Archive for the Free Kindle Category

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:
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Hard Corps:


“RIGID” is LIVE! Single Hot Dad Alert!!!

Posted in 2017 kindle unlimited, Best biker romance, Best Kindle Unlimites Reads, Free Kindle, free kindle books, free kindle romance, hot single dad, kindle romance novel, Kindle Unlimited, Kindle Unlimited Reads, Kindle Unlimited Romance, Kindle Unlimited Series, must read kindle unlimited, Must resad Kindle Unimited, Scott Hildreth, sexy ebook, sexy kindle, sexy kindle book, Sexy Kindle Ebook, Sexy Kindle reads with tags , , , , , , , on March 21, 2017 by scottdhildreth

My newest release, RIGID, is LIVE, and already a #1 bestseller. This book hinges around the live of single father/biker Grayson “Smokey” Wallace. He’s an outlaw 1% biker, and a devoted father who has a body to die for, a strong moral compass, and swagger that’ll swoon you with his first step.

Be forewarned, this book is a certified one-handed read, and will set your Kindle ablaze.


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“DIRTY” – FREE CHAPTERS (the first four)

Posted in Forbidden Love, free best selling romance, free chapters, free ebook, free ebooks, Free erotica, free erotica novel, Free Kindle, free kindle books, free kindle na fiction, free kindle romance, Free sex, free smut, Scott Hildreth with tags , , , , on January 17, 2017 by scottdhildreth





Three weeks before my twenty-first birthday, I was kidnapped on my way out of the 7-Eleven. Whatever preconceived notions I may have had of being ripped away from the life I was living were all promptly thrown out the window, because what happened after they took me was much worse than anything I’d conjured up, even in my vilest of nightmares.

They shoved me into a cab of a pickup truck in broad daylight. Although people walked in and out of the busy convenience store, nobody cared enough to do anything.

Hands came from everywhere, touching me in places I reserved for invitation only. Initially, I fought to get away. Each time I did, the man with the tattooed face hit me with his closed fist.

After being punched in the face repeatedly, my desire to try and escape dwindled to nothing.

As they drove me to a house in one of Oceanside’s drug-infested neighborhoods, the smell of my own blood amalgamated with wafts of sweat, beer, and the sheer filth that already inhabited the cab of the truck.

Fearing what may happen once inside the shitty rathole they parked in front of, I kicked and screamed in protest, but they dragged me inside the house by my hair anyway. In the distance, I heard a car trying to start. The smell of something burning momentarily replaced their repulsive scent, but it didn’t last.

I heard children talking, but couldn’t see them.

As I tried to dismiss the odor and appearance of the revolting house that they tossed me into, I concluded that the hellish pit could never be considered a home. Now trapped, and at their mercy, I was left to wonder how everything happened to me while so many people looked on.

The beating I got in the truck was nothing compared to what happened inside the house. The man with the tattooed face hit me in the stomach so hard I vomited. Then, he punched me in the face so hard it blinded me. The beating continued until I collapsed on the floor.

I remained still, hoping he would stop, but what came next was worse. There were four of them inside the house, the man with the tattooed face, another man who was short and muscular, and two grotesque piles of filth that looked like twins.

I was pulled to my feet by my hair, and while I was groped by so many hands that I couldn’t keep track of what was happening, the sound of laughing, shouting, and my own crying filled the air.

The man with the tattooed face cut off my shorts, but he wasn’t careful when he did it. The tip of the blade sank into the skin of my thigh as he slashed at the fabric.

I couldn’t understand why they wouldn’t allow me to simply get undressed, but later decided it must have been part of the process of breaking my spirit.

In just moments, I felt like a week’s time had passed. Once again, I was on the floor.

But this time I was naked.


And incapable of resisting much more.

The filthy twins masturbated on me while the other two men laughed and drank beer. I tried to wipe their release from my skin, but was kicked in the ribs for my effort.

Then, the muscular man forced me to suck his dick.

What begging I had done was met with a quick fist, so I complied, all the while relying on the little strength my prayers offered.

I closed my eyes and wrapped my lips around his flaccid shaft. He didn’t speak English, but through repeated slapping and hand gestures, I realized he wanted me to keep my eyes open.

I couldn’t force myself to look at his dick, or at his face. I fixed my eyes on his hip, and with reluctance, took him into my mouth. As he became more aroused, an obscene scent secreted from his pores. Soon, it seemed to loom over me like a thick cloud.

After he hardened, he pressed his hands against the back of my head and forced himself deep in my throat. With each thrust of his hips, his putrid flesh smashed against my nose. The smell of his cheap cologne mixed with the odor of his existence all but suffocated me.

Each forceful shove made me feel more helpless, less like Alexandra, and, for some strange reason, guilt was overtaking me.

He pounded what little hope I clung to from my grasp.

As much as I continued to tell myself it was okay, it wasn’t. Not even a little bit. It wasn’t sexual, nor was it sensual. I tried to force myself to find a way to accept it, but I couldn’t and I feared I never would.

The forceful blowjob lasted for what seemed like an entire lifetime. It was as if the clock turned at a much slower speed once it all started.

Exhausted, I laid lifeless on the floor. I hoped that it was finally over.

My hope was crushed when the man with the tattooed face snatched me to my feet by my hair. With the barrel of his gun pressed against my temple, he forced me to suck his dick.

With my spirit crushed, and my ability to reason gone, I had no mechanism left to mentally fight against what was happening to me.

So, I complied.

I felt like I was another person, one outside of my body who was watching the former me as she performed these vile acts while the real me was elsewhere.

Somewhere safe.

Surreal wouldn’t come close to describing it.

I may have been scared, but I don’t really know. Not really. I was covered in their cum, their scent, their sweat, and my blood. I don’t remember feeling anything but dirty. It was the kind of dirty that sticks with a person for a lifetime.

The kind of dirty that causes a person to stand in front of the sink and scrub mercilessly in hope of somehow cleansing themselves of the filth that they would later find out had become a part of their very being.

The kind of dirty that soap could never wash away.

I was tossed into a room with windows that were boarded shut, a door that only had a handle on the outside, and a bucket that sat in the corner for seven of us to share as a bathroom.

Other than a few blankets, there wasn’t anything else.

We had no clothes.

No toilet paper.

No tampons.

And, no hope.

The days blurred together. Hope faded, and fear set in. Humiliation followed, but it didn’t last long. A lifetime’s worth of pain replaced it.

Then, the eighth girl joined us. She would be the last.

Somehow, she made it into the room without being sexually assaulted, but had been scared and humiliated to a degree that left her stuttering every time she tried to speak. Later, on the night that she came, the man with the tattoos on his face opened the door and demanded that she come with him.

Cowering in the corner, and in fear of what they were going to rip from her, nine-year-old Marbella clung onto a sliver of hope – and my legs.

Yes. She was nine.

I offered myself in her place, but he only grew angrier.

I offered to suck his cock. When he said no, I insisted on it. I told him I craved it. That I loved feeling him pound himself into my throat. As I spoke to him, I fondled my tits in hope of luring him to accept my offer.

Eventually, he agreed.

While he lowered his pants to his thighs, I knelt in front of him with the splinter of wood I’d pried away from the doorframe cupped tightly in my hand.

As I took him into my mouth, I swung the tip of the wooden spike deep into his thigh.

The butt of his pistol against my skull knocked me senseless for a moment. According to the others, he stumbled away with the promise of returning for Marbella, but that time never came.

Minutes later, there was a gunshot. And then another. I counted fifteen more, and then they stopped.

The bedroom door opened.

A tall muscular man wearing a black baseball cap stood in the doorway.

I glared at him. As the other girls sought shelter behind me, I mentally prepared to do whatever I had to do to protect them from the new monster.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

He knelt on the floor and let out a sigh. I looked at him with jaded eyes, but then a tear rolled down his cheek. It was then that I knew he wasn’t a monster.

“In a moment, you’ll hear a terrible thunder,” he explained. “But don’t be afraid. The men who come with the thunder? They’re angels.”

Ten minutes later, there was a horrendous thunder. A thunder so powerful that it shook the walls and the floor.

Then, one after another, the angels came.



Many of the men in the MC didn’t have jobs. They hustled for their money. Debt collectors, bail bondsmen, skip tracers, custom bike builders, and thugs for hire were some of their careers. Although I was completely devoted to the club, I chose to work for a living, and owned my own company.

Purchasing a home in southern California wasn’t cheap, or easy, but I was getting there one kitchen remodel at a time.

I pointed at the corner of the ceiling. “You see that gap in the crown molding?”

Steve nodded. “You can see it looking straight at it, but from the side, it’s barely–”

“It looks like shit. Redo it.”

He looked at the imperfection and shook his head. “That’ll waste sixteen feet of molding, and that shit’s expensive. You don’t even see it if you’re not looking for it.”

“Fix it. It’s either right, or it’s wrong. And that’s far from right.”

I was a perfectionist to a fault, and my work reflected it.

He let out a sigh. “Jesus. Fine. I’ll replace it.”

I looked around the kitchen. “Rest of it looks good as fuck, huh?”

He nodded. “Big change from when we started.”

After eliminating an interior wall, we’d replaced the cabinets, the flooring, the countertops, and fitted new tile for the backsplashes. What started as a dark and dated kitchen was now bright, open, and inviting.

The owner was away on vacation, and was scheduled to be home in two days. It was my hope to have the job completed before she arrived.

“She’s gonna be happy when she gets home.”

He looked around the kitchen. “She ought to be. This fucker looks like it should be in a magazine.”

The doorbell rang.

Steve and I exchanged a look. He shrugged.

“Fix that molding,” I said. “I’ll answer that on my way out.”

I sauntered to the door, pulled it open, and was surprised to see one of my old neighbors at the door. It wasn’t just any neighbor, it was Lucy.

She still looked every bit as attractive as she did the last time I saw her, and it had been more than ten years since that day passed.

I had a severe crush on her for what seemed like forever. She was tall, had long lean legs, and was built like a brick shithouse. She was ten years older than me, but it didn’t stop me. I crushed on her hard all through high school, and until she moved away a few years later. I never bothered to tell her how I felt, though.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. “Lucy?”

She stood on the porch, clutching her purse and nervously rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet. She forced a smile, and then broke down in tears. After an awkward moment of me not really knowing what to do, she looked up and apologized.

“I’m so sorry to… I hate to bother you,” she said between sobs. “But your…your sister said I could find you here. I uhhm. I don’t. The police, they won’t do anything…I can’t…”

“Slow down.” I reached for her shoulder. “What’s going on?”

She looked up and wiped her eyes. “Lex.” She gulped a breath. “Someone’s taken her.”

I was lost. “What?”

“Lex.” She exhaled heavily. “She was at the 7-Eleven. A bunch of people were there and saw it, but the police haven’t done anything. I just…I thought maybe…you were the only person I could think of…”

Still confused, I reached for her other shoulder, steadied her shaking body, and looked her in the eyes. “Breathe. Just slow down. What’s going on?”

She took a deep breath, held it, and then exhaled. “You remember Lex?”

I shrugged. “No.”


“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Your little sister.”

“She’s not my sister.” Her eyes fell to the porch. “She’s my daughter.”

Now I was really confused. “Alexandra’s your daughter?”

She looked up and nodded. “Yes. And, someone has taken her.”

“What do you mean?”

She brushed her hair away from her tired eyes. “She was at the 7-Eleven. She was uhhm. She was…they kidnapped her. While she was getting in her car.”

“Holy shit.” I released her shoulders and crossed my arms. “Did you talk to the cops?”

The last time I had seen Alexandra, she was eight or nine years old. The thought of her driving didn’t quite register. The thought of her being kidnapped didn’t either.

She nodded. “The cops are a bunch of idiots. The guy at the register saw it all, and he gave a description. I just. With your connections…you know, to the gangs,” she stammered. “I thought maybe…I thought you could…”

“I’m not in a gang anymore,” I said. “Well, not really.”

All the air shot from her lungs. “You’re not? Oh God. I–”

I wanted to comfort her, but didn’t really know what to do. As I considered hugging her, she all but fell against me.

Out of reflex, I wrapped my arms around her and held her close. “Tell me everything you know. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Do you think you can–”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I assured her. “Did you get a good description of the car? Of the guys?”

“Uh huh. They were Mexicans, and they all had tattoos. The guy at the register got a good description of everything, even their tattoos.” She reached into her purse. “I’ve got a copy of the police report.”

If they were Mexicans and had tattoos, my guess was that they were in a gang. If they were, I could find out who they were. I didn’t want to give her any false hope, though.

“I’ll see what I can do,” I said.

She leaned back, wiped away her tears, and then looked at me. Even with her make up running down her cheeks, she was beautiful.

“Thank you,” she said.

I looked her over, and couldn’t help but smile. In ten years, she hadn’t aged a bit. It was sad that her daughter’s disappearance brought us together, but I wasn’t about to complain.

Hell, maybe after I found her daughter I’d take the time to tell her how gorgeous I thought she was.




Standing up to our abductors wasn’t possible. Their overall treatment of us was proof that they wouldn’t hesitate to kill us if we challenged them.

As I was the eldest of the group, I felt obligated to take charge and attempt to protect the others from the wrath of the monsters who held us at their mercy. With limited resources, I had only one bargaining chip.

Offering myself any time the man with tattoos on his face wanted someone for sex.

I reached a point that it didn’t matter. It wasn’t that I didn’t care, because I did. But the only control I had left was to not react. And, not reacting meant nothing mattered.

I wouldn’t allow it to.

I decided I wasn’t going to allow them to cause me any more harm. So, what they did to me became insignificant.

I was done feeling. And, when I was numb, I could protect my captive family.

The minutes clicked passed one by one and managed to eventually shave an hour off the clock. The hours merged into one another, with us whispering stories of who we were and where we were from, and when it finally got quiet, we knew another day had passed.

With each passing day, as the girls went to sleep, I prayed. Not for freedom, for food, or for better conditions, but for strength.

I knew it was going to take a miracle for us to be freed, and I prayed for the strength to live long enough to witness it.

We memorized each other’s names, addresses, and telephone numbers, repeating them over and over while humming a song we made up. If one of us escaped, we were going to tell the authorities each of the other girl’s names and addresses.

We made a pact.

Sarah was the dreamer, and to pass the time and keep everyone’s spirits up, she led a nightly discussion of what we were going to do when we broke free. Our conversations typically included where we were going to eat, who we were going to see, and what being in that horrid place caused us to miss about the freedoms associated with living our day-to-day lives.

The list of the things we’d taken for granted was unbelievably simple.

Me: Being clothed.

Sarah: Sunshine.

Marbella: Her bedroom.

Kate: Going to the bathroom.

Jess: Not having to ration water.

Debby: Food

Leah: Hearing the birds sing.

And, Mary: Taking a walk.

Making simple choices no longer existed, and we were well aware of it. If freed, I told myself I would never again complain about the tag on my tee shirt causing me to itch, or how southern California’s sun baked my pale skin. I’d comply gratefully when my mother asked if I wanted to meet for lunch or go shopping.

Although I took part in the talks, I had very little concern with what my first meal was going to be, or how much I missed my family. My only real worry was survival, but I wasn’t about to share that with the other girls.

Somehow, be it a result of fate or by my insistence that he choose me first, none of them were abused after I was abducted. As a result, they all looked at me as their guardian.

In that type of situation, a person needs something to hold onto. Something that offers hope. A photo or a good luck charm would have been nice, but we had nothing but each other.

So, every night when it got quiet, we huddled in each other’s arms.

And, I prayed.

To live long enough to see the miracle.



The rotten stench of the adrenaline-laced sweat that leached from the pores of drug dealers and their prey lingered in the air. Two stoned Hispanic men who looked like they hadn’t showered in a month were seated on the filthy tan sofa that was shoved against the far wall.

Beside the couch, a broken-down recliner that appeared to be stuck in the recline position sat empty – short of the half-eaten bag of chicharrones that sat on top of the pile of dirty clothes that littered it. The coffee table in the center of the room was covered with the previous night’s beer bottles, money, an electronic scale, a box of granola bars, and enough cocaine to get San Diego high for a year.

In the hallway to my left, a muscular Hispanic man wearing a stained dingy wife beater and khaki-colored Dickies leaned against the wall.

Directly in front of me, a shirtless man who was covered in jailhouse tattoos stood. The teardrop tattoos dripping from his eye let me know he wasn’t going to play nice, and the script tattooed across his muscular chest clearly identified the gang he was in.

Calle 18.

My eyes darted around the room, taking inventory of the threats. As I sized up each of the four men, the one in front of me grabbed a bottle of beer from the coffee table. As he lifted it, I made note of two things:

One, he was left-handed. And, two, there was a cigarette butt floating in the beer.

He took a few steps toward me, limping slightly as he walked.

The fingers of my right hand twitched, and I hoped he didn’t notice.

If he did, he wouldn’t know what it meant. But I knew. It was one of those tells that a professional poker player must hide to prevent the other people at the table from knowing when he’s bluffing.

Not that I was bluffing.

Because I wasn’t.

But my right hand wondered how I was going to get out of the room alive. I’d been in worse situations, I was sure of it. For the life of me, however, I couldn’t remember any of them.

With his eyes locked on mine, he lifted the bottle of beer to his lips, took a drink, and then spit it onto the floor in disgust. He glared at the bottle, and then looked at me.

He cocked his head to the side. “Quien te envio?”

Who sent you?

I pulled my hat down a little tighter and then shrugged. “No habla espanol.”

It was a lie. I spoke Spanish fluently, but at least one of them spoke broken English, I was sure of it. Speaking something other than their native tongue would keep those who didn’t speak English a few steps behind, and I needed all the help I could get.

He tossed the bottle onto the floor beside the table. As it belched out the remaining contents onto the carpet, he cleared his throat, and met my gaze.

His eyes fell to my feet, and then slowly rose the length of my frame. “Who seent jew?”

I locked eyes with him. “El mero chignon.”

No one had sent me. My response was a risk, but a minimal one. Within the ranks of Hispanic gangs, there was always an “el mero chignon.” In Spanish, it meant the head motherfucker, the one in charge, or the top dog.

He grinned and nodded his head, revealing a tattooed lower lip and teeth much whiter than I expected. “What jew want, Homie?”

I took a quick glance at the man in the hallway, and then shifted my eyes back to the shirtless man. I debated on whether to tell him the truth or a lie.

A lie would buy me a little time, but eventually I’d either have to beat the shit out of each of them, kill them, or tell them the truth and hope we could work out some sort of agreement. Regardless of my boxing experience, beating them with my fists– and succeeding – wasn’t really an option.

I brushed my left hand along the tail of my shirt until it was alongside the pistol that was tucked into my waistband and prepared to tell him the truth.

I locked eyes with him. “I’m here for the girl.”

He stared right at me for what seemed like forever. The lack of reaction from the other men led me to believe none of them spoke English.

His eyes went thin. “The girl?”

“Yeah. The girl,” I said flatly. “I’m taking her home.”

He spit out a laugh infused with insanity, and then reached behind his back with his left hand. His movements – at least for that instant – seemed to be in slow-motion.

Maybe it was because it was three in the morning. Or it could have been that he hadn’t slept in days. It very well may have been that he was just that confident that I wasn’t armed.

Regardless, his lackadaisical approach to producing what I expected was a gun left me plenty of time to react.

I pulled my pistol with my left hand at the same time I swung my right fist toward his temple.

My knuckles slammed against the side of his skull, knocking him completely off his feet.

“Que nadie se mueva!” I shouted.

Nobody move!

The man leaning against the wall spun around and began to run toward the back of the house. Letting him get away wasn’t a risk I was willing to take.

I took aim and squeezed the trigger. A thunderous boom expanded throughout room, making the space seem smaller with each passing second.

The would-be escapee fell into a pile in the hallway at the same time the shirtless man crumbled onto the floor at my feet.

I pointed my pistol at the two wide-eyed idiots on the couch.

The one seated on the right nodded toward the table. “Tomo lo que quieras.”

Take whatever you want.

I pressed the sole of my shoe against the shirtless man’s neck and tilted my head to the side. “Alexandra! Get out here!” I shouted. “I’m taking you home!”

The silence that followed left me wondering if I was too early, too late, or had somehow managed to get the wrong house.


With my eyes still fixed on the two couch dwellers, I yelled her name again. “Alexandra!”

The man beneath my foot started to writhe around. As he did, the two men on the couch began to look around the room nervously.


The shirtless man moaned. “Mataré a toda tu puta familia.”

I’ll kill your entire fucking family.

There was no doubt in my mind that he’d follow through with his threat. I pressed the sole of my shoe firmly against his thorax, wishing he would have simply remained quiet.

If asked, the men in my MC wouldn’t describe me as killer. At least not immediately. It wasn’t that I was incapable of it, or that I was unwilling. It simply wasn’t my answer to the majority of the problems I’d faced in my life.

Fighting was my preference, and I was good at it.

But, when someone threatened my family – be it blood or my brothers in the MC – it earned them a one-way ticket to meet their maker.

I pointed the barrel of the pistol at his chest and pulled the trigger.

My eyes shot to the two nasty fuckers on the couch. Wearing what at one time may have been khakis and moldy wife beaters, they looked like living hell. As the air between us thickened with the taste of cordite, I pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth and swallowed hard.

I pointed the pistol at the man on the right. Greasy strands of jet black hair were plastered against the sides of his face. He wiped his eye with the heel of his palm, and then blinked.

“Donde esta la chica?” I asked.

Where’s the girl?        

He shifted his eyes toward the hallway. “Estan al final del pasillo.”

They’re at the end of the hallway.

The response of they instead of she took me off guard.

I raised the barrel of the pistol and pointed it at his face. “Cuantos?”

How many?

He shrugged one shoulder. “Cinco o seis?”

Five or six?

My jaw tightened. I had hoped to find Alexandra. I wasn’t prepared – physically or emotionally – to encounter five or six women.

“Quantos anos?”

How old?

He gazed at the floor, let out an exaggerated sigh, and then looked at me. “Uno es nueve.” He shrugged. “Uno es once. Las otras? Quizas…dieciocho.”

There were fifteen rounds left in the magazine. Upon hearing his response, I pulled the trigger repeatedly, shooting each of the men until all the bullets were spent and the pistol’s slide stayed locked open.

The thought of them having a nine-year-old girl held captive caused every muscle in my body to tense. I released the empty magazine, loaded a full one, and stepped over the dead man sprawled out in the hallway. When I reached the far door, I paused. After taking a deep breath, I grabbed the handle and pushed it open.

Dear fucking God.

An otherwise naked girl who was partially covered with a bedsheet stood with her arms outspread as if protecting the girls who were huddled behind her from harm. She was the tallest, and appeared to be the oldest of the group. Her hollow eyes and bruised face were a testament to the brutality she had experienced during the living hell I was sure she’d endured.

The room, void of any furnishings, reeked of urine, shit, and the scent of sex. I swallowed the bile that was rising into my throat and pushed my pistol into the waist of my pants.

I gazed at the half-naked protector. She looked just like Lucy, only younger. There was no doubt in my mind that she was her daughter, Alexandra.

Before I could speak, she locked eyes with me. “Fuck you,” she hissed. “You’re not taking her. Take me.”

Obviously, she didn’t recognize me, and thought I was one of them. It came as no surprise, I hadn’t seen her in more than ten years.

I raised my hands in the air.

“Don’t be afraid. I’m not here to hurt you.” I tipped my hat up slightly. “Your mother sent me. I’m here to help. I’m going to get you out of here – all of you – but I need to call for some help.”

I had to turn away. Seeing a room filled with petrified pre-teens was far more than my boiling emotions were capable of concealing. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone, and made the only call I knew would do any good.

He answered on the third ring. “What’s shakin’, motherfucker?”

I struggled not to vomit. After swallowing repeatedly, I responded. “Peeb, I need some help. I’m at Fourteenth and Bush in Oceanside. Bike’s out front. I need six – no make it seven – of the fellas here as quick as possible. Tell ‘em each to bring a spare helmet and glasses. They’ll uhhm. They’ll each have a rider on the roll out.”

“How quick’s quick?”

“It’s a 9-1-1, Brother.”

“Headed out now,” he said.


“Yeah, Brother?”

“No kuttes.”

“Come again?”

The club required us to wear kuttes if we were riding, but I didn’t want anyone to be able to identify the MC. Retaliation for what we were doing would be swift if anyone found out who we were.

I glanced into the room. “No kuttes,” I said. “No exceptions. Tell the fellas. If they don’t want to come, I understand. And, another thing. I’m gonna need you to toss some of Tegan’s clothes in your saddle bags.”

“Like what?”

I tried to respond, and almost broke down. After prying my eyes away from the room, I gazed down at the floor and struggled to speak.

“Anything, Brother. I just…I uhhm…”

I knew saying too much on the phone wasn’t a good idea, but I wasn’t satisfied that I’d said enough. Regardless of my desire to continue, doing so wasn’t easy. “It’s a uhhm. Bring some…bring enough clothes to get…to dress eight teenagers,” I muttered. “It’s…I uhhm. They’re all naked, Peeb…I uhhm…I just need some help, Brother.”

I couldn’t say any more. I wanted to, but I simply couldn’t. The lump in my throat wouldn’t let me.

“Hold tight, Brother. Be there in ten.” he said.

All the men in the MC were my brothers, but there was only one who I knew I could count on with no exception, and without question.

Our Sergeant-at-arms, Pee Bee.

I hung up the phone, stepped into the room, and lowered myself to the floor. I glanced at each of the girls, half of which appeared to be Hispanic.

“Habla Ingles?” I asked.

Eight heads nodded.

Undoubtedly scared, but optimistic that whatever was next would be better than their current situation, they looked back at me with eyes filled with hope. I fought against a tear that tried to wedge its way out of my eye, but didn’t succeed.

“In a moment, you’ll hear a terrible thunder.” I opened my arms and widened my eyes. “But don’t be afraid. The men who come with the thunder? They’re angels.”

Although many would argue that statement to be false, I knew better.

And, I was pretty sure in ten minutes, the eight girls in front of me would agree.


We rode two abreast and six deep to the shop. After we rolled into the open garage, the president of the club pulled the door closed behind us.

He looked at me and then at Pee Bee. His eyes thinned to slits. “What in the fuck have we here?”

Crip was a stern man, a solid president, and one tough son-of-a-bitch. But, he was a no-nonsense motherfucker if there ever was one.

I flipped the switch and killed the engine. “It’s on me, Boss.”

He shifted his eyes from Pee Bee to me. “What the fuck’s going on? I got some half-assed message from Peeb that said you’re bringing half-a-dozen teenagers to the shop. I’m not looking to start a God damned day care or some biker babysitting ranch.”

“Calle 18 had them locked in a dope house, Boss. They’d all been kidnapped. It wasn’t pretty.” I lifted my leg over my bike. “We saved ‘em.”

Alexandra got off and stepped to my side. Crip looked at her, and then scanned the group. After taking a few seconds to ponder what he was seeing, his eyes fell to the floor and he let out a long sigh.

“God fucking damn.” He looked up. “Calle 18?”

I nodded. “Yep.”

“Of all the motherfuckers to get into it with…” He crossed his arms and glared at me. “Any reason I didn’t know about this?”

I tilted my head toward Alexandra. “She came up missing a few days back, and her mom came to me and asked if I could find her. After nosing around a bit, I found out who took her. Just went to get her back, and this is what it turned into.”

He glared at me and then waved his arms toward the long line of motorcycles. “So, this wasn’t your plan?”

I shook my head. “Not at all. Had no idea the other girls were there. Thought it was just her.”

As the men got off their bikes and helped the girls to their feet, Crip watched. After seeing all there was to see, he turned to face me. His eyes were filled with anger, but I knew it wasn’t directed at me.

“Need I even ask about the Latino gang you took them from?” he growled.

I shrugged. “You can ask if you want.”

He raised both eyebrows. “I’m fucking asking.”

“Went to the house to see if Alexandra was there, and when I got there I heard a bunch of gunshots, and someone ran past me into the street. White dude with shaved head and a swastika tattooed on his neck. I rushed in and found four of Calle 18’s men dead on the floor. I searched the house, and when I opened the door to the back room, I found these girls. Called the SAA, and him and a few of the fellas showed up to help me get ‘em out of there.”

He rocked back on the balls of his feet and chuckled out a laugh. “Some kid with a swastika?”

I knew better than to tell him the truth in front of the girls. The less they knew about what really happened, the better. To protect the club, myself, and the girls, I stuck to my bullshit story.

I nodded. “Yep.”

He looked at Alexandra.

She shrugged.

He locked eyes with me. “And this swastika guy, he killed the entire household?”


He shook his head. “Fucking fuck. Nastiest bunch of fucking gangbangers in existence, and it just had to be them?”

“Suppose it could have been worse,” I said.

“I don’t know how.” He looked down at the floor for a moment, and then looked up. “We need to get these girls to their families, but they’re not coming here to get them. I can’t expose the club or my men.”

I hadn’t really thought about how we were going to get them to their families without questions being asked.

Crip looked at his watch. “It’s almost four. Get them something to drink, and get them fed. There’s shit in the fridge, make ‘em a sandwich or something. I’ll go rent a fucking van, and you can load ‘em up when I get back. Far as I’m concerned, you can drop ‘em off yourself. Best I can think of. Unless you’ve got a better idea.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said. “Appreciate ya.”

He shook his head and then turned toward Pee Bee. “Where’s your kutte?”

Pee Bee patted his chest and then looked down. He quickly glanced up as if shocked. “Fuck, Boss. I must have forgot it.”

He looked at Lefty. “What about you?”

Lefty shrugged. “Gang members were pimping out teenage girls, Boss. Took off in a hurry, must have left the fucker hanging there at my place.”

He looked at Smokey.

“Mine’s safe and sound at home, Crip,” Smokey said. “Just protecting the fuckin’ club.”

Crip looked at Pee Bee and then at me. “I’m fining each of you $100 for this. You know the rules.”

There were ten of us, total. “I’ll pay the grand,” I said.

“Twelve hundred,” he growled. “There’s twelve of you.”

I shrugged. “Okay.”

“And, you better get their heads together and make up some kind of story about where they’ve been, and how they got rescued. If you don’t, it’ll come back to haunt you. I guarantee you at least one of these girl’s parents talked to the cops. At some point, there’s going to be questions asked.”

In all the commotion, I hadn’t even thought of it. He was right, there would be questions asked, and they’d need to be prepared to answer them without exposing the MC. “I’ll come up with something.”

“Keep it simple,” he said. “It’ll be easier to remember.”

I nodded. “Will do.”

He glared at me for a moment, and then walked toward his bike. As he got on, I noticed he wasn’t wearing the MC’s kutte, only a plain leather vest. It was the first time I’d seen him without it.

I looked at Pee Bee and chuckled. “You notice that?”

Pee Bee nodded. “Told him to lose it. Don’t need anyone pointing fingers at the club.”

As Crip fired up his bike, Alexandra cleared her throat.

“He’s a dick,” she whispered.

I couldn’t argue with her. He was a dick. But he was a dick for a reason. “Yeah. He can be,” I said. “But he’s got his reasons.”

I turned around and faced the group. Eleven of my brothers stood beside their bikes, and seven girls who ranged in age from nine to twenty-one were at their sides. What had happened over the course of the night was staggering when I thought about it.

Pee Bee slid the door open, and after Crip rode through it, he pulled it closed.

I crossed my arms and glanced around the group. “He’s going to get a van, and then I’ll get you all taken home. Your parents can take you to the hospital, or wherever you need to go. Probably be about an hour before we head out. Bathroom’s back there, and there’s food in the fridge.”

I tried to imagine what the girls had been through, but for the life of me, couldn’t come up with anything that I felt could compare to what they’d experienced. As a few of the men led the girls toward the bathroom or the refrigerator, Alexandra looked at mem but didn’t speak. Her eyes couldn’t hide her desire to speak, though.

I raised my eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“I don’t want to go home,” she said. “Not yet.”

“It’ll be an hour or so. You okay?”

She shrugged. “I’ll be okay, but I don’t want to go home.”

Other than having dirty hair, countless bruises, and scrubs that didn’t fit, she looked remarkably normal. It was hard for me to believe she’d been in the position she was in and somehow found a way to maintain anything close to sanity.

She must have been one tough little bitch.

“Where do you want to go?” I asked.

She shrugged. “With you?”

I shook my head. “After I take everyone home, I’m going for a long ride. Need to clear my head.”

“You need to clear your head?” She tossed her leg over my seat and grinned. “So do I. A lot more than you, I’m sure.”

After going through what she did, if she felt a ride would clear her head, who was I to argue?

“You sure you don’t need–”

“I need another ride on this motorcycle,” she said. “It’s hard to explain, but it makes me feel–”

“No need to explain,” I said. “I know exactly what you’re trying to say.”

Her eyes lit up. “So, you’ll take me for a ride?”

I nodded. “As long of one as it takes.”

“Be careful what you promise,” she said.

I wasn’t worried. She’d get sick of riding long before I did, that much I was sure of.



this book can be read on #KindleUnlimited #KU

“SNATCH” is LIVE for those who didn’t get the chance the first time

Posted in Free erotica, free erotica novel, Free Kindle, free kindle books, free kindle romance, Kindle erotica novel, kindle romance novel, Kindle Unlimited, Kindle Unlimited Reads, mind fuck, Mind Fuck Erotica, Mind Fuck novel, Must read erotica, Scott Hildreth, stockholm syndrome novel, Taboo Erotica with tags , , on March 8, 2016 by scottdhildreth

DTSRyan Capshaw doesn’t play the “Fuck, Torture, Kill” game like the rest of us.

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It’s a shame the characters don’t. Well, at least not all of them.


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Posted in free chapters, Free Kindle, free smut, Karter with tags , , on November 12, 2014 by scottdhildreth


“What in the fuck is this? Are you God damned kidding me? Did I tell you to get wet and fucking sandy? Did I? That’s a piss poor excuse for wet and sandy. You’re going to fuck around and kill a team mate, aren’t you?” the instructor bellowed as he pointed at my wet and sparsely sand covered torso.

I closed my eyes, opened my mouth, and attempted to scream, “No sir.”

The sound emitted from my mouth was scratchy and weak. I had completed the five mile run in an unsatisfactory time and was being punished for it. The human mind is incapable of comprehending the depth of the physical conditioning necessary to complete SEAL training. Regardless of a recruit’s intent, devotion, desire or perceived state of readiness prior to arrival, the physical, mental or emotional preparation for what he must endure would be impossible.

“Run back out to the US Navy’s Pacific Ocean and dip yourself in it Jack-off. The Navy built this beach for me to drown you in, did you know that? I’m sick and motherfucking tired of screaming your name. Get wet Jack-off, and get sandy. Wet and fucking sandy. Lives depend on it,” he screamed as he pointed toward the ocean.

The instructor’s voice had become horse during our short duration of training. I was certain the sound of his strained vocal cords was solely due to my lack of ability. He had spent the majority of his time screaming at one person and one person only.


Exhausted, I ran as fast as I could and dove into the ocean face first. As I landed, sand and small sea shells filled my mouth. I closed my eyes to protect them from the salty water and waited for the next wave to wash over me. Now soaked from head to toe, I rose from the beach and ran the distance from the edge of the water to where he stood waiting. Satisfied I would be relieved of my punishment and sent to join the remainder of the class, I planted my boots firmly in the sand and attempted to stand erect. He stared at me as if I had committed a sinful act. His eyes resembled what I expected the devil’s to look like. As his face began to quiver from what was undoubtedly a fit of anger, he opened his mouth and did his best to scream.

“You’re not going to make it. You’re a fucking idiot. Please do us both a favor and D.O.R, Jack-off. I gave you simple fucking instructions, Jack-off. Wet and motherfucking sandy. You ran to my fucking ocean and washed your stupid self off, didn’t you? You took a fucking bath in my God forsaken ocean. Two things, Jack-off. Wet and what? What was your mission?”

I stood and stared, confused.

Go get wet Jack-off and get sandy.


Wet and sandy.

I had forgotten the sandy portion of his instructions. Five days into this phase of training and I would likely be killed by the instructor in a fit of rage. If not, only two and a half more years of punishing training and I would be deployed as a Navy SEAL. I parted my lips and moved my sandy tongue to the roof of my mouth, attempting to clear it of the beaches debris.

“Wet and sandy,” I responded in a gravely tone.

He crossed his arms over his massive chest, “Are you fucking sandy, Jack-off?”

I lieu of responding, I dropped to the surface of the beach as if my legs had been cut from underneath me. Flat on my back, I frantically flipped my arms through the sand, doing my best to cover every respective inch of my wet torso with the small granules. Satisfied my entire body was completely covered, I scooped up a handful of sand and dumped it onto my wet face.


He’s not screaming, he must like what I’m doing.

I reached out and retrieved another handful of official US Navy sand. I opened my mouth and released the sand. As the sand filled my mouth and fell into my throat, his voice broke the silence.

“This is the first thing you only half fucked up today, Jack-off. In the time it took you to complete the task, I’m sure no less than three of your teammates would have been killed. You’re only concerned with yourself. You’re wet and sandy, but three men have died in the process. Outfuckingstanding. Get out of my face. Go away. I feel ill. Your incompetence and lack of desire is making me sick,” he barked.

I jumped to my feet and attempted to run. As I brushed the sand from my eyes, I saw my class standing along the beach in the distance. Assembled into seven man boat crews and holding rubber rafts over their heads, their bodies shook from exhaustion. My tired legs quivered underneath me as I attempted to propel myself forward. As I stumbled toward my class in an unintended zig-zag pattern, my mind filled with wonder. Without a doubt, upon arrival yet another instructor would start punishing me. At least one of the teams would be one man short.

In the eyes of the instructor and the US Navy, a boat crew was one man short. In my mind this class would always be one man short.

Graham and I had agreed to join the Navy together. We went to the barber and had our long locks of hair buzzed off as a team. We walked into the recruiter’s office side-by-side, and after an assurance of being able to receive our training together, joined under the US Navy’s buddy program. We were inseparable. We were invincible. We were best friends. Settling for nothing short of becoming Navy SEALs, we began training at home as we waited for the day we were scheduled to ship off.

Graham never made it to training. An accident two weeks before shipping out ended his life at eighteen years of age.

I closed my eyes and attempted to find a few ounces of inner strength. As my boots dug into the loose sand, I swung my arms and screamed. Now in an all-out run toward my class, I mentally prepared myself for what may be next.

The only easy day was yesterday.



“Hi my name’s Karter and I’m a drug addict.”

“Hi Karter.”

“I think I’ll just listen.”

“Thanks Karter,” the group said in unison.

“Karter, you need to share,” she strung my name along until it was two five second long syllables separated by one overly long period of silence.

I slowly turned to my left and looked over my shoulder in disgust at the counselor who partially blocked the doorway into the meeting room. It was day one in what was to be a twenty-eight day drug rehab program, and I was attending my first twelve step meeting. My problem wasn’t drugs. My only real issue, if there was one, was my mouth.

“Isn’t it some form of invasion of privacy? You being here? I think you should be in your fucking office and let us advance through this program at our own pace. This meeting is for addicts, not assholes,” I smirked slightly and blinked my eyes repeatedly.

“I am an addict Karter, just like you. Please share with the group. Anything. Say something, even if it’s a small something,” she pleaded softly as she crossed her arms in front of her chest.

The group remained silent as they waited for me to speak. The room smelled like the combination of a cafeteria in a shitty hospital and a wet can of coffee grounds. I rolled my eyes and turned around. I surveyed the numerous faces and eventually became focused on the wicker basket in the center of the table. I stared at the small pile of folded pieces of paper and considered what to say.

I looked around the room.

Sixteen, including me.

All I needed to do was complete the program, go in front of the judge and convince him I was a drug addict. If he believed me to be in the process of recovering, I would get my driver’s license and my life back. Even I should be able to make it twenty eight days.

“Hi my name’s Karter and I’m a drug addict,” I paused and raised my fingers to my mouth.

“Hi Karter.”

As I nibbled what little black polish remained on my fingernails, I began to explain what happened to the best of my ability. I’ve never really had a problem talking to people, but I didn’t care much for authority. The staff member standing in the doorway with her eyes fixed on the back of my head was grinding on my nerves.

“You know how there’s always someone who seems more interested in your business than they should be? Some absolute asshole who is repeatedly peering over your shoulder? Maybe it’s simply a figure of speech and they’re not really behind you taking your inventory,” I paused and glanced over my left shoulder.

“But they’re watching you none the less, waiting for you to fuck up,” I said as I turned and faced the group.

Heads bobbed up and down like they were on springs. Several people gave some form of slight verbal confirmation. I took a slow aggravated breath through my nose as I thought of my bike being in an impound yard, undoubtedly being rained on while I was attempting to entertain a group of fifteen has beens, fuck ups, and wards of the legal system.

“Well, those types of people seem to flock to me. One of them called the cops and I ended up in a psych ward for an evaluation. My only way out of the psych ward was to admit I was an addict. You know, give them a reason for me being there. So, that’s what I did. The judge required I attend a treatment program. This one was twenty-eight days instead of thirty, and oddly enough it was cheaper – so here I am,” I grinned and raised my eyebrows as I looked down at my fingernails.


“Glad you’re here, Karter,” someone said from across the table.

I looked up. He was staring at my tits.

“Stare much?” I asked as I pulled my hand from my mouth.

I’d like to dig your eyes out, you douchebag.

His gaze immediately shifted to the person beside me. I shook my head lightly and looked down at my nails. It seemed all men were the same. If a girl was anything remotely close to attractive, men didn’t care who she was. Immediately, their minds shifted to thoughts of sex. I liked sex as much as any man if not more, but I generally wanted to know a little about who I was going to be fucking before we got started. Generally speaking, men gave me an ice cream headache. If I had my bike and a blank canvas, I didn’t so much need a man.

I sat and admired my tattoos silently as several people spoke. When a man from across the table began to speak, either the beginning of the story or the tone of his voice captured my attention. Whichever it was, I looked up and began to listen as he began. The more he spoke, the more I attentive I became.

“My name’s Bill, and to me this program’s simple. Breathe in, breathe out, and don’t take a drink between breaths. As easy as it is, I seem to fuck up regularly. I’m seventy-two, and I’ve been in this program for forty years and in treatment half a dozen or more times. I’ve drank all my life. Well, as soon as I was old enough to lift ‘em up and pour ‘em down my throat,” he paused and looked at each person in the group individually for a split second.

He looked down at the table and began to speak, “I was celebrating the Bicentennial. 1976. Most of you probably weren’t even born yet. I was headed home from the bar out on west Kellogg – it was before they built the elevated highway. So I remember hitting this cat on the way home. Vaguely. Just a little whump. It kind of woke me up. I blinked my eyes and shook my head, wondering what a cat was doing on the highway.”

His voice was quiet and gravely as if what little time in his life he didn’t spend drinking, he spent smoking. Something about his story caused me to listen to each and every word. His calming tone was like the man who does the Meat it’s what’s for dinner commercials. As he sat and stared down at the table, I waited for the rest of his story.

“It was about three in the morning when they woke me up. Four of ‘em. They wanted to see my truck. I stumbled to the garage and opened it, not sure why they were so damned worried about a homeless cat. It must have been some special cat. Still today, I remember thinking just that. Must have been some special cat. So I opened the garage door. The first one who got to the front of the truck vomited. Right there. He just pushed his hands onto his trouser legs and threw up right there in my garage. I don’t really remember what all the rest of ‘em said, but when they turned me around to put the handcuffs on me is when I saw his leg. It was kinda under the bumper, caught in my brush guard,” he hesitated and wiped the tears from his face.

The room was silent. As he rubbed his eyes with his index fingers, he cleared his throat. After a short moment of silence, he continued.

“You see, the cat I hit wasn’t a cat. It was a kid. He was nineteen. He was trying to change his tire is what they told me in court. He was going home to his wife and their newborn baby boy. He worked the night shift at the diner that used to sit at the intersection of Edgemoor and Kellogg. The other day would have been his birthday. I woke up drunk the next morning. The sixth of June. Tough thing to forget, killing someone. I suppose all things considered, we probably ain’t supposed to forget. Probably ain’t so much God’s will to let us to. Well, that’s all I got. Hope it helps one of ya make it out of this disease alive.”

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. Several people wiped tears from their eyes. I raised my hand to my mouth and nibbled the tips of my fingernails. I’ve always been fascinated with what we remember and what our mind chooses to set aside as either useless or unworthy of recollection at a later date. Without a doubt, Bill’s story would stick with me for a lifetime. I moved my hand to my chin and stared at him blankly as I thought of his misfortune.

Often, words come out of my mouth before my mind has time to apply the brakes. Because most of my thoughts are good, it’s generally not a problem. Generally. Inevitably, there are times after I’ve spoken when I wish I would have been able to catch myself, bite my lip, and prevent me or others from being embarrassed.

“What was his name?” I asked, “the nineteen year old boy?”

All eyes shifted to me. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked. It didn’t seem inappropriate at the time, but as everyone stared I wondered about the consensus of the group. He lowered his hand from his face and leaned forward in his chair as he stuffed the handkerchief into his pants pocket. He sniffed again loudly and narrowed his gaze as his eyes focused on mine.

“You know Karter, that’s what’s strange. I can remember the day it happened like it was yesterday. I can remember the name on the officer’s uniform who handcuffed me. I recall the smell of the vomit. Hell, it’s still stuck in my nose. But now? Now I can’t remember his name. Can’t really say when it was I forgot, but I did. Don’t rightly know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing, but it’s the truth. Any more, he’s just become a date. June 6, 1976,” he sighed as he shook his head slightly.

I pursed my lips and stared at the basket, frustrated he was incapable of remembering the name of the boy. I wanted to know who he was, what his name was, and what his wife and son thought about everything. How their lives were changed by the events of that one night in 1976 when everything changed for them. Without a name, it seemed as if it didn’t even matter. It was just some bullshit story from some bullshit old man in a bullshit room of a bullshit drug treatment program.

Twenty-seven more days and this nightmare would be over. I picked the remaining polish from my authority finger with my thumbnail as I became more frustrated at Bill’s lack of memory. As I blew the flakes of polish from the edge of the table, I nodded my head and grinned.

When this nightmare ends, I’ll paint all twenty eight days on a new canvas.

Today will be a pile of bullshit.

And a face with no name.


After twenty years in the Navy I received exactly what I wanted; retirement. Now my days felt empty and my life seemed meaningless. In a sense, I’d ridden a roller coaster for the last twenty years, and now expected to be satisfied with standing on the ground. Without a doubt, some positions in the military are without any degree of excitement. Being deployed as an active duty Navy SEAL was not one of those positions. I suspected the feelings of worthlessness could be compared to the countless police who retired and eventually committed suicide over feelings of either guilt or deep depression.

I was far from deeply depressed, but the last three days away from my SEAL Team seemed like another lifetime altogether. As I accelerated to merge into traffic, I quickly realized there was a motorcycle stalled in the center of the lane in front of me. When I instinctively stomped on the brake pedal, the right rear tire locked up and screeched on the pavement until the truck came to a stop.

The woman kneeling in front of the motorcycle quickly turned and extended her middle finger in the air as she stood. A few purple highlights stood out in clear contrast to the more prominent brown color of her hair. A helmet hung from the left handlebar of the bike, and what appeared to be a small tool kit was unrolled beside the front tire. The thighs of the faded jeans she wore were almost worn through. A Ramones tee shirt and a pair of canvas sneakers blended appropriately with the colorful tattoos on her right arm. As I released the brake and carefully pulled my truck to the side, I pushed the button to activate the emergency flashers.

“Sorry about the brake locking up,” I said as I got out of the truck.

“If you’d have hit my bike, I’d be beating your big ass about now,” she said as she kneeled down began to gather her tools.

“Fair enough,” I shrugged.

“I saw you as soon as I came around the corner. The truck hasn’t been driven for years, probably needs to have the brakes checked. My name’s Jak. Need some help?” I asked as I stepped toward the motorcycle.

“Battery’s dead.  Looks like I need a new voltage regulator,” she responded as she stood.

I turned and admired the motorcycle. I didn’t much care for motorcycles, but it was a beautiful bike. Everything that wasn’t covered in glossy black paint was chromed. As she walked around the other side of the bike, she appeared to be sizing me up for a fight.

“Need a ride somewhere?” I asked.

“I’m not leaving it here,” she snapped as she pointed toward the cars entering the highway.

“Well,” I hesitated as I turned toward the truck.

“We can load it in the bed of the truck. I’ve got some tie-down straps in the back.”

“You got any ramps?” she raised her eyebrows and pushed her fingers into her back pockets.

“I sure don’t, but we shouldn’t need them. Together we can lift the front tire into the bed, you can get in, and I’ll lift the rear in by myself,” I said confidently.

“It’s a full size Harley Softail. It weighs seven fifty,” she chuckled.

“Well, it’s worth a try,” I shrugged.

“Better not scratch it. I’m Karter,” she said as she reached over the bike.

Her hand was covered in grease, paint, and tattoos. Without hesitation, I took her hand in mine and shook it firmly. If she was nothing else, she was an interesting woman. She looked as if she spent a considerable amount of time in the sun, probably on her bike. It was difficult to tell her age due to the dark color of her tanned skin, but my guess was somewhere in her latter twenties.

“I’m Jak,” I said as we shook.

“Yeah, you said that already. I heard you the first time,” she nodded as she released my hand.

She swiftly kicked the kick-stand and began pushing the bike toward the rear of the truck.

“I got it, this isn’t the first time I’ve had to push this fucker somewhere,” she said as I tried to help her push the bike backward.

“Fair enough,” I said as I released the seat from my grasp and smiled.

“You said that earlier. Fair enough. Quite a vocabulary you have, Jak,” she smiled as she brought the bike to a stop alongside the rear of the truck.

In twenty years of travels, I’d been to more countries than I could ever count, and encountered no less than a million people. I had never, however, been exposed to any woman more brash than Karter. I smiled and rolled my eyes as she positioned the bike in the center of the truck’s bumper.

“Just hop in the bed and steady the handlebars,” I said as I lowered the tailgate.

“Fair enough,” she responded.

I turned to face her and smiled. As she jumped into the bed of the truck, I noticed the knife clipped to her right jeans pocket. Although many people in recent years carried knives, very few chose one worth actually using. She, on the other hand, had selected one worthy of combat. One I would have chosen.

Benchmade. Nice choice,” I nodded as I pulled upward on the handlebars.

“Thanks for noticing. Not much sense in carrying some cheap fucker from Wal-Mart. Anything worth doing is worth doing right,” she said as he bent over and reached for the handlebars.

“I agree,” I responded.

A Benchmade folding combat style knife would cost a civilian roughly three hundred dollars. When a similar but certainly less effective copy could be purchased for one tenth the cost, the few who chose to carry such a blade generally did so for a reason. A gorgeous Harley riding, tattooed, combat knife carrying woman covered in miscellaneous colors of paint and grease. If Karter was doing nothing else, she was capturing my interest.

I needed to know more.

As soon as the rear tire of the bike entered the bed of the truck, she grinned as if she wondered all along whether or not I could have actually lifted it.

“So you’re more than just big and sexy. You’re actually useful, Jak. You hold it steady, and I’ll strap it down,” she said as she straightened the handlebars.

She thinks I’m sexy.

Well, Karter, the feeling is mutual.

“Fair enough,” I chuckled.

Maybe retirement wouldn’t be so bad after all.


I’ve never really been attracted to a man without knowing an awful lot about him. To me, looks aren’t everything. They certainly help, but without a personality and a fascinating background, an attractive man is nothing more than a turd sprinkled in powdered sugar.

Underneath, a turd will always remain.

For what reason I wasn’t sure, but Jak could have been the biggest, stinkiest, most repulsive turd ever, and I doubt it would have mattered. I’d never been in the presence of a man who immediately captured my attention and kept it. He could have stood up, slapped me, and told me to fuck off and I’m afraid I would have followed him home. As little time as we’d spent together, I knew one thing for sure.

Jak made me feel like a carefree little girl.

“Worst bike wreck as a kid?” I asked.

He choked on his salad as he erupted into laughter, “This is a good one.”

He lifted his hand to his mouth and touched his two front teeth with his index finger, “See these?”

I narrowed my gaze and admired the whitest teeth I’d ever seen in a man’s mouth, “Your teeth?”

“These two. My two front teeth,” he tapped the tip of his finger against them.

“Okay?” I looked down at my plate as if I was interested in the salad it contained.

I wasn’t. Not at all.

I wanted to stare at him and find an imperfection. He looked like a muscular version of David Beckham. I was having a difficult time not staring. I tried to center my mouth over my plate just in case I drooled. As he began to speak, he started laughing again. As soon he caught his breath he lowered his fork onto his plate and wiped his hands on the napkin neatly positioned on his thigh.

No matter what he says or does, stare at your plate, Karter. Do not fuck this up.

“I was riding behind my best friend. This cute girl crossed the street. I think I was twelve. It was summertime and she was wearing shorts and a cute tangerine colored top, but it was really her hair that caught my attention,” he paused and began lightly chuckling.

“Her hair?” I said without looking up.

“Yes. She had beautiful hair. Dark brown, similar to yours,” he paused.

“Fair enough,” I sighed.

Damn it, Karter. He’s going to get annoyed and you’ll never see him again. Settle down. Breathe. Just breathe.

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?” he chuckled.

“So I stared at her as she crossed the street. My buddy yelling at me caused me to look back in his direction, but it was too late. I hit a telephone pole and my mouth smacked the handlebars. Knocked out my two front teeth. Well, it snapped them off. They’re fake,” he tapped them again with the tip of his finger.

I stared at my salad and counted the remaining pieces of chicken. Nine. I wondered how many it had when I started. As he began to speak again, I tried not to look up. After what appeared to be an eternity, I gave in and admired his dimples as he grinned.

“Nice,” I said as I took another precursory glance at his perfect smile.

I picked up my fork and stirred through my salad. As I attempted to find a cranberry, I wondered how old he thought I might be. He was obviously older than I was, and I didn’t care. I felt if we got to know each other a little more my age might not matter to him. If he became attracted to me, truly attracted to me, he wouldn’t care. If I didn’t offer, hopefully he wouldn’t ask. With his boyish smile and smooth skin, I guessed he was probably in his early thirties.

“Let’s hear it,” he said.

I looked up and smiled. His hands rested on the bottom of his chin. I glanced down at his plate. He had almost the same amount of salad as I did. I had been picking at my meal trying to make our lunch last as long as possible.

Maybe he enjoys this as much as I do.

“Mine didn’t knock out any teeth or leave any scars, but it broke my collar bone,” I paused and tapped my right shoulder.

“Continue,” he said softly.

His eyes all but demanded I stare into them, but I didn’t dare. Jak was dangerous, at least for me. Something about an older man attracted me much more than a younger, less experienced, less tactful boy. The difference between thirty one and twenty one was the difference between right and wrong. His size, strength, and handsome looks made me uncomfortably comfortable. As I thought of him lifting my bike into the back of the truck, I smiled and continued.

“I built a ramp out of plywood and two by fours. In hindsight, I should have used two by sixes. In life’s major fuck ups, there’s always a retrospective glance where remorse washes over us. Mine revealed a poor lumber choice. Anyway, I built a ramp outside of town by the river in a pasture. My girlfriend had a Suburban, and I always wanted to jump a Suburban on my bike, so we pulled it along the front of the ramp,” I hesitated and shook my head at the thought of my failed jump.

“Wait a minute. A Suburban? Like a Chevy Suburban? The SUV?” he asked.

I nodded my head, “You got it.”

Were you jumping it sideways or lengthways?” he asked.

“Lengthways. Shit anyone could make it sideways,” I responded, half irritated he would think I was interested in the easy way out of anything.

“A Suburban’s eighteen feet four inches in length,” he chuckled.

“Probably. But you know what?” I asked.

He raised his eyebrows, “What?”

“What’s scary is you know that. The length of a Suburban,” I laughed.

He looked somewhat embarrassed. I reminded myself to attempt keeping my mouth shut for the remainder of our lunch meeting. The fact he helped me get my bike to the Harley dealer and waited until I got it running was far more than I would have ever expected from a person passing by. One advantage of living in the Midwest, I suppose. The lunch meeting was my idea, and a last ditch effort to spend a little more time with him. Hopefully my charm and good looks would lure him into asking for my phone number.

“I’m full of useless information,” he smiled.

“Okay. So, down the ramp as fast as I could go and I hauled ass up the other side. As soon as my front tire got to the top of the ramp, I heard a snap. The ramp collapsed. Fucking two by fours couldn’t hold that much downforce. My bike flipped half way over and I landed on my head and shoulders. My right clavicle ended up cracked. It hurt like hell,” I looked down and began to pick at my salad again.

“How far you make it?” he laughed.

I looked up from my salad and smiled, “Half way.”

“Not bad,” he grinned.

I sat staring at my salad, relieved he didn’t ask when it happened or how old I was. Had he, I would have felt a need to tell a lie. I really wanted to see him again, and I didn’t want my age to come into play. Luckily, I just turned twenty one years old and was able to legally go into bars and clubs. If we would have met six weeks prior and he invited me out to a club, I couldn’t have gone. Thank God for the treatment program keeping me off the streets.

“So, how old…”

“Excuse me?” I stammered, not quite hearing the end of his question.

“Your age,” he rubbed his chin and appeared to look through me.

Son of a fucking bitch, seriously? I’m twenty-one and I think you’re gorgeous, interesting, sexy and for some fucking reason you make me comfortable. I don’t care how old you are and I want you to take off your clothes.

At least your shirt.

“How old were you when it happened?”


“When you broke your clavicle?”

“Oh, twelve. I think I was twelve,” I lied.

He nodded his head and looked down at his plate. He picked up his fork and stirred through his salad. Slowly he looked up. As our eyes made contact, he smiled.

Fuck, dude. Please don’t ask me how long ago it was.

“I’ve got to be honest,” he sighed.

About what?

Fuck, can’t we just enjoy this?

You’re married, aren’t you?

“I’ve been picking through my lettuce for an hour. I really don’t want this to end. I haven’t had this much fun in years. Not to sound like one of life’s inexperienced assholes slinging cliché remarks, but…” he paused and stared into my eyes.

Thank fucking God.

“I’ve never felt such an immediate interest in someone before,” he smiled, revealing his dimples.

I want you to pick me up and hold me off the floor so my feet dangle.

“That’s not too cliché. Kind of, but not bad,” I smiled.

Jesus, Karter. Tell him how you feel.

“Well it’s true. Karter you interest me greatly. Let’s do this again.”

“I want you to pick me up and let my legs dangle.”

“Say again?” his scrunched his brow and looked confused.

Did I actually say that? Like out loud?

I sat and did my best to act like I didn’t hear him.

“Did you say you wanted me to pick you up?” he asked.

I shrugged my shoulders and smiled, “Maybe.”

“Well, we’ve made great progress for five hours,” he said as he stood from his seat.

“How so?”

Seeing him stand over me was intimidating and comforting both. He was built like an athlete. Not huge like a pro football player, but extremely muscular and physically fit in appearance. His chest was massive and the muscles in his arms flexed every time he moved them. As he walked around the table I sat and stared.

“Well, five hours ago you told me you were going to beat my ass. Now you want me to pick you up from the floor and let your legs dangle. I’d say that’s pretty good progress. Are you going to stand up?”

I felt hypnotized. I stood from my seat. As he hugged me, he lifted me from my feet with ease. My legs dangling and my feet six inches from the floor, I buried my face against his shoulder and my pressed my chest into his. Having known Jak all of five hours, and seeing where my mind had allowed me to comfortably go, I wondered what changes a little more time would bring. I lifted my head from his shoulder and positioned my mouth a few inches from his ear.

“So you want my number?” I whispered.

“Reach into my back pocket and pull out my phone. Program your number into it, Karter,” he responded.

I immediately shoved my hand deeply into his pocket.

Yeah, this man is going to be trouble for me.

Big trouble.


Karter Cover