HARD: MC Romance (FF MC Romance Book 1)

by Scott Hildreth

  I reached in my back pocket, pulled out the straight razor, and grabbed his nuts with my gloved hand. I had visions of talking mad shit to him while I did the deed, but with him unconscious, it made the experience much less enjoyable.

  I pulled down on his scrotum, stretched it tight, and swung the straight razor directly under the base of his cock. The entire wad of flesh came off in my hand, nuts and all.

  “Holy fucking shit, that’s nasty.”

  He began to stir around. Instead of listening to him, I kicked him in the head again.

  Now, the really gross part.

  It’s a good thing I’m wearing rubber gloves.

  I gripped the tip of his cock between my left thumb and forefinger, pulled up on it as hard as I could, and stretched it to its limit. As he began to writhe around, I swung the razor into the flesh and cut it almost all the way through.

  “This motherfucker’s dull as fuck,” I said. “Makes sense, I’ve been through three cocks tonight. Four, now.”

  About the time he opened his eyes, I swung the razor into the little flap of flesh that still remained. His entire cock came off in my hand.

  “Holy shit. That’s a lot of blood.”

  He screamed out in pain and shoved his hands between his legs, no doubt in shock from what had happened.

  “Well, Whip. You won’t be raping any more girls with this, because I’m gonna take it with me.”

  I reached into my kutte, pulled out the Zip-Lock bag, and unzipped it. After dropping his cock and scrotum into the bag, I squeezed the air out, zipped it closed, and folded it up.

  Whip would spend the rest of his life – if he lived through the gunshot wounds and the castration – without having sex again.

  Not a day would pass that he wouldn’t regret what he did to Peyton.

  A life of pain, agony, humiliation, and regret.

  But it would never be enough.

  ***

  Crip’s door opened a few inches. Standing in nothing but his boxers, he looked at me through the crack with sleepy eyes.

  “What’s shakin’ motherfucker?”

  “Jesus H. Christ, Peeb. Any reason you gave an order that no one could tell me what the fuck’s goin’ on?”

  I shrugged. “Wanted to show you myself, so I told the fellas to keep it quiet. You gonna let me in?

  “It’s five o’clock in the morning, be fuckin’ quiet,” he whispered. “She’s still sleeping.”

  “She’s here?”

  “Yeah, she’s here,” he said. “Now shut the fuck up and come in.”

  “Nice seeing you, too.”

  I walked past him and toward his kitchen. I needed a beer, and I needed one bad. As soon as I stepped into the dining room, I grinned.

  On the center of the table, a glass sat. Filled with what looked like pink water, it was a reminder of what a good solid bitch Peyton Price was.

  I motioned toward the glass. “She make that for me?”

  He nodded. “We went to the hospital and got her checked out. They did some tests for diseases and some other shit. She claimed she got drunk and agreed to let a bunch of guys fuck her. Doctors didn’t believe her at first, but she convinced ‘em in no time. Tell you what, that’s one strong fuckin’ woman. Anyway, when we got back, she made that for you. Been sittin’ there since about 10:00. She fell asleep at 2:00. She’s been worried about ya. She’s not the only one.”

  I wagged my eyebrows at him. “Alive and well, motherfucker.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “I’m getting’ to it.” I pulled off my backpack, unzipped it, and removed the four Zip-Lock bags.

  He glanced at the bags. His face distorted, and then he looked at me. “What the fuck is that?”

  I tossed the bags on the table. “Cocks. Four of ‘em.”

  “You cut off their fuckin’ dicks?”

  “Sliced off their cocks and their balls. All four of ‘em,” I said. “Well, four cocks, and eight nuts. Cut the fuckers off right at the base, too. Didn’t even leave ‘em a stub. Was Cholo’s idea. Said that’s how they do it in Mexico. Figured if it was good enough for the cartel, it was good enough for me.”

  I picked up the glass of pink liquid and downed it in one drink. “You have one of these yet?”

  “Seriously?” he snapped back.

  His mouth curled into a smirk.

  “You did, didn’t ya?”

  He nodded. “Don’t tell anybody. Fucking shit was pretty good.”

  “Man, I’m tellin’ ya. It’s good as fuck.”

  “Is that you, Pee Bee?”

  “Hey, Peyton,” I said. “How you feelin’?”

  “Just tired,” she said. “Other than that, I’m fine.”

  She walked into the dining room in one of Crip’s poker runs shirts from 2011 and a pair of his boxers.

  Crip reached for the sacks of cocks, but it was too late. She’d already seen them.

  “What are those?” she asked.

  “Just…” Crip swung his hand across the table and tried to scoop up the sacks, but knocked one of them onto the floor in front of her.

  She bent down and picked it up. She lifted the blood-filled sack and stared at it. “Gross. What is it?”

  Crip shrugged and glanced at me. Then, she looked at me. pretty soon, Crip followed.

  Thanks, motherfucker.

  I cleared my throat. “One of those fella’s cocks.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Seriously?”

  “Yep.”

  “You cut off their cocks?”

  “Yep.”

  “Like, off?”

  I pointed at the bag. “Off enough that it’s in that Zip-Lock bag, yeah.”

  “The whole thing?”

  “Cut em off at the base,” I said. “Their nuts, too.”

  She looked at Crip. The other three sacks of cocks were clutched in his right hand. He shrugged, and eventually started laughing.

  “It ain’t funny,” I said. “You ever cut off a man’s cock? Kinda gross, if you ask me. Bleeds a lot, too.”

  “What are we going to do with them?” Peyton asked.

  “We?” I asked. “We? I’m done with ‘em”

  “Can I flush ‘em?”

  Crip eyes widened. “You want to flush ‘em?”

  Peyton grinned. “I do.”

  He shrugged. “They’re about the side of a good turd. I suppose they’d flush.”

  She stood up and reached for the other three bags. “I want to.”

  I reached into my pocket, and pulled out a pair of rubber gloves. All along, I figured I’d be in charge of the disposal. “Here,” I said. “You’ll need these.”

  She took the gloves. “Thanks. Be back in a minute.”

  Crip and I looked at each other, but we didn’t talk while she was gone. After the toilet flushed six or eight times, the sound of running water followed. Then, she walked past us and into the kitchen.

  “Trash bags?”

  “Under the sink,” Crip said.

  “Here.” She handed me neatly folded a trash sack. “You probably want to throw that away somewhere else. Or burn it. Get rid of the DNA.”

  I looked at Crip. He shrugged.

  “I needed that,” Peyton said. “You know; victims of sexual abuse say they need closure. Well, flushing their dicks down the toilet felt pretty fucking good.”

  I made a fist and held it at the center of the table. “Good enough?”

  She pounded her fist into mine. “Good enough.”

  And, just like that, those two words made riding around all night with a bunch of cocks in Zip-Lock bags worth it.

  NINETEEN

  Nick

  I pulled into the driveway, turned the bike to face the street, and shut off the ignition. After a deep breath, I stepped over the gas tank and brushed the wrinkles from my jeans. The short walk up the driveway brought back memories, but it always did.

  And it always would.

  I knocked three times on the door.


  “Enter!”

  I pushed the door open. My father was sitting in his chair watching the news. He still resembled the military man he spent his lifetime being, his buzz-cut hair and athletic physique were a testament to his devotion to the Navy. Retired after 30 years in the military, he was now employed as a groundskeeper at a golf course. In his mind, however, he was simply on extended leave from the Navy.

  “Get another tattoo?” he asked.

  Nice to see you, too.

  “Who is it?” my mother asked, her voice coming from the kitchen.

  “It’s Nick, and he’s got a new tattoo,” my father shouted. “A god damned bumblebee. On his neck.”

  “Let him in for heaven’s sake.”

  “He’s already in. Wouldn’t be seeing his tattoo if he was still on the porch.”

  “The tattoo’s old, Pop. Been there for a few years.”

  “It’s dark.” He got out of his chair and glared. “Looks new.”

  “It’s not.”

  He studied my neck for a moment, then glanced over the patches on my kutte. “So, who died?”

  “Nobody died, Pop. Just came to talk to mom.”

  “Elizabeth, he’s here to see you.”

  I shook my head and walked past him. “I’m here to see both of you.”

  “Well, when you and your bumblebee get done talking to your mother, I’ll be here.”

  To the unknowing bystander, my father would appear to be an asshole. Truthfully, he wasn’t. He had an opinion about everything, and offered it whether the recipient liked it or not, but he meant no harm in doing so. Over the years, I learned to dismiss a good part of what he said as being nothing more than bullshit.

  “We’ll both come back and see ya,” I said in a sarcastic tone.

  I stepped into the kitchen. My mother stood at the sink washing dishes.

  “Why don’t you use the dishwasher?”

  “It doesn’t get them clean.”

  “It’s got a heat exchanger that superheats the water. It’s gets them clean and sterilizes them.”

  “This is relaxing,” she said.

  She turned her head to the side and waited. I pressed my lips to her cheek and kissed her. “How’s work?”

  “Long hours. One of these days, I’ll retire, but I don’t know when. I’ll be done in just a minute.”

  “No hurry,” I said.

  I opened the fridge, rummaged through each of the Tupperware containers, and eventually found some fried chicken. I grabbed a few pieces and sat down at the dining room table.

  “Get a plate.”

  “I don’t need a plate. It’d just be one more to wash.”

  “Get something to drink so you don’t choke. That chicken was dry. I don’t know what happened to it.”

  “I’m fine. And the chicken’s good. Really.”

  At the same time that I finished the second piece of chicken, she got done with the dishes. After drying her hands and tossing the towel on the countertop, she sat down at my side.

  “You never come over just to see us, so what’s going on, Nicholas?”

  I tossed the chicken bones in the trash, washed my hands, and sat down. “I’ve got some questions about a girl.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Did you meet a girl?”

  “Settle down. I met a girl, but it’s not what you think. There’s nothing going on.”

  She smiled. “Why are you asking about her?”

  I shrugged. “I just want to make sure she’s going to be okay. Something happened to her.”

  She placed her hand on my forearm. “Is she okay?”

  “I don’t know. She seems to be.”

  My mother worked as a counselor for a sexual assault center, and had for as long as I could remember. Her lifetime of exposure to domestic violence, sexual abuse, and other traumatic events women experienced made her a wealth of information on the subjects.

  She gripped my forearm. “What’s bothering you?”

  “Don’t go gettin’ all mad, just listen, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I stared at the center of the table, and tried to speak without emotion, but it wasn’t easy. “If a girl is gang raped by four men, is it possible that she will recover from it without counseling?”

  “Oh, Nicholas,” her hand shot up and covered her mouth. “I’m so sorry.”

  I shifted my eyes to meet hers. She looked overwhelmed.

  “Recover? No. Not without professional help. Survive? Sure. She can survive, but her choice to not seek counseling is foolish. The center should be able to get her all the help she needs. Have her call me.”

  “She doesn’t want counseling.”

  “Why isn’t she following the recommendations of her case worker?”

  “It’s complicated. She didn’t report it as a rape. She doesn’t want to.”

  She shook her head. “She still can. And she needs to. It’s part of the process that she needs to go through. Tell her to report it.”

  “She won’t. She’s stubborn.”

  She sighed. “The men who did this need to be brought to justice.”

  My eyes fell to the table. While I contemplated what to say next, she squeezed my arm.

  “Nicholas…”

  I met her gaze, but didn’t respond.

  “Nicholas…”

  She gripped my arm firmly. “Nicholas Michael Navarro. I’m your mother. Remember, you came from my womb. I know you all too well. What did you do?”

  I shrugged. “They’ve been brought to justice, Mom. Believe me.”

  “What did you do?”

  Lying to my mother wasn’t possible. Providing very little detail was my only option. “Just trust me. They’ve been dealt with.”

  She sighed. “Your friend needs help. What’s her name? I’ll pray for her.”

  “Her name doesn’t matter.”

  “Tell me her name so I can include her in my prayers.”

  I needed all the help I could get. “Peyton.”

  She nodded and released my arm. “You’ve got a convincing way about you, Nicholas. Convince your friend to get help. If nothing else, bring her in to see me.”

  I stood up. “I’m not bringing her in.”

  “People listen to you. They always have. God gave you a gift. Use it.” She reached out and poked me in the chest. “And what did I tell you about wearing that thing in this house?”

  “I was in a hurry.”

  “I wish you’d grow up and get out of that gang. I feel like we failed you every time I see you wearing that thing.”

  “It’s not a gang, it’s a club.”

  “Call it whatever makes you feel better about it. It’s a gang. And, when you wear it, you’re a gang member. You’re going to get shot one of these days, and probably for nothing more than wearing that ridiculous thing. Get your friend some help. And go talk to your father, he misses you.”

  “Thanks, Mom. I love you.”

  She hugged me and kissed my cheek. “I love you, too.”

  She told me exactly what I expected. Peyton’s hope of sweeping her assault under the rug wasn’t going to work. If she wanted to recover, she would need to seek the help a professional.

  I walked into the living room.

  My father cleared his throat. “Sit down.”

  I sat on the sofa across from him. He reached for the remote control, turned up the volume on the television, and leaned forward in his seat.

  “They still alive?”

  I wrinkled my brow. “Who?”

  He arched his brow.

  My father may have been elderly by most people’s standards, but his hearing was fantastic. His service in the Navy taught him to be attentive, if nothing else.

  I glanced over my shoulder. My mother was putting up the dishes. I turned to face him. “For now.”

  He relaxed in his seat, folded his arms across his chest, and exhaled. “Don’t you dare get caught.”

  “I wasn’t involved, Pop. I’m clean on this one.”<
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  He shook his head. “You and I? We’re a lot alike. I raised you, remember? It isn’t over. If it was, you wouldn’t be here. Remember your training, don’t be driven by anger, and don’t get caught.”

  I nodded. “Thanks.”

  “Fucking judge gave some kid six months for raping a girl the other day. You see that shit on the news? She was incoherent and drunk, and the little prick raped her.”

  I nodded. The case disgusted me. “Yes, Sir. I sure did.”

  “When a man rapes a woman, he doesn’t just rape her. He rapes her entire life. She’s forced to live a life with the pain from that memory for a lifetime. And for that judge to send a message that six months in county jail is a fair trade for what happened to that woman?” He sat up in his chair, clenched his jaw, and took a long breath through his nose. “I’d like to get my hands on that judge and that kid.”

  “You and me both, Pop.”

  “I can forgive a lot of things. Rape isn’t one of ‘em.”

  I didn’t want to talk about it any longer. The more I thought about it, the angrier I was becoming. I stood up. “Yeah? Me neither.”

  He could tell my blood was boiling. After studying me for a moment, he lowered his chin slightly. “Love you, Son.”

  “Love you, too.”

  TWENTY

  Peyton

  Although it seemed my mind was elsewhere, I sat at my desk and attempted to manufacture a story out of minimal facts and zero desire.

  “Working your magic?”

  The sound of Mr. Rollins’ voice made me cringe. I had no story, no passion to write one, and for the first time that I was aware of, didn’t really care about performing my job or exposing the facts.

  “It’s coming pretty slow,” I responded.

  “It’ll come. It always does. At least for you.”

  I grinned and turned toward the monitor. “I hope so.”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Just give me some time.”

  “Take all the time you need,” he said. “Just make sure you get it right in the end.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “Let me know if you need anything.”

  I nodded. “Will do.”

  I stared at the screen while my hands hovered over the keyboard. After several minutes of zero productivity, I opened my browser, did a search for any information about the Savages being hospitalized, and found nothing.