“Since when?” he snapped back.
“Since forever. With age comes maturity.” I tilted the neck of my beer bottle toward him. “Maturity brings comfort.”
He choked on his beer. After wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he returned a dramatic glare. “Comfort in what?”
“They know an old man will give ‘em a good honest fucking. No lies, no unmet promises, no pick-up lines. Just a lot of hard cock.”
“And that’s enough to keep ‘em happy?”
I waved my arms toward the empty shop. “You see any women in here complaining?”
“Nope.”
“That’s because I never told ‘em I loved ‘em, but I always fucked ‘em like I did.”
“She suck good cock?” he asked. “Bitch has got some serious DSL’s.”
“Dunno.”
“She didn’t suck your cock?”
“She was askin’ me question after question, and I’m sittin’ on the bench listenin’ to her, and trying my fuckin’ damndest to stay focused,” I explained. “But she’s wearin’ shorts, some Chuck’s, and a tight tee shirt. And she kept running her fingers through her fuckin’ hair. Bitch was driving me nuts. Next thing I know, I’m sittin’ right there with a fuckin’ chubby.”
I motioned toward the bench with my beer bottle.
“Where was she?”
“Sittin’ on the drum.”
He glared back at me in disbelief. “You had her sittin’ on Whip’s dead brother?”
I grinned and nodded. “Didn’t want her sittin’ beside me. You know how I am about havin’ people in my space.”
“Where’d you fuck her?”
“Bent her over the bench.”
He coughed out a laugh. “Just couldn’t fuck her while she was hovering over a corpse?”
“I didn’t give a fuck if she sat on him, but I didn’t want to fuck her while she was layin’ her tits on him.”
“Makes sense.”
The things that made sense to a biker were undoubtedly different than what made sense to most people in the free world. I could tell any of the men in the club that I had a body to dispose of, and their response would be where is it? If the same question was asked of someone out of my group, most people would respond by vomiting.
Or calling the cops.
Our MC consisted of a close-knit group of men who would place their lives on the line for any of their club brothers. The comradery and devotion was as close to what I felt in the Navy. Often, my MC brethren reminded me of my SEAL team.
“So, that’s something we need to get taken care of quick. Today, if possible.”
“What’s that?”
“The body in that fuckin’ drum.”
“Wanna do it now?”
“No. We’re gonna need to drive out to the desert. Or up to Temecula, by the mountains. Fucker’s been in that drum of Sodium Hydroxide since Saturday night, I’d say he’s about ready.”
“Acid’s the way to go, huh?”
“Sodium Hydroxide’s not acid. It’s lye. They use acid on T.V., but in real life, the shit doesn’t work. The fumes alone from hydrochloric or hydrofluoric would kill you. And it doesn’t do what they show it doing on T.V., believe me.”
His face distorted. “How the fuck you know all this shit?”
I tapped my index finger against the tattoo on my bicep of the eagle, anchor, trident, and pistol – the insignia of the SEALs.
“Shoulda known,” he said.
“They didn’t just teach us how to kill, they taught us how to do it and not leave a trace,” I said with a laugh.
He tossed his empty beer bottle in the trash. “Funny. Government teaches you how to do that shit, and the same government will lock you up for doing what they trained you for.”
“Don’t get me started.” I waved my hand toward the fridge. “Grab me one, too.”
He opened the two beers, handed me one of them, and kicked the steel drum with the toe of his boot. “So we just pour him out on the ground?”
“It’s gonna be a fuckin’ mess,” I explained. “We need to dump it somewhere, scavenge what’s left of the bones, and crush ‘em up. They’ll be pretty brittle. And hollow.”
“Figure out when, and I’m good to go,” he said.
“You ought to be, you dip-shit. Who doesn’t leave air holes when they do something like that?”
“Well, Mr. Navy fucking SEAL, not all of us are special warfare experts. That’s the first motherfucker to ever have his face taped up by me. So, considering, I think I did a pretty good job,” he said in a prideful tone.
“You did a damned fine job, Peeb. Just fell a little short on keepin’ the fucker alive,” I said with a laugh.
“Fuck this prick. He swung a baseball bat at my head.” He kicked his boot against the drum. “If it wasn’t for my cat-like reflexes, you’d be buryin’ me in the desert, not him.”
I raised my beer bottle. “I’m just fuckin’ with ya.”
“Seriously, though. What are we gonna do about these pricks?”
“The Savages?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
“We both know they’re tryin’ to force us out, because they’ve been here longer. I haven’t got much interest in dissolving the club. You?”
“Nope.”
“So, we stand our ground. Sooner or later, they’ll back off. If they don’t, we go to war.”
“I’m tired of lookin’ over my shoulder every fuckin’ time I hear a set of pipes comin’ down the road.”
“You and me both, Brother. You and me both,” I said.
“So what about this newspaper chick? You done with the interview?”
I shook my head. “Just getting started.”
“So she’s gonna be comin’ around for a bit?”
“A long bit.”
The words escaped my mouth before I had much time to think about my response. It was apparent from what Peyton said about the amount of hours she would need to invest in interviews that she would be around for some time. In my opinion, exposing her to a limited amount of the club’s activities would help matters as much, if not more, than interviews.
Like it or not, if I wanted a favorable portrayal of the club in the newspaper, it was something that going to require a significant amount of time on her part, and mine.
My fear was knowing I wouldn’t be able to keep my cock out of her. In reality, I was a Filthy Fucker in more ways than one.
I raised my bottle of beer. “Filthy Fuckers forever.”
Pee Bee raised his and clanked it against mine. “Forever Filthy Fuckers.”
Truer words had never been spoken.
Chapter Seven
Peyton
After downloading the files from my recorder to my laptop, I started listening to the interview. Typing a rough outline of my story was something I always tried to do when information and events were fresh in my mind, and Nick Navarro was still fresh in my mind.
Very much so. It was twenty-four hours after the interview, and I still felt like he was inside of me.
I crossed my legs as I heard his raspy voice come through the earbuds.
After a moment or two of reminiscing, I fast-forwarded through the beginning of the interview. After skimming through a few of the questions, one portion of the questions and answers caught my attention.
“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 don’t have to answer to anyone. Society can suck my dick.”
I pressed the pause tab, typed a few notes about Navarro, and continued to listen. Minutes later, and I was more than
halfway through the interview.
“When I was in school, 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.”
“I like that.”
I pressed pause again, made a few notes, and typed a paragraph about Navarro’s soft side. As the recording’s topic of conversation changed from outlaw MC’s to sex, it dawned on me that I didn’t turn the recorder off.
Surely it didn’t…
“I’m going to fuck you senseless,” I heard him growl.
Then, his gravelly voice continued. “I can’t…figure out…if it’s my…big cock…or your…tight little pussy. But fuckin’ you…is like fuckin’…a virgin.”
I listened to the sound of him fucking me until it felt like my pussy was on fire, and then I turned off the recording and pulled the earbuds from my ears. My eyes darted around my bedroom as if the answer to why my pussy was dripping down my leg was somewhere amidst my collection of snowboards, surfboards, and skateboards.
The thought of having Navarro’s strong hand on the back of my head while his scent filled my nostrils seemed to consume me. I realized a full-fledged biker wasn’t the desire of all women, but his tattoos, muscles, raspy voice, and manner of dress were sexy as hell.
Who was I kidding? Everything about him was sexy.
As ridiculous as it seemed, I felt the need to see him again. Immediately. Knowing what he was sexually capable of and not taking advantage of it was a waste; whether he understood it as such or not.
I didn’t have his phone number, and the only way I knew to find him was to either go to the bar or drop by the clubhouse. Even if he wasn’t at the clubhouse, I knew I may encounter other members of the club, and the probability of obtaining some useful information was high.
I had little doubt that an uninvited stop at the clubhouse would get me into trouble with Navarro.
Probably big trouble.
The clubhouse it is.
Rolling down the freeway, ten minutes away from my exit, I began to fill with remorse for making the decision to go see him. While stuck in traffic, I reached toward the passenger seat, fumbled inside my purse for a moment, and removed the recorder.
I turned down the radio, pressed play, then fast-forwarded to the action.
“Say something, you sexy little bitch.” The almost inaudible sound of his whisper caused me to almost hit the car in front of me. I stomped my foot against the brakes, causing the Jeep to come to an abrupt stop.
“Newspaper reporter my ass, you came here for my cock, didn’t you?”
“I uhhm.”
“Didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
The sound of his voice was such a turn-on.
I had no business going to his clubhouse unannounced, but to be an effective reporter, I needed a realistic means of getting in touch with him, and I had no means short of hunting him down.
Convinced the drive to the warehouse was my only option, I considered viable options that I could explain which would support my need to see him with such urgency.
I have a few questions regarding the club’s process of initiating prospects.
How many miles, on average, do you ride a year?
Do your members also have other means of transportation?
Does the club have a means of income, or is it self-supporting through dues and contributions?
Does the club participate in charitable events?
Shit.
None of the questions were critical for my first installment on the piece, and Navarro would see right through me.
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.
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