HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  “And?” I asked.

  “Well, his eyes get all big, and he looks at me and says, ‘Biggs, I was meaning to give you a call.’ Now I fucking know better, and I tell this little fucker we can do this the easy way or the hard way and I ask him to pick.” He paused, lit a cigarette, and offered me one.

  I shook my head and pulled my pack out of my cut.

  After we each lit a cigarette and exchanged glances, he continued.

  “So, he says the easy way and asks me to wait a second. Says he wants to grab something. I tell this little fucker if he tries to run, I’ll shoot his little ass with a Taser, and he agrees. Now this house is a little one bedroom crack house, and it’s nasty as fuck and smells like death. But this little fucker just steps aside, opens a drawer on an end table beside this piss stained sofa, and pulls out a wad of cash.” He paused and puffed on his cigarette.

  “How much?” I asked.

  “Hundred grand. In hundreds. Motherfucker says ‘Here, just act like we never saw each other.’ I took a look at the money, took a look at him, and I shake my head. ‘What you gonna get if you take me in?’ he asks me. ‘Damned sight less than that,’ I tell him. Finally I tell this little prick to turn around and let me cuff him or I’m gonna shoot him in the neck with the Taser, and he lets me take him in. But you know what?” he asked.

  I took a drag off the cigarette, inhaled the smoke, and tossed the butt out the window of the truck. After I exhaled the smoke, I turned toward him and responded.

  “What?” I asked.

  He took another long drag from the cigarette and blew the smoke around the cab of the truck. “I thought about taking the money. I mean, I think I never would have really took it, but I’ll be damned if I didn’t think about it. Weird, if you ask me,” he said.

  I shook my head. “Good, evil. Right, wrong. It’s just temptation, it happens. Acting on it is what matters.”

  “You think?” he asked as he flicked the ashes from his cigarette out the window.

  I nodded my head. “Everyone is tempted.”

  “I told my pop a lie once when I was a kid, and I tell you what I felt like a damned shit head for about six months. Finally came clean and told him the truth. Fucker beat my ass to a pulp. Not for chewing the tobacco, but for lying to him,” he said.

  I laughed and shook my head at the thought. “That’s not temptation, that’s just telling a fucking lie.”

  He exhaled another cloud of smoke and flipped the cigarette butt out the window. “I know the fucking difference,” he said.

  “Well, I never told my pop a lie, he’d a skinned me alive if I did,” I said.

  “Not even a little one?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “Nope.”

  The thought of telling anyone a lie, especially my father, was incomprehensible. My father was a man of tremendous moral value, and taught me to be the same. Living as a man of my word, being honorable, and always making decisions I felt he would have made himself allowed me to live a life that I was sure would make him proud if he were here to witness himself.

  “Knowing you, you’re probably right. You’re a weird fucker, you know it?” he asked.

  I turned to face him, narrowed my eyes, and glared. “What the fuck you mean by that?”

  “Well, for one, you don’t carry a phone. Who the fuck doesn’t have a phone? You, that’s who. I don’t know one more dude that ain’t got a phone. And when you go on your debt collecting deals, you always act like Samuel L. Jackson in that fucking movie,” he paused and pulled a cigarette from his pack.

  After he put the cigarette between his lips, he continued, the cigarette flipping up and down as he spoke.

  “Pulp Fiction. You give ‘em some speech about right and wrong and breaking promises like you’re some fucker living on the moral high ground. I ain’t trying to say you’re some hypocrite, you’re just fucking weird,” he said with a laugh.

  He reached for his lighter, lit his cigarette, and glanced at me as if expecting a response. As the smoke rose from the glowing tip and spread over the headliner of the truck, I considered what he said.

  After a moment’s thought, I lit a cigarette, inhaled a long pull, and held it in my lungs. I turned my head, exhaled the smoke out the window, and turned toward Biggs.

  “I’m not a hypocrite. I practice what I preach,” I said. “So if you want to call that weird, fucking whatever. I think I’m the last of a dying breed.”

  He pulled the cigarette from his mouth and lifted the end close to his face and stared at it as if something was wrong. “I’ll give you that. You sure are a stubborn prick.”

  I shrugged my shoulders and flicked my cigarette out the window. “Now I’m a stubborn prick?”

  He shook his head and sucked on his cigarette. The ashes fell into his lap as we hit a bump in the road, but he didn’t seem to care. “No, you’ve always been a stubborn prick. Like the phone deal. You’re just a hot head, that’s all.”

  “I get along fine without a phone,” I said.

  “Don’t doubt that. Like anything else, you don’t miss what you’re used to being without, and you’ve been without for a couple years. Hell, there’s fuckers who ain’t got teeth, don’t mean they wouldn’t be better off with ‘em,” he said.

  He took another drag from his cigarette, flicked the butt out the window, and took a drink of his soda.

  “Ninety more miles,” he said.

  I nodded my head in affirmation, but didn’t speak.

  “So what? You think you’ll find another that’s better?” he asked.

  I turned toward him and stared, feeling as if I must have missed part of something he said.

  “Another what?” I asked.

  “Girl,” he said.

  I turned and stared out the side window, thinking about how to respond. As the fields and farmhouses swept past, I considered my life, living it in solitude, and the benefits of doing so. I loved Sienna and I was incapable of changing it, but unwilling to expose myself to the pain and suffering associated with allowing myself to actively love her. It had been almost three months that we were apart, and it seemed like an entire separate lifetime. Soon, my mind drifted off to thoughts of her and what fun we’d had while we were together.

  As the fields and farms changed to the skyline of a fast approaching city, I wondered where the time had gone. Ninety miles passed in a matter of minutes.

  “We’re here,” he said.

  And although I could clearly see we had physically arrived, I realized in spirit, I was elsewhere.

  Chapter Two Hundred Twenty-Eight

  SIENNA

  August 2nd, 2015

  I sat, baking in the sun in my shorts. No differently than any other sunny August day, it was difficult to breathe the thick humid air, but the warmth of the sun felt good on my bronze skin. Under the cover of sunglasses, a messy bun, and a tee shirt I had spent all day doing yardwork in, I drank my iced coffee and listened to my iPod.

  As “Come Back to Bed,” by John Mayer played, I closed my eyes and hoped to become one more shade darker by the time I decided to get up and go home. Over the course of the summer I had become quite a fixture at the coffee shop, often spending an entire day relaxing in the warm summer sun. I pulled my feet from my flip-flops, propped them on the chair beside me, and took a sip of my coffee.

  The song ended and “Modern Age,” by Eric Hutchinson began to play. I closed my eyes and did my best to sing along with the fast-paced song, but quickly found out that I knew only about half of the words and was left in the dust by Eric’s ability to keep up the pace. I had spent my entire life without an iPod, relying on my CD player in my room, car, and living room for music, but after purchasing one, found downloading music and using the shuffle option to be quite enjoyable.

  A live version of “Daughters,” by John Mayer caused me to open my eyes, stand from my seat, and sway back and forth on the concrete patio. Certain the patrons in the store and the handful of people outside thought I was absolut
ely insane, I imagined being at a John Mayer concert with my father listening to the song, and in a short time, wondered if he had ever had an opportunity to hear it before he passed away.

  As the song came to an end, I pulled the earbuds from my ears and dropped them onto the table. I took a sip of coffee, gazed out into the street, and wondered what Anita was doing, thinking, and most of all, feeling. I truly missed her, Bradley, and the dinners I had become so accustomed to having.

  It was easy for me to slip into a period of self-pity, but as soon as I recognized what I was doing, I made every effort to change my way of thinking and do my best to become grateful for what Vince and I had for the period of time we shared, and not dwell on what happened or what I lost.

  I decided what happened was another case of nothing but the unexpected result of the natural development of life, and attempting to call it anything but fate would be to fall back into the state of self-pity.

  So far, considering the depth of my love for Vince, I was doing rather well, at least in my opinion. I knew I would never recover, and my lifetime would be spent without something I was well aware I needed to be my true self. Living without Vince in my life was much different than living without my father.

  When my father passed, I quickly came to an understanding of how much I loved him, missed him, and how deeply I wished he was still with me, enjoying time together as a family. In losing Vince, I realized I lost not only a lover and a person who was important to me, but I truly felt I lost a part of myself.

  Now feeling as if I was incomplete and knowing the feeling would never fade, I wondered if Vince felt the same way and was simply either too stubborn to admit it, or chose, as I did, to accept it. If he accepted it, in a strange sense, it would almost be as if we were still together in spirit, but separated physically. In my odd way of thinking, I liked to believe that was the case; and we were together, but separated by space and nothing else.

  As I stood in place attempting to cool the concrete with the shadows from my bare feet, the rumbling sound from an approaching group of motorcycles caused me to glance in their direction. Four motorcycles pulled into the parking lot, one behind the other, and parked directly in front of where I was seated.

  They weren’t one percenters, didn’t wear colors, and seemed like some friends who were just out riding together, but they reminded me of Vince nonetheless. In being honest, everything reminded me of Vince, but it wasn’t surprising to me at all.

  There was no doubt in my mind that if Vince allowed someone into his life, be it a lover or a friend, they would immediately be intrigued by him, and never be able to replace him with anyone comparable in quality, diversity, or genuine kindness.

  Vince was big, mean, tough, and willing to walk into the depths of hell; alone and without fear. Considering this made it difficult to admit, but Vince’s only real fault in life was a fear of being hurt.

  Not physically, but emotionally.

  And I had no intention of causing him any additional pain.

  I loved him far too much.

  Chapter Two Hundred Twenty-Nine

  VINCE

  Present day

  I hopped off my bike and stared down at the carburetor. Fuel dripped out of it at a rapid rate onto the floor of the shop, not only making a stinking mess, but causing a fire hazard, and quite possibly preventing me from leaving if it continued.

  And I had no idea of what to do to make it stop.

  I lowered myself onto the floor and peered up at the bottom of the carburetor, only to get a face full of gasoline.

  Fuck.

  As the pace of the stream seemed to steadily increase, I ran around the shop like a complete and utter idiot, searching for a gas can. Engines, transmission, wheels, frames, and fenders littered one side of the shop, but a gas can wasn’t to be found. The search of a trash can produced an empty beer can, and after some handiwork with my pocket knife, I cut off the top and was using it to catch what little fuel I could.

  I exhaled a sigh of relief as I heard an approaching bike, only to realize whoever it was I didn’t recognize as being a Sinner.

  Fuck.

  The bike came to a stop outside the door of the shop and a very muscular man in a Sinner’s cut got off the bike and sauntered over to where I was. His hair was short, he had a few days growth of beard, and his odd manner of walking wasn’t something he did, it seemed to be a part of who he was. He walked like he’d served time in the joint, and his walk made a clear statement. It was a don’t fuck with me walk.

  “Mikuni?” he asked.

  I turned to face him and shrugged my shoulders. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s leaking like a motherfucker. You planning on watching it pour out until it’s empty, or fixing it?” he asked.

  “I don’t know where it’s coming from,” I responded.

  Without speaking, he turned and walked to his motorcycle, removed the seat, and unrolled a tool kit. After a few seconds, he meandered back to where I stood, knelt down, and tapped something against the bottom of the carburetor.

  “There,” he said.

  The gas fumes were atrocious. If someone would have lit a cigarette, the entire shop would have gone up in flames.

  “There what?” I asked.

  “It’s fixed,” he said. “But I’d push that fucker in the drive before I started it. You try and start it over that puddle it’ll go up in flames.”

  “You fixed it?” I asked as I shifted my eyes toward the carburetor.

  The leak had clearly stopped.

  He nodded his head. “That’s what I said, wasn’t it? Hell, I didn’t think I was stuttering, anyway,” he said with a laugh.

  I shifted my eyes to the patch on the front of his cut.

  Big Jack.

  “Vince,” I said as I extended my hand. “I appreciate it.”

  “Jackson,” he said as he shook my hand.

  The hair on the back of my neck stood. I hadn’t heard that name since I was a kid.

  “You alright, Brother?” he asked as he slapped his hand against my bicep.

  “I uhhm. Yeah, yeah, I’m good. So, what’d you do to fix it?” I asked.

  “It’s a Mikuni. Someone took the old Keihin carb off and replaced it with a Mikuni, which was a pretty good call if it’s not a stock motor,” he said.

  I shook my head and grinned. “It ain’t stock,” I said.

  “Well, Mikuni’s are pretty finicky when it comes to dirt. How long you had the bike?” he asked.

  “Long god damned time. Fifteen years,” I said.

  “Surprised it’s the first time. Just smack the bottom of the float bowl with a screwdriver. The gas is coming out the overflow hose. It’s like a bowl vent. Smacking it’ll fix it every time. Don’t beat on it, just tap it,” he explained.

  “Appreciate it, I really do,” I said.

  “No problem. Good looking Shovel, though,” he said.

  I nodded my head. “I appreciate it. Let me buy your lunch?”

  “No need for that,” he said. “Seen Slice?”

  “Axton? Yeah, him, Biscuit, Toad, and the big fucker, Otis. They headed out to Benton to the airport,” I said.

  He nodded his head and glanced around the shop.

  “So, you’re that fella that got out of the joint a month or so back, huh?” I asked.

  “You got it,” he said with a nod. “Still getting used to being out in the free world. Just making decisions on my own seems fucking surreal.”

  “How long were you down? Sorry, I missed the trial. Voted for you to get your patch and all, but I wasn’t here when you showed up. I kind of do my own deal, you know,” I said.

  “Understand that for sure. Been a little of a lone wolf my entire life. I was locked up ten years on a fucking conspiracy to commit murder charge. Got set up by the ATF. Cocksuckers. Slice’s Ol’ Lady wrote an appeal, got my case reheard, and I’ll be god damned if they didn’t let me go,” he said.

  I felt like I was talking to a ghost. My father
was charged with a conspiracy to commit murder charge by the DEA, which in my mind, was no different than the ATF. Feds were feds. The odds of his name being Jackson, spending time in prison on a conspiracy to commit murder charge, and then to be set up by the feds just seemed…

  It seemed strange to even think it, but it was almost as if he was an angel.

  “My pop was in the joint on the same charge, the fucking DEA set him up. It was bullshit. He could have talked, but he sat in there, refused to snitch, and they tried to prove a point by keeping him locked down. Only reason they did it was because he was a biker, and was hanging around a bunch of one percenters. They tried to use him to get to the club,” I paused and shook my head.

  “He ever get out?” he asked.

  I crossed my arms in front of my chest and shook my head. “Died of pneumonia in the joint. This is his old bike.”

  “Cool that you kept it. Your pop sounds like a good solid dude. Respectful what he did,” he said.

  “Show respect, get respect,” I said.

  He turned toward me and cocked an eyebrow. “You been reading my mail?”

  I coughed a laugh. “What?”

  “Prison saying. Just seems funny. That’s one of my mottos. Show respect, get respect. Been saying that for a long bit,” he said.

  “My Pop’s saying, I got it from him,” I said. “He raised me like that. So many of these young fuckers get patched in and don’t give respect. Then they wonder why no one’ll run with ‘em.”

  “Damned truth. You’ll never get it if you don’t give it,” he said.

  “So, you want to grab a bite?” I asked.