FEELS LIKE THE FIRST TIME

by Scott Hildreth

  I was beginning to wonder if I was lying to myself.

  As rough and impetuous as he was when it came to sex, I found his manner desirable in an almost infectious way. In his absence, I yearned for his forceful touch. In his presence, I anxiously waited for an opportunity to provoke him to exercise his lack of sexual control.

  I recalled the exact moment his hand pressed my head into the surface of the workbench. I suspected most women would find such an act forceful and far from sensual. I, on the other hand, found it almost necessary.

  At least now that I’d experienced it.

  About the time I realized my daydreaming had made me horny beyond comprehension, the sound of a motorcycle’s exhaust caused me to jump from my seat. I ran to my window, pulled the blinds, and was surprised to see Navarro’s Sergeant-At-Arms pulling into the driveway of my townhome.

  What the fuck?

  I rushed to the door and yanked it open, fully expecting Navarro to be right behind him. After he shut off his rumbling motor, the silence that followed made my stomach curl into knots.

  The look on his face confirmed my suspicion.

  Something was wrong.

  He removed his helmet, hung it on the handlebars, and tossed his leg over the gas tank. “Mind if I come in? We need to talk.”

  My mind started to race, and my throat went tight. “Yeah, uhhm. Come in.”

  We sat across from each other at my breakfast table, his face rather solemn and me on the verge of tears. I hadn’t cried since my mother passed, and I found it almost haunting that Nick Navarro’s arrest caused a baseball sized lump to rise in my throat and my eyes to well with tears.

  “Do you know what the charges are?”

  He nodded and cleared his throat. “They’ve charged him with everything they can. The attorney said it’s pretty common. They charge him with everything in hope of him cutting a deal--”

  “He won’t, will he?”

  He looked at me like I was insane. “Crip?”

  Navarro’s club name caught me off guard, and my response came slow. “Uhhm. Yeah, Crip.”

  “Fuck no. He’d die in there before he agreed to anything.”

  “So what are they? The charges? Can you tell me?”

  He raised his right hand and extended individual fingers as he named each charge. “Breaking and entry, burglary, criminal mischief, theft, and suspicion of murder. There might be another, I can’t remember.”

  Oh. My. God.

  My immediate response wasn’t one of wonder. What happened or why never came to mind. Doing any and everything in my power to assist in his release, however, did.

  “What can I do to help?”

  Thick strands of his long hair had fallen down into his eyes. He lowered his head, raked his fingers through it, and brushed it away from his face. “You got any beers around this place?”

  It was late, and a drink sounded good. “Michelob Ultra. That’s the only beer I have. Or you can have vodka and cranberry juice, which is what I’m going to have.”

  “No disrespect, but Michelob Ultra tastes like water. If I try one of them cranberry drinks, you ain’t gonna tell Crip, are ya?”

  “Not if you don’t want me to.”

  He shot me his crazy-eyed stare. Again. “If I wanted you to tell him, I wouldn’t have asked, would I?”

  I grinned. “Probably not.”

  “Make me one of ‘em, but make it like you were six-foot-eight and weighed two-sixty. You know, not for a girl.”

  “I don’t drink like a girl, believe me.”

  I mixed two drinks, making them no differently than I would if I were drinking alone. I handed him one of them. “Are you really six foot eight?”

  “Barefoot, yeah. In boots, six-ten and a little.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Wow.”

  “Forty-inch inseam, size sixteen boots, and a double XL shirt. Try findin’ shit that fits. Pain in the ass.”

  I took a drink. “Size sixteen? Seriously?”

  He took a drink, swallowed, and then stared at the half-full glass. “Yep. And I know you’re wonderin’, so I’ll just say it now. What they say is true. And no you can’t see it.”

  I tried to keep from smiling. “I wasn’t going to ask.”

  To be truthful, if I had a few drinks in me – and if I hadn’t met Navarro – I would have asked.

  “But you were wonderin’.”

  I took another drink. “We always wonder. It’s part of being a girl.”

  He finished his drink and stared at the empty glass. “This fucker’s good. And gone.”

  I extended my hand. “Let me make you another.”

  I mixed him another drink and handed it to him. “Here. And don’t be shy. There’s plenty. It’s a staple here. Kind of like cottage cheese and yogurt.”

  He reached for the drink. “Thanks.”

  I sat down across from him and sighed. “So, back to what we were talking about. What can I do to help?”

  “According to the attorney, you interviewed Crip on the 7th of May. For the first time. Now I ain’t sayin’ you did, and I ain’t sayin’ you didn’t. I’m sayin’ that’s what the attorney said.”

  I didn’t have to think about it. The date was stuck in my head. “I did. It was our first interview.”

  “The 7th was a Saturday.”

  I shook my head. “We started on a Sunday. Sunday night.”

  “Sunday was the 8th.”

  I grabbed my phone, opened the calendar, and stared at the dates. He was right. Saturday was the 7th and Sunday was the eighth. I had misspoken when the interview started. “Wow. Sunday was the 8th. We started on the 8th.”

  “Attorney said that Crip said you started the recording out by saying something like this is Peyton Price and for the record, this is the 7th of May. Crip remembers everything, especially when it comes to numbers.”

  He was right, I did say it, and I remembered saying it. His quote was almost verbatim. Confused as to what he wanted from me, I decided to just ask. “So, what does he need from me?”

  “He needs you to say on the evening of the interview, you two were tied up until late. From whenever it started until late at night.”

  I shrugged. “We were.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “And that the interview was on the 7th.”

  Apparently, Navarro needed an alibi. For whatever reason, I was ready to provide it. “I interviewed Navarro on the 7th. We started at roughly six o’clock, and the interview lasted until eleven p.m.”

  He shook his head. “It needs to last until 2:00 a.m.”

  “I interviewed Navarro on the 7th. We started at roughly six o’ clock, and the interview lasted until 2:00 a.m.”

  He took a drink, then studied me for a moment. “They’re gonna get rough with you in the interrogation room.”

  “I’m a big girl, I can handle it.”

  He cleared his throat. “You sure it was the 7th?”

  “Positive.”

  He leaned forward and glared at me. “You’re lying.”

  “Fuck you. I’m positive.”

  He wagged his finger in my face. “If I find out you’re lying--”

  I pushed myself away from the table and glared back at him. “You won’t find out, shit, mister. I’m telling the truth. The interview started on Saturday, the 7th of May, and lasted until 2:00 a.m.”

  “How do you know it was the 7th?”

  “Because it was on Saturday. And, I always start off my recordings with the date and the name of the interviewee.”

  “You got a copy of the recording?”

  Fuck.

  My recorder was lost.

  “You don’t need a copy of my recording, all you need is my testimony.”

  “I need a copy of that recording.”

  I stood up and crossed my arms in front of my chest. “Actually, you don’t. Under oath, and facing the penalty of perjury, I have provided testimony. As a matter of law, testimon
y is a solemn statement or declaration of fact, and is a form of evidence in itself. Now, release Navarro or my next article will be a full front page on the corruption within the judicial system, and I’ll start with my experiences here today with you, officer fucktard. Now, release Navarro or face the wrath of the Union-Tribune.”

  He grinned. “One last question. How do you know it was 2:00 a.m.? Could it have been 1:00? Midnight? 1:30?”

  “if you want the specific time, it was 2:06. Navarro and I had just finished speaking about a charity run he was trying to organize for orphaned children, and I looked at my watch. I recall saying, holy shit, it’s 2:06, I need to go.”

  He stood up. “I ain’t sure what you and Crip got goin’ on, so I ain’t tryin’ to get in the middle of that. And I ain’t tryin’ to be disrespectful either. But god damn, girl, you’re the first bangin’ ass hot bitch I ever met that’s got her shit together. Most hot bitches are dumb as fuck.”

  I grinned. “Thanks.”

  He reached into his pocket, produced a tattered business card, and handed it to me. “I’m gonna get before you get me drunk. Give him a visit tomorrow. Call first. What you and I talked about? It didn’t happen. When you talk to him, whatever you say--”

  “I’ll tell him the truth,” I said. “That the interview was on the 7th, and that it ended at 2:06 a.m.”

  He clenched his fist and extended his arm.

  I clenched mine and pounded it into his.

  “Good lookin’ out, Peyton Price,” he said. “You get Crip out of jail, and I’ll owe you. Big time.”

  “I’ll hold you to it,” I said.

  He reached for his drink, and finished it in one gulp. “Good luck tomorrow.”

  “I don’t need luck,” I said. “I’ve got charm.”

  He grinned. “You’ve got something, that’s for fuckin’ sure.”

  He was right.

  I was a thrill-seeking weirdo.

  And lying to the cops to get Navarro out of jail was thrilling to me.

  Now, all I needed to do was find an outfit to wear. And I needed to remember to wear my glasses.

  Chapter 14

  Nick

  I sat in my jail cell, wondering just how it was that a judge found it necessary to deny a bond hearing, claim me as a flight risk, and a modern-day terrorist on my native soil. My service to the nation was apparently all for naught, and my release from incarceration was dependent on the false testimony of a girl I didn’t really know.

  In club terms, I was fucked.

  The sound of keys jingling warned me of a guard’s approach. As the sound got closer and closer, I couldn’t help but wonder if either Peyton decided to testify, or if they found DNA evidence of Whip’s dead brother.

  “Navarro! Hands to the door, I need to cuff you for court.”

  I had been placed in a maximum security cell, and unlike the majority of other men who were incarcerated in the jail, I wasn’t free to roam. I turned around, backed up to the door, and placed my wrists in front of the hinged opening in the steel door.

  Within a few seconds, my hands were cuffed. A few seconds later, and I was fitted with a waist chain and shackles.

  I walked in a few steps in front of the guard, well aware of the route we were taking to get to the courtroom. Upon entering the room, however, I was pleasantly surprised to see Peyton, dressed in a black skirt, white shirt, and black blazer.

  Her conservative heels topped off the ensemble, but it was her glasses that commanded my attention.

  You wore those on purpose, didn’t you?

  Almost immediately after being seated beside Tristan Beecham, the club’s attorney, the judge entered the courtroom.

  “All rise,” the bailiff said.

  Although she was seated twenty feet from me, the smell of Peyton’s shampoo and perfume caused my mouth to water.

  The judge sat down.

  “You may be seated.”

  The judge shuffled through a stack of paperwork, picked up a sheet of paper, and studied it. After a moment, he placed the paper down on his desk and raised his head. “In the matter of the people versus Nicholas Navarro, new testimony has been given which corroborates previous testimony given by the accused, and supports statements regarding the whereabouts of the accused on the night in question. The witness has agreed to testify before me, which I require in any such case.”

  “Ms. Price, will you approach the witness stand?”

  Peyton stood. “Yes, Sir.”

  She gracefully walked to the witness stand.

  “Raise your right hand.”

  She did.

  “State your name.”

  “Peyton Penelope Price.”

  “Ms. Price, do you swear – or affirm – that the testimony you give here today is the truth, the entire truth, and nothing but the truth?”

  “I do.”

  “Have a seat, please.”

  Peyton sat in the witness stand. The judge nodded toward the prosecutor’s bench. “Your witness.”

  “Ms. Price. I haven’t had an opportunity to hear your testimony, but it’s been brought to my attention that you gave testimony today in the presence of two detectives regarding the whereabouts of one Nicholas Navarro on the night in question. Is that correct?”

  “I have no idea,” she responded.

  “Excuse me? Can you speak up?”

  She leaned forward and spoke into the microphone. “I have no idea.”

  “You have no idea? Regarding what, Ms. Price?”

  She cleared her throat. “You stated that I gave testimony to two detectives regarding the whereabouts of one Nicholas Navarro on the night in question. My response is this: I have no idea when the night in question is. I gave testimony regarding Mr. Navarro’s whereabouts on the night that he was involved in an interview with me. If the night of the interview and the night in question correspond with one another, I suppose you have your answer, Sir.”

  “On the night of May 7th, did you interview Nicholas Navarro?”

  “Yes, Sir. I did.”

  “What is your profession, Ms. Price?”

  “I’m a journalist, employed by the Union-Tribune, as a reporter.”

  “On that night, when did the interview start?”

  “6:00 p.m.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “I’m positive. If I weren’t, I wouldn’t testify, Sir.”

  The prosecutor nodded. “I appreciate that, ma’am.”

  “And when, Ms. Price, did the interview end?”

  “2:06 a.m., Sir.”

  Thank you.

  “2:06, huh? Are you certain it was 2:06?”

  “Yes, Sir. Again, if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t provide testimony regarding a specific time.”

  “How, Ms. Price, are you so certain of the time?”

  “I checked my watch immediately prior to ending the meeting. I recall saying, it’s 2:06 a.m., I need to go.”

  “2:06 on the 7th?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “It wasn’t the 7th?”

  “When it ended, Sir, it was the 8th. It was after midnight.”

  “At any time during the interview, did Mr. Navarro leave your sight?”

  “No, Sir, he did not.”

  “Not once?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Quite.”

  “So, you interviewed Mr. Navarro for eight hours?”

  “That is correct.”

  “At any point in time did you or Mr. Navarro eat?”

  “No.”

  “Drink?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you or Mr. Navarro take an opportunity to urinate?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, we did.”

  The prosecutor chuckled. “Did you assist him?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “So, he did leave your sight?”

  “No, he did not.”

  The prosecutor shook his head. “Can you explain?”

  “Sure.
I interviewed Mr. Navarro in the equivalent of an abandoned warehouse. Mr. Navarro and I, on the evening and night that we’re speaking of, consumed drinks. At one point, Mr. Navarro stated that he needed to piss. I informed him that I needed to as well, and asked the way to the bathroom. He laughed and said the building did not have a working bathroom, but that it was in the process of being repaired. I then asked where he intended to urinate. He pointed to the parking lot. I chose to hold it, and he chose not to. While he urinated, Sir, I stood in the building and watched.”

  Where the hell did that story come from?

  The prosecutor sighed. “No further questions.”

  The judge cleared his throat. “Ms. Price, do you understand that it is a crime for providing false testimony?”

  “Yes, Sir, I do.”

  “The crime of perjury.”

  “Yes, Sir, I understand.”

  “And, you understand you’re under oath to tell the truth?”

  “Yes, Sir, I do.”

  The judge nodded. “Will the accused please rise?”

  Beecham and I both stood.

  “Mr. Navarro, testimony has been provided that corroborates your claim, and provides you with an alibi on the night in question. Regarding the fingerprint on the fuel tank of the motorcycle, we must assume that was left at a date prior to the victim’s disappearance. For the mix-up, the court apologizes. You are free to go.”

  I nodded. “Thank you, your honor.”

  “Have you any questions, son?”

  “None, your honor.”

  “Be it a matter of record, that in the matter of the people versus Nicholas Navarro, the charges, in their entirety, have been dismissed.”

  The judge stood.

  “Please rise,” the bailiff bellowed.

  The judge left the room.

  “You may be seated, and you’re dismissed,” the bailiff stated.

  The sheriff’s officer walked to the bench, unlocked my cuffs, and removed the shackles.

  “Any questions?” Beecham asked.

  “Nope,” I said.

  “I’ll send you a bill.”