At 99 cents “Christmas Dick” is one hell of a thrill for less than a buck

Posted in Scott Hildreth, sexy, sexy ebook, Sexy ebooks, sexy kindle, sexy kindle book, Sexy Kindle Ebook, sexy kindle read, Sexy Kindle reads with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 23, 2017 by scottdhildreth

Christmas Dick, my newest release is a certified One-Handed Read. You will need a free hand and a safe place for this one for sure, because when this biker crashes a Christmas party, it’s on like Donkey Kong!

Get your copy, find a place to hide, and let your hair down. The book will do the rest.



“BAKER”, is Amazon’s #1 bestselling Erotic Romance

Posted in erotic romance novel, Scott Hildreth with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 11, 2017 by scottdhildreth

My new release, BAKER, is Amazon’s #1 bestselling erotic romance, the #1 bestselling humorous erotica, and the #1 bestselling erotic action adventure. How? It’s a fast-paced, action packed biker book that’s humorous and sexy as F*CK.

Give it a try, it’ll be the best $3.99 you’ve ever spent.




Selected Sinners Series – 99 cents each

Posted in 2017 kindle unlimited, 99 cent Kindle romance, Free Kindle, Kindle MC Romance Box Set, kindle romance novel, Kindle Unlimited, Kindle Unlimited Must Read, Kindle Unlimited Reads, Kindle Unlimited Romance, Kindle Unlimited Series, must read kindle, must read kindle unlimited, Scott Hildreth, sexy kindle, sexy kindle book, Sexy Kindle Ebook, sexy kindle read, Sexy Kindle reads with tags , , , , , on August 22, 2017 by scottdhildreth


The entire series on SALE at 99 cents each, all countries!

Purchase Links:

Making the Cut:
Taking the Heat:
Ex Con:
Money Shot:
Hard Corps:

My newest release, CASH, is LIVE!

Posted in Adult Romance, MC Erotic Romance, mc erotica, mc romance, MC Romance Books, mc romance novel, Must Read MC Romance Novel, Scott Hildreth with tags , , , , , , on February 18, 2018 by scottdhildreth

My newest release, CASH, is Book II of the Devil’s Disciples MC Series, and a great stand-alone with an HEA.

Divorced and in her mid forties, Kimberly fears her sex/love life is over. Southern California’s dating scene is all too competitive, and everyone she’s met has been a douche.

When fate puts a badass biker in her path one night, she dreams of what her life would be like if he were in it. The age disparity between them leaves her with the realization that her dreams will remain just that, dreams.

And then he asks her on a date.

This one is HOT, filled with angst, and has the best of HEAs. Not to be missed.



The First four chapters of “CASH”, my soon-to-be-released book about a divorced older woman, and a younger biker.

Posted in free chapters, Free Kindle, free kindle books, free kindle romance, Free sex, Scott Hildreth with tags , , , , , on January 15, 2018 by scottdhildreth






I couldn’t believe my ears. With my arms wrapped tightly around my mid-section, I rocked back and forth in my chair and fought to keep from crying.

“You’re telling me that someone hacked into my accounts, took everything, and didn’t leave a single trace?”

He lifted a one-inch-thick pile of paperwork from his desk and pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. “We’ve got the account number that the money was initially transferred to, but the funds are no longer there–”

“There’s got to be some record of where the money went. Right?”

“There does,” he said with a slight nod. “And, there is. But…”

My heart fluttered with hope. There had to be a way to find it. There simply had to.

He tossed the stack of paperwork to the side and shook his head. “I’m sorry to say the account no longer exists. The money was moved several times, and at one point, the funds were split into multiple accounts. Then, based on the information we’ve been provided, we believe the accounts were converted to cash. From that point, it’s impossible to trace where the money went.”

My father’s intelligence coupled with a little luck in the stock market had built the fortune, and I’d spent my lifetime acting as if it didn’t exist. To think that someone managed to get to my accounts, drain them of several million dollars – and do so without my knowledge or approval – was incomprehensible.

“But, there’s a name. There must be a name,” I muttered. “An account can’t be opened without a name and a social security number.”

His blank expression confirmed my fear.

“Tell me you’ve got a name, John,” I pleaded.

“I’m sorry, Kimberly. The FBI will be conducting an investigation. Based on the information I’ve been able to gather, however, I’ve got little hope the funds will be found. This isn’t common, but I have seen this happen before.”

The son-of-a-bitch probably started planning to rob me right after he swept me off my feet. I should have known better than to ever let my guard down. Confiding in him that I had the nest egg was a mistake I’d undoubtedly regret until the day I died.

Admitting now that I once loved him made me feel ill.

I had a cute little shoe boutique that I loved, but it produced almost no revenue. The earned interest of my inheritance was my main source of income. Without it, living day to day – even in my modest home – would be impossible.

I stared blankly at him, waiting for something to change. For him to tell me that there was something left. A crumb. A few thousand dollars.


He stood and straightened his tie. “I’m sorry, Kimberly. I know Isaac and Janet are turning over in their graves about this.”

Fearing my legs wouldn’t hold me if I attempted to stand, I chose to remain seated. As he came around the corner of his desk, the sorrow he wore caused my stomach to twist into a knot.

“Whoever did this was a professional?” I pressed my forearms against my mid-section. “Someone who knew what they were doing?”

“Absolutely. It isn’t that they didn’t leave a trace, because they did.” He crossed his arms. “It’s more difficult than that. Our system of checks and balances was met. Passwords were prompted, entered, as were mother’s maiden names and high school mascots. On the surface, it appears that you were the one transferring the funds. Your presence today, however, indicates you weren’t. I’m truly sorry.”

I drew a slow breath, and then stood. After bracing myself on the arm of the chair, I met his sorrowful gaze. “The FBI can’t catch them?”

“They’ll try, but I have doubts they’ll do anything in a manner timely enough to recover the funds. Cases like this are always shoved to the back burner, so to speak.”

“If I wanted to find this guy, I’d have to move quickly. Is that what you’re saying?”

“It would require more than moving quickly. It would require finding a computer genius who was capable of hacking deep into the bowels of a financial network designed to thwart such activity. There’s a handful of such people. They’re either employed by the government, or they’re very anti-government,” he explained.

I nodded. “A hacker.”

“A hacker who isn’t opposed to breaking the law. They’d have to search without warrants, or cause. The person in question would have to be a criminal with experience in manipulating funds. Not a professional, a criminal.”

My mouth twisted into a smirk.

He cocked an eyebrow. “You know such a mastermind?”

I knew someone who knew someone. It was a stretch, but it was all I had. Eager to get started at finding my money – and to bury the man who stole it – I brushed the wrinkles from my dress and straightened my posture.

“Downplay the necessity to investigate this to the FBI if you can,” I said. “It’ll buy me some time. I may need it.”

“If you find him before they do, there’ll likely be no prosecution for the crime.”

I chuckled a dry laugh. “After I catch this son-of-a-bitch, there’ll be nothing left of him to prosecute.”














When it comes to relationships, forever doesn’t mean forever. It means until something more exciting comes along.

For twenty years, Marvin promised that the day would come when things would be different. For nineteen of them, I believed him. Convinced that he was going to change, I lived hoping the next sunrise would bring with it a new life. One where I lived with the man of my dreams, not the one I was married to.

But change never came.

My fear of being single prevented me from leaving him. Somehow comfortable in the awkward one-sided relationship, I accepted that I’d simply be alone throughout our marriage. That fear was replaced by anger when I found out he’d been cheating on me for two decades.

Humiliated, angry, and scared, I gathered my things and left one day while he was at work.

Although it took time, I became comfortably independent. Confidence followed. I learned to cook for one. I joined the YMCA. I ran a half marathon. I developed routines. I cleaned house, repeatedly. Eventually, I found new friends and developed a new way of enjoying life.

Yet. I remained single.

Not by choice, either.

A few years passed. Several drunken idiots hit on me, often saying things like, nice tits, or do women your age give head? I found no one who was looking for a real relationship, or that I was interested in. I realized I may never find love. Then, I accepted it as being inevitable. Even though I’d never felt better about myself, I feared I was simply too old to garner anyone’s interest in the competitive SoCal singles scene.

Initially, I blamed him for ruining my chances at living a normal life. He promised to cherish me and love me forever, despite what changes may come about in our lives. He took an oath. An oath that he broke repeatedly through dishonesty, infidelity, indifference, violent behavior, and sheer disrespect. I felt that I’d wasted twenty-five years of my life. A quarter of a century of dating and marriage, all for nothing. In the end, I realized it wasn’t anyone’s fault, it was just the way life unfolded.

So, I accepted it as being nothing more than a speedbump on my life’s freeway.

Now, after nearly four years, that speedbump was standing on my porch. Dressed in my pajamas and house slippers, I stood in the doorway and stared at him. He had no right to simply show up at my home, and I was prepared to tell him so.

I stepped through the door, gave him an evil glare, and raised my index finger. “I’m going to count to three, and then–”

“And then, what?” he barked.

He stepped off the back side of the porch and looked me over. “You look good, Kim. I miss fucking you.”

“I mean it,” I snapped back, my voice thick with anger. “Get off my property, or I’ll–”

“You’ll what? You gonna scream?” A drunken laugh rumbled from his lungs. “I like it when you scream. Go ahead.”

“I’ll call the police. In case you forgot, you’re under a restraining order. You’re not supposed to be here. Ever.” I huffed out a sigh. “It’s been almost four years. I’m over you. Get over me.”

“You’re not going to call the cops.” He grabbed at his crotch. “You want it and you know it.”

He was an asshole by nature. When he drank, he was a belligerent asshole. He was ten feet away, yet the smell of whiskey leeching from his pores enveloped me like a dense fog. Reasoning with him was going to be impossible. I decided to give my closing remark and return to the comfort of my queen-sized Green Tea mattress.

“We haven’t had sex in five years,” I said with a laugh. “I don’t want it. Now, or ever. You’re disgusting.”

Courage was something else that I developed after we parted. I liked my new life, and the new me. Brimming with confidence, I turned and reached for the door.

He grabbed my shoulder and spun me halfway around, almost knocking me down in the process. I swung my arms wildly, hoping to fight him off. His massive size and drunken determination, however, prevented me from succeeding. It seemed his angry hands were everywhere, groping and grabbing places I decided he was no longer entitled entitled to grope and grab.

“Stop it!” I screamed. Blindly, I pounded my fists into his face and neck. “Get off me!”

“I’m going to fuck the shit out of you,” he warned. “You look like you need it.”

If he was going to fuck me, he was going to have to kill me. I decided many years prior that he was never going to touch me again, and I was prepared to fight him like I feared nothing.

One of my wild swings caught him right in the eye. In retaliation, he slammed me against the side of the house, knocking the wind completely out of me. While I sucked a choppy breath, he fumbled to find the door handle. With his attention diverted away from me and one of his hands busy, I kneed him in the balls as hard as I could. A few wild swings of my clenched fists followed, as did several swift kicks to his groin.

I’d hoped to get him to turn me loose, so I could either run inside or take off down the street. Instead of releasing me, his clenched fist crashing into my jaw. I stumbled across the porch as I tried to keep my footing.

When everything came into focus, his twisted grin was the first thing I saw. The second was the neighbor from down the street leaving on his motorcycle.

Marvin pulled the front door open, laughing at my efforts to fight him off. I took advantage of the opportunity, and leapt from the porch. Flailing my arms and screaming as I ran across the front yard, I made a beeline toward the flickering headlight of the neighbor’s Harley.

“Help me!” I came to a stop directly in front of the motorcycle’s path. “He’s trying to rape me!”

The motorcycle swerved to miss me, and came to a screeching stop at my side. The rider cut off the engine. Through his clear-lensed glasses, he looked at me with anger in his eyes.

“What the fuck?” He unbuckled the strap on his helmet. “I almost hit you.”

He wasn’t my neighbor, nor was he familiar. I didn’t care. He was willing to listen, and that was all that mattered.

“He’s…” I heaved to catch my breath and pointed toward my house. “He’s trying to…rape me.”

Before I had an opportunity to explain further, the biker was half the distance to my porch, chasing after my stupid ex, who was running toward his truck.

The biker tackled Marvin as if he were stopping him from scoring the game-winning touchdown in the Super Bowl. Filled with confidence that the stranger would keep my asshole ex from attacking me again, I walked toward the two men. By the time I got there, Marvin was flat on his back, and the biker was sitting on his chest.

I leaned over them. “Who getting fucked now, asshole?” I asked in a sarcastic tone. “Not me.”

“She’s my wife,” Marvin lied. “I was just…”

“We’re not married, you liar,” I bellowed. “We haven’t been for almost four years.”

With his knees against Marvin’s arms and his hands holding his wrists, the biker looked up at me. “What the fuck’s going on?”

“She’s out of her fucking mind,” Marvin said. “I’ll tell you what’s going on–”

“Shut the fuck up,” the biker demanded. “Nobody’s talking to you.”

“We divorced almost four years ago,” I shouted. “I’ve got a restraining order against him! I haven’t seen him in eighteen months, and he showed up tonight and said he was going to fuck me. When I said no, he did this.” I touched the tip of my index finger against my swollen cheek.

The biker studied me. Upon seeing the damage that Marvin had done to my face, his expression changed from concern to rage. Without saying a word, he removed his helmet, tossed it aside, and then yanked Marvin to his feet.

“You hit her?” he asked through clenched teeth.

I’d spent over twenty years with Marvin. During that time, I was convinced that men didn’t exist who were bigger than he was. The biker stood as proof that I was wrong. He towered over Marvin’s six-foot-two frame like a bearded giant.

Marvin looked at me, scoffed, and then looked at the biker. “Sometimes, women need it. She needed it.”

Apparently, it wasn’t the answer the biker had hoped for.

His fist plowed into Marvin’s face. A flurry of punches from the biker followed – each of which caused Marvin to crumble closer to the ground. After the last swing – a wild right hand that came crashing against Marvin’s jaw with a crack, his legs gave out, and he fell against his truck.

Then, without throwing a punch or saying a word, Marvin slumped into a pile at the biker’s feet. The lop-sided fight took fifteen seconds, if that.

Marvin covered his bloody face with his hands and moaned.

There’s not a victim of abuse that doesn’t wish she’d be given an opportunity to kick her attacker in the balls without fear of repercussion. If given a chance, any woman would jump at the occasion.

So, that’s what I did. I jumped. On Marvin’s nuts, that is.

With all my might, I stomped my heel into Marvin’s overly active male anatomy. The air shot from his lungs with a grunt, and his body wadded into the fetal position.

“Damn.” The biker looked at me. His mouth twisted into a smirk. “That was cruel.”

I wasn’t cruel, Marvin was cruel. After we divorced, he’d often stop by and threaten to burn down my house or kill my cat. My house was never touched, but one day my cat disappeared. I despised him. I wished he would be hit by a passing truck while changing his tire on the Five. A recurring daydream of bits and pieces of his body being strewn along the freeway from Los Angeles to San Diego brought an odd sense of comfort when it came to mind.

A leg in Costa Mesa for fucking the tattooed skank of a bartender at Twin Peaks. An arm in San Clemente for repeatedly dipping his dick in the anorexic receptionist at his office. His head in Oceanside for the fling with the nineteen-year-old Vietnamese girl who believed his promise of getting her legal citizenship.

He didn’t have enough body parts – nor were there enough cities along the interstate to toss them – for all the fucked-up shit he made me endure.

“Cruel?” I folded my arms over my chest. “You don’t know him like I know him. What he did tonight was nothing compared to what he’s done to me for years.”

His face went stern. “He’s done this before?”

“In so many ways that I lost count many years ago.”

He brushed his hair out of his eyes, removed his glasses, and studied me. An untrimmed beard covered his face, and gave him a rugged don’t fuck with me appearance.

I looked him over. He was tall, and built like an athlete. A black tee shirt clung tightly to his broad chest, and tattered jeans covered his long legs. A pair of lace-up leather boots finished off the biker ensemble perfectly. He looked mean, but if I’d learned anything in my forty-four years, it was that a person’s looks were no indication of who they were on the inside.

Marvin groaned, and attempted to stand.

Without shifting his eyes away from me, the biker swung the toe of his boot into Marvin’s crotch. The impact wadded him into a tight ball, and ended any chance of him getting up for a long, long time.

My rescuer undressed me with his eyes, and eventually met my gaze.

“Cash,” he said dryly.

I coughed out disbelief, and gave him an I can’t fucking believe you look. “You want me to pay you?”

“No.” He chuckled. “My name’s Cash.”

Marvin remained incapacitated, moaning his displeasure into the warm night air. I studied the biker. His rough looks, disheveled appearance, and bloody knuckles convinced me that in his presence, I would be safe.

“Kimberly.” I shook his hand. “Kimberly Welch. Thank you for helping me.”

He eyed me up and down. After pausing at my boobs for a moment, he looked me in the eyes and grinned.

“I like your pussy,” he said flatly.

My face flashed hot. My lips parted, and although my mind wanted me to respond, my mouth had gone completely dry. Saying anything wasn’t going to come easily.

I pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth and swallowed hard. “Huh?”

His eyes dropped to my boobs. “Nice pussy.”

I glanced down, and then quickly realized what he was talking about. There was a cartoonish cat plastered across the chest of my pajama shirt. He didn’t like my pussy at all, he was simply making fun of my late-night attire. Despite the awkwardness of having my ex-husband moaning in pain at my feet I imagined riding away on the back of his bike and never looking back.

It was nice to dream, if even just for a moment.

I squeezed my biceps against the edge of my boobs, feigned a chill, and gave a quick curtsey. “Thank you.”

The sound of police sirens wailed in the distance. He cocked his head to the side. One side of his mouth curled into a grin. Then, he winked playfully.

I gestured behind me. “Sounds like someone called the cops.”

He looked me over, but didn’t budge from where he was standing. “If I had any common sense, I’d leave,” he said dryly.

I glanced at Marvin, and then met the biker’s gaze. “But you’re going to stay?”

He took a quick look at my pussy and grinned. “Yep.”









In addition to housing our motorcycles and cars, the garage of our MC’s clubhouse acted as a repair facility for all personal modes of transportation. Ghost lowered the Mustang’s motor into the engine bay and checked the positioning. After satisfying himself that it was exactly where he wanted it to be, he looked up. “Like that waitress at the fish place in Oceanside?”

“No. This chick had some serious curves. Perfect ass, big titties, nice thick legs. And, she had good hair. Big hair.”

I conjured up an image of her perfectly round ass jostling up and down in her pajamas as she paced the driveway. My cock stiffened at the thought. I shifted my attention to Ghost and shook my head lightly.

He gazed at the engine for a moment, and then looked at me. “Was she built like Amy Betterman?”

Amy was a thick-legged cheerleader in high school that had nice tits and a spectacular ass. Although she sparked none of our interest during school, it was easy to look back at those days and wonder what was wrong with us when we were kids. The five of us would fight each other to get a shot at her now. Back then, all we wanted a girl who was built like a pencil and wasn’t afraid to put a dick in her mouth.

“Exactly!” I blurted.

“No shit?” His eyebrows raised. “She looked like Amy fucking Betterman?”

“Pretty much. But her hair wasn’t brown. It was kinda blondish.”

“It’s funny. When we were kids, we all called her BUTT-erman.” He reached for his bottle of beer. “We were fools. That was one fine bitch.”

“I was just thinking the same thing.”

“So, you just left?” He asked. “You didn’t try to get in her pants?”

“She wasn’t wearing pants.”

He sipped his beer. “Pants, shorts, whatever.”


One eyebrow raised. “Bra?”


“Cantaloupe-sized tits in a pajama top without a bra, and you just left?” He looked me over and then coughed out a laugh. “I’m calling bullshit.”

“I told you, the fuckin’ cops showed up. While I was answering all the questions, some little short fucker escorted her up to the house. I didn’t see her after that.”

“He’s probably balls-deep in that shit right now,” he said stone-faced. “A big-dicked man in uniform is an irresistible combination.”

“Who says he’s got a big dick?” I asked in an irritated tone. “He might be hung like a mouse.”

“You said the cop was a little short fucker, right?”

“Yeah. He came up to her shoulder, why?”

“Little cops always have great big dicks,” he said matter-of-factly.

I crossed my arms and gave him a look of disbelief. “According to who?”

“Statistics. Little cops are always hung like mules.”

“Where the fuck do you get police dick data? Sounds like more of that fake news to me.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “It’s common knowledge.”

“It’s common bullshit,” I said with a wave of my hand.

Accepting that a height challenged big-dicked cop was fucking her while I answered a barrage of questions was impossible. If anyone should have been fucking her, it was me, and not some lame-assed cop that barely came up to her shoulder.

I finished my beer and turned toward the trash can. “She didn’t seem to be the type that liked cops.”

“Looked like the type to find a clean-cut cop as a turn off, huh?” He chuckled, and then peered into the car’s engine bay. “She seemed to be more into ugly bikers?”

“I ain’t ugly, motherfucker.”

“You’re sure as fuck not pretty. Chicks dig a man in uniform, especially a cop. They see them as a protector. Someone who can rescue them. Keep them from harm, and all that shit.”

I was the one that rescued her, not the cop. I clenched my jaw at the thought of him winning and me losing. After a moment, I couldn’t take it any longer.

“Chicks dig rough looking fuckers like me,” I said, more to convince myself than to convince him.

He looked up. “If you say so.”

I couldn’t decide if the remark about Kimberly fucking the cop was meant to piss me off, or if it was truly what he thought had happened. Cops annoyed the fuck out of me, and if anyone knew it, he did.

We grew up in Great Falls, Montana, one hundred and twenty miles from the Canadian border. Be it my hatred of cold weather, the desolate countryside, or my desire to live somewhere that simply had more to offer, I decided after I graduated high school that I wanted to get as far away from Montana as possible.

San Diego, California was the clear winner. The city offered everything that Great falls didn’t. Weather suitable for year-round motorcycle riding, beaches, and two million people to hide amongst.

There were five of us that grew up together: Baker, Goose, Ghost, Tito, and me. We made a pact in third grade that we would remain inseparable. The fact that we moved fifteen hundred miles away – as a group – confirmed our loyalty to one another.

Upon settling in San Diego, we started an unconventional motorcycle club, and later added a sixth man – a military vet from Texas. Focusing on each of our individual strengths as small-time thieves, the club stole from those we felt weren’t worthy of their wealth. As we grew older and more experienced, our jobs became more complex. Now with more than ten years of experience robbing Southern Californian’s of their treasures, no one’s money was beyond our grasp.

Ghost was built like a professional body builder. He was the resident chief mechanic, go-fast guru, and the only member of the club that was willing to talk without chastising me for my thoughts. Although I was close friends with all the men, he and I talked about things I wouldn’t eagerly share with the other men.

“Maybe I’ll go by there and check on her,” I said under my breath.

“That cops probably taking a shower right about now,” he said without looking up. “Hell, he might whip your ass for nosing around.”

“No cop’s whipping my ass,” I assured him.

He straightened his posture, looked me over, and shifted his attention to the Mustang’s wiring harness. “Cop’s know all that pressure point stuff. Bet the fucker can touch your wrist with his thumb and bring you to your knees.”

I hadn’t had my ass whipped since I was in kindergarten, and he knew it. I choked on a laugh. “Bullshit.”

“He’d wad you up in a ball if he wanted to,” he taunted.

I twisted the toe of my boot back and forth on the floor between us. “I’d squash him like a fuckin’ bug.”

His eyebrows raised slightly. “Only one way to find out.”

There wasn’t a man on earth I feared, cops included. I tossed my bottle in the trash and turned toward my motorcycle.

He chuckled a low laugh. “Where you going?”

“Heading to Goose’s place.”

“Not going to stop by that gal’s house, are you?”

“I might,” I said over my shoulder.

“Better take a couple of the fellas with you,” he said dryly. “Just in case that little cop wants to protect what’s his. Might take three or four men to whip him.”

I didn’t need help kicking any man’s ass, and I was prepared to prove it. I stomped to my motorcycle and snatched my helmet off the handlebars.

“Pic’s or it didn’t happen,” Ghost shouted.

Baker, the MC’s president, came around the corner as I was lifting my leg over the seat of my bike.

“Pretty early for a beer run,” he said. “Where you going?”

I pulled on my helmet. “To take some pics.”

He looked at me the way he always did. Like I was an idiot. “Of what?”

“Little cops and big tits.” I buckled the helmet’s strap and fired up the bike. “In that order.”









Jennifer was once Oceanside High’s head cheerleader and all-around bubbly blonde bimbo. Now fifty and married with two adult children, she was reduced to being my ditzy blonde neighbor, sounding board, and best friend.

Short, and golden bronze from spray tanning, her athletic size four frame and D-cup boobs attracted the immediate attention of most men. Hair color and Botox treatments masked her age, and she could easily pass for being in her late thirties. When she was away from her husband, she acted like she was still seventeen.

She leaned against the edge of my kitchen table with her coffee at arm’s length. Her hands encompassed the cup like she was presenting me with a peace offering.

She blinked a few times, and then looked at me with dreamy eyes. “Like Dwayne Johnson?”

I peered over the top of my cup and gave her a confused look. “Who?”

The corners of her mouth turned upward. “Dwayne Johnson.”

“I have no idea who that is.”

“Dwayne Johnson,” she cooed. “The Rock.”

“The big bald-headed guy?”

She drew a long breath through her nose, and then exhaled softly. “Uh huh.”

If there was ever a woman who lived vicariously through others, it was Jennifer. Our conversations were often about men, and included detailed explanations of how she’d behave with them if she wasn’t married.

“No,” I said. “Not even close. More like Brad Pitt in Fight Club. Only taller.”

“Oh.” She wrinkled her nose. “That’s not big.”

“He was big,” I assured her. “He had a presence about him, too.”

She gave me a side-eyed look. “If was skinny like Brad Pitt, he wasn’t big. I think this big thing was all in your head. You were drooling because he kicked Marvin’s ass.”

“I’m not you. I don’t need a man in my life. He was big, and he was kind. Those are the facts. There was no drooling going on.”

“Your senses were distorted.” She shrugged. “It happens to the best of us.”

“My senses were just fine.”

She pushed her coffee aside and leaned over the edge of the table. A serious look washed over her. “I screwed the quarterback of the football team at a house party when I was in high school. On Monday, when I was bragging about it in gym class, I compared his cock to my wrist. Half the girls I was talking to gasped, and said, ‘You must have fucked a different Jeff Simmons than the one I fucked, because that Jeff Simmons has a dick the size of a grape.’”

My eyes narrowed. “A grape?”

“A big grape.”

I chuckled. “And you thought he had a monster cock?”

“I was sure of it.”

I gave her a look. “Where are you going with this?”

“When I had sex with him, I was drunk. He was handsome, and the quarterback of the football team. So, in my mind, he was hung. In reality, he wasn’t. I think you’re wanting this guy to be some oversized muscle-bound hero. But, if he’s built like Brad Pitt, he’s a skinny twit.”

The biker wasn’t skinny, and he wasn’t a twit. To satisfy her, and to end the lop-sided conversation, I reluctantly agreed.

“Fine,” I huffed. “He was a skinny twit.”

“He sounds like a douchebag, too. What’d you say his name was?” She giggled. “Dolla Bill?”

I sighed dramatically. “Cash.”

She burst out in laughter. “Oh, that’s right. I knew it was something like Dolla Bill or Mista Money. But, Cash. Really? That’s ridiculous. He’s a wannabe. Probably uses the bike to get laid.”

I forced a sigh. “He’s wasn’t a wannabe.”

Her eyebrows raised. “He said his name was Cash. He’s a wannabe.”

“Maybe it was his last name.”

“Maybe he wanted you to think he was cool. Is he one of those guys that’s always riding up and down the street at midnight?”

“I think so.”

“They’re young.” One of her Botox-injected eyebrows arched a little. “How old was he?”

I’d wondered the same thing. With the scruff on his face, it was hard to tell for sure. By my estimation, he was in his latter twenties, or early thirties. Either way, he was far too young to be interested in me. That much I knew.

“I don’t know. Maybe thirty.”

She smiled. “A youngster.”

I shrugged one shoulder. “Kind of.”

“Young and skinny,” she said. “Not my type. I prefer the bulging biceps, wide chests, and swollen traps of gym rats.”

Her husband was her height and weighed close to three hundred pounds. The only muscles he had were what he’d developed from simultaneously shoveling 7-Eleven’s chicken wings and chimichangas into his mouth.

I scoffed. “Frank’s not a body builder by any means.”

“That’s why I’ve got to drink three glasses of wine and take a Xanax before we have sex.” She tapped the tip of her index finger against her temple. “In my mind, he is – as long as I’m drunk.”

I finished my coffee and stood. “Back to what I was saying. It’s really bothering me that I didn’t get a chance to thank this guy. I think I said, ‘thank you’, but I can’t really remember. Everything happened so fast, and then the cops were here.”

She shrugged. “He might be one of those guys that’s always riding down the street at midnight. Maybe you’ll get a chance.”

I rinsed my cup and put it in the dishwasher. “I doubt it.”

The sound of an approaching motorcycle caused me to shift my attention to the street. I filled with nervous hope as the sound grew louder. The rumble from a Harley’s exhaust was something I’d become accustomed to over the years, as a group of bikers were constantly zooming up and down the block. I wondered, however, if each approaching bike would now bring butterflies to my stomach and a tingling in my nether region.

My eyes went wide as the black Harley came into view, and then pulled into the drive.

“Jesus,” Jennifer said. “It sounds like we’re being invaded.”

“He’s uhhm.” I wagged my finger toward the window. “He just pulled in.”


I swallowed heavily, and wondered what caused him to stop by on a Saturday morning at nine thirty.

“The skinny twit,” I responded.

She rushed to my side just in time to see him remove his helmet. Dressed in dark jeans, boots, and a faded black shirt that said Cars Suck across the chest, he looked every bit the part of the biker that he undoubtedly was.

He set the helmet on his seat, and sauntered up the driveway.

Jennifer flattened her chest against the counter top and peered over the window ledge. “He’s not skinny.”

“No,” I admired his confident strut. “He’s sure not.”

“He’s uhhm.” She swallowed and then let out a breath. “He’s sexy as fuck.”

He sure is.

As he disappeared from our field of view, she gave me a curious look. Then, the doorbell rang.

She flipped her blonde curls over her shoulder, and tugged her shorts out of her twat. “Let him in.”

I gestured toward the door with my eyes. “Go home.”

She coughed. “I don’t think so.”

“Go. Home.”

“Go to hell,” she said.

I brushed past her. “Fine, but you’re going to be quiet.”

“You won’t even know I’m here.”

I pulled the door open and smiled. “Good morning.”

I felt Jennifer’s breath against my left arm. I wanted to swat her like a picnic fly, but feared pushing her onto the floor might appear juvenile. As Cash pushed his hand into the pocket of his jeans, I took a step to my left and nudged her from his view.

“I wanted to make sure everything was alright.” He wrung his hands together. “Didn’t get to see you after the cops got here.”

“I’m just fine, thank you. The police were here until four in the morning asking questions, and having me sign reports. It was a long night.”

“I filled out a report, too,” he said. “They’ll probably see if our stories jive with one another.”

The sound of Jennifer’s heavy breathing reminded me that she was still present. I stepped to the side and wedged her between my hip and the side of the console table.

I looked at Cash and widened my eyes. “You can come in, if you’d like to.”

He stepped inside, glanced at her, and then looked at me.

“That’s Jennifer. She was leaving.” I shot her a look. “Say ‘hi’ before you go, Jennifer.”

She darted around me and extended her arm. “I like your shirt.”

His shirt?


He grinned and shook her hand. “Thanks.”

I gestured toward the front door with my left hand. “Goodbye, Jennifer.” I tilted my head toward the living room and offered Cash a smile. “Come on in.”

With the speed of a rabbit on crack, Jennifer slammed the front door, shot into the living room, and came to a screeching halt on the end of the couch.

Cash stepped into the room, and gave it a precursory look. Jennifer forced a fake yawn and arched her back, heaving her massive boobs toward the ceiling in the process. Mentally, I rolled my eyes at her theatrics. The only way Cash wouldn’t see her melon-sized mammaries was if he was blind.

For whatever reason, however, he didn’t seem to notice.

Cash – 1, Jennifer – 0.

I gave her a quick laser-sharp glare. She crossed her tanned legs, flashed me a grin, and then looked at Cash.

“Do you live down at the end of the block?” she asked.

He sat in the chair at the corner of the room. “No. One of the fellas I ride with lives down there.”

“When I hear you guys ride by, it reminds me of that show on Netflix,” she said. “I’ve watched every episode. I’ve always been partial to motorcycles and muscles.”

Jennifer was flirtatious and outgoing, but she was acting ridiculous. For the last four years, all she’d done was complain about the late-night window rattling caused by the neighbor’s loud exhaust. I sat at the opposite end of the couch from her and clenched my jaw tight to keep from calling her out on her fictitious claims of biker love.

“Paints a pretty fucked up picture of us if you ask me,” he said dryly. “Bikers aren’t really like that.”

“I think the ones that ride in clubs are,” she said. “The hard-core bikers.”

He glared at her. “Hard core?” He chuckled. “I’ve ridden a motorcycle every day for the last ten years. Our club rode from here to Connecticut last year. We ate gas station burritos and slept beside our bikes in rest stop parking lots, using our jackets for pillows. Six thousand miles in four weeks. We make trips like that a couple of times a year. How’s that for hard-core?”

Cash – 2. Jennifer – 0.

Riding across the country and using an asphalt parking lot for a bed sounded hard-core to me. My eyes shot to Jennifer, curious to see how she would crawl out of the hole she’d managed to dig.

“Hollywood always glamorizes the violence. It doesn’t surprise me that the show’s a farce.” She tossed her hair and gave him a semi-serious look. “If it bleeds, it sells, right?”

“I guess so,” he said dismissively.

“So, you ride in a club?” I asked.

He cupped his left hand over his clenched fist and nodded. “A small one.”

I studied him, wondering what he’d look like without the scruff on his jaw. The entire beard thing looked good while he was whipping my ex-husband’s ass, but the longer I looked at it, the more I wanted it to disappear.

Millennials with untrimmed facial hair that hung down to their chest ruined my desire to see a man use a beard as anything other than proof that he had a long, tiring weekend.

“Maybe the bigger clubs do things differently,” Jennifer said. “You know, like the Hells Angels.”

“If you say so,” he said dryly.

He brushed his hair to the side and looked right at me. “What?”

“Huh?” I muttered.

His eyes narrowed. “You were staring at me. Something wrong?”

“I was just…” I shook my head. “Never mind. It’s nothing.”

“You can’t start explaining something and then say, ‘it’s nothing’. What?”

“It’s nothing.”

He lowered his chin and raised both eyebrows.

I sighed. “Is the beard a permanent part of who you are?”

He stroked his jaw with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. “I don’t have a beard.”

I pointed toward the hall bath. “You might want to go look in the mirror.”

“It’s not a beard.” He rubbed the sides of his face with the palms of his hands. “I just. I haven’t shaved in a while.”

“Is it common for you to go a month or so without shaving?”

“I think it’s sexy,” Jennifer chimed.

I shot her a quick glare.

“Depends on what I’ve got going on,” he said. “I’ll shave when I get time.”

“So, you’ve been too busy to shave? That’s your answer?”

“I’ve been saving barefoot women from being raped, and then checking up on them to make sure they’re doing alright.” He crossed his arms over his chest and grinned a smug smile. “Yeah. Been pretty fuckin’ busy.”

I’d become used to Jennifer’s in-your-face wit. Seeing his dry sense of humor was a nice change. Before I could devise a comeback, he continued.

He nodded toward me feet, which were bare. “You ever find your shoes?”

“They were beside the porch.”

He glanced at Jennifer. “She your little sister?”

“No, She’s my neighbor.” I shifted my eyes from him to her. “She lives across the street with her husband.” I looked at him. “We’re friends.”

“Sometimes I wonder,” she whispered in a snide tone.

He motioned toward the hallway with his eyes. “You mind if I use your bathroom?”

“Not at all.” I pointed toward the hall bath. “It’s right there.”

He stood, and then gave a nod to each of us before disappearing into the bathroom. As soon as the door latch clicked, Jennifer turned toward me and widened her eyes.

“He’s a-fucking-mazing. Holy shit, girl. He’s…” She shook her head while she exhaled through her teeth. “Sexy as fuck.”

“Not a skinny twit?” I whispered.

“Not at all.” Her eyes darted toward the bathroom, and then shot back to me. “Did you see his boots?”

“I did, but I didn’t look at them. Why?”

“They’re like, three feet long,” she whispered.

I grinned. “Probably doesn’t have a cock like a grape.”

“I bet he’s got a dick like a donkey.” She took another look toward the bathroom, and then grinned. “You should fuck him and then tell me about it.”

“He’s probably fifteen years younger than me.”

“Age doesn’t matter. Bikers love MILFs.”

I wondered if she learned that tidbit of information on Netflix. I shrugged, knowing there wasn’t much I could do to interest him in me, regardless.

“I’m not a mother,” I said.

“He didn’t come here to check on you,” she said. “He came here to fuck.”

The thought was laughable. “No, he didn’t.”

The bathroom door opened. He walked into the center of the room, checked his watch, and then looked at me.

“I need to get going.”

I realized that I’d clung to the belief that Jennifer was right, and hoped he was going to stay for a while. Feeling a little disappointed, I stood. “Okay.”

He glanced at his watch again, and then shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. After rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet for a moment, his lips parted slightly.

“You want to go out tonight?” he asked. “Maybe get something to eat?”

I nearly fainted.

“With you?”

His brows knitted together. “Who else would it be with?”

My mouth curled into a guilty smile. “How old are you?”

His chin lifted slightly, as if he was proud of his intended response. “Thirty-one.”

I tilted my head to the side and widened my eyes playfully. “I’m forty-four.”

He pulled his right hand from his pocket and presented his empty palm. “If I had a cookie, I’d give you one. But, I’m fresh out.”

“It doesn’t bother you?”

His eyes thinned a little. “To be cookie-less?”

“No, smart-ass. That I’m thirteen years older than you.”

“I don’t give a fuck how old you are,” he said. “I like feisty women. You stomped your ex’s nuts in the driveway. That’s pretty feisty in my book.”

I scrunched my nose. “You want to take me out because I stomped Marvin’s nuts?”

“Yeah. There’s other reasons, too.”

I cocked my hip and flashed a slight smile. “Like what?”

“You’ve got the second nicest ass I’ve ever seen.”

“Who had the first?” I snapped back.

“Some chick in fourth grade.”

I was playing second fiddle to a fourth-grader with an award-winning ass. I didn’t know if it was meant to be a compliment, but I took it as one. His delivery of it brought out the devil in his eyes.

Seeing it secured the dinner date. I simply needed to know how to dress. My eyes widened in wonder. “Would we go on the bike?”


“Because cars suck?”


“I’d love to,” I said with a nod.

“Seven sound good?”

I fought to keep from smiling. “Sounds great.”

“Alright, then.” He looked at Jennifer. “Nice to meet you.”

He gave me a quick study, grinned, and turned away. After taking a step toward the door, he paused and glanced over his shoulder. “Almost forgot. You’ve got cool hair, too. That was the other thing.”

Then, he left without another word.

It was ten o’clock on a Saturday morning, and I felt invincible. I had a great ass, cool hair, and I was going on a date with a hard-core biker.

Cash – 4. Jennifer – 0. Kimberly – 3.



“Mister Prick” is LIVE!!!

Posted in $.99 Kindle books, Best Selling Romance, Dark Erotic Novel, dark erotica, ebook, ebook sale, Free sex, Kindle erotica novel, kindle romance novel, Kindle Unlimited, Kindle Unlimited Must Read, Kindle Unlimited Reads, Kindle Unlimited Romance, Scott Hildreth with tags , , , , , , , on January 3, 2018 by scottdhildreth

Attention!! “Mister Prick” is LIVE and only 99 cents!! This one is fast-paced, sexy, and intriguing as hell.

Jess has two weaknesses: a good martini and a confident man. She’s also got a big problem: if she doesn’t sell a car in the next two days, she’s going to be evicted from her apartment.

When Vince Devoe walks into the BMW dealership where she works, she’s drawn to his confident strut and handsome looks. During a test drive in a $140,000 BMW, she prays that he buys the car so she can pay her rent. When he tosses enough money into her lap to pay for the it in cash, she raises a cautionary eyebrow.

When he offers to buy her a celebratory drink, she eagerly accepts.

Little does she know, Vince Devoe doesn’t earn his money legitimately, and he only drinks one kind of drink.


BAKER- the first four chapters, FREE!!!

Posted in Scott Hildreth on October 25, 2017 by scottdhildreth






I sat at the foot of the bed, petrified. My eyes followed him as he paced the floor. His hand gripped his pistol so firmly that his knuckles had gone white. It was the second time in the last year that I’d had a loaded gun shoved in my face.

The first time it happened was still the subject matter of recurring nightmares.

“Do you think because of who I am that you’re safe?” He cackled a sinister laugh. “That there’s some code? An oath I’ve taken that’ll prevent me from hurting you? Is that what you’re thinking?”

It had crossed my mind. I had no idea how to respond. His tight jaw and fiery eyes warned me that reasoning with him wasn’t a remote possibility.

I wanted Baker to walk in. To see what was happening. There would be hell to pay, I was sure of it. My eyes drifted to the century-old grandfather clock situated beside the dresser.


He wouldn’t be home for an hour. My heart fell into the pit of my stomach. It was an hour I was sure the pistol-wielding maniac wasn’t willing to give.

I scanned through the memories of every cop show I’d binge watched on Netflix. I hated admitting it, but I was a hostage. I needed to downplay the situation. To reassure him that hurting me wasn’t in his best interest. Then, negotiations could begin.

Swallowing my fear would be step one. I could talk in circles – and easily buy an hour’s time – if I could get past my dry tongue and the knot in my throat that was choking me from speaking.

“Hurting me is not the answer. I’ll comply.” As the words came out, my stomach convulsed. The bitter taste of the inevitable rose in my throat. I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth and swallowed heavily. “I can assure you that you won’t have to–”

He paused and wagged the barrel of the pistol at me. “To protect me and my brothers, I’ll do whatever’s necessary. I can’t risk forfeiting the time we’ve put into this operation.”

“I have no…I’ve got…I don’t know what you want,” I stammered.

“You’re going to talk,” he said through his teeth. “Believe me, you’ll talk, or you’ll wish you had.”

“Just tell me what you want to know.” My voice faltered. “I’ll…I’ll do my best.”

He glared at me. With each swing of the clock’s pendulum, his eyes thinned a little more. “Tell me what you know about the operation. Every word you’ve overheard. What you know, and what you think you know. Everything.”

I had no idea what he was talking about. “I don’t know anything,” I whispered. “I swear. He doesn’t tell me–”

He stepped so close I could taste his breath. Then, he raised the pistol and pointed it at my head. “Why are you in here snooping around?”

I closed my eyes. Obviously, he had no idea how intimate Baker and I had become. I wasn’t snooping around. I’d become a fixture in Baker’s life. Our relationship had evolved from casual sex to one of exclusivity and imminent love.

I debated with what to tell him. Divulging too much information about my relationship might put Baker at risk. Saying too little wouldn’t justify my presence in his home. I was in a situation where I couldn’t win.

I decided to lie.

I would ad lib my way through it. It was the only way I could protect Baker from the unknown.

“Answer me,” he growled. “Or I’ll put an extra hole in your head.”

I opened my eyes. “I come by on Sundays and cook breakfast. I was just going to get cleaned up and leave when you walked–”

His eyebrows raised. “Sundays, huh?”

I swallowed heavily. “Yeah. I cook–”

He slipped the tip of his finger against the trigger. “Bullshit. You’re here every fucking day. I’ve been watching you. You sneak in and sneak out like you’re hiding something.”

“I uhhm–”

The door behind me opened.

My head swiveled toward the sound.


Upon seeing us, he stopped in his tracks. His eyes darted around the room and then locked on us. “What in the absolute fuck is going on?”

I kept my eyes fixed on Baker. I wondered how he was going to save me. Surely, he’d give me a signal.


I felt the barrel of the gun press against the back of my head. “I’ll kill this bitch. I fucking swear.” He yanked to my feet. “Don’t take another step, Baker.”

“Her?” Baker asked. His hands raised to the sides of his head. “I don’t give a fuck, kill her.

She doesn’t mean anything to me.”

She doesn’t mean anything to me?

With each of those six spoken words, a dagger was thrust into my heart. How could he say such a thing?

My assailant pulled me close. My back slammed against his chest. Now facing Baker, I searched his face for answers. His eyes were fixed on the man who towered over me, but offered nothing to ease the pain of what he’d said.

“I’m not fucking around, Baker. I’ll put one in the back of this bitch’s head.”

Slowly, Baker lowered his hands.

The pistol pressed hard against the base of my skull. “Keep your hands where I can see them, Baker.”

She doesn’t mean anything to me. The words echoed in my mind. Then, it dawned on me. That was his sign. He had a plan, I simply didn’t know what it was. Whatever it was, it was going to have to be precise. One wrong move, and I would be nothing but a memory.

I closed my eyes.

Please. Guide me through this. Help me understand what it is that I need to…

The explosive sound of the gun firing caused my heart to stop.

The feeling of warm blood running down my neck followed.

Then, everything went black.




Six months ago.

I stroked my beard with the web of my hand and waited for Cash to respond. His eyes were fixed on the floor. After a long pause, he looked up.

“We don’t kill women, children, or the elderly,” he said under his breath.

What he did was unacceptable. As the president of Devil’s Disciples MC, I had many responsibilities. Keeping my men out of prison was one of them. Being a babysitter wasn’t. I demanded that everyone follow the rules outlined in the club’s bylaws. If they couldn’t – or wouldn’t – there was no place for them in the MC.

Leniency wasn’t a strength I possessed.

I studied him. An intimidating man to outsiders, he was lean and muscular with jet-black hair that obscured his eyes when he didn’t take the time to clear it away from his face.

His jaw was sparsely covered in a light scruff, and his olive-colored skin was spotted with tattoos. His dark eyes were triangular, making it easy to mistake him for a Pacific Islander, but he swore he was Irish.

If he was, it would explain the temper.

“You understand the importance of that rule, don’t you?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Suppose so.”

I pushed my chair away from my desk and stood. “You suppose so?”

“I guess so.”

“You’re guessing?” I walked around the corner of my desk. “You know how I hate guessing.”

“What the fuck, Baker? It was an accident.”

“You expect me to believe you fired that weapon on accident?” I narrowed my gaze. “You left a bullet buried in the cabinet beside that bank teller’s shoulder.”

“I don’t care if you believe it or not,” he snapped back. “That’s what happened. It was an accident.”

“If you’re prone to discharging your weapon on accident, maybe this club isn’t the best place for you. I can’t put the rest of the men at risk, Cash.”

He looked me over as if sizing me up. “What are you saying?”

“I just said it. I can’t put the men at risk. You know the rules. Only point where you intend to shoot, and only shoot who you intend to kill. No women, no children, and no old people. It’s a pretty simple set of rules. You’re lucky you didn’t kill her. If you had, we’d all be facing murder charges.”

“It was a fucking accident,” he insisted. “It won’t happen again.”

Our club was a close-knit group of men who were friends long before we chose to prove our alliance to one another by donning leather jackets and getting matching tattoos. My friendship with Cash began in kindergarten. He made the mistake of challenging me on the playground. An ass whipping ensued.

As much a kindergartner could administer, anyway.

We’d been friends ever since. Friendship didn’t afford him a pass for putting the club at risk, though. We had a strict set of rules we followed, one of which was indexing our weapons when we were on the job.

Indexing – or carrying the weapon with the index finger out of the trigger guard – was a crucial step in preventing gun related accidents from happening.

I gestured at his right hand. “If you were indexing your weapon, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Accident, motherfucker. It was a fucking ac-ci-den-t. I’m done talking about it.” He folded his arms over his chest. “She was a mouthy bitch, anyway.”

“She was doing her job.”

“She was mouthy.”

“She was trying to protect the bank’s interest.”

“Fuck her,” he hissed. “It’s insured by the feds.”

“Sounds like she got under your skin.”

“I was sick of listening to her.”

“It wasn’t an accident, was it?”

“If I wanted to shoot her, I would have shot her. Right in her shit-talking mouth.”

“It wasn’t an accident, was it?” I asked mockingly.

He chuckled a dry laugh, and then cut it short. “Yes, it was.”

I turned toward the window. Three stories down, the street was lined with parked cars, most of which disappeared at five o’clock when the work day ended. I scanned the block while Ben Harper’s Burn One Down played. When the song was over, I turned to face him.

He’d done little to convince me it was an accident. I suspected his temper got in the way of him doing his job.

“Your cut will be reflective of that accident,” I said in a dry tone. “Mistake. Poor judgement. Temper tantrum. Whatever you want to call it.”

He scooped the hair away from his eyes and shot me a glare. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I’m not.”

“How much you going to cut me?”

“Enough that we don’t have this conversation again. No matter how much someone gets under your skin.”

“Fuck that bitch,” he said through his teeth. “She was trying to give me the bait money.”

I gave him a sideways look. “If the tables were turned, tell me what you’d have done.”

“If I was her?”

“If you were her. What would you have done?”

His eyes searched the floor for a moment. “I’d have given the thief the bait money.” He tilted his head to the side and raised both eyebrows. “But I wouldn’t have made it so obvious.”

I spit a laugh on the floor between us.

His eyes thinned. “What?”

“You’d follow the conditions of employment at the bank, but you won’t follow them with the club?”

“She was an irritating bitch.”

“It wasn’t an accident, was it?”

“Yeah.” He grinned a sly grin. “It was.”

It wasn’t an accident, and I knew it. “Whatever you want to call it, it’s going to cost you roughly fifty-three thousand bucks. After the club’s paid, that’s seventy-five percent of your take.”

“God damn it, Baker,” he seethed.

“It’s not negotiable. I’ll announce it to the club on Wednesday.”

“Fine. But that bitch better hope I never see her on the street.”

The job was in Indio. The odds of him ever seeing her again were nil at best. “She’s a hundred and fifty miles from here, so we won’t have to worry about that, will we?”

“It’s a good thing.” He tapped the tip of his index finger against his forehead. “Because the next one’ll be between her eyes.”



Present day.

“I’m afraid there’s been a mistake.” He shook his head so lightly it seemed unintentional.

“I hate to say it, but I believe you were called in by accident.”

My heart sank. “Accident?”

“You have no property management experience? Is that correct?”

“Yes, Sir. I mean, no, Sir,” I stammered. “I have no experience, but I believe I’m more than qualified. In fact, I’m convinced I’ll better serve you in this position than anyone else you’ll interview. I’m sure of it. Quite sure.”

I was three minutes into the most important job interview of my life. A job I had no experience at. The Notice to Vacate I’d recently been forced to comply with was all the motivation I needed to convince the old man on the other side of the desk to hire me.

He held my resumé at arm’s length. His brow wrinkled. “I don’t know why she prints these things like this. It’s too small to read.”

He picked up a pair of wire-framed glasses and stretched the curved earpieces over the back of each of his ears. For just shy of eternity, he studied my sparse work history through the thick lenses. When he finished, he placed the resumé on the side of his desk and set his glasses on top of it.

“You are Andy Winslow, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Yes, Sir.”

“I’ve got to be honest, Andy. When I told Nadine to call you in for an interview, I thought you were a man.”

“I’m one hundred percent woman. All 134 pounds of me,” I said playfully.

His face remained expressionless.

“Does being a woman prevent me from being considered?”

“I suppose not. It’s just that I can’t see how a business management degree – and a few years of experience as a bartender while you were in college – can prepare you to manage two pieces of property that are filled with demanding tenants.” He waved a dismissive hand at my resumé. “Is this the extent of your job experience?”

My qualifications were bleak at best. For fear of tarnishing my otherwise spotless background, I hadn’t bothered listing the job I’d been fired from recently. Excluding it, my life’s experiences – in respect to work – were listed.

“Yes, Sir. But that sheet of paper isn’t reflective of my abilities at all.” I stood and removed a hair tie from my purse. “Give me your best demanding tenant impersonation.”

His eyes thinned. “Pardon me?”

“You’re an angry tenant. I’m the property manager. Go.”

He looked at me as if I was crazy. “I don’t think this is–”

“I’m serious.” I twisted my hair into place. “You don’t think I’m qualified, and I think I am. Try me.”

He crossed his arms, and then looked me over. “My air conditioner quit, and I need to get someone to look at it right away,” he said, his tone coarse and challenging. “I’ve got family coming in from Michigan, and I can’t wait all damned weekend.”

I gave him a stern look, and dropped my voice a few octaves. “It’s Friday, Mister Greene. You and I both know that getting someone to come look at the air conditioner on Friday at six o’clock is going to be impossible. Rest assured I’ll get it resolved as soon as I can. Have you noticed the fan making any funny noises, or have you seen any signs of backed up condensation?”

“I haven’t noticed, no.”

I cocked my hip and looked him up and down. “You haven’t noticed, or you haven’t paid attention? You do realize it’s your responsibility, not ours, to clean the condensation pan, don’t you?”

One side of his mouth curled into a half-assed grin. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. “I thought you had no experience at this?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I don’t.”

“How do you know what a condensation pan is?”

“My father owns a heating and air business.”

He stood and cleared his throat. “I’ve been seeing bugs every time I come home at night. I need you to get this place sprayed–”

“Pest control is a preventative measure, not a reactionary one. It’s performed quarterly. We treated the building in June. I’m sure whatever you’ve seen is on the verge of death. If not, we’ll make sure they are in September, when we treat it next. Anything else?”

His eyebrows raised. “Let me guess. Your knowledge of pest control comes from an uncle who’s an exterminator?”

“No. I lived in an apartment. Every time I called them about roaches, that’s what they would tell me.”

He let out a sigh and then lowered himself into his chair. “I’m not convinced hiring you is the answer–”

“That’s funny. I’m convinced if you don’t, you’ll regret it.”

His brows knitted together. “I’ll regret it?”


“I’m sixty-seven years old, and I can count my life’s regret with one finger.”

“That’ll all change if you hire someone else,” I assured him. “You’ll reach a point of regret.”

He leaned back in his chair and looked down his nose at me. “Is that a fact?”

“If you could see beyond my feminine exterior, you’d realize how valuable and man-like I am. I cuss like a sailor. I can easily out-drink a Russian peasant. I’m loyal, but not to a point of fault. For me, honesty is second nature. I’ll argue until I’m exhausted if I think I’m right. If I’m proven wrong, I’ll admit it promptly. I earn the respect of those around me by knowing when to listen and when to speak–”

“Why are you speaking?” he asked. “Right now?”

“Because you’re not one hundred percent convinced you want to let me leave.”

“What makes you think that?”

I gestured toward his desk. “You’ve got three piles of resumés on your desk. I’m guessing one is the people you’ve interviewed. One is applicants. The other is the pool of interviewees you’ll be picking from. You’ve got no less than ten resumés in each pile. Yet, you’re still talking to me. Furthermore, my resumé isn’t in a pile. It’s at the edge of your desk. Apparently, you haven’t decided what to do with me yet.”

A low chuckle escaped him. “What’s your favorite cuss word?”

“Cocksucker,” I responded dryly.

He choked on his laugh. “Type of whiskey?”

“Single malt scotch. Macallan. Neat.”

He sighed lightly. It was apparent he was entertained. Nonetheless, he pushed the dagger in a little deeper. “You lack experience, Miss Winslow.”

“You called me in for an interview despite that lack of experience. Because you thought I was a man. Right now, I think the idea of hiring a woman for the position intrigues you. You’re hoping to come up with something to convince you it’s a bad idea, but so far, you haven’t.”

“I’m impressed by your ability to ad lib and fascinated by your intellect, Andy. I’m simply afraid your lack of experience is enough–”

“I Googled you before I came. Your properties are on J Street and Westside Drive. What do they rent for? Three grand a month? Four?”

His face washed with pride. He lifted his chin slightly. “The building on J Street is primarily office space. The average rent is around ten grand. Between three and five for the living spaces on Westside, depending on square footage. Why?”

“They’re not filled with roaches, and the air conditioner isn’t on the way out. Your properties are immaculate, I saw the pictures on your website. There’ll be problems, sure, but not of the variety we’ve discussed. You need a dynamic leader with strong business, marketing and management sense. That’s what your ad said. I graduated Magna Cum Laude from USC. There’ll be a senior property manager above me. I’d act as the buffer between him and the contractors, suppliers, and tenants. No one will manage your money better than me, Mister Greene. Nobody.”

“I like you,” he said with a smile. “It’s hard not to. Now that you’ve mentioned it, I’ll touch base on something you said earlier. That one regret I spoke of? I’ll tell you what it is. After spending the majority of my adult life single, I married a woman who was considerably younger than me. She spent money as if it grew on trees. Damned near drove me into bankruptcy before I realized what was happening. Right or wrong, I simply don’t trust women with my money. I have my doubts you’ll be frugal.”

Acting indifferent to his remark, I walked past his desk and gazed down at the street. The bicycle I’d resorted to use as transportation – because I could no longer afford insurance for my car – was chained to the corner lamp post. At the curb in front of it, someone’s spotless red Ferrari caught my attention.

I glanced over my shoulder. “Come here for a minute.”

“Excuse me?”

“I want you to see something.”

I gestured to the lamp post at the corner of the street. “See that bicycle chained to that post?”

He peered over my shoulder. “The one with the basket on it?”

“That’s the one.”

“What about it?”

“That’s my transportation. My only transportation.” I pulled a Think Thin protein bar from my purse. “And, this is lunch. Frugality is my middle name.”

The look of uncertainty that he’d been wearing diminished. It hadn’t vanished, but it was close. He was considering me, I was sure of it. All I needed to do was push him over the edge of the indecisive cliff he was standing on.

“If you hire me right now, I’ll make you an offer,” I said. “But it’s only good if you take it before I walk out of here. Your ad said the position paid eighty-five thousand a year. I’ll take it for seventy thousand for the first year. At the beginning of year two, either fire me, or bring my wages in line with what they would have been if you paid me the eighty-five.”

“That’s an interesting offer.”

I turned toward the door. It was a huge risk, but I began walking, nonetheless. “You’ve got about ten seconds to decide on whether a twelve hundred and fifty dollar a month savings is attractive to you or not.”

Without looking back, I took one predictable step after the other. Six feet from stepping into the hallway, he stopped me.

“You’re hired,” he announced.

I spun around. “Thank you. You won’t regret it.”

He tilted his head toward the window. “Is that really your bicycle?”

“No,” I said with a wink. “I’m driving the red Ferrari.”






The owner of a coin-operated carwash has a license to launder money. The income is one hundred percent cash, and can easily be manipulated one way or the other. Filtering a few hundred thousand dollars of ill-gotten gains a year through one was an easy task that couldn’t be traced.

I owned three of them, but I was far from a businessman.

I was the president of a motorcycle club, an outlaw, and a thief.

A professional thief.

Nonetheless, I needed an office to make my business appear legitimate. So, I leased a three-story building within walking distance of the San Diego Bay. The upper floor was my office. The second floor served as my place of residence. Below that was the Devils Disciples clubhouse. Beneath the clubhouse was an underground parking garage.

We used the parking garage to store our motorcycle collection and a few exotic cars. The clubhouse was primarily for drinking beer, relaxing, and an occasional party. The office was reserved as my escape from society, and for planning robberies.

On paper, the men in the MC were employees of the company. They received paychecks, paid their taxes, and were seen from time to time performing maintenance on the car washes they managed.

Logistically speaking – at least for me – having the operation in one facility was problematic. There was no escaping the men in the club, regardless of what time of day it was. As a result, I lived and breathed the MC.

Wearing a guilty smile, Cash sauntered into my office with one hand hidden behind his back. Half the distance to my desk, he paused and arched an eyebrow.

I shot from my seat, pulled my knife from my pocket, and flicked the blade open with my thumb. “If you’ve got another snake behind your back, I’ll cut you. Again. I guarantee you it’ll be worse than the last time.”

“Settle down. And put up the blade, motherfucker.” His grin widened. “You’re gonna love it.”

“I’m not kidding, Cash.” I took a few steps back. “I’ll cut you and carve that snake into chunks.”

“It’s not a snake. It’s an idea.”

I nodded toward his missing hand. “You’ve got an idea in your back pocket?”

“Not exactly. Well, kind of.”

“Let’s see it.”

He took a few steps in my direction. “You’re going to like it.”

“So far I’m not impressed.”

He produced his hand. A business card was wedged between his fingers. He tossed it on the desk. I picked it up, read the face of it, and then flipped it over. A rudimentary hand-drawn diamond and a shitty sketch of a gold coin adorned the back. Apparently, the graphic designer was a six-year-old child.

“Pat’s Gold and Diamond Exchange.” I sat down and gestured toward the empty chair on the other side of my desk. “Let me guess. You bought a wedding ring, and you’re going to marry that stripper from Oceanside. What’s her name? The one with the extra nipple? Crystal?”

He gave me a cross look, and then sat. “It’s a mole.”

I tossed the card across the desk. “A nipple-shaped mole that sits right beside her mole-shaped nipple.”

“Fuck you, Baker. She can’t help it.”

“You doing it in June, or is that too cliché?”

His face formed a defiant scowl. “That place is getting a new alarm system.”

“The strip club? What’s the name of it?” I tapped my index finger against my pursed lips a few times, and then met his gaze. “The Main Attraction?”

“No, god damn it. Pat’s Gold and Diamond Exchange. It’s a shit-hole in Rainbow. A really busy shit-hole. And, he’s getting a new alarm.”

“That little town between Escondido and Temecula?”

“That’s it.”

Following Cash’s logic was like comprehending Nuclear Physics. It wasn’t impossible, but it required far more work than I was willing to devote. So far, I’d completely lost interest in his story. My head began to throb. I rubbed my temples with my fingertips and closed my eyes.

“You getting a migraine again?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I whispered.

“That sucks?”

“I think I know what causes them.”

“What’s that?”

I opened my eyes. “You.”

“Fuck you, dude.” He nodded my direction, and then raked his fingers through his hair.

“It’s probably because you don’t jack off.”

“Stroking my meat isn’t the answer.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Might be.”

“You think if I start pulling my pud, my headaches will disappear?”

“They might. There’s a reason everyone does it.”

Everyone doesn’t do it. Do you see Tibetan Monks walking around rubbing their temples?”

His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t respond. It seemed I’d completely lost him.

“Masturbation is forbidden,” I explained. “But they don’t walk around rubbing their temples, do they?”

His face went blank. “Huh?”

I shook my head and swallowed my desire to laugh. “Never mind.”

“You should try it for a few weeks and see if they stop.”

“You should try leaving yours alone, and see if you gain a few ounces of common sense.”

“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“When you walked in, you looked like you were hiding Coca Cola’s mysterious original recipe behind your back. Then, you tossed me a business card that some second grader designed. After an exhausting question and answer session, I’ve learned that some shitty little jewelry shop in Fuckwater, California is getting a new alarm system. You’ve wasted fifteen minutes of my morning, and I’ve learned nothing. Why can’t you just say what it is you want to say?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “It’s more fun this way?”

“For you, maybe. Any chance you can hit the highlights of what it is that I’m supposed to get excited about?”

“Pat’s place takes in about fifty grand a week in gold, and another ten or twenty in diamonds,” he said excitedly. “He’s got a steady stream of customers from SD, Vegas, and LA, because he doesn’t ask questions and he doesn’t do receipts unless you ask.”

I looked at him in disbelief. “How in the hell do you know what his income is?”

“Dumb fucker said so.”

“Okay. Let’s say Pat has a banner day. We hit him before he makes his drop. Then, after we pay for expenses and fuel, we’ll split forty-five grand six ways. That’s seventy-five hundred each if we’re lucky.” I gazed at the ceiling, stroked my beard a few times, and then met his gaze. “Sorry, I’m not interested. We can make that much hitting a fucking taco truck in Salinas.”

“He doesn’t make drops.”

A drop was when a business took their cash to another location and made a deposit. Typically, it was done every day – and never at the same time – which made knowing when they were going to be flush with cash difficult. For someone to have tremendous income and make infrequent drops meant that they’d have an inordinate amount of money on hand.

Money that could be ours.

“Everyone makes drops,” I argued. “What do you mean he doesn’t make drops?”

“He doesn’t make drops.”

My interest was piqued. I straightened my posture. “Ever?”


“Define rarely.”

“One-eyed Pete went in there two weeks ago after that guy in Reno paid him back on that loan.”

“For the slot machines he reconditioned?”

“Yep. The owner of that underground casino paid him with a gold bar. So, he goes into Pat’s and Pat agrees to buy it–”

“A hundred-gram bar, or a four hundred troy ounce bar?”

“How the fuck would I know? All I know is that Pat paid him four hundred fifty grand for it.” he arched an eyebrow. “In cash.”

He’d garnered my interest. All of it. “You’re telling me he keeps that kind of cash on hand?”

“I’m telling you what I know.” He extended his index finger. “He’s getting a new alarm.”

He raised his middle finger. “And, he paid One-eyed Pete damned near half a million in cash.”

“Any word on why he’s getting a new alarm?”

“Told Pete he’s getting some state of the art shit. Sounds like he’s getting’ nervous. The dumb fuck just offered that up while he was in there.”

“When’s he getting it?”

“Not sure. I told you what I know.”

If Cash was right, the take from the job could easily be in the millions. The thought of it filled me with nervous energy. I needed to calm down, devise a way to disable the alarm, and develop a plan to rid Pat’s Gold and Diamond Exchange of its wealth.

“Reno and Goose are downstairs pulling the motor out of Goose’s Shovel,” I said. “Tito’s supposed to be here in an hour or two. When he gets here, bring him up here. We’ll see what we can figure out with the alarm.”

“So, you’re interested?”

“Fuck yes, I’m interested.”

The ear to ear grin returned. “Headache’s gone, huh?”

Miraculously, it was. I nodded. “It is.”

“I’ll holler at ya when Tito makes it in.” He stood and turned toward the door. “You should really try whacking off, though. Do it while you’re staring out that window of yours.”

“I’m doing just fine, thanks.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “I whack off twice a day. Can’t remember the last time I had a headache.”

“I doubt there’s a correlation.”

He shrugged and walked through the doorway. “Never know.”

Anxious about Pat’s Gold and Jewelry, I went to the window and peered down at the street. As I gazed blankly at the morning traffic, Ray Lamontagne’s Jolene played softly over the sound system. Like Ray Lamontagne, I needed something to hold onto, I just wasn’t sure what it was.

I’d solved countless problems staring out at the San Diego skyline, but by no means all of them. The window was my place of refuge, and the men knew it. When I was there, I was off-limits.

As the song ended, my eyes came into focus. At that same instant, a woman on a bicycle rolled to a stop at the bike rack by the corner. After locking her bike to the rack, she removed her sneakers, put them in her purse, and slipped on a pair of dress shoes.

From my vantage point, she looked cute, but I had yet to see her entire face.

She removed something from her purse, gathered her hair in her hands, and then looked right at me as she pinned it into place. She was drop-dead gorgeous. Gorgeous, and familiar as fuck.

Frozen, I stared back at her in sheer disbelief. My stomach twisted into a knot. It had been six months since I’d last seen her, but I never forgot the faces of our club’s victims.

I took a quick step away from the window, blinked my eyes a few times, and then leaned forward.

The sidewalk was empty.

I hoped that my migraines were causing me to hallucinate. I stumbled to my desk, sat down, and pressed the tips of my fingers against my temples.

The odds of it being her were astronomical.

If it was her, I had more problems than I was ready to admit. The first of which was making sure Cash didn’t see her before I figured out a way to get rid of her.


Moving from my apartment in Indio to my cousin’s home in San Diego was embarrassing at first. I now viewed it as a godsend.

To many in Southern California, riding a bicycle was a way of life. Throughout my job search in Indio, it was belittling. Each block I pedaled through, it seemed people turned and stared. Their glares and gestures stood as a constant reminder that I’d been fired, couldn’t find a replacement job, and was one of the city’s population that assembled

California’s five percent unemployment rate.

Thrust into the melting pot of San Diego’s Prius and Tesla driving millions, I became invisible. I was simply another eco-friendly traveler.

I locked my bike to the rack, and debated what to do with my hair. While clipping it into a managerial messy bun, I tilted my head back for one last look at San Diego’s clear blue sky before I entered the building.

Sweet fucking Jesus.

Sex on a stick was peering out of the third story window directly above me. My eyes didn’t linger for long, but it only took an instant to realize he was tattooed, wore an awesome beard, and was handsome as hell. Paralyzed by the thought of the sexual journey he and I could take together, I stared back at him with an open mouth.

He rubbed his tattooed fingers against his temples and turned away.

As fate would have it, his building adjoined my new place of employ in a long line of three-story businesses that extended the length of the block. Each had a different address, but they were all part of the same complex.

I filed his likeness in my dildo dossier and wondered if gawking at him would become a permanent part of my morning routine. If not, I’d at least pleasure myself to a mental image of him until my recollection faded to nothing.

Or until one of my cousin’s screaming kids banged on the bathroom door.

I ducked through the doorway and hustled up the two flights of stairs. A steel door with a Manager’s Office sign on it let me know I’d reached my destination. I pushed against it, but it didn’t budge.

I thrust my hip into it. It swung open with a bang!

“Jesus!” A nondescript man spun around and looked at me with bulging eyes. “You scared the fuck clean out of me.”

He wore clothes that had suited garden-variety men for decades, had ho-hum brown hair, an average build, wasn’t short, and was by no means tall. I scanned his face for a distinguishable feature and found not one thing that separated him from the masses of middle-aged men I’d met in my life.

He studied me while I tried to decide how and where to categorize him. He was in his late fifties and was wearing faded jeans. A powder blue button-down shirt that fit much tighter in the stomach than it did in the shoulders topped off his ensemble.

I looked at his feet.


I’d encountered Mister Average.

He stood in front of an awesome display of office furniture that was situated along a brick wall. I pushed the door closed and smiled. “Hi. I’m Andy. Andy Winslow.”

“Just about shit myself when you slung that door open.” He extended his hand. “Mort Hicks.”

I gave him a firm handshake. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” He turned away and walked toward the large desk that was behind him. “I’m the senior property manager. He told me you’d be here this morning. Said you were a scotch drinker.”

“Mister Greene?”

“His name’s Pale,” he murmured.

I scrunched my nose. “His name is Pale Greene?”

He faced me and laughed. “Kale. With a K. Kale Greene. Always liked saying it. Beats the shit out of Mort.”

“Mort’s an awesome name.” I tilted my head to the side and peered beyond him. Contemporary office furniture fashioned out of weathered wood and stainless steel lined the far wall.

“Who uhhm.” I wagged my finger toward the desk. “Who works here?”

“Property manager.”

“Property manager you, or property manager me?”

“That’d be you.” He stepped aside. “Do you like it?”

“The office?”

He waved his hand toward the wall. “The new furniture. Kale had that shit delivered this weekend. Said he didn’t want you using that stuff that was in here. Good call, far as I’m concerned. Never know what that last dip-shit wiped on it or snorted off it. He was a real winner.”

“The last property manager?”

He sat against the front edge of the desk. “Went by Preston, but his name was Todd. Cops came in and got him three weeks ago, Wednesday. Feds. That’s why that door’s so hard to open. They busted the old one off the wall, frame and all. New one fits like a saddle on a pig. That’ll be your first project. Get someone to fix that.”

“Oh. Wow.”

“Wow’s right. I come in this place maybe once a week, and I’ll be dipped in chocolate and rolled in roasted nuts if I wasn’t standing right here when that screaming bunch of bastards came bustin’ in here. Blew one of those flash-bang things right there where you’re standing. Made me blind and deaf at the same damned time. Peed a little, too, but it was unintentional. Next thing I know, there’s thirty screaming fuckers in here with machineguns.”

The thought of standing in the exact spot where the flash-bang grenade went off was pretty awesome – the machineguns and screaming feds only made it better. I wondered what Preston-Todd had hidden in the old desk, and wished they hadn’t hauled it off yet.

“Holy crap,” I said. “Kale didn’t tell me that.”

He stood up straight and stretched. “Suppose not.”

“So, I work in here, and you don’t? I’m here alone?”

He looked me up and down. “Don’t seem like the type that needs your hand held.”

“I’m not. I was just–”

“I’m in here once a week. On Wednesdays, unless you need me for something. Kale owns about ten times this much property, and I’m the senior manager of it all. Shit. I go from Chino Hills to Chula Vista, and everywhere in between. I’m the guy you call if you can’t figure out who to call. Doubt you’ll need much, though. We’re at ninety-nine percent occupied now. Only place left to lease is the one Todd was in. 3A.”

“It’s in this building?”

He pointed at the ceiling. “Right above us. Had the door fixed on it, too. Busted it at the exact same time they busted this one. Guess that’s how they do it. Keep a fella from getting’ past ‘em, I suppose.”

Police tactics fascinated me. I shrugged into my shoulder. “I imagine so.”

“Andy your real name?” he asked.

“It is. Is Mort yours?”

“Everybody asks. Sure is. Weird, huh?”

“Your name?”


“I like it,” I said.

He scoffed. “Makes one of us.”

He still looked just shy of average, but I was quickly coming to like him. His personality did what his features never would. It made me smile. I decided to categorize him with the father from A Christmas Story, and Clint Eastwood’s character, Walt Kowalski, from Gran Torino. He was funny without trying to be, and I really liked him so far.

We spent the next two hours talking about my duties, what to expect, and how to resolve any issue that might come about.

When we were finished talking, he gave me an old-school Rolodex that he’d listed all the important phone numbers in, and then brushed his hands against his faded jeans. “I’ll see you on Wednesday,” he said. “Call me if you need anything.”

I was pleased that he seemed to trust me, and that he didn’t make me feel stupid for being a woman. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“I’m sure you will, too.” He yanked on the door twice before it opened. “See you Wednesday.”

When I was sure he was gone, I took a seat in my new office chair. In no time, a chairgasm set in, and my eyes fell closed. I got up and looked it over. It was an awesome looking piece of furniture as far as chairs were concerned, but it didn’t appear to be as magical in appearance as it was in performance.

I lowered myself into the cloud-like mesh, and swept my hand over the thick wood of my new desk. Irregular, yet smooth, the surface was cool to the touch. I glanced around the office. One wall was painted white, two were vintage brick, and one was nothing but windows. I wondered if decorating was allowed, and got lost in the possibilities.

After deciding that black and white prints would look best, I walked to the glass wall and peered over the stone ledge. Across the street, a few people were walking in each direction. I watched them until they escaped my view, and wondered if they were fixtures in the neighborhood.

A dull thud against the door caused me to turn away from the window. Then, it flew open and hit the brick wall with a whack!

Just like Mort, I about shit myself.

Not because of the door. Because of who stood there staring at me.

It was sex.

On. A. Stick.








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