Peyton

I’d searched the house from one end to the other and couldn’t find my recorder. I remembered having it at the coffee shop and placing it in my purse before we left, but now it was nowhere to be found.

Frustrated, I sat at my computer and began to type, using compiled notes from memory alone.

Although racism is commonly practiced by many similar clubs, the FFMC harbors no such beliefs, nor limits their membership by anything other than opinion. Navarro isn’t a prejudiced man, and regardless of skin color, creed, or religious belief, if a man is capable of proving his worth to the club – an eighteen-month process – he may be voted in by a unanimous decision.

Somewhat of a flirt – and by his own admission a man who doesn’t trust himself in the presence of women – Navarro’s charisma arrives minutes before he does. Be it his confident swagger, his perfectly sculpted cheek bones, or his million-dollar smile, resisting his allure is no easy task.

His only means of transportation remains a vintage Harley-Davidson FLH, void of any options available in today’s competitive motorcycle manufacturing market. While others in the club may ride custom baggers fitted with stereos, fairings, and hard saddle bags, Navarro’s personal selection must be kick-started.

I read what I had written and decided it was an acceptable place to start. Although I was initially eager to investigate and write the piece on Navarro’s club, now that I had an opportunity to spend time with him, doing so seemed strangely out-of-place.

I highlighted everything and erased it.

Finding Nick Navarro attractive and being attracted to him were totally different. Any reasonably sane woman would find him attractive, but being attracted to him – especially after taking time to get to know him – would be foolish, or so I thought.

There was no real reason for me to be attracted to him.

But I was.

I felt my article not only needed to satisfy the expectations of my editor-in-chief, my readers, and myself, but Navarro as well. Leaving him out of the equation seemed irresponsible and insensitive.

And I was neither.

In a perfect world, I would have him sitting beside me while I wrote the article. Being certain to wear my glasses – and my shorts – I would tease him the entire time, leaving him no alternative other than to make sexual advances. Of course I would succumb to his wishes – all the while telling myself I was using him solely for my own personal satisfaction.

I was beginning to wonder if I was lying to myself.

As rough and impetuous as he was when it came to sex, I found his manner desirable in an almost infectious way. In his absence, I yearned for his forceful touch. In his presence, I anxiously waited for an opportunity to provoke him to exercise his lack of sexual control.

I recalled the exact moment his hand pressed my head into the surface of the workbench. I suspected most women would find such an act forceful and far from sensual. I, on the other hand, found it almost necessary.

At least now that I’d experienced it.

About the time I realized my daydreaming had made me horny beyond comprehension, the sound of a motorcycle’s exhaust caused me to jump from my seat. I ran to my window, pulled the blinds, and was surprised to see Navarro’s Sergeant-At-Arms pulling into the driveway of my townhome.

What the fuck?

I rushed to the door and yanked it open, fully expecting Navarro to be right behind him. After he shut off his rumbling motor, the silence that followed made my stomach curl into knots.

The look on his face confirmed my suspicion.

Something was wrong.

He removed his helmet, hung it on the handlebars, and tossed his leg over the gas tank. “Mind if I come in? We need to talk.”

My mind started to race, and my throat went tight. “Yeah, uhhm. Come in.”

* * *

We sat across from each other at my breakfast table, his face rather solemn and me on the verge of tears. I hadn’t cried since my mother passed, and I found it almost haunting that Nick Navarro’s arrest caused a baseball sized lump to rise in my throat and my eyes to well with tears.

“Do you know what the charges are?”

He nodded and cleared his throat. “They’ve charged him with everything they can. The attorney said it’s pretty common. They charge him with everything in hope of him cutting a deal--”

“He won’t, will he?”

He looked at me like I was insane. “Crip?”

Navarro’s club name caught me off guard, and my response came slow. “Uhhm. Yeah, Crip.”

“Fuck no. He’d die in there before he agreed to anything.”

“So what are they? The charges? Can you tell me?”

He raised his right hand and extended individual fingers as he named each charge. “Breaking and entry, burglary, criminal mischief, theft, and suspicion of murder. There might be another, I can’t remember.”

Oh. My. God.

My immediate response wasn’t one of wonder. What happened or why never came to mind. Doing any and everything in my power to assist in his release, however, did.

“What can I do to help?”

Thick strands of his long hair had fallen down into his eyes. He lowered his head, raked his fingers through it, and brushed it away from his face. “You got any beers around this place?”

It was late, and a drink sounded good. “Michelob Ultra. That’s the only beer I have. Or you can have vodka and cranberry juice, which is what I’m going to have.”

“No disrespect, but Michelob Ultra tastes like water. If I try one of them cranberry drinks, you ain’t gonna tell Crip, are ya?”

“Not if you don’t want me to.”

He shot me his crazy-eyed stare. Again. “If I wanted you to tell him, I wouldn’t have asked, would I?”

I grinned. “Probably not.”

“Make me one of ‘em, but make it like you were six-foot-eight and weighed two-sixty. You know, not for a girl.”

“I don’t drink like a girl, believe me.”

I mixed two drinks, making them no differently than I would if I were drinking alone. I handed him one of them. “Are you really six foot eight?”

“Barefoot, yeah. In boots, six-ten and a little.”

“Jesus.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Wow.”

“Forty-inch inseam, size sixteen boots, and a double XL shirt. Try findin’ shit that fits. Pain in the ass.”

I took a drink. “Size sixteen? Seriously?”

He took a drink, swallowed, and then stared at the half-full glass. “Yep. And I know you’re wonderin’, so I’ll just say it now. What they say is true. And no you can’t see it.”

I tried to keep from smiling. “I wasn’t going to ask.”

To be truthful, if I had a few drinks in me – and if I hadn’t met Navarro – I would have asked.

“But you were wonderin’.”

I took another drink. “We always wonder. It’s part of being a girl.”

He finished his drink and stared at the empty glass. “This fucker’s good. And gone.”

I extended my hand. “Let me make you another.”

I mixed him another drink and handed it to him. “Here. And don’t be shy. There’s plenty. It’s a staple here. Kind of like cottage cheese and yogurt.”

He reached for the drink. “Thanks.”

I sat down across from him and sighed. “So, back to what we were talking about. What can I do to help?”

“According to the attorney, you interviewed Crip on the 7^th of May. For the first time. Now I ain’t sayin’ you did, and I ain’t sayin’ you didn’t. I’m sayin’ that’s what the attorney said.”

I didn’t have to think about it. The date was stuck in my head. “I did. It was our first interview.”

“The 7^th was a Saturday.”

I shook my head. “We started on a Sunday. Sunday night.”

“Sunday was the 8^th.”

I grabbed my phone, opened the calendar, and stared at the dates. He was right. Saturday was the 7^th and Sunday was the eighth. I had misspoken when the interview started. “Wow. Sunday was the 8^th. We started on the 8^th.”

“Attorney said that Crip said you started the recording out by saying something like this is Peyton Price and for the record, this is the 7^th of May. Crip remembers everything, especially when it comes to numbers.”

He was right, I did say it, and I remembered saying it. His quote was almost verbatim. Confused as to what he wanted from me, I decided to just ask. “So, what does he need from me?”

“He needs you to say on the evening of the interview, you two were tied up until late. From whenever it started until late at night.”

I shrugged. “We were.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “And that the interview was on the 7^th.”

Apparently, Navarro needed an alibi. For whatever reason, I was ready to provide it. “I interviewed Navarro on the 7^th. We started at roughly six o’clock, and the interview lasted until eleven p.m.”

He shook his head. “It needs to last until 2:00 a.m.”

“I interviewed Navarro on the 7^th. We started at roughly six o’ clock, and the interview lasted until 2:00 a.m.”

He took a drink, then studied me for a moment. “They’re gonna get rough with you in the interrogation room.”

“I’m a big girl, I can handle it.”

He cleared his throat. “You sure it was the 7^th?”

“Positive.”

He leaned forward and glared at me. “You’re lying.”

“Fuck you. I’m positive.”

He wagged his finger in my face. “If I find out you’re lying--”

I pushed myself away from the table and glared back at him. “You won’t find out, shit, mister. I’m telling the truth. The interview started on Saturday, the 7^th of May, and lasted until 2:00 a.m.”

“How do you know it was the 7^th?”

“Because it was on Saturday. And, I always start off my recordings with the date and the name of the interviewee.”

“You got a copy of the recording?”

Fuck.

My recorder was lost.

“You don’t need a copy of my recording, all you need is my testimony.”

“I need a copy of that recording.”

I stood up and crossed my arms in front of my chest. “Actually, you don’t. Under oath, and facing the penalty of perjury, I have provided testimony. As a matter of law, testimony is a solemn statement or declaration of fact, and is a form of evidence in itself. Now, release Navarro or my next article will be a full front page on the corruption within the judicial system, and I’ll start with my experiences here today with you, officer fucktard. Now, release Navarro or face the wrath of the Union-Tribune.”

He grinned. “One last question. How do you know it was 2:00 a.m.? Could it have been 1:00? Midnight? 1:30?”

“if you want the specific time, it was 2:06. Navarro and I had just finished speaking about a charity run he was trying to organize for orphaned children, and I looked at my watch. I recall saying, holy shit, it’s 2:06, I need to go.”

He stood up. “I ain’t sure what you and Crip got goin’ on, so I ain’t tryin’ to get in the middle of that. And I ain’t tryin’ to be disrespectful either. But god damn, girl, you’re the first bangin’ ass hot bitch I ever met that’s got her shit together. Most hot bitches are dumb as fuck.”

I grinned. “Thanks.”

He reached into his pocket, produced a tattered business card, and handed it to me. “I’m gonna get before you get me drunk. Give him a visit tomorrow. Call first. What you and I talked about? It didn’t happen. When you talk to him, whatever you say--”

“I’ll tell him the truth,” I said. “That the interview was on the 7^th, and that it ended at 2:06 a.m.”

He clenched his fist and extended his arm.

I clenched mine and pounded it into his.

“Good lookin’ out, Peyton Price,” he said. “You get Crip out of jail, and I’ll owe you. Big time.”

“I’ll hold you to it,” I said.

He reached for his drink, and finished it in one gulp. “Good luck tomorrow.”

“I don’t need luck,” I said. “I’ve got charm.”

He grinned. “You’ve got something, that’s for fuckin’ sure.”

He was right.

I was a thrill-seeking weirdo.

And lying to the cops to get Navarro out of jail was thrilling to me.

Now, all I needed to do was find an outfit to wear. And I needed to remember to wear my glasses.