“I believe it doesn’t exist.”
“Should it?” she asked.
“Sure as fuck should.”
“On earth and in your club? Or only where it’s convenient?”
“Everywhere.”
“It’s common knowledge that the guidelines for the Hells Angels MC prohibit black membership. The Bandidos and Mongols MC’s share this guideline. In fact, a 2008 federal indictment listed many racist acts that were allegedly committed by the Mongol’s members, including beatings and murder. Do the guidelines of your club allow black members?”
“Generally speaking, there are black MC’s and there are white MC’s. The FFMC is an MC that chooses not to discriminate.”
“Do you have any black members?”
“No.”
She widened her eyes. “Will you ever?”
“If a man wants to prospect with the club, and he’s a solid dude, we’ll consider it. If he passes the initiation without problems, he’ll be a patched-in member. Skin color has nothing to do with our decision making process.”
“What, specifically, is the initiation process?”
I admired her for a moment. She was beautiful by anyone’s standards. With the glasses on, she was irresistible. As I felt my cock began to go stiff, I pressed the heel of my palm against it.
I exhaled heavily. “By invitation from a fully-patched member, someone becomes a hang-around. A hang-around is a person that comes to club functions by invitation only, and only with the member who vouched for him. After some time, say, after six months, they may become an associate. An associate is a glorified hang-around. Maybe they’ll attend a few organized rides with us, go to a few parties, and hang around the clubhouse – again, by invitation only. Then, if agreed by the membership of the club. They may become a prospect. If so, they prospect with the club for a year, and then must receive a unanimous vote for membership.”
“So, the process takes eighteen months?”
I nodded. “At least.”
“Have you denied anyone membership?”
“Yes.”
“Who and why?”
“Who is none of your god damned business. Why? Because they weren’t capable.”
“Capable of what?”
I considered my response, and gave one that lacked specifics, but was revealing enough to keep her from continuing. “He wasn’t capable of satisfying every member of the club that he was who we needed.”
She nodded, took a drink of her coffee, and gazed beyond me for a moment. After zoning out for some time, she met my gaze. “Your club, no differently than other outlaw MC’s, claims territory. Often, when many clubs claim the same territory, there’s bickering between the clubs. Does the FFMC have issues with any clubs? Do you have a rival?”
“Off the record, there are always issues with someone. On the record. No.”
She reached for the recorder, turned it off, and cocked an eyebrow. “Off the record.”
I shrugged. It was no secret that FFMC and Satan’s Savages were rivals. “Off the record, Satan’s Savages are poking around where they shouldn’t be.”
She nodded and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose.
I locked eyes with her. “Take off those glasses.”
She grinned. “Why?”
“Because I want to fuck your pretty little mouth when I look at you. Take ‘em off.”
“I can’t see without them.”
“And I can’t promise you I’ll keep my cock in my pants if you leave ‘em on.”
“So, you’re going to mouth rape me if I choose to wear them?”
I chuckled. “Pretty tough to rape a willing mouth.”
“Who says my mouth is willing?”
“I just did.”
She tried to look surprised at my claim. It didn’t work.
She scrunched her brow. “Based on what?”
I stood from my seat, stepped to her side, and pressed my mouth against her ear. “I want you to suck my big cock, reporter.”
She didn’t respond.
“Did you hear me?” I growled.
She nodded, and an almost inaudible uh huh escaped her lips.
“I want to feel those full lips of yours wrapped around it while you dig your nails into my ass. I want you to force so much of it down your throat that your fuckin’ eyes water,” I whispered.
“I uhhm. I…”
“So, you don’t want it? You don’t want to suck my big fucking dick?”
“Uhhm. No,” she murmured.
I reached below the table and slowly dragged my finger along her inner thigh, giving her plenty of time to resist. After no such protest, I forced my finger beneath the denim of her shorts and slid it into her soaking wet pussy.
“You’re drenched, reporter. It appears your twat doesn’t agree with that bullshit your mouth is trying to sell me. Your wet little pussy wants you to suck my cock.”
“We can’t keep doing this.”
I pulled my finger from inside of her and wiped it on the thigh of my jeans. “Doing what? We’re just talking.”
“We’re…uhhm…we’re…” she stammered.
I sat down and took a drink of my coffee. “We’re talking. I thought that’s what you wanted. To talk.”
Her glasses were askew on her face, one side sitting much lower than the other. Probably a result of me pressing my cheek against hers, but seeing her appear unkempt was satisfying in its own regard.
“Fix your glasses, reporter. They’re crooked.”
She took off her glasses, scowled at me, then placed them back on her face perfectly.
She reached for the recorder, tossed it into her purse, and sighed. “We’re done for the day. Now, I want a ride on your motorcycle. For the sake of the article, of course.”
“God damned shame I don’t have a helmet you can wear. State law requires passengers to wear ‘em.”
“Oh really?” she asked.
“Yep. Hell, if I had one for you, I’d give you a ride. Might be uncomfortable, but it’d be a ride.”
“So the helmet’s all that’s keeping you from it?”
I had no desire to give her a ride, but I nodded anyway. “Yep.”
“Good.” She stood up. “I’ve got my Biltwell in the Jeep. Let me get it.”
I stood up. “Your what?”
She took off toward her Jeep in light jog.
“Helmet,” she responded over her shoulder.
Fuck.
I wondered why in the fuck she’d have a helmet in her Jeep, but was afraid to ask.
“It’s got to be DOT approved,” I shouted.
“It is.” She leaned into the back of the Jeep and quickly produced a gold and burgundy helmet. “I bought it for snowboarding, but it’s a motorcycle helmet.”
“You snowboard?”
She turned around, removed her glasses, and pulled the helmet down over her head. “Yep. Snowboard, skateboard, surf, rock climb, bungie jump. If it makes my heart pound, I’ll do it.”
Crazy little bitch.
She put her glasses back on. “Ready?”
I pointed to my bike. “I’m a man of my word.”
But at that particular moment, I wished I wasn’t.
NINE
Peyton
Riding on the back of the motorcycle was exactly what Navarro said it would be. Uncomfortable. Although the motorcycle was designed to carry two people, he had modified it to carry only one, leaving a slight piece of leather on the rear fender for a passenger to sit on. Even at that, it was much better than skateboarding, far more satisfying than surfing, and was a close second only to snowboarding.
Having my arms wrapped around his waist made what would have been extremely uncomfortable seem almost sensual. The vibration from the V-twin engine did the rest. It felt like I was riding a 600-pound vibrator, and having Nick Navarro’s muscular torso in my hands made matters that much better.
The sound from the pipes as he shifted the gears was a reminder of the power
that was wedged between my thighs. I found the entire experience thrilling, and realized as we slowed to as stop that even if Navarro never wanted to give me a ride again, the thrill-seeking part of me would forever yearn for another taste.
He tilted his head toward a bar at the intersection. “Want to grab a bite at this bar?”
“Sure,” I shouted.
“It’s a biker bar.
“I’m okay with that.”
He nodded and released the clutch lever. “They’ve got good burgers.”
Although I had my purse – and my recorder – I had no intention of ruining our lunch by interviewing him. A simple discussion over lunch would be nice, even if he didn’t think so.
I realized figuring out who Navarro really was may not ever happen, but obtaining a closer look into his life was an exciting addition to mine, that was for sure.
He pulled into the parking lot, turned the motorcycle around, and parked backward in the parking stall, facing the street. Short of his motorcycle and a few other cars, the parking lot was empty.
He switched the ignition to off. Even in the absence of the engine running, my legs, ass, and pussy continued to vibrate. “I really like riding on this thing.”
He removed his helmet. “Cheapest therapy money can buy.”
I took off my glasses and unbuckled my helmet. “Can I leave this out here?”
“Just hang it on the handlebars. Nobody fucks with helmets on a Harley.”
“Why?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Do I look like a nice guy?”
I shook my head. “Not really.”
“That’s why.”
I hung my helmet on the handlebars. “Nothing we talk about here is for publication, by the way. This is all off the record.”
He ran his fingers through his hair and nodded. “Good to know.”
“I do have some questions, though.”
He turned toward the door. “Ask away.”
“Why do you park backward?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if you were in a car, you’d park facing the building. But you parked facing the street.”
“When we’re ready to leave, all we’ve got to do is fire that pig up and go. It only goes in one direction, forward. So if I was facing the building, I’d have to push it around to face the street before we could go. Doing it when you park makes leaving, I don’t know, easier.”
“A quick getaway?”
He pulled the door open, motioned toward the open bar, and chuckled. “Something like that.”
Surprised that he opened the door, I promptly thanked him. “Thank you.”
The bar resembled the bar I met him in. It was dark and void of any wait staff. Two rough looking men sat at the bar drinking beer, and they were the only patrons I could see.
“Out of curiosity, how’d you find me on that first day?” he asked.
“I’m a reporter. We investigate things.”
“Just like a junior fucking federal agent, huh?”
“No,” I said. “Like a private investigator.”
“Same fucking thing.” He stepped up to the bar. “What do you want?”
I shrugged. “Whatever’s good. Order for me?”
“Pete, give me two burger specials and two bottles of Budweiser.”
Oh my God. Budweiser.
Barf.
The bartender opened two bottles of beer and handed them to Navarro. “Burger’s will be right up, Nick. Anything else?”
“Nope. Appreciate ya,” Navarro said with a nod.
He handed me one of the bottles of beer. “Table or booth?”
I took a drink. It was better than I expected. “Booth.”
I followed him to a booth in the rear of the bar and sat down. “Riding on that thing is addictive.”
He picked at the label on his bottle. “Sure is.”
“You know what they say about people who pick at their beer labels, don’t you?”
“Guess not.”
“They’re sexually frustrated.”
“Sounds about right.”
“You’re sexually frustrated?”
He grinned. “Take off your glasses, and I’ll be fine.”
I took a drink of beer and returned a smile. “Suffer.”
I fully realized it had been less than a week, but he had already fingered me, fucked me and brought me to climax no less than half a dozen times – counting the two times I masturbated while thinking of him – and I felt like we were developing an odd friendship as a result.
“Believe me, I am,” he said with a smile.
Seeing him smile was rewarding. The image he portrayed naturally was one of a rough, take-no-shit biker. His smile revealed perfectly situated white teeth, and seeing them convinced me that the true Nicholas Navarro was much more than what was seen on the surface.
“Maybe one day, if you don’t piss me off--”
“What? You’ll take ‘em off? Or you’re gonna suck my cock?”
I shrugged. “Maybe both.”
He raised his bottle of beer and grinned. “I’ll wait patiently.”
I couldn’t believe how easy it was for me to offer myself to him, but being in his presence made me do all of the things that I told myself in his absence I wouldn’t continue to do. He undoubtedly brought out the best of my worst decisions.
The sound of motorcycles in the parking lot made me wonder if some of his FFMC brethren had seen his motorcycle and were stopping in for a beer. We both looked out the window at the same time, and I noticed two men wearing leather vests parking their motorcycles. The look on Navarro’s face, however, told me whoever had shown up wasn’t someone he wanted to see.
He stood from his seat and turned to face me. His look was stern, serious, and one of actual concern. “No matter what happens, don’t get out of that seat until this is over.”
“Until what’s over? Who is it?”
“God damn it,” he bellowed. “Stay right here. Do you understand me?”
I fought against my tightening throat. “I understand. Yes, Sir.”
“Stay right there,” he said in a demanding tone. “I fucking mean it.”
I swallowed hard. “Okay.”
“Pete! Got two Savages at the door!” he shouted.
Oh shit.
Upon hearing the announcement, the two men seated at the bar got off of their stools and walked toward the back of the bar. I pulled the recorder from my purse, turned it on, and placed it on the edge of the table.
Navarro took a few steps toward the door, stopped and glanced over his shoulder. As our eyes met, he winked.
Seriously?
Did you just fucking wink at me?
Two pretty rough looking men – one of which was roughly Navarro’s size – walked through the front door. The other man was slightly shorter, but built like a weight-lifter. The shorter of the two men had a shaved head. The taller had tattoos on his neck and all-over-the-place brown hair.
“Looks like you might have picked the wrong place for lunch, Whip,” Navarro said. “Get back on your sled and go somewhere else.”
The bigger of the two had Whip and President on his vest. The other man’s vest said Panda, and Sergeant-At-Arms.
Whip stopped a few steps in front of Navarro. Panda stood beside him. Both men were facing me, and Navarro’s back was to me.
“Where’s my brother?” Whip asked.
Navarro chuckled. “Out fuckin’ a goat somewhere?”
“I’m not gonna ask you again,” Whip growled.
“Somehow, your dumb ass stumbled into the wrong bar. You’re in my MC’s territory, and I don’t like it,” Navarro said. “Take your fat little partner and head back down to Mabel’s.”
“Fuck you,” Whip snapped back. In a blur, his right hand swung toward Navarro.
Shit, he’s got a knife.
Navarro lunged forward, blocked the attempted slash with his left forearm, and grabbed Whip’s wrist with his right hand. In a split-s
econd, the knife went flying across the floor. Some type of martial arts move followed, and Whip’s body came crashing down to the floor.
Navarro’s raised his right foot, then stomped down hard. With a gut-wrenching thud, the heel of his boot slammed into Whip’s temple.
While Panda’s hand nervously fumbled with the inside of his vest, Navarro punched him in the chest, which clearly knocked the air from his lungs completely. As he gasped for breath, the sound of a half-dozen lightning-fast punches hitting his face filled the bar.
With an almost elegant grace, Navarro flipped Panda over his shoulder, slamming him down onto the floor beside Whip.
The heel of his boot crashed down violently against Panda’s skull.
After checking over his shoulder and making eye contact with me, he stomped each of their heads one more time. “Fucking idiots!” he shouted.
He picked up Whip’s knife, and then took Panda’s pistol.
I had no idea what type of military training Nicholas Navarro received, but whatever it was allowed him to singlehandedly pulverize two bikers in a matter of seconds. And, in doing so, he looked like a stunt man in a choreographed scene from an action-adventure movie.
I was scared, excited, and turned on at the same time.
Using Whip’s knife, he carefully cut the patch from the back of each man’s vest. After folding the patches up, he walked to the bar, then quickly returned.
He bent down and grabbed Whips ankles. “If that dumb fuck tries to get up, shoot him,” he said over his shoulder.
“Will do, Nick,” the bartender responded.
He dragged Whip through the door and into the parking lot.
In a few seconds, he returned and then dragged Panda outside.
He walked back in, and looked toward the bar. “Sorry about the burgers, Pete.”
“No problem, Nick.”
He turned toward me. “Come on,” he said dryly. “We need to get.”
I grabbed my purse. “Okay.”
My heart was racing and my mind was trying to make sense of everything that had happened. I wanted to ask so many questions, but realized the time had come for me to become more of a silent witness and less of an enthusiastic reporter.
Once we stepped into the parking lot, Navarro rushed to the semi-conscious men and planted the heel of his boot against their respective heads one more time.
HARD: MC Romance (FF MC Romance Book 1) Page 6
