DIRTY READS

by Scott Hildreth

  I nodded. “I do, but--”

  He raised his hand in the air. “Motherfucker, I ain’t done.”

  I sighed. “Continue.”

  “Okay. So you don’t like Ol’ Ladies, and you bang bitches like the rest of us. Hit ‘em and quit ‘em. Some cute little bitch with an attitude comes along, and you start beatin’ that little pussy of hers up. Well, here’s my point.” He crossed his arms and shot me a glare. “All you was doin’ was fuckin’ her. That’s it. Never would have amounted to shit. When she was done with that article, I guarantee you that you’d have kicked her to the side.”

  “What’s your fucking point, Peeb?” I tossed my empty bottle toward the trash can, missed, and it crashed to the floor and shattered.

  He nodded his head toward the trash can. “See what I mean? There you go, tryin’ to intimidate me.”

  “What?”

  “Bustin’ bottles and shit. Subliminal stuff. You ain’t tryin’ to hear what I got to say.”

  I shook my head and turned toward the fridge. “I missed the trash can. And your little speech made no sense.”

  “I was tryin’ to be nice.”

  “Since when are you nice?”

  “Fine, motherfucker. How about this,” he snapped back. “Until Whip and them fellas raped her, you didn’t give a fuck about her or how she felt. All you cared about was dippin’ your dick. Then, they raped her. All of a sudden, you feel like you gotta take care of her.”

  I opened my beer and stared back at him. “Not true.”

  “True as fuck.”

  I shook my head. “She’s been different since she came to the shop on the first day.”

  “Grab me a beer, motherfucker.” He motioned toward the fridge. “Different how?”

  I shrugged. “She surfs, snowboards, fucking bungie jumps, drives a Jeep--”

  “She drives a Jeep? She drives a fucking Jeep?” He burst into laughter, and eventually caught his breath. “That’s your excuse?”

  “Amongst other things.”

  “There’s 200,000 bitches in SD that drive Jeeps.”

  “Like you said earlier, asshole. I wasn’t done.”

  “Hurry the fuck up and get done,” he said. “I got another point to make.”

  I turned to the fridge, grabbed another beer, and handed it to him. “All the things she does aren’t important. The fact she does them is.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “It defines what type of person she is. She’s adventurous.”

  “And that’s what you like about her?”

  I nodded. “Yep.”

  “That’s what you’re lookin’ for in life?”

  “I’m not looking to get fucking married, Peeb. Not even to have an Ol’ Lady. I was just saying that I enjoy it when she’s around, and I hoped she keeps coming around after the article’s done.”

  “And you say you’re sayin’ all this because she’s adventurous?”

  I nodded. “Yep.”

  He glared at me while he took a long drink of beer.

  He lowered the bottle and wiped his beard with his free hand. “Why didn’t you put an ad on Craigslist five years ago? Tattooed biker seeks adventurous bitch. Must drive Jeep and bungie jump.”

  “Now you’re being an asshole.”

  He chuckled. “Don’t get me wrong, I like the little bitch. She seems to be a solid motherfucker. I mean, if you’re askin’ me. But you sayin’ you’re wantin’ to keep her around and shit just makes me think it’s for the wrong fuckin’ reasons.”

  “What if I was saying it, and she hadn’t been raped?”

  “But she was.”

  “I’m asking you, asshole. What if she wasn’t?”

  He shrugged. “It’d be a different story. I’d probably say somethin’ like, damn, Crip, you’re finally settlin’ down.”

  “I’m not settling down. I’m saying I enjoy her company.”

  He finished his beer, tossed the empty bottle into the trash can, and met my gaze. “I guess all I’m sayin’ is this. Don’t enjoy it for the wrong reasons.”

  Standing there staring back at him, I had no response to give. All I could do was hope that what I felt was a result of a clear mind, not a sympathetic one.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Peyton

  The weather in the San Diego’s area was perfect, at least in my opinion. Spring and early summer temperatures were in the high 60’s and low 70’s. Navarro and I sat at the coffee shop, enveloped in silence. As the early-morning sun warmed my legs, I wondered just why he had scheduled our morning meeting.

  He rocked his chair on its rear legs. “Got anything for me to read yet?”

  “The article?”

  “Yeah.”

  It seemed things between us had become awkward. At least much more than before. It had been two weeks since the incident, and although I felt much better about everything, I certainly didn’t feel normal. I wondered if he sensed it, or if he had reasons of his own for being someone other than his natural self.

  “No,” I said. “Not yet.”

  He dropped the chair back down on its legs and reached for his coffee. “What’s the hold up?”

  “Hold up?” I shot him an evil stare. The real kind, not the friendly version. “Have you ever written anything for publication?”

  He looked at me like I had three heads. “No.”

  “Well,” I said. “It isn’t easy. I’m trying to decide where to take it. And we’re not done with the interviews.”

  “I was just asking.”

  I was tired of people asking. Camden asked every time he saw me. Navarro was asking. I even asked myself, but lately those times had become infrequent.

  “It’ll be done when it’s done. And, when I’m done with it, you’ll be the first to know. You’ve got to proof it, remember?”

  He took a drink of coffee and nodded. “Just asking.”

  I took a sip of my latte and studied him. Relaxed in his seat with his coffee in his hand, his shoulders were rolled forward. His broad chest looked deflated, and he seemed considerably smaller than he actually was.

  “What’s been wrong with you lately?” I asked, the words coming out before I had a chance to stop them.

  I wanted him to be the way he was when I met him. Rough. Aggressive. Angry. In-you-face.

  But something was different.

  He rocked the chair on its back legs again. “What do you mean?”

  “Look at you.” I shrugged. “You’re docile.

  He shot me a look, but it was forced, and I couldn’t really identify it. “Docile?”

  I nodded. “Compliant. Unassertive. Accommodating. You know, docile.”

  “No I’m not.”

  “Okay. Whatever. Let’s go get some ice cream.”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah. Right now. I want ice cream.”

  He stood up. “You gonna bring your coffee with you?”

  “See? That’s what I’m talking about. A month ago you would have told me to fuck off, and you would have shoved your cock down my throat to shut me up. Now? Now you’re different.”

  He loomed over me with a blank look on his face.

  “Sit down,” I said.

  He complied, sitting back in his seat. He looked defeated. I wondered if I was being shallow and insensitive. I quickly decided maybe I was simply being selfish, and that something may have happened in his life that I was unaware of.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just. Here lately, you’re different. Like I said, you’ve been kind of soft and passive. Is there anything you want to talk about?”

  He shook his head. “No. How about you?”

  “Me? I’m not different. I’m the same. You? You’re--” I paused and waved my hand toward him. “You’re not you.”

  He took a drink of his coffee and leaned forward. “Can I speak freely?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m worried about you.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Me?”

  He nod
ded. “Yeah, you.”

  “Why?”

  “You came to me and were some cute bitch that was going to write an article about my club. I was flattered, excited, and pretty gung-ho about the whole deal. Add to it that you’re cute as fuck, and it made everything that much better. Or worse. Or whatever. So, I invite you to the clubhouse.” He leaned back in his chair, rubbed his beard, then sighed heavily. “You asked questions and I answered. It was interesting, and I actually enjoyed it. Then. We fucked. Enjoyed that, too.”

  So did I.

  He paused and shook his head. “Then, one day we got coffee and we went to get lunch. That day we went to lunch? I was having a pretty good time with you on the back of the bike. Actually wondered for a minute what it’d be like having you around. Never met a tough little bitch like you. Thought you were pretty fucking good stuff.”

  I wasn’t sure where he was going with the conversation, but hearing him say how he felt warmed me much more than the morning sun. I never would have guessed being called a bitch could be such a rewarding experience, but it was.

  His face went solemn, but didn’t last long. An angry look soon replaced it. “Then, they raped you. And, I’m worried. I want you to be the same, but I wonder if you ever will be. I wish it never would have happened.”

  I started to speak, but the words got caught in my throat. I sat and stared, incapable of speaking and not really sure what feelings – if any – my face was conveying.

  I was filled with anger. I didn’t want what took place to have happened either, but it did. Afterward, all I wanted was for things in my life – and for me – to be the same, but I knew they never would be. The fact that four complete strangers viciously stole my chance of having a perfect life from me and left me feeling guilty, filthy, and forever tainted caused me to feel pain that I never knew existed.

  “I feel responsible,” he said.

  My response was dry and coarse. “Don’t.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “You know,” I said.

  My eyes began to well with tears. I fought not to cry, but wondered how long it would last. “That day? I keep replaying the morning in my head. When I decided to go get the recorder. I should have called the bar. I knew the name of it. I could have. But I didn’t. I wanted to go in there without calling. I wanted to put on my big girl panties and go to the biker bar without you. Sit where we sat. Do some research. Watch who…watch who came and went. If I would have called, and maybe gone ten minutes…ten minutes…”

  He raised his hand, trying to get me to stop.

  But I needed to finish.

  He stood.

  I waved him off, and then realized tears were dripping off my chin and onto my lap.

  I cleared my throat. “Ten minutes. Just ten minutes later. Ten fucking minutes.”

  I wiped my face with the tips of my fingers. “So, somehow…somehow I convinced myself it’s all my fault.”

  His jaw was tight, and he was breathing through his nose. He was angry, but I knew he wasn’t angry with me. He shook his head. “It’s not your fault.”

  I bit down on my lower lip and tried to stop it from quivering. It did very little to calm me. I was taught not to hate, but I hated the men that did what they did to me. Cutting their cocks off might have satisfied everyone else, but it didn’t satisfy me, no matter what I tried to tell myself.

  “Can you just…could you…hold…”

  I wanted him to hold me, but I couldn’t say it.

  The crying got worse, almost turning into a full-blown blubber. Everything just seemed to come crashing down, and I began to feel heavy inside. My heart began to ache. I closed my eyes and wondered what I had ever done to deserve feeling the way I felt.

  Nothing.

  Life wasn’t fair.

  I closed my eyes and cried, wishing Navarro wasn’t watching. I wanted to be in North Carolina, where my father could comfort me. As I wept, and wished things were different, I felt Navarro’s arms around my waist.

  He lifted me from my seat and held me in my arms.

  But the pain never stopped.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Nick

  While at war, I initially struggled with taking another man’s life. When the time came to act, doing so didn’t come as a decision I made, it was more of a reaction. An instinct to survive. Contrary to the belief of many, Soldiers, Sailors, and Marines during wartime didn’t kill without cause. In almost every circumstance when I was required to take a life, doing so was to protect myself or my fellow SEALs from being killed.

  At no point did the value of another man’s life diminish, but the decision to kill became much less of a struggle. In the end I decided I had become insensitive and damaged.

  A byproduct of war.

  My decision to start the MC was done to rid my mind of the day-to-day demons that seemed to take possession of my soul after the war ended. It worked, but I was left void of the voices in my head that somehow provided justification for the atrocities of war. What remained was a soulless shell with the body and mind of an insensitive killer.

  I pointed the barrel of the pistol at his head and sighed. “I struggled with this, you know. I told myself it wasn’t necessary, but it is.”

  The muscles in his jaw went tight. “Do what you gotta do.”

  It was the first time I’d seen him since our fight in the bar. No differently than Peyton, I regretted decisions that I had made, and wondered if I should have just killed him and Panda the day they came into our bar.

  I could have even done something when they trespassed on our turf.

  Had I acted on either of those occasions, Peyton’s life would have been as it was before. Filled with guilt, sorrow, and a tremendous amount of hatred, I stared back at him. In his eyes, I saw nothing. No regret, no sorrow, not even fear. I wanted to say so much. I had envisioned giving a long speech, telling him how murdering him was the final step in serving justice for the life he had chosen to live. For the pain that he caused so many others.

  Instead, I simply pointed the pistol at his forehead and pulled the trigger.

  He fell to the floor with a heavy thud. The carpet around him slowly darkened as the blood poured out of the cavity in his skull.

  I felt no differently. I expected to be cured. Free of pain. To immediately believe that Peyton’s life would quickly transform back to normal.

  But I wasn’t cured.

  My heart still ached.

  Filled with the belief that the only cure for what I was feeling would be the passage of time, I stepped over Whip’s body and walked away.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Peyton

  I pushed the door open and met the receptionist’s gaze. After scanning the lobby and finding it empty, I proceeded to walk toward her. With each step, my legs felt heavier, a little less capable.

  Eventually, I made it to her work station. She looked up at me and smiled. I smiled in return.

  “Hi. I uhhm. I need to talk to someone.”

  “Are you looking for anyone in particular?”

  “Uhhm. I mean. No. Well, kind of. Someone who. Someone who has. I’d really like it if. Do you have any women?”

  She looked caring. Understanding. And confused.

  “Are you a victim?”

  My lip began to quiver. I clutched my purse and nodded. “Uh huh.”

  She lifted her hand and reached toward me. “I’ll get you one of our counselors, and if needed, an EMDR therapist.”

  I took her hand in mine. I wanted to tell her thank you, but lately it seemed wanting to speak and actually speaking were two totally different things.

  Either her hand was shaking or mine was, but together, we stood there and shook like it was the right thing to do.

  “What’s your name, beautiful?” she asked.

  “I’m Peyton,” I said. “Peyton Price.”

  “I’m Candace,” she said. “I’m a survivor. It’s going to get better, okay?”

  I chewed on my lip and nodded m
y head.

  A woman walked through the door beside Candace’s desk. She was older than I expected, probably sixty by my guess. She was dressed in a navy pants suit, and was an attractive woman, but I had little desire to talk to someone that had no idea about what I was going through. I wanted to talk to Candace, she was a survivor. I was done being a victim. I wanted to be a survivor.

  “Peyton,” Candace said. “This is Elizabeth. She’ll take you back where you can talk in private, okay.”

  “The woman smiled a genuine smile. “Peyton?”

  I nodded.

  “Hi, I’m Elizabeth. I’m one of the center’s counselors, and I’m a survivor,” she said.

  I felt a little bit better. “Hi, I’m. I’m uhhm. I’m Peyton. Peyton Price.”

  She extended her hand. I glanced at it, and eventually took her hand in mine.

  “Come on back, Peyton,” she said. “Who does your hair?”

  I reached for my head, and pressed my hair to my scalp. It seemed like an odd question. “My hair?”

  “The highlights look wonderful. And I just love the cut. I need to go somewhere new. Mine always looks awful,” she said with a laugh.

  “Uhhm. The highlights are natural. I spend a lot of time in the sun. I surf. And, thank you. I get it cut at Crystals in Old Town.”

  I followed her through the door and down a long corridor.

  “Crystals?” she asked. “I’ll have to give them a try. Who’s your stylist?”

  “Beth.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  She walked through a doorway and into an office. “Have a seat.”

  The office wasn’t like a normal office; it was more like a lounge. I glanced around, sat on an overstuffed chair, and she sat beside me on the edge of a loveseat.

  “We have a little different approach here at SDTT. How’d you find out about us?”

  I looked around the room. “Google.”

  “Isn’t the internet a wonderful tool?”

  I nodded. “Uh huh.”