“I meant the interview,” I said.
“No you didn’t.” He raised his right hand to his chin and rubbed the growth of his beard between his thumb and forefinger as he eyed me. “You knew what you were saying had a double meaning. You did it on purpose.”
I forced a laugh. It didn’t sound very genuine. “For what benefit?”
He stepped closer. “You want my opinion?”
I nodded.
“Well, reporter, I think you want me to finger that little puss of yours again.”
I stared back at him. My legs went weak at the thought of it. “Oh really?” I asked with a note of sarcasm in my voice.
He nodded sharply in response.
He was right, but I wasn’t going to admit it. I fought against my tightening throat and eventually swallowed enough saliva to allow me to respond. “Why do you say that?”
“The last time you saw me you were wearing shorts. I stuck my finger in your tight little twat and you liked it.” He took a few steps toward me, then tilted his head to the side slightly. “If you didn’t like it, you’d have worn jeans today. But you didn’t. You wore shorts. Again.”
He was now about three feet from me. I felt like the temperature had risen twenty degrees. I attempted to pry my eyes away from his, but found doing so impossible. “So, because I uhhm. Because I wore shorts, I want you to uhhm. I want you to touch me?”
He nodded again. This time, his mouth was twisted into a smirk.
“It’s summer, and we’re in San Diego,” I said. “Everyone wears shorts.”
He took a step back and folded his arms in front of his chest. “Tell you what, little girl. If you promise to tell me the truth, and I mean always, I’ll agree to an interview. How’s that?”
I couldn’t believe it. It was exactly what I hoped for, but in no way what I expected at least not so soon. “Sounds great,” I blurted.
He extended his hand. “So, we got a deal?”
I wondered just what type of handshake he had planned. The pull me close bro hug, the soul brother web of the thumb bump with a hand-twist, or maybe slapping the palms together and then pounding knuckles? I reached for his hand slowly, not sure of what to do.
He gripped my hand in his and shook it in a conventional, gentlemanly manner.
He released my hand and shot me a serious look. “So, were you working the other day? At the bar?”
It seemed like an odd question. I answered nonetheless. “Yeah.”
“And now?”
“Yeah, I suppose. Why?”
He shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and cocked an eyebrow. “Not counting today and yesterday, when was the last time you wore shorts to work? Before you answer, remember, you made a deal with the devil.”
I recalled no such deal. “A deal with the devil?”
“Yeah. Remember? We shook on it. And, sooner or later you’ll figure it out, but I’m the devil himself,” he said, his voice filled with pride.
“The devil, huh? Interesting. As far as the shorts go.” I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Take a fuckin’ guess.”
“Never?”
He coughed out a laugh. “That’s what I thought.”
“You got me,” I said, twisting my hips teasingly. “I wore the shorts because I liked what you did to me the other day.”
He nodded as if he’d made the only point he intended to. “So, you going to take notes?”
I found his prompt changing of the topic from sexual to business abrupt and odd. I was left to wonder if he liked what we shared in the bar as much as I did. After convincing myself he was doing nothing more than playing a game with me, I responded. “I’d like to record our conversations. Are you okay with that?”
He pulled his hands from his pockets. “I prefer it,” he said. “Leaves less for you to fuck up.”
I noticed the fingernail on his left index finger was black. I made a mental note to ask about it later. “I don’t fuck up.”
“We’ll see about that.” He turned toward the open garage. “Follow me.”
I rushed to the Jeep, grabbed my purse, and fought to catch up with him. Although I expected him to take me to an office or secret meeting room in a remote corner of the clubhouse, he sauntered up to a workbench at the far wall. With minimal effort, he hopped up onto it and sat down.
He motioned to a steel drum that was sitting beside him, kicking the top of it with the heel of his boot. “Make yourself comfortable.”
The drum looked new and was remarkably clean. While wondering if it was commonplace for bikers to use steel drums for stools, I sat down and looked around the garage. “We’re uhhm. We’re going to do it here?”
“What’d you expect? Starbucks and some of those crunchy little chocolate biscuits? Yeah, we’re doin’ it here.”
I reached into my purse, pulled out my digital recorder, and held it between us.
He nodded once.
The interview began.
And Nicholas Crip Navarro came to life.
FOUR
Nick
She sat on the drum with her legs crossed and her forearm draped over her bare thigh. She was a gorgeous little bitch, and keeping my hands off of her went against the grain of my very existence.
I motioned toward the recorder. “Doesn’t matter what we discuss, before you print anything, I proof read it. No exceptions,” I said sternly. “Is that fucker on?”
“Yes, it’s on. And, if those are your conditions, I’m fine with that.” She raised the recorder to her mouth. “For the record, I’m Peyton Price beginning my interview with Nick Navarro, the president of the Filthy Fuckers MC. Today’s date is May 7th.”
I nodded. Agreeing to the interview wasn’t something I did for notoriety or publicity. Making outlaw motorcycle clubs less of a target for the Department of Justice’s overeager agents that seemed to infiltrate them on a daily basis was enough of a reason for me. And, if the article was written properly, the Filthy Fuckers MC could look like a bunch of choirboys.
I fixed my eyes on hers. “Get to it.”
“Okay,” she said. “It’s obvious you’re alone. I couldn’t help but notice the only motorcycle here was parked beside my Jeep. It looks, well, pretty rough. Is it yours?”
“Sure is,” I said with a nod. “I’m not much on electric starters, loud stereos, or windshields. Call me old school, but I’d rather kick start my sled and have the wind in my face. And a coat of paint doesn’t make it any faster, so I don’t have one.”
She looked confused. “Sled?”
“Bike, sled, motorcycle, scoot. They all mean the same thing.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, I like it.” She grinned. “It’s unique.”
“That makes two of us.”
“How many men are in your club?”
“Enough to resolve any problems that we encounter.”
“How long has the club been in…how long has the club been together?”
“Since the fall of 2007.”
“Were you the one who founded it?”
“The one and only.”
“Had you ever ridden in an MC prior to starting this one?”
I shook my head. “Nope.”
“What prompted you to start the club?”
“Prompted me?”
“Yes,” she said. “What in your life changed? What happened to make you feel that starting the club was in your best interest?”
“The war ended. At least for me.”
“Were you a veteran?”
I cleared my throat and glared back at her. “I am a veteran.”
“Sorry.” She dropped her eyes to the floor. After a short pause, she looked up. “So, you came back from the war, and following your return, you started the club?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
She scooted to the edge of the drum. Her bare legs dangled over the edge like bait. “For the sake of this and any future conversations,” she said. “When I speak of an
MC, I’m referring to an outlaw motorcycle club.”
I shifted my eyes away from her legs and chuckled. “I’ll make note of that.”
“Most outlaw biker clubs are known for adhering to a set of ideals that celebrate freedom. Nonconformity to any facet of mainstream culture is also common within the ranks of MC’s. After the war, did you feel the country had let you down or wronged you?”
“Nope. I was just sick and fucking tired of the bullshit – the rules, regulations, superiors. I was ready to live life without restrictions.”
“And what better way to do so than start an MC?”
I clenched my fist, held it in front of her face, and slowly extended my index finger. “I don’t have to answer to anyone. Society can suck my dick.”
She glanced at my finger, rolled her eyes dramatically, then continued. “Regardless of your reluctance to adhere to the rules and regulations society has established, they exist nonetheless. Are you of the opinion that you’re above the law?”
“Not above it, no.” I shrugged. “I have my own set of rules and regulations I adhere to. I think they’re enough.”
“Give me an example.”
“Of what?”
She placed the recorder beside me on the bench and ran her fingers through her long brown hair. “Your rules. What are they?”
I looked at the recorder, then met her gaze. I didn’t have a rehearsed or published set of rules or regulations; I simply did what I felt was best under my own system of beliefs. With a by the seat of your pants response, I conveyed my opinion. “If you want to be left alone, keep your nose and your mitts out of my business. Don’t fuck with kids, the elderly, or animals or I’ll hunt your ass down. I don’t know, that’s about it.”
She laughed. “That’s it?”
I glared back at her. “What’d you expect?”
She shook her head. “I’m going to recite a handful of rules many choose to live by. I want your opinion regarding each of them.”
I chuckled. “You may not like it, but I’ll give it.”
She pulled her phone from her pocket, tapped her fingers against the screen for a few seconds, and then began. “You shall have no other gods before Me.”
“You planning on listing all ten of ‘em?”
She looked surprised. “Oh. So, you’re familiar with this? You recognize it?”
“I’m not some fuckin’ idiot.”
“I wasn’t insinuating that you were. Are you a religious man?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“So. Your thoughts on that? The first commandment?”
“I believe in God.”
“I’m not going to list all ten,” she said. “Just the ones I’m curious about.”
I shrugged.
“Honor your father and your mother.”
“I have a great relationship with them both.”
She cleared her throat. “Thou shall not murder.”
“I’ll agree with that, but justifiable homicide is different.”
“What act or acts justify homicide? As far as you’re concerned?”
“I’ll protect myself and those I care for at any cost,” I said. “And back to what I said earlier. Don’t fuck with kids, the elderly, or animals or I’ll probably show up at your door.”
“That’s admirable,” she said.
“What? That I don’t like people who take advantage of those incapable of protecting themselves?”
She smiled and nodded. “Yes.”
“When I was in school.” I clenched both of my fists and raised them to my chin. “I beat the absolute shit out of kids who took advantage of other kids. You know, the kids who called others names and shit? I ran ‘em down and pounded their fuckin’ asses.”
“You bullied bullies?”
“God damned right.”
She laughed. “I like that.”
“Joined the military for the same reason. I was capable of standing up for what others might not have been able to, so I did. I stood up and tried to make a difference.”
“Did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Did you make a difference?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Sore subject. Next Question.”
Her lips were full, her skin was without a single blemish, and her hair hung from her head like strands of brown fucking silk. Her eyes were brown, but not like any others I’d seen. They were translucent gold with little brown flecks, making them unique – at least to me. Watching them as she formulated each question was driving me insane.
“What are the differences between a riding club and an outlaw MC?”
I stared back at her. “You’re gonna write a story about my club, and you don’t know the fuckin’ difference?”
“I do know. I want you to tell me.”
“Fuck that,” I growled. “You tell me your interpretation first.”
After raking her fingers through her hair, she rubbed her palms together and grinned. “A riding club follows the guidelines of the American Motorcycle Association, and many are sanctioned by the AMA. Outlaw clubs don’t and aren’t.”
I laughed. “Read that on the internet? AMA’s website?”
She shook her head. “No.”
She crossed one of her perfectly tanned legs over the other and then met my gaze. Slowly, I felt my cock began to stiffen.
“So, in your own words. What are the differences?” she asked.
I was done answering stupid questions about bullshit she wasn’t going to use in her publication. So far, her questions were nothing more than a half-assed attempt on her part to get to know more about me. If she wanted to know who I was, showing her would be a hell of a lot easier.
It’d save us both a lot of agony in the long run.
“I’m done with this question and answer bullshit.” I slid off the edge of the workbench and turned to face her.
“I’m nowhere near finished,” she complained. “We’re just getting started. I’ll need several hours of interviews for a story.”
“I wanna fuck,” I said flatly.
Her eyes widened. “Excuse me?” Her expression was equal parts excitement and shock.
“All these questions are getting’ under my skin. Let’s fuck.”
She hopped off of her makeshift seat, made eye contact with me, and cocked her hip to the side. “I’m not going to--”
“Don’t even start with the innocent girl act.” I reached for my belt. “Take off your shorts.”
“What makes you think--”
“Ever since this little interview of yours started, you’ve been lookin’ at me like you want to eat me. Well, here’s your fuckin’ chance.”
“I’m not some whore. Your little finger-bang thing in the bar was--”
“Did I say you were a whore?”
“No, but--”
“I’m done talking about it. Either take off your shorts, or I will,” I demanded. “All these questions are pissing me off, and your eyes are drivin’ me fuckin’ insane.”
She chuckled a light laugh. “My eyes?”
I nodded. “Yeah, your eyes. Now get fuckin’ naked.”
“Let’s get one thing straight,” she said with a tone of authority. “If these shorts come off, it’s going to be because I want them to, not because you do.”
Her willingness to stand up to me wasn’t something I was accustomed to, and I glared at her in disbelief. She returned my stare without an ounce of emotion. After standing in wait with a stiff cock for what seemed like forever, I broke the silence.
“Well…”
“My pussy, my rules,” she said.
I chuckled. “I’m listening.”
And, for the first time in as long as I could remember, I was willing to listen to what a woman had to say.
FIVE
Peyton
I couldn’t believe what I was considering. Saying no to Nick Navarro, however, was something I was afraid I would never be able to do. His handsome looks, tattoos, and raw ess
ence weakened me. His remarkable blue eyes may have been partially to blame, but certainly not wholly.
The adventurous and conservative portions of my being were at war, and the adventurous side was winning.
I quickly considered my risks:
Fucking someone I was interviewing for work. I didn’t believe Navarro would tell my boss – or anyone for that matter. He didn’t seem like the type to brag.
Keeping my private life private after we had sex. He certainly wasn’t going to fall in love with me or stalk me, so my private life would be able to remain just that – private.
STD’s. There was the risk of sexually transmitted disease, but it could easily be dealt with by producing the two-year-old condom that was floating around in my purse.
I weighed the risks against the one clear benefit.
Sex with a tattooed biker. Being fucked by a bearded outlaw biker who was handsome, muscular, mature, covered in tattoos, and had a nice thick cock.
Ding, ding, ding.
We have a winner.
I reached for my purse. After digging through my wallet, I found the ancient condom. I handed it to him. “Here.”
He stared at the packet as if I had handed him a foreign object. “What the fuck is this?”
“A condom.”
He attempted to give it back to me. “I don’t wear condoms.”
I waved him off. “I won’t have sex without it.”
“It looks like it’s too fuckin’ small,” he complained. “I doubt I can even get it on. Let’s just fuck.”
“Remember. My pussy, my rules.”
His eyes narrowed to slits. “I don’t even know how to operate one of these motherfuckers.”
“If you want this pussy, you’ll have to figure it out.”
He bit the edge of the package and tore it open. “I’m about out of the mood.”
“Shall we get back to the interview?”
“Just gimme a fuckin’ minute,” he growled.
I’d never spent a single moment second-guessing a choice I had made. Ever. I had always been proud of my ability to make split-second decisions and make them well. Even the serious ones were generally made quickly, and without any future remorse.
HARD: MC Romance (FF MC Romance Book 1) Page 3