In addition to housing our motorcycles and cars, the garage of our MC’s clubhouse acted as a repair facility for all personal modes of transportation. Ghost lowered the Mustang’s motor into the engine bay and checked the positioning. After satisfying himself that it was exactly where he wanted it to be, he looked up. “Like that waitress at the fish place in Oceanside?”

“No. This chick had more than big titties. She had some serious curves. Perfect ass, nice thick legs. And, she had good hair. Big hair.”

I conjured up an image of her perfectly round ass jostling up and down in her pajamas as she paced the driveway. My cock stiffened at the thought. I shifted my attention to Ghost and shook my head lightly.

He gazed at the engine for a moment, and then looked at me. “Was she built like Amy Betterman?”

Amy was a thick-legged cheerleader in high school that had nice tits and a spectacular ass. Although she sparked none of our interest during school, it was easy to look back at those days and wonder what was wrong with us when we were kids. The five of us would fight each other to get a shot at her now. Back then, all we wanted a girl who was built like a pencil and wasn’t afraid to put a dick in her mouth.

“Exactly!” I blurted.

“No shit?” His eyebrows raised. “She looked like Amy fucking Betterman?”

“Pretty much. But her hair wasn’t blonde. It was kinda blackish.”

“It’s funny. When we were kids, we all called her BUTT-erman.” He reached for his bottle of beer. “We were fools. That was one fine bitch.”

“I was just thinking the same thing.”

“So, you just left?” He asked. “You didn’t try to get in her pants?”

“She wasn’t wearing pants.”

He sipped his beer. “Pants, shorts, whatever.”

“Pajamas.”

One eyebrow raised. “Bra?”

“Nope.”

“Cantaloupe-sized tits in a pajama top without a bra, and you just left?” He looked me over and then coughed out a laugh. “I’m calling bullshit.”

“I told you, the fuckin’ cops showed up. While I was answering all the questions, some little short fucker escorted her up to the house. I didn’t see her after that.”

“He’s probably balls-deep in that shit right now,” he said stone-faced. “A big-dicked man in uniform is an irresistible combination.”

“Who says he’s got a big dick?” I asked in an irritated tone. “He might be hung like a mouse.”

“You said the cop was a little short fucker, right?”

“Yeah. He came up to her shoulder, why?”

“Little cops always have great big dicks,” he said matter-of-factly.

I crossed my arms and gave him a look of disbelief. “According to who?”

“Statistics. Little cops are always hung like mules.”

“Where the fuck do you get police dick data? Sounds like more of that fake news to me.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “It’s common knowledge.”

“It’s common bullshit,” I said with a wave of my hand.

Accepting that a height challenged big-dicked cop was fucking her while I answered a barrage of questions was impossible. If anyone should have been fucking her, it was me, and not some lame-assed cop that barely came up to her shoulder.

I finished my beer and turned toward the trash can. “She didn’t seem to be the type that liked cops.”

“Looked like the type to find a clean-cut cop as a turn off, huh?” He chuckled, and then peered into the car’s engine bay. “She seemed to be more into ugly bikers?”

“I ain’t ugly, motherfucker.”

“You’re sure as fuck not pretty. Chicks dig a man in uniform, especially a cop. They see them as a protector. Someone who can rescue them. Keep them from harm, and all that shit.”

I was the one that rescued her, not the cop. I clenched my jaw at the thought of him winning and me losing. After a moment, I couldn’t take it any longer.

“Chicks dig rough looking fuckers like me,” I said, more to convince myself than to convince him.

He looked up. “If you say so.”

I couldn’t decide if the remark about Kimberly fucking the cop was meant to piss me off, or if it was truly what he thought had happened. Cops annoyed the fuck out of me, and if anyone knew it, he did.

We grew up in Great Falls, Montana, one hundred and twenty miles from the Canadian border. Be it my hatred of cold weather, the desolate countryside, or my desire to live somewhere that simply had more to offer, I decided after I graduated high school that I wanted to get as far away from Montana as possible.

San Diego, California was the clear winner. The city offered everything that Great falls didn’t. Weather suitable for year-round motorcycle riding, beaches, and two million people to hide amongst.

There were five of us that grew up together: Baker, Goose, Ghost, Tito, and me. We made a pact in third grade that we would remain inseparable. The fact that we moved fifteen hundred miles away – as a group – confirmed our loyalty to one another.

Upon settling in San Diego, we started an unconventional motorcycle club, and later added a sixth man – a military vet from Texas. Focusing on each of our individual strengths as small-time thieves, the club stole from those we felt weren’t worthy of their wealth. As we grew older and more experienced, our jobs became more complex. Now with more than ten years of experience robbing Southern Californian’s of their treasures, no one’s money was beyond our grasp.

Ghost was built like a professional body builder. He was the resident chief mechanic, go-fast guru, and the only member of the club that was willing to talk without chastising me for my thoughts. Although I was close friends with all the men, he and I talked about things I wouldn’t eagerly share with the other men.

“Maybe I’ll go by there and check on her,” I said under my breath.

“That cops probably taking a shower right about now,” he said without looking up. “Hell, he might whip your ass for nosing around.”

“No cop’s whipping my ass,” I assured him.

He straightened his posture, looked me over, and shifted his attention to the Mustang’s wiring harness. “Cop’s know all that pressure point stuff. Bet the fucker can touch your wrist with his thumb and bring you to your knees.”

I hadn’t had my ass whipped since I was in kindergarten, and he knew it. I choked on a laugh. “Bullshit.”

“He’d wad you up in a ball if he wanted to,” he taunted.

I twisted the toe of my boot back and forth on the floor between us. “I’d squash him like a fuckin’ bug.”

His eyebrows raised slightly. “Only one way to find out.”

There wasn’t a man on earth I feared, cops included. I tossed my bottle in the trash and turned toward my motorcycle.

He chuckled a low laugh. “Where you going?”

“Heading to Goose’s place.”

“Not going to stop by that gal’s house, are you?”

“I might,” I said over my shoulder.

“Better take a couple of the fellas with you,” he said dryly. “Just in case that little cop wants to protect what’s his. Might take three or four men to whip him.”

I didn’t need help kicking any man’s ass, and I was prepared to prove it. I stomped to my motorcycle and snatched my helmet off the handlebars.

“Pic’s or it didn’t happen,” Ghost shouted.

Baker, the MC’s president, came around the corner as I was lifting my leg over the seat of my bike. He leaned his lanky frame against the concrete column and gave me a look.

“Pretty early for a beer run,” he said. “Where you going?”

I pulled on my helmet. “To take some pics.”

He stroked his beard and looked at me the way he always did. Like I was an idiot. “Of what?”

“Little cops and big tits.” I buckled the helmet’s strap and fired up the bike. “In that order.”