HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  “Ain’t no sense in draggin’ his dumb ass. We’ll get caught for sure,” Pee Bee said. “I’ll just carry the fucker.”

  We only had to go a hundred yards, but carrying a dead body wasn’t as easy as one might think. My experiences in combat taught me that the dead and wounded were more difficult to carry than someone who was alive and well.

  With minimal effort, Pee Bee hoisted the dead body over his shoulders. “Lead the way.”

  Using my shirt to keep from leaving fingerprints, I opened the back door. “Through this yard, then through that yard. Stretch is parked in the street. Ready?”

  He nodded.

  Without incident, we rushed through the two yards, and up to the side of Stretch’s truck. I checked over each shoulder. “Toss him in the back.”

  “Open the door,” Pee Bee demanded. “I’m puttin’ him in front with us. It’ll look like he’s drunk.”

  “Toss his ass in the fuckin’ back,” I growled.

  He shifted the dead body on his shoulders and glared back at me. “We get caught with him in the back, we’re fucked. Open the fuckin’ door.”

  “You two fuckers need to get in here, or we’re all gonna get got,” Stretch warned. “Hurry the fuck up.”

  “Toss his ass in the back,” I demanded.

  “Sure thing, Boss.” He sighed, rolled his shoulders forward, and ducked his head. The dead body rolled over the top of him and dropped into the back of the truck with a thud. “We get busted, it’s on you, Crip.”

  I pulled the truck door open and motioned toward the inside of the cab. “We ain’t getting’ busted, I’m sick of arguing about it. Get in the fuckin’ truck.”

  After a short glare, he got in.

  With the dead body in the bed of the truck, we rode to the shop in silence. Strangely, I wasn’t concerned with murder charges, Whip’s dead brother, or disposing of the body. My focus was elsewhere.

  The girl from the bar with the tight little pussy and the mile-long attitude was on my mind, and as much as I didn’t want to admit it, I was looking forward to seeing her again.

  There probably wasn’t a handful of girls that would show up at the clubhouse of an outlaw motorcycle club – even if they were invited. Considering the events of our first meeting, Peyton, the newspaper reporter, probably shouldn’t show up.

  Her mouth and her attitude, however, told me she was an adventurous little bitch.

  And I planned on finding out just how daring she could be.

  Chapter Three

  Peyton

  I had run through many of the possibilities of what might happen when I arrived at the clubhouse – at least all of them that I could think of. Visions of Nick Navarro shoving his hand down my shorts while his MC brethren watched seemed to come to mind as being the most probable of options.

  Camden was right, I was adventurous. Allowing Navarro to finger me in the bar wasn’t something I would describe as typical of my behavior, though. After it was all over and I was driving home, I decided I was simply lost in the moment. Navarro’s eyes were hypnotic, and with them focused on me while he was carefully tickling my g-spot, saying no wasn’t even an option.

  Truth be known, the guy could probably commit murder, and as long as he batted his insanely sexy blue eyes at the jury, they’d acquit him.

  I drove around the corner, recognized the clubhouse from my Google Earth search, and slowly rolled up to the opened gate. An old warehouse that could easily pass for being abandoned was beyond the fence. In front of it, one lone motorcycle sat.

  With a bare metal gas tank that was covered in rust, no front fender, and a blue and white whip dangling from one of the handlebars, it appeared to be no different than the clubhouse – abandoned.

  The garage doors to the building were wide open, revealing a shop filled with miscellaneous motorcycle parts, some unidentifiable equipment, a blue steel drum, and an old refrigerator.

  The early evening sunshine provided me with a false sense of security. Had it been dark, I probably would have turned around and left. But it wasn’t. And I didn’t.

  Eager for another glimpse of Navarro’s eyes – and an explanation of who he was – I pulled past the gate, parked beside the abandoned motorcycle, and got out of my Jeep. I tried to absorb as much of my surroundings as possible.

  “Jeep huh? Figured you for a--”

  I turned toward the gravelly voice. “Hyundai?”

  He stood just beyond the open garage door, his thumbs resting inside the front pockets of his well-worn jeans. The wife beater and leather vest that he wore provided little cover, leaving his multi-colored tattoos – and his bulging biceps – in full view of my anxious eyes.

  He nodded. “Something like that.”

  I wanted to understand more about Navarro, the brotherhood, and what attracted each of them to be in an outlaw motorcycle club. He was standing no more than ten feet from me, but it seemed that he was miles away. Having already experienced it, I preferred the face-to-face scenario we shared at the bar. I wanted to feel his breath on my lips and smell his adrenaline-infused sweat.

  I pushed my hands into the pockets of my shorts and twisted my hips nervously. “So where do you want to do it?”

  “Where?” He glanced around the parking lot and chuckled. “Personally, I prefer doing it out in the open. I’m kind of an outdoorsy fucker.”

  I rolled my eyes and grinned, although I fully realized my question set me up for his response. The thought of him bending me over the abandoned motorcycle made me tingle all over, but as much as I hated to, I fully realized I needed to try and keep our little meeting professional. At least for now.

  “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.

  Chapter 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.