THUG (HARD EIGHTS MC Book 1)

  Thug

  Scott Hildreth

  Contents

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  1. Gray

  2. Price

  3. Gray

  4. Price

  5. Gray

  6. Price

  7. Gray

  8. Price

  9. Gray

  10. Price

  11. Gray

  12. Price

  13. Gray

  14. Price

  15. Gray

  16. Price

  17. Gray

  18. Price

  19. Gray

  20. Price

  21. Gray

  22. Price

  23. Gray

  24. Price

  25. Gray

  26. Price

  27. Gray

  28. Price

  29. Gray

  30. Price

  31. Gray

  32. Price

  33. Gray

  Also by Scott Hildreth

  When a man lives his life outside the boundaries of the written law, abiding by his own set of laws, he is an outlaw. To the women who have found a way to love such men, this one is for you.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This book contains scenes of criminal acts, some that are typical of gangs and motorcycle clubs, and some that aren’t. The fictitious club name, Hard Eights, is not connected, in any way, with any real-life MC present or past.

  The acts and actions depicted in the book are fictitious, as are the characters.

  Every sexual partner in the book is over the age of 18. Please, if you intend to read further than this comment, be over the age of 18 to enjoy this novel.

  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.

  THUG 1st Edition Copyright © 2019 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 design by Jessica Hildreth

  Photo editing by Golden Czermak @furiousfotog

  Follow me on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/sd.hildreth

  Like me on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/ScottDHildreth

  Follow me on Twitter at: @ScottDHildreth

  1

  Gray

  Weaknesses. We all have them. Something or someone we’re incapable of saying no to. For some, the dependency is as simple as a morning cup of coffee. For others, it may be shopping. Alcohol. Fast cars. Sex. You name it and someone, somewhere, is powerless over it.

  My addiction? A confident man. Not every self-assured male had the capacity to quench my desires. Confidence had to squish from the soles of his shoes when he walked. I preferred a man who marched to the beat of his own drummer, thumbing his nose at society’s rules and regulations along the way. Tattoos were a plus, but not a must. They stood as a constant reminder that he had no desire to be accepted by the masses.

  Such men’s machismo beliefs and bravado attitudes gave me a sense of comfort. I knew when I stood at their side that no harm would come my way.

  Nice guys didn’t provide that unspoken reassurance.

  I’d been in relationships with a handful of such men, each of which satisfied me in a different way. I’d never, however, been completely fulfilled by anyone. Based on the reputation of the man who just walked into my bar, I doubted that would change anytime soon.

  His name was Edwin McNealy, but no one called him by his given name. Not if they wanted to live to see the light of day. The name he adopted somewhere along the way was “Price”, and it was all anyone called him. He was alleged to be a ticking time bomb, and he just sauntered into my empty bar like I owed him rent money.

  He was a legend. Everyone in Marana either knew him or knew of him. I was one of the latter group of people.

  Living alone amidst the desert’s rattlesnakes and saguaro at the base of Tucson, Arizona’s Tortolita Mountains, he rode his tattered old-school Harley along the sagebrush speckled sandy trail that led to his ranch the same way he rode it through the paved roads that cross-hatched the small town he refused to called home.

  Like he was running from the law.

  He was the President of the Hard Eights motorcycle club. If one chose to believe the stories that followed him like a shadow, he’d been an outlaw since he was old enough to tie his own shoes.

  According to Arizona folklore, his parents died in a shootout with police while he was sitting in the backseat of their weathered ’68 Impala, which was parked outside the bank they had just robbed in Oro Valley. As the hail of bullets riddled the steel doors and shattered the car’s windows, the then eight-year-old Edwin sat silently, waiting for the commotion to end.

  When the shooting stopped, he calmly stepped from the car and raised his bloody hands in surrender. Authorities would later find two bullets lodged in his torso, but not because he complained about being shot. His parents, at least according to legend, warned him at a very early age of the perils of speaking to the police.

  It wouldn’t be the last time he was in police custody, but he swore it would be the only time he’d ever surrender to them.

  He scanned me from head to toe. After raking the hair away from his face with fingers tanned by the Arizona sun, he dragged his eyes up my frame until they came to rest at my tits. He studied them for a moment as if he was admiring a priceless piece of misunderstood artwork that he, somehow, understood.

  I flushed a little.

  He lowered himself into a seat at one of the many empty tables. “Lose your bearings?” he asked without bothering to look in my direction.

  His voice was much thicker than I expected. Low and commanding, it strongly suggested that those within earshot pay attention to what he was saying.

  Not knowing exactly what he was referring to, I gave him a confused look. “Excuse me?”

  “You seem kinda lost,” he said.

  I wasn’t lost. Shocked was more accurate. “I was thinking the same thing about you,” I said matter-of-factly.

  He wasn’t a modern-day wannabe biker who wore colorful Harley-Davidson shirts that he’d collected at various motorcycle dealerships from across the nation. He was a biker through and through who always donned his sun-bleached leather vest, which was likely a requirement of the motorcycle club he was in.

  He hiked his leather boot onto the knee of his faded blue jeans and brushed the dust from it with the palm of his hand before lowering it right back to where it was.

  Intrigued by my comment, he lifted his chin a little. “What do you know about me?”

  I’d seen him in passing more times than I could count, but this was the first time I’d been close enough to him to count the creases of his laugh lines. The fact that he’d never been in my bar didn’t prevent me from knowing his MC and the MC that frequently patronized my bar weren’t friendly with one another. While he looked me over with eyes of uncertainty, I considered how I wanted to respond. Dancing around the subject as delicately as I could without downplaying the issue entirely was the clear answer.

  I wiped my sweaty palms against my denim shorts and cleared my throat. “This is a Rebel hang-out,” I explained. “You can fit what I know about your motorcycle club in a thimble, but I know this: Th
e Rebels and the Hard Eights don’t get along. So, although I may look lost, I’m not. I’m just…” I gave him a quick once-over. “Shocked. I guess you could say I’m shocked. To see you, that is. In here, anyway.”

  He raked his fingers through his thick black locks and glanced over each shoulder. His hair was peppered with much more than an occasional strand of gray. He wore it long enough to fall into his face, but not so long that it looked awful or unkempt.

  I decided it fit him well.

  “Rebel hang-out, huh?” He chuckled a dry laugh. His eyes darted from table to table before meeting mine. “Looks like an empty bar to me. Hell, I guess they could be in here, and I just can’t see ‘em. They run, what, about two deep?” He glanced beneath the adjoining table, as if someone could be hidden beneath it. “Maybe three?”

  I was sidetracked by his tattoo-covered biceps. Hoping to seem disinterested in his presence, I looked away. “I think there’s ten or twelve of them,” I said, stretching the truth of the Rebel’s small existence. I wondered if it would be enough to thwart any ideas Price had of causing trouble in my bar.

  “Twelve, huh?” His brows raised in false wonder. “Must have doubled membership in the last few days. Maybe they lured a bunch of new prospects in with Jolly Ranchers, ice cream cones, and delusions of grandeur.”

  An aura of arrogance surrounded him. Price was becoming more interesting by the minute. Nevertheless, I wasn’t responding to his snide remark. I stood silently and waited for him to exhaust himself of his biased opinions.

  It seemed he sensed my frustration. He gave the bar a more in-depth look. “You own this joint?”

  “I do.”

  His gaze narrowed in opposition. “You’re Maggie?”

  “There is no Maggie,” I admitted. “I thought if I put my given name on the sign that it might attract an odd crowd.”

  He tugged at the front of his vest, pulling the wrinkles from it. “If this is a Rebel hang-out, sounds like you got the odd crowd whether you wanted to, or not.”

  Six members strong and based in Tucson, the Rebels MC was an up-and-coming motorcycle club. Rumor had it that they were dabbling in the manufacture of meth, but I doubted it was entirely true. They didn’t seem the type. They patronized my establishment with a fierce loyalty, which kept the Hard Eights from doing the same. It wasn’t that the members of the Hard Eights feared the Rebels, it was more of a matter of unspoken respect that most clubs paid to one another. They didn’t wander into each other’s territory unless they needed to settle a score.

  I wasn’t about to get caught in a trap of talking shit on the men who indirectly paid my rent, bought my groceries, and put clothes on my back. I fought the urge to argue in support of my stance.

  “What can I get you?” I asked, my tone unintentionally expressing slight frustration.

  He tilted his chair onto the rear legs and nodded toward the bar. “Bottle of Bud.”

  “Bottle is $3.50. Wednesdays are dollar draft night. We’ve got Dragoon IPA on draft for a buck. It’s a local IPA that has—”

  He held my gaze while lowering the chair onto all four legs. “Bottle. Of. Budweiser. Please.”

  He was far from mannerly, but at least he said please. I gave a nod and turned away. As intrigued as I was to have him in my bar, I wasn’t necessarily pleased with his presence. He and his MC brethren were known for being rather rowdy, whether they were drinking or not. I wondered what problems he might cause before the night ended.

  Attempting to hide my nervous curiosity, I returned with his beer. “Here you go,” I said with a smile. “One bottle of Bud.”

  He tilted the neck of the bottle toward me with one hand while he reached into his pocket with the other. “Start me a tab.” He handed me a hundred-dollar bill. “That ought to cover it.”

  I cringed at the thought of him remaining in the bar long enough to spend a hundred dollars. In less than an hour, the Rebels would begin showing up. While I mentally stammered with how to handle the situation the brass cowbell above the door clanged, announcing another parched throat’s arrival.

  A bald man wearing an open leather kutte ducked under the threshold of the doorway and stepped inside. His massive muscles bulged from beneath his unbuttoned vest. Upon seeing Price, he smirked.

  Price stood.

  They embraced in typical biker fashion. After patting each other on the back and offering niceties in the form of unintelligible grunts, the two men took their seats at the table.

  “I’ll have one of what he’s havin’,” Mister Muscles declared.

  I had no doubts that the men seated across from one another could start—and finish—some serious trouble. If the Rebels arrived in full-force—and I suspected they would—there would be two Hard Eights to the Rebel’s six. Even so, my bar would likely be a disaster when it was over.

  I returned with the bottle of beer. When I reached the table, a sinking feeling nestled into the pit of my stomach. I’d heard Price’s motorcycle enough times to know it would be noticed by the hearing impaired from miles away.

  Oddly, I hadn’t heard either of the two men’s motorcycles approaching the bar.

  I handed the muscular giant his beer. “Here you go.” I gestured at Price with my eyes. “Your lucky night. He’s buying.”

  Acting indifferent, Mister Muscles accepted the beer and turned his attention to Price. I made note of his vest’s two rectangular patches, Sergeant-at-Arms and Brisco. While the two men spoke quietly to one another, I snuck past the bar and to the back door.

  I grew up in an extremely secretive home. Brimming with curiosity, I stepped outside.

  I meandered to the back of the building and peered toward the street. A shallow paved parking lot separated my bar from the access road that paralleled Highway 10. Short of my Nissan Pathfinder parked behind the building, the lot was empty. I turned around.

  A half mile away, a strip mall stretched for as far as the eye could see. I stepped beyond the row of dusty palms that obstructed my view and gazed toward the run-down storefronts.

  Beyond the small groups of cars that littered the large lot, two motorcycles were nestled at the far end of the pavement, in front of a massage parlor. They couldn’t be seen from my parking lot or the access road, even if someone was trying. It was obvious the Hard Eights had no intention of warning the Rebels that they were in my bar. In fact, they were trying to hide it.

  I grew up in a home where everything was kept a secret. The only way to find the truth was to dig incessantly until it was revealed. Giving no outward indication of my findings became a survival instinct that was engrained into my being.

  Although somewhat anxious as to what the night may hold, I put on an unsuspecting look and reentered the bar through the defunct kitchen. Price and his cohort were mid-conversation, speaking so low that I couldn’t make out anything they were saying. I envisioned the legs of my chairs being used as weapons, my tables crushed beneath fallen bodies, and the occasional beer bottle being broken over someone’s unsuspecting head.

  I’d likely be working late, mopping pools of blood from my recently refinished hardwood floors.

  Although they’d done nothing but drink beer and whisper secrets to one another, I grew angry at the two men for being in my bar. They didn’t belong there. Their remotely parked motorcycles stood as proof that they knew it.

  I’d scrimped, saved, and borrowed from everyone I knew to open the establishment. To watch them trash the place would be heartbreaking. I’d anticipated hiring a bouncer when I opened but it came down to paying a bouncer’s wages or buying a jukebox, and I chose the option less likely to become a douchebag.

  So far, I didn’t regret my decision to forgo the bouncer. Despite their reputation, the Rebels had caused no problems with other patrons. In fact, their presence was likely a deterrent to anyone who might consider starting a fight. The tips they left were more than enough for me to dismiss the burnouts they did in the parking lot and the fact that none of them could aim well
enough to piss directly into the toilet.

  When I finished stocking the cooler, I glanced at the clock. In no time, my bar was going to be in shambles. I looked in Price’s direction, hoping for some type of reassurance that everything was going to be okay. Upon seeing me he gestured to himself and then Brisco.

  He mouthed the words another round?

  I grabbed their beers and started in that direction. I hadn’t cleared the corner of the bar when the familiar rumble from the Rebel’s approaching motorcycles shook the walls of the windowless bar. As much as I wanted to act indifferent to whatever was going on between the two rival motorcycle clubs, it seemed I couldn’t. My legs froze upon hearing the sound, causing me to slosh beer onto the floor in front of me. Brisco, who was facing me, immediately noticed the mishap.

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he said, slowly standing as he spoke. “As long as they don’t do anything stupid, everything’s going to be—”

  “Hunky-fucking-dory,” Price said, finishing Brisco’s sentence.

  I glanced in Price’s direction, hoping for reassurance that nothing bad was going to happen. His expression was one of eager guilt, like a pit bull making eye contact with its owner just before attacking the antagonizing household cat.

  Feeling like a traitor for allowing the two men into my bar, I placed the two half-spilled bottles of beer on the edge of their table.