cheekbones were high, and with her application of blush accentuating them, she appeared jovial and kind. Her brown eyes all but demanded an admiring second glance each time I saw her.

  She glanced down the cellblock and then met my gaze. “I’ve got questions.”

  My gaze lingered around her face until I was afraid I’d make her uncomfortable, and then I looked away. “I’m sure I’ll have answers.”

  “I read one and a half of your books last night,” she said excitedly.

  I shifted my eyes to her. “Which ones?”

  “Book one and book two of the American Muscle MC Romance Series. I really liked the guy in the first book, Levin ‘Crip’ McMaster.”

  It was my most recent series, and arguably my best work to date. “That’s a pretty good series. I liked Crip, too.”

  Her brows knitted together. “Pretty good? That’s an understatement. I haven’t slept yet. I finished book one, and went right to book two. Reluctantly, I put it down an hour ago, took a shower, and drove here.”

  Any time someone said they couldn’t put down one of my books, I was flattered. To think I could tell a 300-page lie, and people became so enthralled in reading it that they couldn’t stop was a testament to my God-given abilities.