Filthy F*ckers: The Complete Series Box Set

by Hildreth, Scott

  I felt like such a girl.

  I’d be much better of just telling him the truth.

  I exited the highway, came to a stop at the traffic light, and then slowly proceeded down the street toward the clubhouse. When I got close enough to get an unobstructed view of the building, I could clearly see that there were three motorcycles parked in front.

  I envisioned a secret meeting, drug deal, or weapons transaction going down. I considered driving past, but curiosity got the best of me. I turned through the gate, drove slowly toward the front of the building, and came to a stop beside Navarro’s eclectic example of a motorcycle.

  I grabbed my recorder and pushed the door to the Jeep open.

  “I don’t recall giving you a standing invite to stop by my clubhouse at will, reporter.”

  I turned toward the voice, but saw no one. I responded nonetheless. “You didn’t.”

  Be assertive, Peyton.

  Take charge.

  I scanned the empty garage. Navarro was nowhere to be found. I cleared my throat. “But if you want this article to make your club look good in the eyes of all who read it, I suggest you cooperate with the woman who is writing the article.”

  Navarro stepped from inside the garage and stood ten feet in front of me with his arms folded in front of his chest. Dressed in a pair of well-worn jeans, boots, and a black wife-beater, he looked every bit the part of a biker. He raised his right hand to his face, clenched his fist, and exhaled into the void between his thumb and forefinger.

  With his eyes locked on me, he inhaled a long slow breath, then lowered his fist. Without so much as saying a word, his extremely commanding presence seemed to suck the confidence from my very soul.

  I was left standing in front of him feeling small, helpless, and without a single thought of my own.

  I was his for the taking.

  I turned my head to the side and swallowed heavily, hoping he didn’t notice. As I turned to face him, I feigned a cough, then met his gaze. “I need your phone number.”

  He continued to stare. “You want my phone number. You don’t need it.”

  I straightened my posture and cleared my throat. “Upon returning home from the war, Nicholas Crip Navarro formed a band of hand-selected brothers not much different than the men who fought at his side during the eight-year-long protracted armed conflict in Iraq.”

  His face expressed not one ounce of emotion.

  I maintained eye contact and continued. “To the layman, the differences between his military and state-side brethren were crystal clear. To Navarro, the five-foot-eleven, 200 pound tattooed war veteran – and president of the Filthy Fuckers Motorcycle Club – there were no differences. To understand the similarities in the men, one must be able to peer well beyond the surface of the club’s members. Navarro gave me a look deep inside the makings of his club, and after doing so, I was able to see the members not for who and they appeared to be, but for who they truly were.”

  “You done?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “If war broke out in these United States tomorrow, and I was in charge of my own well-being, the US Marines nor the Army would have the honor of defending me. I’d make one phone call, and one only – to Navarro. And after that call, I’d drift off into a deep slumber, knowing no harm would come to me.”

  His mouth curled into a shitty little smirk.

  “You know the only problem with that story?” I asked.

  “Nope.”

  “I couldn’t make that one phone call. Because I don’t have your fucking phone number.”

  “You know my only problem I’ve got with you being at my clubhouse, reporter?”

  I shrugged. “Uhhm. I guess not.”

  “Every time you open your pretty little mouth, all I can think about is shoving my cock in it.”

  I was flattered.

  Kind of.

  “I don’t know whether to say thank you, or fuck you.”

  He chuckled. “I like your attitude. The number’s 619 447 1035. And no, I won’t repeat it.”

  Six, one, nine, four, four seven, one, zero, three, five. Six, one, nine, four, four seven, one, zero, three, five. Six, one, nine, four, four seven, one, zero, three, five. Six, one, nine, four, four seven, one, zero, three, five.

  “I don’t need to write it down, I’m a reporter.”

  Six, one, nine, four, four seven, one, zero, three, five.

  He nodded. “Impressive. How’s the article coming?”

  “Just getting started,” I responded. “We need to, uhhm, meet again. Soon.”

  Six, one, nine, four, four seven, one, zero, three, five.

  I studied him. His clothes served him all too well. His shirt hugged his muscular torso like a black glove, leaving nothing about his washboard stomach and massive chest to the imagination. His worn denim jeans were tight against his shapely butt, more proof that all of his leisure time wasn’t spent in the bar.

  His ass was the product of countless hours at the gym.

  Charlie Hunnam was no longer the object of my sexual desire.

  Nick Navarro was.

  “I’m busy right now, reporter,” he said. “Give me a shout tomorrow, around noon. Maybe we can have coffee and a crunchy little biscuit. How’s that sound?”

  Six, one, nine, four, four seven, one, zero, three, five.

  “Alright,” I said, turning away. “Talk to you tomorrow.”

  I opened the door to the Jeep, climbed inside, and did an imaginary fist pump.

  Yes!

  And, the entire drive home, all I could think of was him shoving his cock in my mouth every time I started to speak.

  Chapter Eight

  Nick

  I turned into the coffee shop, coasted to a stop, and parked the bike alongside a hybrid Toyota. In complete contrast to most of my southern California neighbors, I tried like hell to leave the biggest carbon footprint on the earth that I could.

  I hopped off my bike and glanced at the battery-powered eco-friendly ride. From the rearview mirror, an orange dangled by a string. Protruding from the skin of the fruit over the entire surface, were cloves.

  A hippie air freshener.

  Today’s colon-cleansing, environmentally conscious, trash-separating robots disgusted me. I felt if the occupants of the earth could focus more on being genuine, and less on being what they felt others expected them to be, the world would be a much better place.

  I scanned the lot for Peyton’s Jeep, but saw nothing. After checking my watch, I realized I was ten minutes early. I gazed out into the street, wondering if I could stomach being in the presence of whoever drove the fruit-scented Prius until she arrived. In a matter of seconds, she swerved between two passing cars and into the parking lot.

  With the top off of her Jeep and Jimi Hendrix’s Castles Made of Sand playing loud enough that I could recognize it, she shot into an empty stall, parked, and hopped out of the Jeep. Wearing her trademark attire of jean shorts, Chuck’s, and a tee shirt, she looked no differently than she had on the other three occasions I had seen her.

  “Nice day for going topless,” I said.

  She pulled her hair into a ponytail and secured it with a rubber band from her wrist. “Your subliminal suggestions are falling on deaf ears, biker man.”

  “It was worth a try, reporter.”

  While walking toward me, she dropped her sunglasses in her purse, removed a pair of glasses, and put them on.

  One of my weaknesses was a hot bitch wearing glasses. With her hair in a ponytail and the bold black frames fixed high on the bridge of her nose, my imagination took over. An image of her peering at me through the lenses while my cock was in her mouth quickly came to mind.

  “You wear glasses?”

  “My contacts were killing my eyes.”

  I admired her until she was at my side, then turned toward the entrance. “Inside or outside?”

  She stepped between me and the Toyota. “Outside.”

  We got our drinks, she declined a crunch
y biscuit, and we sat outside at a table amongst several coffee-drinking sun worshipers.

  “So, did you remember my number?” I asked.

  “Six, one, nine, four, four seven, one, zero, three, five.”

  “Good memory, huh?”

  She laughed. “Like a fucking elephant.”

  “What was so fuckin’ important that you had to come by the shop last night?”

  She looked embarrassed for a split-second, but quickly donned a smile. “I was working on the piece, and realized I had no way to get ahold of you. I can’t effectively write something informative if my only way of obtaining information is by simply stumbling into you.”

  “How many more times are we going to have to meet?”

  After I asked the question, I realized sooner or later, the meetings between us would actually end. As much as I never would have guessed it, the thought of not seeing her again wasn’t something I looked forward to.

  “I don’t know,” she responded. “Maybe ten or twelve.”

  “Ten or twelve?” I snapped back. “Jesus.”

  “Well, four installments.” She took a drink of coffee, then shrugged. “Three or so meetings for each article. It’s not that much.”

  “Guess not.”

  She pulled the recorder from her purse. “You want to do a little more now?”

  I wondered what else she might ask, and was anxious to find out. “Might as well.”

  She glanced over each shoulder, raised her hand to her mouth, and spoke. “For the record, I’m Peyton Price conducting my second interview with Nick Navarro, the president of the Filthy Fuckers MC. Today’s date is May 11th.”

  She placed the recorder on the table between us. “Are you single?”

  I nodded. “Have been since, shit…for ten years.”

  “Is your refusal to be in a committed relationship a result of not trusting women?”

  “I didn’t say I refused to be in a committed relationship. I just said I wasn’t in one.” I said. “And it’s not about trusting women, I don’t trust myself.”

  “You don’t trust yourself? Can you explain?”

  I glanced at the woman seated beside us. Long, lean, and tan, she appeared to be in her mid-forties. Her fake tits were bulging from her designer top, and her hands were covered in jewels. Although she sat with who I suspected was her husband, her focus was clearly our conversation. Her eyes dropped to my boots, and slowly raised

  “Here’s the issue,” I said. “I like pussy. A lot.”

  She wrinkled her nose and stared. “So much that it’s a problem?”

  “Prevents me being in a committed relationship, that’s for sure. I might be a lot of things, but I’m not a liar.” I shifted my eyes to the skinny bitch seated beside us, who was still ear hustling our conversation. “So I just fuck the shit out of every girl I meet, but make sure they’re well aware that all they’re gettin’ is my cock.”

  She cleared her throat. “I think she’s with someone.”

  I turned to face Peyton. “She’d take it if I was offering.”

  “Seriously?”

  I nodded. “Believe me.”

  “Would you give it to her?”

  I grinned a mischievous smile. “I sure would. And I’d make you hold her skinny ass down while I did it.”

  “I don’t think so,” she snapped back.

  I looked at the skinny bitch. She shot me a curious look while her husband poked his finger against the screen of his phone.

  Peyton knocked her knuckles on the edge of the table. “See if you can stay focused on the interview.”

  I shifted my focus back to her and chuckled. “I’ll do my best.”

  “Have any kids?”

  None that I know of.

  “Nope.”

  “Do you have a mode of transportation for foul weather days? Anything other than the sled?”

  “Nope.”

  “Your thoughts on transgender bathrooms?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “A person with a sexual identity that differs from their assigned sexuality. Transgender. Where should they go to the bathroom?”

  “Wherever they fuckin’ want to. People need to worry more about themselves and their fuckin’ kids, and stop worrying about what everyone else is doing or not doing.”

  “Do you believe in equality?”

  I believe I want to shove my cock down your throat.

  “I believe it doesn’t exist.”

  “Should it?” she asked.

  “Sure as fuck should.”

  “On earth and in your club? Or only where it’s convenient?”

  “Everywhere.”

  “It’s common knowledge that the guidelines for the Hells Angels MC prohibit black membership. The Bandidos and Mongols MC’s share this guideline. In fact, a 2008 federal indictment listed many racist acts that were allegedly committed by the Mongol’s members, including beatings and murder. Do the guidelines of your club allow black members?”

  “Generally speaking, there are black MC’s and there are white MC’s. The FFMC is an MC that chooses not to discriminate.”

  “Do you have any black members?”

  “No.”

  She widened her eyes. “Will you ever?”

  “If a man wants to prospect with the club, and he’s a solid dude, we’ll consider it. If he passes the initiation without problems, he’ll be a patched-in member. Skin color has nothing to do with our decision making process.”

  “What, specifically, is the initiation process?”

  I admired her for a moment. She was beautiful by anyone’s standards. With the glasses on, she was irresistible. As I felt my cock began to go stiff, I pressed the heel of my palm against it.

  I exhaled heavily. “By invitation from a fully-patched member, someone becomes a hang-around. A hang-around is a person that comes to club functions by invitation only, and only with the member who vouched for him. After some time, say, after six months, they may become an associate. An associate is a glorified hang-around. Maybe they’ll attend a few organized rides with us, go to a few parties, and hang around the clubhouse – again, by invitation only. Then, if agreed by the membership of the club. They may become a prospect. If so, they prospect with the club for a year, and then must receive a unanimous vote for membership.”

  “So, the process takes eighteen months?”

  I nodded. “At least.”

  “Have you denied anyone membership?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who and why?”

  “Who is none of your god damned business. Why? Because they weren’t capable.”

  “Capable of what?”

  I considered my response, and gave one that lacked specifics, but was revealing enough to keep her from continuing. “He wasn’t capable of satisfying every member of the club that he was who we needed.”

  She nodded, took a drink of her coffee, and gazed beyond me for a moment. After zoning out for some time, she met my gaze. “Your club, no differently than other outlaw MC’s, claims territory. Often, when many clubs claim the same territory, there’s bickering between the clubs. Does the FFMC have issues with any clubs? Do you have a rival?”

  “Off the record, there are always issues with someone. On the record. No.”

  She reached for the recorder, turned it off, and cocked an eyebrow. “Off the record.”

  I shrugged. It was no secret that FFMC and Satan’s Savages were rivals. “Off the record, Satan’s Savages are poking around where they shouldn’t be.”

  She nodded and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

  I locked eyes with her. “Take off those glasses.”

  She grinned. “Why?”

  “Because I want to fuck your pretty little mouth when I look at you. Take ‘em off.”

  “I can’t see without them.”

  “And I can’t promise you I’ll keep my cock in my pants if you leave ‘em on.”

  “So, you’re going to mouth rape me if I choose to wea
r them?”

  I chuckled. “Pretty tough to rape a willing mouth.”

  “Who says my mouth is willing?”

  “I just did.”

  She tried to look surprised at my claim. It didn’t work.

  She scrunched her brow. “Based on what?”

  I stood from my seat, stepped to her side, and pressed my mouth against her ear. “I want you to suck my big cock, reporter.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Did you hear me?” I growled.

  She nodded, and an almost inaudible uh huh escaped her lips.

  “I want to feel those full lips of yours wrapped around it while you dig your nails into my ass. I want you to force so much of it down your throat that your fuckin’ eyes water,” I whispered.

  “I uhhm. I…”

  “So, you don’t want it? You don’t want to suck my big fucking dick?”

  “Uhhm. No,” she murmured.

  I reached below the table and slowly dragged my finger along her inner thigh, giving her plenty of time to resist. After no such protest, I forced my finger beneath the denim of her shorts and slid it into her soaking wet pussy.

  “You’re drenched, reporter. It appears your twat doesn’t agree with that bullshit your mouth is trying to sell me. Your wet little pussy wants you to suck my cock.”

  “We can’t keep doing this.”

  I pulled my finger from inside of her and wiped it on the thigh of my jeans. “Doing what? We’re just talking.”

  “We’re…uhhm…we’re…” she stammered.

  I sat down and took a drink of my coffee. “We’re talking. I thought that’s what you wanted. To talk.”

  Her glasses were askew on her face, one side sitting much lower than the other. Probably a result of me pressing my cheek against hers, but seeing her appear unkempt was satisfying in its own regard.

  “Fix your glasses, reporter. They’re crooked.”

  She took off her glasses, scowled at me, then placed them back on her face perfectly.

  She reached for the recorder, tossed it into her purse, and sighed. “We’re done for the day. Now, I want a ride on your motorcycle. For the sake of the article, of course.”

  “God damned shame I don’t have a helmet you can wear. State law requires passengers to wear ‘em.”