HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  I pulled it open. “Yes?”

  Andy was in his early sixties, very friendly, and slightly over protective. His hair was solid gray, and he kept it cut short, neatly combed, and fixed in place with plenty of product. He was six inches shorter than me, and rather slight in build.

  Despite his size, he had a huge heart.

  Dressed in khaki-colored slacks and a sky blue short-sleeved button-down shirt, he peered beyond me and into the living room. “Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine,” I said. “Why?”

  Being cautious not to touch the door, he pushed his way past me and surveyed the living room.

  “Sounded like someone was slaughtering a moose. I was in the middle of showering, and heard the commotion. Took me a minute to get dried off and dressed, or I would have been here a few minutes ago.”

  I motioned toward the vacant room. “There’s no moose here.”

  “It sounded horrific.” He turned around and looked right at me. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”

  “I promise.”

  His eyes darted toward the door repeatedly.

  I chuckled. “I’m serious. Everything’s fine.”

  He pushed his hands into his pockets and exhaled heavily. “I was sure I was going to end up escorting someone out of here by their ear.”

  Undoubtedly, he’d heard me masturbating. At least until my remote control went on the fritz. My mouth curled into a grin. “Not tonight.”

  He glanced at the television, and then at me. “That’s one you should turn the volume up for. It’s exciting. Filmed in Oceanside, too.”

  “Is it?”

  “That’s what they say. Filmed on location. That Baz fellow is a horse’s ass, though. He cheats on his wife with some gal down in Mexico. I know it’s just a TV show, but it makes me mad that he does that. It’s tense from beginning to end.”

  “I don’t listen to any of them, so I’ll just take your word for it.”

  “I can’t understand why you pay for the cable service, and don’t watch the shows.”

  “I do watch them. I just don’t listen to them.”

  His brows knitted together. “I find it odd.”

  I cocked my head to the side. “How many showers did you take today?”

  He pursed his lips and gazed down at the floor. After a moment, he looked up. “Oh, I don’t know, why?”

  “Take a guess.”

  “Six.” He shrugged. “Maybe seven.”

  “We all have our quirks, Andy.”

  “Point taken.” He gave the room another look. “I can’t think of what that noise might have been.”

  “Hard saying,” I said.

  “You know how noise travels through these floors. Damned things are like paper. Might have been Ms. Mayberry’s dog down in 202.”

  “Might have been.”

  His eyebrows raised. “How many points do you have left?”

  I’d been in Weight Watchers since meeting Andy. He was well aware of my devotion to the program, and was fairly supportive of my adherence to their system of applying points to all things edible.

  I extended my index and middle finger. “Two.”

  “Two?” he sighed. “Sounds like you’ll be having string cheese for a snack. I was going to see if you wanted some sorbet.”

  “We’ll have to do it some other time. I splurged on dinner and had rice with my chicken.”

  “Too bad you can’t use some of tomorrow’s point tonight.”

  “I’m not going to get caught in that trap,” I said with a laugh.

  “I understand.” He pushed his hands deep into his pockets and then looked at me with hopeful eyes. “Maybe we’ll do it later this week.”

  I smiled. “Sounds good.”

  “I’m going to go down and check on Ms. Mayberry.” He walked to the door and then paused. “I’ll let you know what I find.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. Using it to protect his hand from contamination, he reached for the door handle.

  “Save some points on Thursday,” he said over his shoulder.

  “I’ll do that.”

  I hadn’t lost weight since I’d been on the program, but I hadn’t gained any, either. Before I committed to diet, my weight fluctuated. When it was up, I exercised madly, and starved myself. When it was down, I celebrated with bread and cheeses.

  Now, my exercise – and my weight – were steady. I’d finally found a place where my body was comfortable.

  I glanced at the remote control that lay at the edge of the living room floor and hoped that one day I could find a man who was comfortable with my body.

  Chapter Two Hundred Thirteen

  Tate

  There were many things I felt I should be doing, but none of them held the importance of finishing the book I was working on. It would stand to reason that after being confined to a jail cell for 23 hours a day, I’d rather be riding my bike or walking along the beach than be restricted to my spare bedroom pecking away on my laptop.

  But there I was, doing just that. I’d been locked in the room 14 hours a day for two weeks straight, honing the manuscript into what I hoped would be a masterpiece. My stories typically had no outline, nor did they have a preconceived storyline that I followed. I simply developed characters, allowed them to meet, and let what happened in their lives come to life in the pages of my book.

  As far as I was concerned, what happened in my books was as real as life itself. In writing more than three-dozen manuscripts, I’d befriended an eccentric millionaire, a boxer, street fighter, detective, mafia boss, CIA agent, countless military heroes, a murdering psychopath, a few tattoo artists, and several bikers.

  Until now, however, I’d never befriended a convict.

  My current hero was a biker and a felon. He’d been convicted of a crime that he didn’t commit – simply because he fit the profile. Through the course of his incarceration, he became close with the guard who worked at the waiting room of the prison’s infirmary.

  She was the only person in the penitentiary who didn’t judge him. Through her eyes, she saw a man who needed medical care. A man, while imprisoned, had been diagnosed with cancer. A man who she was sure wouldn’t get the care he deserved – or needed – behind the walls of the institution.

  During his once a month visits, she gave him what little she could offer. Initially, a smile and a nod when the guard dropped him off. As time passed, she offered him a kind ear. She gave suggestions of inspirational books that may help him cope with the fear associated with what she expected would be terminal cancer.

  As his condition worsened, his trips to the prison’s hospital increased in frequency. Despite seeing her more often, he felt empty and alone. He needed more, but feared asking. Without provocation, she provided it.

  He spoke not of his sickness, but of his love of riding. Of being free. The smell of the ocean. The sound of the wind as it rushed past him. With each tale he told, she was drawn a little closer to him and to his love of living life.

  In time, the topics of their conversations became more personal. As he sat in his cell, he yearned to hear her voice. She learned to laugh again, and looked forward to hearing of his life’s experiences. As he slowly withered, inching closer to death, their relationship blossomed.

  In her spare time, she researched his legal case. After learning that his attorney had provided an inadequate defense, she secretly prepared an appeal of his conviction. While she spent nights collecting shreds of evidence, his cancer spread.

  Driven by the thought of having his conviction overturned, she slept very little. In her waking hours, she imagined a life with him in it. In his current medical state, he could barely stay awake. As he slept, he dreamed not of freedom, but of the relationship he’d developed with her.

  Unbeknownst to him, she filed an appeal with the appellate court. Unbeknownst to her, he mentally prepared to die. Then, on one Thursday, she received the word. A
second trial was granted. Certain that no court would convict him after considering the new evidence, she stood proudly on the following Friday, waiting for him to come to his visit.

  Each time the hallway door opened, she craned her neck, hoping it was him.

  But.

  He never came.

  I stared at the manuscript. It wasn’t unfolding the way I wanted it to, and certainly didn’t follow the recipe for a typical romance. I wondered if my readers were going to throw a fit. There was only one way to know for sure.

  I called my agent. After three rings, she answered. “I was just thinking about you.”

  “I’ve got a question,” I said.

  “So do I.”

  “Okay. Yours first.”

  “When are you going to write me a stand-alone romance novel?” she asked. “I was just talking to an editor at Random House, and she sure could use something about right now.”

  The thought of writing another book for a publisher made me cringe. I’d done it before, and the entire process went against the grain of my very existence. “As soon as I’m done with the one I’m working on,” I said, knowing good and well that I wouldn’t.

  “You always say that. Okay, what brings you to call on this beautiful Wednesday?”

  “I’m writing the last biker book in my series. The heroes dying of cancer. Can he die?”

  “No!” she screeched. “Not in a romance. In women’s fiction? Sure. In romance? No. It has to have an HEA or an HFN, Tate. We’ve been over this. Let the man live.”

  “He’s knocking on death’s door right now.”

  “Give me the elevator pitch.”

  I hated summarizing my books into a three-sentence sales pitch. I sighed heavily into the phone. After a moment, I responded to her request.

  “Biker falls for prison guard in this heartwarming tale of sacrifice and--”

  “Stop,” she blurted. “Tell me this guy’s a prisoner.”

  “He is.”

  “Oh, my God. This is going to be gold.”

  “Even if he dies?”

  “Why does he have to die? Give me the details.”

  “He meets the woman who stands guard at the hospital entrance. He’s being given second-rate healthcare for colon cancer. They develop a friendship. She learns that his legal case is a crock of shit, and she appeals it without him knowing. Meanwhile, he’s dying of cancer, and he knows it. She knows he’s being treated, but has no idea of the extent of it. At the same time they accept her appeal for his new trial, he dies.”

  “What the fuck?” she gasped. “Let him live. You’re a big boy. Figure it out, and write it. If it wasn’t the last book of that series you’re writing, I’d take it to Random House. Send me a copy when you’re done.”

  “Okay.”

  “That wasn’t very convincing,” she said. “It all comes from state of mind, Tate. You need an attitude adjustment. Get on your bike, ride along the beach, and pay attention to everything around you. When you get home, maybe you’ll see things differently.”

  “I might do that.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “No. Not that I can think of.”

  “Write me that manuscript,” she said. “The dystopian.”

  “I will.”

  “Promises, promises.”

  “Talk to you soon, Michelle.”

  “Bye.”

  I hung up the phone and stared blankly at the computer’s screen. I’d become attached to the characters and loved the story. But. Michelle was right. I couldn’t let the hero die. If I continued to write, however, I feared that’s where things were headed. I needed to take a break and see if there was any way for me to redirect the course of my character’s lives.

  There was only one place that I could find true serenity. The ocean. I went there each time I needed to think, clear my mind of clutter, or make a difficult decision. It was where I spent all my time as a kid, and where I believed heaven to be.

  In my mind, it was where my parent’s souls remained.

  I walked along the beach that afternoon until the sun folded behind a layer of low lying clouds. Upon realizing the day had escaped me, I sat cross-legged in the sand and watched the sunset.

  In doing so, my mind cleared, and all the pieces fell into place. As if someone had flipped a switch, everything in the story made sense.

  I gazed at the darkening horizon and grinned.

  The book was about me.

  Chapter Two Hundred Fourteen

  Bobbi

  Sitting in my father’s kitchen while solving the world’s problems over a cup of coffee was how I spent most of my Sunday mornings. It was something we both looked forward to. I peered over the top of my coffee cup and considered telling him how different my life had become after Tate left. Not seeing him or talking to him was troubling me much more than I would have expected.

  When it came to discussing matters with my father, I needed to be prepared for a debate regarding the topics I chose. I simply wasn’t sure that I wanted to have a heated conversation about something as arguable as me having interest in a biker who was a felon.

  He gazed into his cup of coffee and then shook his head. “I think this son-of-a-bitch has a hole in it. I would have sworn I just filled it.” He stood and turned away. “Have they fired that asshole, Perry, yet?”

  “Not yet. I doubt they will. He’s got them convinced that he’s a necessary part of the facility’s operation.”

  He glanced over his shoulder as he walked toward the coffee maker. “I think he’s an unnecessary asshole.”

  I laughed at his remark. “He is. I can’t stand the way he treats people. And, he’s not afraid to tell the inmates what he thinks about them. I think it’s awful.”

  “From what you’ve said, he’s just itching to get his hands on one of those guys. I can’t imagine what would happen if he did. It might not end the way he has it planned.”

  I was taught to be unbiased. Even so, I couldn’t help but see Perry as anything but an asshole. While my father added cream and sugar to his coffee, I wondered how open-minded he’d be about Tate. After a few seconds of contemplation, my mouth spoke before my mind could stop it.

  “One of the inmates was set free the other day. Prosecution dropped the charges before he went to trial. He’d been locked up for several months while he was waiting for his hearing. Then, they just let him go. It was weird.”

  “Pretty good fellow, was he?”

  “I thought so, why?”

  He faced me and sipped his coffee. “You wouldn’t have mentioned him if he wasn’t. I raised you, remember?”

  For as long as I could remember, there were two beings I had to answer to. God, and my father. Bullshitting my father was like bullshitting God. Through both of their eyes, I was as transparent as glass.

  “He was really nice,” I said. “He was one of the few I talked to every day.”

  “Not the bank robber? I’m guessing they didn’t let him go.”

  “No.”

  “The biker?”

  “Yeah. The biker.”

  “Wasn’t he in for felon in possession of a firearm?”

  “You’ve got a good memory.”

  “I don’t have much to remember.” He chuckled. “You’re the only one I talk to.”

  He studied me as he sauntered to the table. “What was his other case?” He sat down and then met my gaze. “The first one?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The case that made him a felon in the first place? What was it?”

  I suspected he’d be understanding of what Tate was charged with. If for some reason he wasn’t, befriending Tate would go against his wishes, and that wasn’t something I was prepared to do.

  “Starting a riot,” I said.

  He let out a laugh. “I’m guessing it wasn’t a peaceful gathering of townsfolk.”

  “Actually, it’s not as bad as it sounds.”

  “Not as bad as it sounds, huh?” He raised both eyebro
ws and grinned. “Let’s hear it.”

  “Remember that kid that got shot at the gas station in Compton?”

  “The black kid who was holding a gas pump? White cop thought it was a gun?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “How in the hell do you think I’d forget that? I was so damned mad when that verdict came out. Still mad about it, to tell you the truth. Son-of-a-bitch killed an innocent kid, and got off without so much as a slap on the hand. Justified shooting, my ass.”

  His anger toward the incident gave me some comfort in telling him about Tate’s past conviction. “Well. He was charged with starting a riot in protest of the not guilty verdict of that officer.”

  He sipped his coffee, and then set the cup aside. “Anyone get hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Shots fired?”

  “No.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Was it a peaceful protest?”

  “Pretty much. People picketing.”

  “Bikers?”

  “No. It was just angry citizens. I read the report in his file. According to him, he was riding down the street and pulled over when he saw the people protesting. According to the cops, he changed a peaceful protest into a riot. A few windows were broken by protestors who were throwing rocks and beer bottles, and that’s what brought on the charges.”

  “Is he a Hells Angel?”

  “No.”

  “Is he that kind of biker? The kind that rides in a gang?”

  “He’s not a Hells Angel, but yeah. He’s in a biker gang.”

  “Tattoos?”

  I laughed. “Yeah.”

  “Wears a leather vest with a logo on the back and such?”

  “Yep.”

  “That’s why they charged him. That vest and that insignia made him a target.” He reached for his coffee. “That was his original crime?”

  “That’s it.”

  “What about the second charge. Why’d he have a gun?”

  “That’s another good one. Get this. He was in a bar and a fight broke out. He stepped in to help a guy who was being beaten by a group of men, and when things got out of hand, someone handed him a gun. That someone was an ATF agent, and when he accepted the gun, he was arrested. That’s why the US Attorney’s Office dropped the charges. The ATF agent set the whole thing up.”