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.