Filthy F*ckers: The Complete Series Box Set by Hildreth Scott

Author:Hildreth, Scott
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-09-17T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter One Hundred Forty-Three

Smokey

“I ain’t riding with the cocksucker,” P-Nut said. “I don’t give a fuck.”

“He’s a good kid.” I wiped a few water droplets off the rear fender. “Give him a chance.”

He shot me a look. “He ain’t got a neck.”

I looked the bike over, and then met his gaze. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I don’t trust neckless fuckers.”

“You don’t trust anyone.”

He shrugged. “Trust you.”

“Anyone besides me?”

He lit a cigarette, took a drag, and exhaled the smoke through his nose. “I’m thinking not. Other’n Eddie.”

“No shit,” I said.

I wiped down the gas tank, and took a step back. “Spotless. Once a year, whether it needs it or not.”

He took another drag off his cigarette. “Would you let him ride your bike?”

A true biker never let anyone ride his bike that he didn’t trust 100%, and I trusted no one 100%, except for P-Nut.

“Fuck no,” I responded.

He blew the smoke to the side. “Why not?”

“Don’t trust--” I paused, realizing what I was about to say. “That’s different.”

He shook his head. “Sure as fuck isn’t.”

“Is too.”

“Is not.”

“I’d let you ride it,” I said.

He clenched the cigarette in his teeth and shrugged. “You trust me. That, motherfucker, is my point. You want to tell yourself you trust him, but you don’t.”

“I just want him to get to know some of the fellas. He’s been asking.”

“If he’s askin’ questions, he’s probably a cop.”

“You think everyone’s a cop.”

He took a long drag, blew a few smoke rings, and then met my gaze. “Don’t think you’re a cop.”

“He’s a Marine. Or, he was. He fought for this country. For our freedom.”

He shook his head. “Fuck that. He didn’t fight for me.” He stood up. “Cocksucker didn’t fight for me. That fucker don’t know me. I fight my own fights. Fuck that dude.”

I let out a sigh.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “There’s lots of cops that are former soldiers and shit. Tell that kid to kick rocks. Question askin’ prick.”

“All he asked was to meet some of the fellas.”

“That’s one question too many. Remind him he’s a fucking prospect. Or, hell, take him to that Mexican’s house. Cholo. Yeah, introduce him to Cholo.”

“Cholo’s a good motherfucker. Don’t talk shit on him.”

“Who was talking shit?”

“You called him a Mexican.”

He scrunched his nose and stared. “He is a Mexican.”

“He’s Hispanic.”

“He’s a Mexican.”

“Hispanic.”

He tossed his cigarette on the floor and pressed the toe of his boot against it. “If you’re Hispanic, what’s your native language?”

I shrugged. “Spanish.”

He nodded. “Let’s assume a guy down in Tijuana swam over the river, walked to San Diego, and got him a fake Social Security card. Then, let’s say he got a job here in Oceanside at the carwash. Then, after working there for a couple of years, he bought it.” He spread his arms wide and gazed up at the ceiling as if looking up at a marquee. “Called it Pepe’s Car wash.”

I narrowed my eyes and shook my head. “You gonna make a point?”

“I was tryin’,” he said.

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