Tito
Tito
Scott Hildreth
Contents
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Prologue
1. Reggie
2. Tito
3. Reggie
4. Tito
5. Reggie
6. Tito
7. Reggie
8. Tito
9. Reggie
10. Tito
11. Reggie
12. Tito
13. Reggie
14. Tito
15. Reggie
16. Tito
17. Reggie
18. Tito
19. Reggie
20. Tito
21. Reggie
22. Tito
23. Reggie
24. Tito
25. Reggie
26. Tito
27. Reggie
28. Tito
29. Reggie
30. Tito
31. Reggie
32. Tito
33. Reggie
34. Tito
35. Reggie
36. Tito
37. Reggie
38. Tito
39. Reggie
40. Tito
41. Reggie
42. Tito
43. Reggie
44. Tito
45. Reggie
Epilogue
Also by Scott Hildreth
Dedication
Mike Wilson, Todd Plummer, Todd Crisler, Kevin McAllister, Matt Reed, and Michael Hallaux.
The times we had when we were kids.
They’ll stay with me forever.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This book contains scenes of criminal acts, some that are typical of gangs and motorcycle clubs, and some that aren’t. The fictitious club name, Devil’s Disciples, is in no way tied to the real-life club, Devils Diciples. Different spelling, different club. The acts and actions depicted in the book are fictitious, as are the characters.
Every sexual partner in the book is over the age of 18. Please, if you intend to read further than this comment, be over the age of 18 to enjoy this novel.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, are coincidental.
TITO 1st Edition Copyright © 2019 by Scott Hildreth
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at designconceptswichita@gmail.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights
Cover design by Jessica
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Prologue
The meeting room smelled of testosterone, leather, weak cigarette smoke, and coffee. Eleven officers and two detectives, each dressed in tactical SWAT gear, waited eagerly to hear their orders.
Standing at a lectern in the front of the room, the police captain surveyed the group. As always, he secretly worried of the worst-case scenario unfolding during the mid-morning raid of the outlaw motorcycle club’s building.
“According to intel,” the captain said. “This outlaw motorcycle gang will be armed. I repeat, will be armed. At least one of the patched members is a former special forces vet.”
He lifted a ten-page report from his lectern. “The report filed this morning indicates this OMG has been committing robberies in San Diego County for the past fifteen years. I want these guys off the streets, gentlemen. Furthermore, I want every man in this room to return to their family this evening.” He glanced around the room, taking time to make eye contact with each man. “If you’re met with resistance, do not hesitate. Shoot first, ask questions later.”
One of the two detectives raised his right hand.
The captain gave a curt nod. “Detective Watson?”
“I know this motorcycle club. I know the layout of their clubhouse,” the detective said. “I’ve been in it on more than one occasion, gathering intel. I’d like to volunteer to be first in.”
“Duly noted.” The captain said, lifting his chin slightly. His steel-gray eyes darted from one man to another. “Any objections on Watson being first in?”
Receiving no opposition, the captain returned his gaze to Detective Watson. “You’ll be first in, Watson.” He swallowed heavily at the thought of what force the detective would likely be met with. “May God be with you.”
1
Reggie
Despite his claim of being speechless, the excuses continued to spill from his mouth. Jumbled and incomprehensible, the words bounced from one piece of furniture to the next. Unwilling to acknowledge another moment of justification for his infidelity, my gaze floated around the living room.
I convinced myself he was different.
In the beginning, he was.
Early in our relationship, the mere hint of his cologne would send me into a desire-induced frenzy. Now, sitting six feet away from him on the couch, I was repulsed by that very same aroma. I could only look at him long enough to remind me of what he’d done, and then I had to divert my attention elsewhere.
His attempts to rationalize his actions continued. The dull drone of his voice sawed against my frayed nerves.
I felt foolish for trusting him. I should have listened to my father. He warned me that any man who waxed his eyebrows and got regular manicures was far too vain to remain loyal.
The smell of cheap perfume wafted in my direction. Realizing its origin caused my muscles to tense. I glared at my unfaithful soon to be ex-boyfriend. The dark circles beneath his eyes, wrinkled shirt, and disheveled hair gave hint to the sexual antics he nearly got away with.
I’d spent the same amount of time in a relationship with him as I’d spent in college. Even so, while he admitted the intricate details of his infidelity, I didn’t feel an ounce of heartache. Maybe there was a part of me that expected him to do what he did. Maybe my father’s advice sank in, but I simply failed to act on it.
I wondered if it was an isolated incident. If I somehow allowed myself to unknowingly slip away from him emotionally, leaving him no other alternative but to stray just once.
I mulled the thought over for a moment. It did seem that we’d grown apart. We hadn’t been as intimate with each other. He lacked compassion. I failed to express my concerns, needs, and desires.
I promptly came to my senses. I wasn’t going to accept any of the blame. I’d done nothing. This was all him.
His dick. His decision.
“You know what sucks?” I asked, shifting my attention to him as I spoke. “Like, really sucks?”
He paused mid-sentence. “What’s that?”
“That I can’t get a refund,” I said dryly. “For the time you took from me. Four fucking years, Jared. You lied to me. You convinced me you were worthy of my time. You weren’t. Now, those four years are gone, and I can’t get them back.”
“Refund?” He reached for my hand. “We can fix this. All I did was—”
“You stuck your dick in a random stripper,” I argued. “Don’t try to make it sound like you forgot to put the toilet lid down. It wasn’t an oversight.”
“I was drunk,” he murmured. “And she wasn’t random. I knew her.”
“You knew her?” I nearly choked on the words. “That makes it so much better. Maybe you two should get married and have little stripper babies.”
> Unwilling to listen to another word of his half-assed apology, I grabbed my purse and stood. “I got drunk last night, too. But guess what I didn’t do?” I gave a dramatic pause, but not for so long that he could respond. “I didn’t fall onto some guy’s dick.”
While he recovered from my tongue-lashing, I fumbled to find my keys.
He reached for my arm. “Reggie, just—”
I pulled away and shot him a you just fucked a nasty stripper glare. “Don’t you dare touch me with your disgusting hand. I don’t want stripper glitter on me.”
“Take some time and—”
“I’m going to work,” I snapped. “Get your shit out of my house. I mean it. I want you gone. The never-come-back kind of gone. Get your ridiculous furniture and whatever else you want out of here, leave your keys on the coffee table, and turn the lock when you go. If you leave anything here, I’ll light it on fire.”
I turned toward the door, took a few steps, and paused.
“Yeah.” I faced him. “I’m burning whatever you leave here, asshole. And, if you come back, I’ll have you arrested.”
“Arrested?” He shot up from his seat. “Reggie. I want to fix this. Where am I going to go?”
There were a lot of things he could have done that I would have forgiven him for. Shoplifting. A hit and run. A weekend-long heroin bender in Vegas with his friends from college. Stabbing a co-worker in a drunken rage.
Fucking a stripper?
Hell no. It was the epitome of slapping me in the face.
“There’s no fixing it.” I pulled the door open and glanced over my shoulder. “It’s over. Go buy a trailer house and move to the desert with your stripper friend. Goodbye. I never want to see you again.”
* * *
Wearing a look of defeat, Raymond glided across the sales floor. When he reached me, he raked his fingers through his highlighted locks and let out an exaggerated sigh. “The guy at the hat rack wants to talk to you.”
“Me?” I glanced toward the display of hats. A handsome man with a deep bronze tan looked in our direction. One of his arms was sleeved with tattoos. On the other, a few tattoos were sprinkled about. A bad boy, no doubt. I flashed him a smile before shifting my attention to Raymond. “Is there a problem?”
“Yes,” he said. “There are two of them. One, he’s looking for something we won’t be able to help him with; and two, he’s not gay.”
“You want everyone to be gay,” I said with a flippant wave of my hand. “What’s he looking for?”
“A hat.”
“What kind of hat?”
“A black flat bill.” He flipped his hair away from his eyes. “He said he bought one here ten years ago and he wants another one just like it.”
“Ten years?” I gasped in disbelief. “I doubt we’re going to be able to help him find another one. Especially not one just like it.”
He took a lingering glance over his shoulder. “When you talk to him,” he whispered. “Be careful.”
“Be careful?” I gave him a look. “What do you mean?”
He peeked in the man’s direction. “His eyes. They’re—”
“Is one of them wonky?” I said, interrupting him before he finished his thought. “If it is, I’m going to stare at it. I can’t help it.”’
“No,” he cooed. “They’re divine.”
The man perused the hats, seeming unsatisfied with each that he lifted from the display. I studied him as I approached. When I reached him, he looked up. Upon seeing me, he offered a shallow smile.
A quick glance at his brown eyes revealed a depth unlike anything I’d seen. I felt compelled to stare into them but refrained.
At least for the time being.
His hair was short, dark, and slightly unkempt. The style appeared accidental. The bold features of his face were deeply tanned from the Southern California sun. Although it was just after noon, a five o’clock shadow covered his strong jawline.
His stark white tee shirt hugged his athletic physique, and his tattered jeans accentuated a perfectly shaped ass.
If looking good was criminal, he’d be doing a life sentence in Pelican Bay State Prison.
“Hi. I’m the store manager,” I said, nearly stammering to find the words. “How can I help you?”
He lifted a hat from the display and looked it over. “I bought a hat in here about ten years ago and I need to replace it.”
“You’re hoping to find one just like it?”
He fitted the cap to his head and looked in the mirror. “I am.”
Some men looked good wearing a hat. He wasn’t one of them. “What did it look like?” I asked, hoping my chance of finding a replacement was nil.
He pushed the bill up. He pulled it down. He moved it one way, and then the next. Nothing seemed to satisfy him. The only thing that would have pleased me is if he took it off and never wore it again.
Thankfully, he removed it.
He looked at it like something was wrong with it. “Are you familiar with the ‘have a nice day’ smiley face?”
I nodded. “I am.”
The tattooed muscles of his bicep flared as he twisted the cap from side to side, inspecting it. He wasn’t a large man, but his stance and posture expressed a level of confidence that was undeniable.
His handsome looks were captivating, but the charisma that surrounded him had me intrigued much more than his looks. He’d no more than asked for a frowny-faced hat, and I wanted to hear his life story.
He hung the hat on the rack. “It was a black flat billed snap-back with a white embroidered face—like the smiley face—but it was frowning.”
I wanted to play no part in obscuring his handsome face with a ridiculous hat. “I’ve never seen anything like that here,” I said, stealing a glance at his colorful tattoos while he inspected another cap. “I’m guessing you could find one on the internet, or maybe have one made somewhere.”
“I’ve looked,” he replied. “I’ve found plenty of hats with frowny faces on them, but I want that exact hat. No exceptions.”
It would be an easy problem to fix if he would accept substitutes. Wanting an exact duplicate of a ten-year-old hat seemed silly. From what I could tell, however, he was dead serious.
“So, this is a big deal?” I asked jokingly.
He gave me a straight-faced stare. “One of epic proportion.”
I quickly looked away, avoiding being captured by his bottomless brown eyes.
I couldn’t believe it. He was serious. It was frowny-faced hat or bust. I mentally sighed and embraced the idea.
“Okay.” I replied, ogling a distant display of surfer attire. “Let me ask corporate management if there’s any record of where we got the hats back then. Maybe I can find out who made them for us.” I glanced in his direction. “Can you remember when you purchased it?”
He looked me dead in the eyes. “Specifically?”
I stood statue-still, staring back at him like a mindless buffoon. Raymond was right, his eyes were divine.
“If you know,” I said, breaking his gaze. “It might help in the records search. No promises, of course.”
“Saturday, August 8th, 2009,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I purchased it in this very store. It had only been open for a week or so at the time.”
“Oh wow,” I exclaimed, shifting my attention to him. “You remember the date? Must have been a banner day.”
He stepped into my field of vision.
I was rarely at a loss for words. Never was more like it. Yet. I stood there, gazing into his deep brown orbs like I’d been hypnotized.
“So, you’ll see what you can do?” he asked.
Following an awkward glassy-eyed stare on my part, I looked away. I mentally shook my head, hoping to clear it of the carnal fog that was setting in. “Uh huh.”
In his presence I not only looked like a fool, I sounded like one, too. I glanced at his left hand. No ring, and no tan line where one should be.
Because the man of my dreams s
imply didn’t exist, my current preference was the businessman-type. Men who dressed like success, had a signature scent, were well-groomed, and often drove cars that were in line with their nine to five jobs that paid a high six-figure wage.
The hat seeking patron’s arms were covered in tattoos, he smelled like gasoline-dipped leather, and was wearing jeans that were at least a decade old. I doubted he’d made six figures in the last five years combined, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if he drove a truck manufactured during the Vietnam War.
I knew men like him. Everything they did—from the clothes they wore to the words they chose—was deliberate. Their hand gestures, stance, and the gait to their walk was well thought out.
Men like him got me into trouble. Not with the law, but with myself. Telling him no wouldn’t be an easy task, and I knew it all too well.
I’d been with a similar man in the past. He feared nothing and no one. When he spoke, everyone listened. He rarely made demands. He didn’t need to. Confidence squished from the soles of his shoes when he walked, yet most described him as humble. He was passionate about everything he believed in, and he believed in me.
I went on a date with him to spite my father. He quickly became an addiction. The word no vanished from my vocabulary. I forfeited everything to please him.