Pee Bee

Unlike the MCs on television, the Filthy Fuckers spent more time drinking beers in the shop than we did getting in gunfights or running from the law.

Nick “Crip” Navarro was the President of the Filthy Fuckers MC, and a former navy SEAL. He and I were best friends, but no one outside the club would ever guess it. We were constantly at each other’s throats, bickering and fighting like an old married couple.

I did it because I was an asshole. Crip did it because he got some odd sense of satisfaction from it. In the end, it was all in fun.

“Can’t even calculate odds like that,” Crip said. “Fucking astronomical.”

I took a drink of beer, and then nodded in agreement. “Tell me about it. I stood there and stared at her like she was from another fuckin’ planet. Of all the people that could have shown up, there she was. But let me tell ya. She’s got a banging fucking body.”

“Now she’s got a banging body? The day she chucked her door into you, you said she was the dumbest bitch on the planet.” He looked at my bike, shook his head, and then took a drink of beer. “The crazy part is that you hired her. I guess now I know.”

“You know what?”

“I know why.”

“I hired her to take care of Pop.”

“You hired her because she’s got a banging body. Now you’re going to try and fuck her.”

“I wouldn’t fuck that bitch with Cholo’s cock.”

“You’re a whore. You fuck everybody.”

“Ain’t fuckin’ her.”

He tossed his empty bottle in the trash. “We’ll see.”

I wasn’t about to tell him that I hired her because she was a tough little bitch. Some things were best kept as secrets. If I made him believe that she could take care of my father, that would be enough.

“She’s some karate expert or some shit, I don’t know.” I shrugged, turned toward the trash can, and tossed my empty bottle in it. “I hired her because she works out, and she’s strong for her size.”

“You’re acting like we just met. I know you, remember?”

I opened the fridge and grabbed two more beers. “What the fuck does that mean?”

He laughed a dry laugh. “I wish you could hear yourself. I hired her because she works out. What was the other? She’s got a banging body. Sounds like you’re making excuses already for what you’re getting ready to do.”

I handed him a beer. “Fuck you, Crip.”

He set the beer on the work bench and held out his hand. “Bet.”

“What are we betting?”

“I bet you fuck her.”

“I’m not going to fuck her. She wrecked my fuckin’ bike.” I waved my hand toward it. Normally spotless and polished to a mirror finish, it looked like it belonged in a salvage yard. “Look at it. Looks like someone kicked it out of a truck while they were going down the highway.”

“Damned sure does,” he said. “Now shake my hand.”

I extended my hand, hesitated, and then pulled it away. “I’m not saying I’ll never fuck her. I’m just saying I ain’t planning on it.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“What’s what you thought?”

“That you’re going to fuck her, dumbass.”

“Motherfucker,” I said, then let out a sigh three times louder than it needed to be. “I said I wasn’t planning on it, and I ain’t. I’m talking about maybe tossing her a little cock way on down the road.”

“Ohhhhh.” He widened his eyes. “You mean a couple of weeks from now? Like, if you just happen to slip by your Pop’s place after a couple of beers, and you get there mysteriously just before she packs up her stethoscope and gauze wraps? Then, you might just pitch her some dick, huh?”

I shrugged. “Something like that. You think she’s got a stethoscope?”

An image of her wearing her maroon scrubs with a stethoscope hanging from her neck came to mind. The scrubs weren’t the ones she was wearing on the porch; in my mind, she wore another pair with a low neckline, one that allowed her boobs to bulge out.

Within a few seconds, I was mentally bending her over an operating table and shoving her full of cock while several doctors and a handful of nurses watched in shock.

Each stroke of my cock took $1.00 off the $3,500 she owed me. After $20 or $30 worth of dick, I’d pull out and come all over her pretty face.

“You’re an idiot,” Crip announced in a low, gravely tone.

I snapped out of my daydream.

He took a drink of beer. “And, who gives a fuck if she’s got a stethoscope.”

The sound of Cholo’s approaching bike echoed through the shop.

Cholo had a Hispanic mother and a white father. His father left before he was born, leaving him to be raised by his mother and his half-dozen siblings. Rejected by the Hispanic community as being a half-breed, and looked down upon by the white community for being a wet back, he’d found a place where he fit in perfectly.

With the Fuckers.

He rolled through the open doors and came to a stop beside my bike. Wearing his trademark weathered jeans, worn out sneakers, and a clean white tee with his vest over it, he looked like a bald-headed skateboarder more than he did a biker. He stepped off his bike, pulled off his glasses, and glanced at my once glorious machine.

“What shakin’, motherfucker?” I asked.

He looked up. “Nada.” He shifted his eyes to my bike, and then whistled a long, low whistle. “Dumb cunt just tossed her door open, huh?”

“He’s gonna fuck her here in a few days,” Crip said.

“Gonna fuck who?” Cholo asked.

“Peeb’s gonna fuck the chick that wrecked his bike.”

Cholo rapidly punched the air in a shadow boxing expedition. “Fuck her up, maybe.”

“No,” Crip said as he turned toward the fridge. “She bashed up his bike, and then he hired her to look after his Pop. She’s over there drinking root beers and playing parcheesi right now. He say’s she’s got a banging body, though. Guess that makes it okay.”

He handed Cholo a beer. “Here.”

With his eyes locked on me, Cholo took a drink of the beer, and then shook his head. “Hijo de la chingada. You hired this bitch to be your Pop’s nurse? The one who wrecked your shit?”

It sounded much worse than it was. I glanced at Crip, and then looked at Cholo. I was being attacked from both sides and none of it was called for. I wasn’t planning on fucking anyone.

Eventually, I knew I would, that was just how I rolled.

I downed my beer, tossed the bottle, and held up my hands.

“Hold on fellas,” I said. “Let’s get one thing straight.”

Crip raised both eyebrows.

Cholo rubbed his bald head with the palm of his hand, and then took a drink of beer.

“This bitch is five foot two and maybe a buck and a nickel fully dressed. Maybe. And she’s built like a porn star. If I fuck her, and it’s a damned big if, it ain’t gonna be me showing her a good time. It’s gonna be me getting a little get back for what she did.”

“Little bitch, huh?” Cholo asked.

“She’s so small, if I shoved her full of cock she’d double in size.”

Cholo chuckled. “You’re gonna tap that ass, pull it out, and give that bitch a dirty Sanchez, huh?”

It sounded like a pretty good plan. I nodded. “Uh huh.”

He swung his open palm in my direction. I met it mid-air with mine.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” he said as he pulled me into him and patted me on the back. “Fuck that bitch in the ass.”

It was time to change the subject before Crip started in on me again. I motioned toward my bike. “So what do you think?”

He crouched down and looked it over. “You want the same paint?”

“Just like it was.”

“Same pegs and shit?”

“Just like it was.”

“You see the back fender? It’s got some light scratches on it.”

My bike was spotless, always. I knew where each imperfection was prior to the wreck, and there were two. After the wreck, each piece of sheet metal on it was scratched, as was a lot of the chrome.

The thought of my bike being in the shop was gut wrenching. “Yeah, I saw it,” I said through my teeth. “Fix ‘em.”

He stood up and took a drink of beer. “Two grand.”

“No shit? That’s a damned sight cheaper than the insurance company said.”

“I told you I’d hook you up, Brother,” he said. “Spook’s got most of the shit in his shop.”

“How long’s it gonna take?”

“Week.”

My heart sank. “A fucking week?”

“A day to take it apart. A day to strip it and sand it. A day to prep. Paint it the next day, and then put it back together.”

“A fucking week.” I shook my head. “When can he start?”

“He said any time.”

“You can ride that Sporty for a week,” Crip said, fighting to keep from laughing as he spoke.

The thought of riding a bike that was meant for someone who weighed 150 pounds and was five foot five was laughable.

And aggravating.

“My fucking knees will be up to my ears on that little fucker. I can’t stretch out on a Sporty.”

“Guess you can walk.” He chuckled a low laugh. “Or ride in a fucking cage.”

I stared blankly at my scratched up bike. My previous thoughts of fucking Tegan over an operating table faded and were replaced with ones of tying her up and making her my sexual slave.

I fixed my eyes on the shitty little bike sitting in the corner of the shop. It had been sitting there collecting dust for years. There was no doubt if I chose to ride the Sportster, the entire club would be laughing at me the entire time.

But I had no other options.

“I’ll ride the fucking Sporty,” I fumed.

But someone’s going to pay for it.

Dearly.