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 off 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 what 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.