HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  W.Y.M.M.

  “Will you marry me?” I whispered as I studied the plate.

  I glanced upward after I spoke. I had said it louder than I intended to, and was slightly embarrassed. As the words escaped my lips, my heart raced.

  I wondered if I guessed right.

  “As a matter of fact I will,” he said as he reached into his jeans pocket.

  “Been carryin’ this fucker for three weeks, since right after I asked your father if it was okay. Had to spend my bond money on somethin’ when they gave it back, figured this was as good as anything. Katrina Chadsworth…”

  He paused as he knelt down in front of me on one knee.

  You asked my father?

  “Will you marry me?” he asked.

  I raised my hand to my mouth and nodded my head as the tears rolled down my cheeks. He reached out, held my left hand in his, and slipped the ring onto my finger.

  “Not as pretty as you, but damn close,” he said.

  I glanced down at the ring, still in shock over what had happened. After a few minutes of absorbing the beauty of the ring, I shifted my eyes to meet Dalton’s and gazed at him in a semiconscious state.

  “I love you, Kat,” he said as he kissed me on the lips.

  “I love…I love…you,” I blubbered as our lips parted.

  He glanced at his watch. His eyes widened and left hand immediately shot into the air. As he extended his index finger, he twirled it in a circle.

  “Saddle up,” he shouted into the air. “Let’s roll.”

  I laughed into my clenched hand as I climbed onto the bike.

  Life with Dalton Biskette was a lot of things.

  Wild.

  Crazy.

  Fun.

  Adventurous.

  Full of love.

  But there was one thing it wasn’t.

  Predictable.

  Dedication

  We talked late nights, solved the world’s problems, and stood up when we had to regardless of the potential outcome. Here’s to standing proud, doing your time instead of letting the time do you, slinging ink (and not going to the SHU for the tattoo gun because we were always one step ahead of the guards), and enjoying NWA every time it came on the radio. All we needed was a second chance. Here’s to second chances and to having a cellie who’s always got your back.

  Deuce, this one is for you, brother.

  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.

  EX-CON 1st Edition Copyright © 2015 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 Photography by Darrin Birks Photography

  Cover design by Jessica: www.JessicaHildrethDesigns.com

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  Chapter One Hundred Fifty-Four

  EMILY

  June 6, 2006

  Neither of my parents abused me, nor was I exposed to pornography or a perverted uncle at an early age. My sexual desires weren’t something I developed; they were part of my being. The night we met I was in a sexual lull and had been there for some time. I was dissatisfied with men in general - for reasons I didn’t fully realize at the time - and I had become fed up with even attempting to move forward. I had all but given up on men and sex, and by nothing more than a small streak of blind luck, he entered my life.

  I had been in a bar dancing alone, and was disgusted with the behavior of the drunken men who were making comments about my choice of clothes. On that particular night, I was batting roughly .984 for being lightly sexually assaulted by strangers. In hindsight, maybe I should have worn a bra, but if I had I wouldn’t have met Jackson, so scratch that thought.

  I was walking out - well, stomping out would be a more accurate description. The departure stomp I often used when I wanted everyone to know just what it was I was thinking without actually saying it.

  I tossed my hair over my shoulder and exhaled a sigh from my soul.

  “That’s it, I fucking swear,” I huffed as I turned toward the door.

  “Don’t leave mad,” the drunken thirty-something year old former frat boy said as he grabbed my arm and spun me around.

  “Let me go!” I demanded as I attempted to pull away.

  The music had changed from a dance beat to some lullaby bullshit, and most everyone had walked from the dance floor to their respective tables which were situated twenty or so feet away. Amidst the edge stood my closest possible assistance and he seemed to be immersed in talking to his drunken date.

  With his mouth still agape, the drunken asshole who held my arm gazed down at my boobs with wide eyes. After staring for what seemed like forever, he nodded his head toward my tits as he spoke.

  “You can’t go out in public dressed like that and expect a man not to notice,” he said.

  “Let me go, I mean it,” I said as I tried to free my arm from his grip.

  My top was sheer, but tasteful. Underneath, I wore a white tank and no bra. In my opinion, I was able to choose whether or not to wear a bra, because it wasn’t always necessary. Small “C” cup breasts were affixed to my chest like two stones, and cinching them even tighter to my narrow frame wasn’t necessarily required. The temperature in the bar was such that my nipples had been hard for the fifteen minutes I was inside, five of which I chose to pass by dancing.

  Alone.

  His hand still gripping my upper arm firmly, I had no reason to believe his half-drunken ass was going to release me anytime soon, so I felt screaming was my only way out. I hated to be that girl, but I desperately wanted to be left alone. I inhaled a deep breath, paused, and gave fair warning.

  And that was the moment when I met Jackson.

  “I mean it. I’ll fucking scream,” I said through my teeth.

  “Is there a problem?” a voice from behind me asked.

  Thank God.

  His tone was deep and calm, yet distinctly demanding of a response.

  Frat boy released my arm as his eyes went wide. “No, Sir, there’s no problem.”

  I turned around. My savior was tall, extremely muscular, and what portions of his body weren’t covered by the seemingly microscopic leather vest he was wearing were decorated with tattoos. With a very strong jaw covered by a few days growth of beard, he looked rough. The type of rough no man would want to cross. I may have been slightly biased at that particular moment, but describing him as attractive wouldn’t have done him justice. He was a far more refined handsome, a man I was certain had no idea he was as strikingly good looking as he appeared to be. As I gawked at him in the same manner I had been ogled all night, I pleaded my case.

  “That asshole was trying to pull my top down, and when I tried to leave, he grabbed me and wouldn’t let go,” I explained as I attempted to catch my breath.

  “You dropped this,” my savior said as he held my purse at arm’s length.

  I glanced toward his hand. I didn’t realize I had even dropped it. As I reached for the purse and took it from his grasp, he stepped around me and toward my nipple loving nemesis.

  Without warning, and so quickly I didn’t even realize what was going on for sure, my savior grabbed the man who was harassing me by his wrist. Although he only held his wrist, the asshole seemed to be in excruciating pain. As he winced and buckled his knees repeatedly,
the questioning began.

  “You know her?” he asked as he twisted the man’s wrist.

  Frat boy shook his head and winced in pain as he gave his response.

  “No…” asshole murmured.

  “You’ve got no right to grab a woman like that,” he growled. “No fucking right.”

  He turned the man’s wrist slightly, forcing him to bend his knees even more. As my would-be attacker was almost kneeling on the floor, my newfound tattooed friend gazed down at him and sighed.

  “So, did you try and pull her top down?” he asked.

  “I…I…just…” dumbass groaned in response.

  I leaned toward my handsome friend and whispered my response to the question he had asked.

  “He tried about ten times. When I decided to leave, he grabbed my arm. I’ve got the marks to prove it,” I shuddered.

  He peered over his shoulder. Still holding the man’s wrist in his hand, his eyes narrowed slightly and he seemed to grow angry as he visually inspected the red marks on my arm.

  As the anger seemed to build inside of him, he pursed his lips and exhaled through his nose.

  “You don’t need to see this,” he said through his teeth as he turned to face the asshole.

  “No, I want to see it,” I responded as I took a step away from him.

  A man and a woman approached from the left, pointing toward the boob groping idiot as they walked onto the dance floor.

  “I saw him. He was trying to pull her top down since she got here. She was leaving and he grabbed her arm. My wife and I saw it all,” he explained as he stepped beside us.

  My hero raised the man’s wrist, lifting the asshole from his crouched position. Without speaking, he released the man’s wrist. Immediately, the asshole raised his hands as if he was ready to fight. In shock that he didn’t at least attempt to turn and run away, I stood with my mouth open and stared.

  “Respect. You’ve got a lot to learn about respecting women. Hopefully after I’m done whipping your ass, you’ll see things differently. Remember this: show respect, get respect,” he said.

  In a blindingly fast blur, he struck the asshole in the face with his fist. As the shit head did his best to block the punches, my savior continued to beat him. Blood splattered from the jerk’s nose and lips, and as he raised his hands to his face, it began to drip on the floor.

  “And don’t forget it,” he grunted as he punched him one last time.

  The asshole fell to the floor and moaned.

  Oh, God. I really didn’t need to see that.

  Almost immediately, two bouncers were on the dance floor, attempting to grab both men.

  “I’d back off if I were you,” my hero explained as he turned to face the two bouncers.

  His hands were raised to his chest and he was obviously ready to continue the fight. The muscles in his upper arms flared as he turned to the left and quickly to the right, situating his clenched fists in front of his chin as if prepared to box. After a quick study of my hero, the two bouncers exchanged nervous glances and eventually took a step back.

  “I’m walking the girl to her car. If either of you try to stop me, you’ll look like him when I’m done with you. And you need to call him an ambulance, his jaw’s broken,” he said flatly as he turned to face me.

  The pool of blood was slowly growing, spreading across the concrete floor as a reminder of what had happened. As one of the bouncers bent over to help the man up from the floor we turned and began to walk away.

  “You alright?” he asked me as he wiped his knuckles on his jeans.

  Other than watching you almost kill that guy for grabbing me? Yeah, I’m just fine.

  I bit my lower lip and nodded my head.

  “I’m Jackson,” he said as he bent his elbow and hooked his thumb on his belt. “Grab hold of my arm until we’re out in the parking lot.”

  “Em…Emily. Or Em…just uhhm…call me Em,” I stammered.

  As if I had no choice, I followed his instructions. I shifted my purse to my opposite shoulder, slipped my arm through his, and walked by his left side as we maneuvered past the whispers, stares, and extended fingers recognizing him as the man who’d fought a stranger to save a girl from being humiliated - or something potentially much worse.

  We exited the bar and began to walk through the parking lot. The fact I didn’t know him wasn’t bothersome at all, and in fact, I felt rather comfortable walking with him; almost too comfortable. I tossed my head to the side as I recognized my car.

  “I’m the silver Camry, right over there,” I said.

  “So, why’d you do that? You know, beat the crap out of that guy?” I asked as we stepped alongside my car.

  “Because it’s what he deserved. He had no right to touch you without your approval. And I can guarantee you one thing, the next time he considers acting like that, he’ll remember what happened tonight, and he’ll reconsider,” he responded.

  He brushed my hand from his arm as if he was preparing to turn and walk away. I didn’t want him to leave. I preferred it not be so simple. Walking through the parking lot with my arm wrapped around his I felt safe, secure, and even drawn to him no differently than if we had been out all night on a date. I realized I didn’t have any idea who he was, but there was a big part of me willing, and even more that seemed to be wanting, to take the time to get to know him.

  “What do you think about this top?” I asked.

  “You look remarkable,” he said with a nod, his eyes never shifting from mine.

  Standing there in a leather biker vest, covered in tattoos, and with one hand still bleeding, his manner of speaking didn’t seem to fit his looks. He was calm, had a distinctly decisive tone to his voice, and spoke differently than I expected a biker to speak. In short, he was intriguing, and I was beyond interested in knowing more about him. No one simply walks into a bar and beats the crap out of a random guy and then walks the girl to the car. He had a story, motive, a reason, something…

  And I wanted to hear it.

  I placed my hand on my hip and arched my back a little more. “You don’t think it’s too…I don’t know…revealing?”

  His eyes never leaving mine, he shook his head slowly. “Sure don’t. And it really doesn’t matter what you wear. A man doesn’t have a right to do what he did.”

  “Guys are assholes,” I breathed as I straightened my posture.

  “They sure can be,” he said as he glanced over his shoulder.

  He seemed either nervous or like he was looking for someone.

  “Do you need to go?” I asked.

  He turned to face me as he shrugged his shoulders. “Supposed to meet some of the fellas, but they seem to be running late,” he said.

  He kicked the toe of his boot against the asphalt as if digging an imaginary hole. As I watched him continue to chip away, I decided to try my luck.

  “You wanna hang out sometime?” I asked sheepishly.

  Typically, I wouldn’t have been so forward; especially with someone I didn’t know. But resisting my desires seemed to be something I had all but forgotten. After I spoke, the lingering silence which followed led me to believe I had made a grave mistake. As I prepared to swallow my pride and become even more embarrassed by his ‘no’ response, I slumped my shoulders and waited.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he responded.

  “Why?” I snapped back.

  The question shot from my lips as if I took exception to his rejection.

  To be brutally honest, I thought it was a great idea. I was twenty-one, in great physical shape, and I believed I was a very attractive woman. I was considerably younger than what I guessed him to be, but I didn’t care and I felt he shouldn’t either.

  His mouth curled into a smirk. He shifted his eyes along the length of my frame.

  “I don’t hang out with women. There’s not much sense in it. Sooner or later, you’ll want to take it further, and it’ll never work out,” he explained.

  “Becaus
e?” I said.

  He started kicking the ground again, scraping the toe of his boot across the asphalt. After several swipes, he pursed his lips, inhaled through his nose, an exhaled. His lack of response to something I viewed as simple surprised me.

  “Well, I’ll tell ya,” he said as he looked up.

  “Sexually, I’m different than most men. I can’t be in a relationship with a woman unless she’s…” he paused and it seemed a hand had wiped his face with embarrassment.

  He began to kick his imaginary hole a little deeper, focusing on his boot as he did so.

  “Unless she’s…unless she’s what?” I said.

  He tilted his head back, rolled his shoulders, and tilted his head to the left and then the right, popping his neck as he did so. After a short hesitation which included chewing on his bottom lip, he inhaled a shallow breath and sighed out the corner of his mouth.

  He fixed his eyes on mine. Breaking his stare seemed impossible. I consciously held my breath as I waited for him to continue.

  “I’m a dominant. I’ve got to be in a relationship with a woman who’s…”

  He paused and bit the edge of his lower lip.

  “All men are dominant,” I scoffed.

  The fact he felt the need to tell me he was dominant seemed ridiculous. To think he believed I was a woman who would want to wear the pants in a relationship, especially after he had just saved me from some random douchebag, was laughable. If he wasn’t interested, I wondered why he simply wouldn’t say so. As I stood wondering what might be wrong with me, he began to explain further.

  “Not dominant in the way I’m talking about,” he responded as he shook his head lightly.

  “What way are you talking about?” I asked.

  He shook his head again.

  “Wow. I’m a big girl. Afraid you’re going to scare me? I seriously doubt it,” I said.

  He continued to stare down at his boots and shake his head.