Read Online Hard Corps (Selected Sinners MC #7) by Scott Hildreth - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Scott Hildreth
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There was no celebration, no parade, and no welcome home banners. The aisles in the airport were not lined with appreciative citizens. No one shook my hand for playing a large part in keeping the country free of terrorists. Not one person patted me on the back for the pieces of shrapnel I would carry with me for the rest of my life, or for the bullet holes my body was riddled with.
After giving my country and the residents in it all I had to give and watching so many of my Marines die attempting to do the same, I felt as if the country wanted to believe the war didn’t even happen.
I knew better.
I lived with the recollection of it every moment of every day.
I did my best to put the war behind me and focus my attention on the one woman who supported me unconditionally throughout the war, my wife. My escape from the day to day difficulties associated with civilian life was riding my motorcycle, and I soon found comfort in riding in a motorcycle club with a few old friends and some men I never met, but quickly grew to trust.
Teddy reached up, wiped the bottom of his beard with a napkin, and turned toward Erik and then to face me. As he placed what was left of his hamburger onto his plate, he cocked one eyebrow and leaned into the edge of the table.
“This fuckin’ hamburger’s the biggest son-of-a-bitch I ever seen. I fuckin’ swear, how in the hell can an establishment sell a burger like this for five fucking bucks and make money?” he asked, shifting his eyes back and forth between Erik and me.
Teddy was six foot two at least, and weighed probably 260 pounds. His beard was full and an easy four inches long, covering his entire face. His club name for years fit him well, Bear. In a recent drunken stupor, he had wrecked into a long line of bikes in front of a bar, and knocked all of them over, earning the new club name of Crash . He was a practical joker, uneducated, and as funny as any comedian. He was also trustworthy, and I gave him the same trust I gave my Marine brothers.
I nodded my head toward his mug of beer. “What’d that mug of beer cost?”
He gripped the handle and raised the glass into the air. “This big fucker? Six bucks. But god damn, look at this monster.”
I swallowed the bite of burger I was chewing on and chuckled as I studied the glass mug. The walls of it were an inch thick, and the bottom of it was two inches thick. The interior of the mug, if filled to the top, might have held twelve ounces of beer. On the outside it appeared to be filled with much more beer than it was.
“So, they make money by charging fools like you six bucks for twelve ounces of beer, but they deliver it in a cool mug,” I said, laughing as I spoke.
“Bein’ over there in that sand pit for the last ten years fucked up your sense of measure, Brother. You’re probably thinking in centimeters and meters instead of inches and feet,” he said with a nod of his head. “This fucker’s twice the size of that bottle.”
I glanced at Erik. Although something seemed to be bothering him, he forced a smile and leaned back into his seat. The most sensible of the group of men I was riding with, and the president of the motorcycle club, he was a psychiatrist by education, but lived off of his wealth and didn’t practice medicine. Considering his education, it came as no surprise his club name was Doc .
“Whether he’s measuring it in inches or centimeters doesn’t matter, Crash. The fucking mug is thick glass and holds very little liquid,” Erik stated.
Teddy narrowed his eyes and stared in disbelief. “What do you know about beer? Shit, Doc, you don’t even drink.”
Erik leaned forward and rested his tattooed forearm on the edge of the table. “I know if I took the radius of the interior of that mug in inches, squared the number, and then multiplied by 3.14, and then multiplied by the depth in inches, I’d have the volume. Then, smart ass, if I divided that by 2, I’d have the amount of ounces
There was no celebration, no parade, and no welcome home banners. The aisles in the airport were not lined with appreciative citizens. No one shook my hand for playing a large part in keeping the country free of terrorists. Not one person patted me on the back for the pieces of shrapnel I would carry with me for the rest of my life, or for the bullet holes my body was riddled with.
After giving my country and the residents in it all I had to give and watching so many of my Marines die attempting to do the same, I felt as if the country wanted to believe the war didn’t even happen.
I knew better.
I lived with the recollection of it every moment of every day.
I did my best to put the war behind me and focus my attention on the one woman who supported me unconditionally throughout the war, my wife. My escape from the day to day difficulties associated with civilian life was riding my motorcycle, and I soon found comfort in riding in a motorcycle club with a few old friends and some men I never met, but quickly grew to trust.
Teddy reached up, wiped the bottom of his beard with a napkin, and turned toward Erik and then to face me. As he placed what was left of his hamburger onto his plate, he cocked one eyebrow and leaned into the edge of the table.
“This fuckin’ hamburger’s the biggest son-of-a-bitch I ever seen. I fuckin’ swear, how in the hell can an establishment sell a burger like this for five fucking bucks and make money?” he asked, shifting his eyes back and forth between Erik and me.
Teddy was six foot two at least, and weighed probably 260 pounds. His beard was full and an easy four inches long, covering his entire face. His club name for years fit him well, Bear. In a recent drunken stupor, he had wrecked into a long line of bikes in front of a bar, and knocked all of them over, earning the new club name of Crash . He was a practical joker, uneducated, and as funny as any comedian. He was also trustworthy, and I gave him the same trust I gave my Marine brothers.
I nodded my head toward his mug of beer. “What’d that mug of beer cost?”
He gripped the handle and raised the glass into the air. “This big fucker? Six bucks. But god damn, look at this monster.”
I swallowed the bite of burger I was chewing on and chuckled as I studied the glass mug. The walls of it were an inch thick, and the bottom of it was two inches thick. The interior of the mug, if filled to the top, might have held twelve ounces of beer. On the outside it appeared to be filled with much more beer than it was.
“So, they make money by charging fools like you six bucks for twelve ounces of beer, but they deliver it in a cool mug,” I said, laughing as I spoke.
“Bein’ over there in that sand pit for the last ten years fucked up your sense of measure, Brother. You’re probably thinking in centimeters and meters instead of inches and feet,” he said with a nod of his head. “This fucker’s twice the size of that bottle.”
I glanced at Erik. Although something seemed to be bothering him, he forced a smile and leaned back into his seat. The most sensible of the group of men I was riding with, and the president of the motorcycle club, he was a psychiatrist by education, but lived off of his wealth and didn’t practice medicine. Considering his education, it came as no surprise his club name was Doc .
“Whether he’s measuring it in inches or centimeters doesn’t matter, Crash. The fucking mug is thick glass and holds very little liquid,” Erik stated.
Teddy narrowed his eyes and stared in disbelief. “What do you know about beer? Shit, Doc, you don’t even drink.”
Erik leaned forward and rested his tattooed forearm on the edge of the table. “I know if I took the radius of the interior of that mug in inches, squared the number, and then multiplied by 3.14, and then multiplied by the depth in inches, I’d have the volume. Then, smart ass, if I divided that by 2, I’d have the amount of ounces
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