HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  I put my card and the ID in my wallet. “Maybe he’s that Sparks guy. Nicholas Sparks.”

  “Oh!” she gasped. “He might be.”

  “Where do I write down the delivery address?” I asked.

  She handed me a sheet of paper. “On this form.”

  As I filled it out, she handed me a card. “And, if you want to give her a special note, you can write it on here.”

  I filled out the form, handed it to her, and then wrote a note on the card. I hesitated to give it to her, but realized I didn’t have another choice.

  I handed her the card with the written side down. “Is that it?”

  “Your phone number is on the form?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “That’s all we need.”

  “Have a nice day,” I said with a smile.

  She looked at the card and then turned it over.

  I pushed the door open.

  “TD?” she shouted. “TD Reynolds?”

  I turned around. “In the flesh and blood.”

  She stood behind the counter holding the card with a shaking hand.

  I’d written the last line of the book on the card, and signed it TD Reynolds. I’d hoped to get away before she read it.

  She raised her free hand and waved. “She’s a lucky lady.”

  “No,” I said with a quick grin. “I’m a lucky man.”

  Chapter Two Hundred Thirty-Two

  Bobbi

  Following Tate’s suggestion, I had been locked in my apartment for a week, piecing together a Low-Calorie Cookbook. From what I could tell, I needed three more weeks to complete it. If it provided any source of income, I’d continue to make them until the well ran dry.

  Convinced there had to be enough women out there who were self-conscious about their weight enough to at least attempt to eat healthy, I added each of my favorite recipes, and included the Weight Watchers points associated with each recipe, serving, and each recommended meal.

  While I downloaded photos of my Spanish cauliflower rice, the doorbell rang.

  I peered through the peephole. A twenty-something man with white hair, huge glasses, and a monstrous grin stood on the landing. Convinced he was a lost college student, I unlocked my door and opened it slightly.

  A cart filled with flowers grabbed every ounce of my attention.

  “Who are you looking for?” I asked. “This is 302.”

  He looked at a sheet of paper. “11167 Bayside, number 302. Bobbi Madden?”

  “That’s me.”

  “These are for you. Where would you like them?”

  I’d never received flowers before. I wondered if my father had sent me a sympathy bouquet for being amongst the unemployed.

  “Which ones,” I asked as I eyed the flower-filled wagon.

  “All of them.”

  My heart fluttered. “They’re all for me?”

  “They sure are.”

  “All of them?”

  “They sure are,” he shouted.

  I opened the door completely and stepped aside. “You can put them on the kitchen table.”

  He dragged the wagon inside, looked around my apartment, and then smiled. “Well, isn’t this cute.”

  The aroma of the various flowers encompassed me. I watched enthusiastically as he placed them on the table.

  “Stargazer Lily arrangement.” He placed a vase on the table. “Red Roses with white lilies.” He lifted another vase from the wagon and set it beside the first. “Yellow roses, purple Monte Casino and blue Delphinium.” He reached for a vase, admired it, and then carefully set it beside the second. “Then, there’s this one.” He set the last vase on the table. “White Asiatic Lilies, white roses, white mini-carnations, blue statice, and, to top it off, a cream spray.”

  The entire table was filled with flowers. To describe it as beautiful wouldn’t do it justice. I stood with my jaw flopped opened and stared.

  “Ma’am. Ma’am.” He cleared his throat. “Ma’am!”

  My eyes shot to him. “Yes?”

  “Would you like to lock the door behind me?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  When he reached the door, he took one last look at the flowers and smiled.

  “Do I tip you?” I asked. “I have no idea. This is a first for me.”

  He shook his head. “It’s already taken care of.”

  When I opened the door, he screeched like a teenage girl at a horror movie. Directly in front of the door stood Andy and Tate.

  “Sorry.” Tate stepped aside.

  Andy stepped around the delivery boy, ducked under my arm, and rushed into the living room. “It smells heavenly in here.”

  “Aren’t they pretty?”

  “Thank you,” I said to the flower boy. I looked at Tate. “You’re incredible. Thank you.”

  He gave a sharp nod. “You’re welcome.” He leaned to the side and peered beyond me. “Can I see them?”

  I wanted to kiss him. Hug him. Something. But, our relationship had yet to go in that direction. I wasn’t complaining one bit, I enjoyed every moment we were able to spend together. At that instant, however, I wanted to let him know how the flowers made me feel, and touching him was the only way I knew to communicate it.

  I stepped aside. “I’m sorry. Come in.”

  As he came inside, I turned toward my flowers. Andy’s face was buried in the pink lilies.

  “These smell divine.”

  “Don’t break them,” I said with a laugh, although I meant every word.

  I looked around the apartment and tried to decide where to put them all. Excitedly, my mind ran through the possibilities. I could put a vase on every flat surface, and I’d have flowers left over. My skin felt prickly from the excitement of it all.

  I turned toward Tate, who was standing beside me, and smiled. “This is just…”

  It was too much. I never would have guessed it, but having someone send me flowers filled me with more emotion than Christmas had as a child. Overrun with feelings and in shock that a man as kind as Tate could have enough interest in me to make such a gesture, I simply shrugged.

  He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet for a few seconds. Then, he leaned toward me. While I watched him move in what seemed to be slow-motion, he raised his hand to my chin and turned my head to the side with the tip of his finger. Paralyzed from doing anything, I remained motionless.

  Our lips met.

  I wasn’t expecting it. At all. As if the flowers weren’t enough, he kissed me, right there in front of the flowers, and Andy.

  My head spun. My knees wobbled. My hands flapped at my sides until I finally decided to put them where they belonged.

  Around his waist.

  He slipped his hands around mine and pulled me close. My chest pressed against his. My mind went aflutter. The kiss was gentle, yet meaningful. Our tongues found each other and intertwined tenderly.

  My face went hot. Our lips parted, and then he looked at me.

  It had lasted only a moment, yet it’s memory stuck with me for an eternity.

  It was Wednesday.

  My newfound favorite day of the week.

  Chapter Two Hundred Thirty-Three

  Tate

  Bobbi and I had been together for a month. Nevertheless, I was still rather nervous in her presence. I wrung my hands together and met her gaze. I had a difficult time believing if given a choice, that she wanted to be with me.

  “Did you decide?” I asked.

  “I’m going with the chicken and the spinach salad. You?”

  “The same.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “You’re going to eat the chicken?”

  “I told you. I eat healthily. So, yeah. We’ll eat the same thing. It’s only fair.”

  “That’s sweet of you.” She nodded toward my hands. “The fleur-de-lis ring. I like it. Is that new?”

  “It’s not new, but I haven’t worn it in a while.”

  “Where’s the one with the skull?”

&nb
sp; “With the others.”

  “How many do you have?”

  I probably had fifty of them, but I’d really never counted. Wearing rings and bracelets was something that I had done since I was a kid, and I doubted I’d ever grow out of it.

  I shrugged dismissively. “Never really counted them. I’ve got a few.”

  “What’s that one made of?”

  “White gold. They’re all white gold. It’s easier to work with. Never really cared much for yellow gold. It’s too flashy.”

  She gave me a sideways look. “Don’t tell me you made that.”

  I grinned. “Okay.”

  She looked at it again, and then shifted her eyes to me. “Did you?”

  “You said not to say.”

  She let out a sigh. “Now, I want to know.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  She rested her forearms on the edge of the table and leaned forward. Her blonde curls fell over her arms and onto the table. “You’re Becker Wallace, aren’t you?”

  She studied me hard. Her mouth was twisted into a smirk. She blinked her eyes a few times, and then widened them playfully as she waited for me to respond.

  “Nope,” I said. “I’m just plain ol’ Tate Reynolds.”

  “You write romance books, you ride in an MC, and you make jewelry by hand.” She relaxed in her chair and let out a sigh. “I can’t believe you. You’re far from plain.”

  “You better start believing it.”

  “You could have your pick.” She looked me up and down and then shook her head. “Any girl you want. You’re telling me that I’m your choice?”

  “My only choice.”

  “Why?”

  In complete contrast to the rest of my brethren, I didn’t hook up with women, go on dates, or have random sex to simply satisfy an urge. At heart, I was a romantic. Just like the men in a few of my light-hearted books.

  I’d searched for most of my adult life for someone to spend my life with, but never really felt I could devote the time or the energy needed to develop or maintain a relationship. And, in the past, I felt I couldn’t afford it.

  What little money I’d made over the years had been invested in gold and turned into jewelry. Now that I was selling enough books to support any habit, I was out of excuses. It really didn’t matter. If I was homeless, I’d still be doing everything I could to win Bobbi’s heart.

  From the first day I met her, I knew she was different. I simply hoped once I got out of prison that she’d give me an opportunity to get to know her. Now that she had, I couldn’t imagine walking away.

  “We’ve been through this before,” I said. “I like everything about you.”

  “It’s just hard to believe.”

  “Get used to it.”

  “I’m trying.”

  We ordered our food and sat gawking at each other like a couple of love-struck teens. After several moments of admiring her, I broke the awkward silence.

  “What are your thoughts on divorce?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well. People get married because they love each other. At least that’s supposed to be the case. So, if they love one another, how can they lose that love and later get divorced? Do you believe love existed in the first place?”

  “I like conversations like this.”

  “Like what?”

  She wrung her hands and grinned. “With depth.”

  “Small talk is for shallow minds.”

  “I think some people mistake lust for love.” She looked right at me. “Others, at least in my mind, get comfortable in a relationship they’re in because it’s convenient. Then, because everyone starts asking questions about it, the guy proposes. The girl says ‘yes’ because that’s what girls do. From the time we’re little we dream of that day when someone sweeps us off out feet.”

  “Would you automatically say ‘yes’ if someone asked?”

  She pointed her finger at her chest. “Me?” her eyebrows raised. “No. I’m planning on doing it once, and only once. No matter how deeply in love I might be, if I’m not convinced the man is just as in love with me as I am him, I’ve got no business marrying him.”

  “So, you’d say ‘no’, even if you were in love?”

  “If I didn’t trust that he was prepared to spend forever with me?” She leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest. “You can bet your ass.”

  I smiled.

  She gave me a look. “What?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Why are you smiling?”

  Because you’ve got all the right answers.

  “Because you’ve got all the right answers.”

  Chapter Two Hundred Thirty-Four

  Bobbi

  I’d never had much genuine affection offered to me by men. Most conversations were driven by a desire to obtain a blowjob, a hand job, or a quick and easy lay. Tate’s lack of interest in anything sexual – and complete interest in me – had me convinced that he might be different than every other man I’d encountered.

  As sad as the thought of him failing made me feel, I knew if he couldn’t pass my father’s test, there was no way we could proceed. Going against my father’s will wasn’t an option.

  I’d reached a point that proceeding was all I could think of. Almost seven weeks had passed since the day I dropped him off at the clubhouse, and we’d seen each other at least three times a week throughout every one of those weeks.

  I took another quick look at Tate and then knocked on the door. The only way to get him to come to my father’s house without his kutte was to drive my car, as he wasn’t allowed to ride his motorcycle without it.

  Luckily, he’d agreed. Dressed in jeans, boots, and a black tee shirt, he didn’t look much different than any other day. I hoped the absence of his kutte, as subtle as it was, would be enough to allow my father to see him with the clearest of mindsets.

  The door opened. “Come in.”

  We stepped inside.

  “Dad, this is Tate. Tate, this is my father, James.”

  My dad extended his right hand. “James Madden, pleasure to meet you.”

  “Tate. Tate Reynolds. Pleasure to meet you, Sir.”

  “TD Reynolds,” My father said. “I got a kick out of that Tripper fellow in the boxing book. He was about as funny of a man as I think I’ve ever encountered.”

  “Dad!”

  He gave me a look. “What?”

  “You read that?”

  “Well, it wasn’t on audiobook, so I had to.”

  “I said not to read them.”

  He shook his head and smiled. “Since when do I listen to you?”

  “I can’t believe you,” I huffed. “I asked you not to--”

  “I needed to know who I was meeting before I met him. Have something in common to talk about.”

  “You could talk about cars, or sports, or something.”

  “If he’s like his characters in his books, he doesn’t like sports.”

  It was something I’d read about in many of the books, but it never sank in. I looked at Tate.

  “Do you?”

  He pushed his hands into his pockets, grinned, and shrugged. “Not so much.”

  “Don’t have a television, do you?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “See? He can’t even watch TV.” He looked at me, shifted his eyes to Tate, and then grinned as sly grin. “She watches it, but doesn’t listen to it. Damndest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Stop it,” I hissed playfully.

  “It’s true,” he said. “She turns it on without the sound, and watches an entire series on Netflix. Never listens to a word.”

  “It’s impossible to listen while I read.”

  Tate looked at me and chuckled. “We’ve all got our quirks.”

  It was the same thing I’d told Andy. I found it funny that Tate repeated my quote almost verbatim. Maybe we were more alike than I thought we w
ere.

  “Well, it’s past dinner time, so I’m guessing you two didn’t come here to eat.” He turned toward the kitchen. “You’re a coffee drinker, aren’t you, Tate?”

  All of Tate’s characters drank coffee. In fact, many of his fights, dates, and discussions happened at coffee shops.

  “How many of his books have you read?”

  “Seven or eight.”

  While we followed my father to the kitchen, I did a mental eye roll and then looked at Tate. He grinned and shrugged.

  “Which ones?” I asked.

  “The four about the boxers, one about a bunch of high school misfits, one about a crazy tattoo artist, and two or three about bikers.”

  I exhaled heavily and mouthed the words I’m sorry to Tate. He smiled and shrugged, as always.

  My father poured three cups of coffee and turned around. “Cream and sugar?”

  Tate nodded. “Please.”

  “That’s the way I like it, too. Coffee is pretty nasty by itself, but doctored up, it’s good stuff.”

  We sat at the kitchen table. I’d already decided my father didn’t hate Tate, but it was too early to tell if he liked him or not. He’d never once indicated that he thought anything other than positive thoughts about him, but then again, I had yet to explain that feelings were developing and developing fast.

  “Why do all of your characters have great big dicks?” my father asked.

  Midway through a sip of coffee, I coughed it out my nose. “Dad!”

  “Well, they do. Hell, I kept waiting for one of ‘em to get undressed and pull out something normal. You know, a four-incher. Hell, maybe a good solid three. But, seven books in, and I’ve got a handful of eight-inchers, a couple of nines, and a thirteen. Who has a thirteen-inch rod, anyway?”

  My face went flush.

  Tate didn’t skip a beat.

  “A book is supposed to appeal to the intended audience. For instance, if I wrote dystopian fantasy intended for young adults, my characters wouldn’t cuss. In real life, they would. Look at Hunger Games. If that girl was being shot at, and her friends were being killed off one by one, don’t you think she’d drop an F-bomb from time to time?”