HARD: MC Romance (FF MC Romance Book 1)

by Scott Hildreth

  Disappointed, I closed the browser, and began to type.

  The life of an outlaw biker is one that most individuals will never completely comprehend. I have had the luxury of being exposed to one such group, the Filthy F*ckers MC, for some time.

  In doing so, I have learned

  I stopped typing, read what I had written, and erased everything. Frustrated, I picked up my phone and sent Navarro a text message, hopeful that he’d respond favorably. It was a long shot, but well worth a try.

  Want to grab lunch? No interview. Just lunch??

  I tossed the phone on my desk, looked around my office, and decided it was a disastrous mess. Thirty seconds into the reorganization of my entire library, my phone beeped.

  I picked it up, hopeful, but without much expectation.

  Please say yes. Please say yes. Please say yes.

  The message was from Navarro.

  Meet me at the clubhouse in 30?

  I smiled, typed yes as my response, and paused. After erasing the one-word message, I re-typed my response.

  Thank you.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Nick

  Standing in the clubhouse parking lot, I stared at my bike and tried to imagine it with paint on it. “I don’t think the fucker will look any better. It’ll just look different.”

  Pee Bee cocked his head the side and studied the rusty gas tank. “Up to you. Been lookin’ like shit as long as I’ve known ya. Don’t know why you’re wantin’ to paint it now.”

  I shrugged. “Just thinking about making a change.”

  “Changin’ your bike ain’t gonna change anything, Crip. When you get done, your life’s still gonna be here.”

  “Well holy fucking shit. Listen to you. What? You a certified fucking therapist now?”

  “No.”

  “So why you trying to tell me how to live my life?”

  “I’m not.”

  I lifted my leg over the seat, sat down, and draped my arms over the handlebars. “Sure sounds like it.”

  “I don’t like it, either, motherfucker. Not even a little bit. But I can’t fuckin’ change it. Only thing we can do is keep on keepin’ on. That’s it.”

  “Thanks for the words of wisdom, Peeb.”

  “Whatever I can do to help, asshole.”

  I gazed toward the street, not really focusing on anything. The building we used for a clubhouse was in Oceanside, twenty miles north of San Diego. The city was the home for many Marines stationed in Camp Pendleton, which was a few miles north. Along with the neighboring cities of Carlsbad and Vista, the overall population was about 200,000.

  Our location was on a street that had minimal traffic, making passing cars something of an oddity. The unmarked police car that was approaching stood out like a dick on a wedding cake.

  “Fucking hell.”

  Pee Bee’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “My three o’clock. Cop.”

  “No shit?”

  He turned toward the street. “Looks like your fuckin’ buddy.”

  He was right. The car and the driver looked pretty god damned familiar. It was none other than detective shit-for-brains, the man who arrested me in the shop.

  “Here he comes,” I said.

  He pulled in the lot, rolled up alongside us, and came to a stop.

  He rolled down the window and poked his head out. “You know, on some days, I wish I didn’t have to work,” he said. “I could just hang around, sit on my motorcycle and look mean. Wouldn’t that be the life?”

  “Only a couple of problems with that, detective.”

  He lowered his sunglasses and peered over the top of the frames. “You know I’ve got to ask. The problems? What are they, Navarro?”

  I stepped off my bike, folded my arms in front of my chest, and flexed my biceps. “You don’t have a motorcycle, and you look like a pussy.”

  He laughed a sarcastic laugh, opened the car door, and stepped out. He removed his mirrored cop glasses and hung them on the collar of his police-issue polo shirt. “That’s funny.”

  “I’m the club joker. Jokes? I got a million of ‘em. Something I can help you with, detective?”

  “Maybe. And, just so you know, I’m not on a fact finding mission. I’m really just here to make you…” He glanced at Pee Bee. “…and your cohort aware of something.”

  “So you stopped by to talk to Peeb and me?”

  “That his name?” he nodded toward Pee Bee. “Peeb?”

  “No. Name’s Pee Bee, but I call him Peeb.”

  “Pee Bee, huh? What’s that stand for?”

  “Peanut Butter,” Pee Bee said. “One of the other fellas is named Jelly. We’re fuckin’ besties.”

  He alternated glances between Pee Bee and me. “You two should come on down to La Jolla and get a job at The Comedy Store. Shit, you could get rich, funny as you two pricks are.”

  I cleared my throat. “Never much cared for the smell of pork, detective. And we’re getting’ ready to ride out of here. What can I do for you?”

  “This entire state is filled with outlaw motorcycle clubs. Personally, I never gave a shit one way or another about most of ‘em. You know, you guys kind of clean up your own messes. Makes it nice for people in my line of work.”

  “Get to your point,” I said.

  “Well, there’s one local club I always kind of detested. Maybe you’ve heard of ‘em. Satan’s Savages. Bunch of shit birds, if you ask me. Always flexing their muscle, and trying to be something they’re not. They want to be like the big boys. You know, the Mongols or Hells Angels...” He shook his head. “But they can’t.”

  With my arms still crossed in front of my chest, I stared back at him. “What’s this have to do with us?”

  “I’m getting to that. So, a few nights back, we got several reports of a group of bikers riding through town. A big group. Maybe sixty or so. It was late at night, which isn’t when most outlaw MCs are out and about in full force, unless something’s going down. With no reports of violence or gunfire, we really had no reason to react, because riding motorcycles in itself isn’t a crime. So we waited. Then, late that night, one of Satan’s Savages showed up at Scripps Mercy. Someone had cut his cock clean off. Castrated him too. Thirty minutes after that, two more showed up at Kindred. Same damned thing. Relieved of their cocks and balls.”

  I cocked an eyebrow. “Wasn’t some kind of club initiation, was it? Cut off your cock to jump from prospect to patch?”

  Pee Bee laughed out loud, but the detective remained straight-faced.

  “All three of ‘em claimed it was an ISIS attack. They said some towel-heads did it.” he paused and forced a laugh. “So, about five in the morning, the president of Satan’s Savages shows up at Scripps. His cock had been cut off so short he was left with a twat. But one thing that was different about him was that he’d been shot. Once in each leg with a .45 caliber.”

  “Same thing? Towel-heads?” I asked.

  “No,” he replied. “Said he cut himself shaving. When we asked him about the gunshot wounds, he said he didn’t even notice ‘em. Crazy prick rode his motorcycle to the hospital. He’d lost so much blood they had to give him a transfusion.”

  “But all four of ‘em lived?”

  The detective nodded. “It’s a damned shame, but they did. Which is why I’m here.”

  “Why are you here?” I asked.

  “Never cared for the president of that group. The Savages,” he said. “Had him on a couple of rape cases a few years back, but neither of them materialized. Sad thing about rapists is that they seem to maintain a pattern of repeating the crimes. Considering the facts of this case, and that someone cut his cock off, my guess is that he dipped his dick in the wrong skank.”

  I clenched my jaw at the thought of him calling Peyton a skank. “So you came by to tell us this, why?”

  “Like I said in the beginning. I don’t mind MC’s. They have their own means of administering justice, which saves me time, and saves the taxpayers money.
Rumor has it that Whipple and his boys are going after whoever did this. You might get the word out.”

  “So, you want Peeb and me to spread the word that four dickless bikers are looking for revenge?”

  He put his glasses on, pressed them high on his nose and got in his car. He then draped his right arm out the car window, brushed his left palm up his arm, and lifted the sleeve of his polo shirt slightly. “No, I want you to finish what you started.”

  My eyes locked on the tattoo in the center of his bicep.

  An eagle, trident, anchor, and pistol.

  “Have a nice day,” he said.

  And he drove away.

  “That was fuckin’ weird,” Pee Bee said.

  “Sure was.”

  I waited to see if Peeb was going to mention the tattoo, but it never came.

  After a few minutes of small talk and trying to decide if we were going to stay at the shop and drink beer or go eat lunch, my phone beeped.

  Anxious to see if it was Peyton, I pulled it from my pocket and read the message.

  “Peyton wants to go to lunch. You want to go?”

  He shrugged. “Long as you don’t mind, sure.”

  “I don’t mind. And she might like the company.”

  “Sounds good. It’s almost noon now, want to meet her somewhere?”

  “I’ll just have her meet us here.” I said as I typed her a text message. “I’ll see if she wants to ride. Maybe it’ll will clear her mind.”

  And maybe it’ll clear mine, too.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Peyton

  I sat on the hard fender with my hands at his waist and tilted my head back. Riding on the back of Navarro’s bike was like flying, and each time I did it, I grew a little fonder of it. While we rode along Mission Beach Boulevard looking for a place to eat, I thought of the phrase as free as a bird, and wondered if most bikers felt no differently than I did.

  Riding was an unexplainable thrill, something that words couldn’t come close to accurately describing, but the word flying immediately came to mind. With the feeling of flight came a sense of freedom.

  When I recognized the sense of freedom, it all made sense.

  The outlaw biker really wanted nothing more than to be left to his own devices. The ride freed them from the clutch of whatever it was that brought them to drop their respective asses into the seat in the first place.

  The satisfaction from riding seemed to be much different after the incident. Before, I enjoyed it immensely, but other than the thrill of being on the back of the bike, nothing else happened. After the incident, the ride seemed to rid me of all contamination, leaving me feeling cleansed of everything that was impure.

  I couldn’t help but wonder if each and every hard-core biker had some underlying reason – some catastrophe in their life – that made riding more of a necessity, and not merely a simple desire.

  We parked in front of a small taco shop. I adjusted my hair tie and reluctantly released Navarro’s waist. “I have a lot of questions to ask while we’re waiting on food.”

  He stepped off the bike and steadied it for me to get off. “I thought you’d be done with that article by now.”

  “Actually, I haven’t even started,” I said. “But this has nothing to do with the article. Not really.”

  “Ask me anything you want,” Pee Bee said. “But prepare for the truth. I won’t bullshit you like Ol’ Crip.”

  I climbed off the fender. “How did he get his name?”

  Navarro shot me a look. I winked at him.

  “Crip. Short for cripple. Because he’s an old man.”

  I looked at Navarro. “True?”

  He nodded. “That’s what it stands for, but I’m far from an old man.”

  “What about yours,” I asked Pee Bee.

  “P. B.,” Navarro said. “Pretty Boy. Because he looks like a bearded girl.”

  I laughed. “Pretty Boy and Crip. I like it.”

  “Come on,” Pee Bee said. “I’ve got to feed the machine.”

  I followed them into the restaurant, feeling much better than when I was at work. Riding was therapeutic, and whether or not I wanted to admit it, I needed a little therapy in my life.

  “Why do you ride?” I asked Navarro as we sat down.

  “Me?”

  I nodded. “Yes, you.”

  “Big picture?”

  “Sure.”

  He folded his fingers together as if he was preparing to pray. I studied his tattooed knuckles. On his upper knuckles, the word STAY. On the lower, REAL. It was easy to get lost in admiring his tattoos, and I enjoyed doing it.

  “It’s hard to explain,” he said. “I get a sense of freedom when I ride that I can’t seem to get anywhere else. Being in a cage makes me feel like I’m locked up. Like an animal. The difference between riding and driving is the difference between a tiger in the wild, and one in a zoo.”

  “And by cage, you mean a car?”

  “Yep. A car is a cage. That’s what we call ‘em, anyway. Write that in your little fucking article.”

  “I like that. And, I reserve the right to use it.” I turned to Pee Bee. “What about you?”

  “You like rollercoasters?”

  I grinned. “Love ‘em.”

  He arched a brow. “Love ‘em, or like ‘em a lot?”

  “Love ‘em.”

  “Can you imagine riding one to work? And home? Like every day? Wouldn’t that be fuckin’ cool?”

  “I wish there was one that went from my townhouse to my office. That’d be awesome.”

  “I ride for the same reason people ride a roller coaster or jump off a cliff. It thrills me. Basically, I’ve got a rollercoaster that takes me everywhere.”

  “Drinks?” the waitress asked.

  “Budweiser.”

  “Budweiser.”

  “And you?” she asked.

  “Budweiser,” I responded.

  “Menus are on in the condiment caddy, I’ll be back in a few.”

  “What’s good here?”

  “Fish tacos,” Pee Bee said. “Don’t even look at the menu, just order.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Bitch, do I look like I’d steer you wrong?”

  He wasn’t as tattooed as Navarro. Hell, no one was. But both of his upper biceps had tattoos, each of his shoulders were covered in a tribal pattern, and he had a star tattooed on his upper forearms.

  To the unknowing, he looked like a thug.

  But I knew deep down inside that he’d never steer me wrong.

  “No,” I said.

  He raked his fingers through his long hair and leaned back in his seat. “Then get the fish tacos.”

  The waitress brought our drinks. “Three Bud’s.”

  She handed us the bottles of beer. “Had a chance to look at the menu?”

  “Don’t need to,” I said. “I want the fish tacos.”

  “One order of fish tacos.”

  She looked at Pee Bee. “And you?”

  “Fish tacos.”

  “What about you?”

  Navarro’s mouth curled into a smirk. “Give me the pork chili verde. Corn tortillas.”

  “Just couldn’t go for the fish tacos?” She joked. “Make it easy?”

  “I’m a non-conformist, and nothing’s ever easy for me,” he responded.

  “What a surprise,” she said.

  I didn’t totally agree, but I kept my mouth shut. In my opinion, Navarro was a non-conformist, but I believed life was extremely easy for him.

  All Navarro had to do to succeed in life was be Navarro.

  And being Navarro, at least for him, came naturally.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Nick

  My opinion was all that mattered. If someone didn’t share my views, they were wrong, because I was always right. Being exposed to life-changing events seemed to be the only thing to ever get me to look at life – or myself – with honest eyes.

  Pee Bee and I stood in the shop, solving the world’s proble
ms, one at a time. The conversation soon included talk of Peyton, and to my surprise, he didn’t accept it well.

  “How the fuck am I supposed to answer that? I’m not you, and you sure as fuck aren’t me. It really don’t matter what I say, you’re gonna come back with some bullshit and tell me I’m either dumb or crazy. When we’re done talkin’, you’ll be right. Because you’re always fuckin’ right,” Pee Bee said.

  I kicked a small stone across the floor of the shop, then met his gaze. “I asked you. I want your opinion.”

  “I think you’re reacting to what Whip and them did. You know, in Pete’s bar.”

  I shook my head. “I think it’s more than that.”

  He shrugged. “Like I said. I give an opinion. You shoot it down.”

  “I didn’t shoot it down.”

  He picked at his fingernails for a few long seconds, then cleared his throat. “All I know is this. Been knowin’ you for damned near ten years. You ain’t never had – and you ain’t never wanted – an Ol’ Lady--”

  “I didn’t say I wanted--”

  He leaned forward and shot me a glare. “Motherfucker, let me finish.”

  I took a drink of my beer and nodded. “Fine. Finish.”

  “Where was I?” His eyes fell to the floor. He rubbed his beard for a minute, then looked up. “Oh, yeah. So, you always say how you don’t need an Ol’ Lady. Fellas with Ol’ Ladies aren’t devoted to the club. When Stretch had that Ol’ Lady from El Cajon, you told me his devotion to the club went to shit, and he needed to get rid of her. Remember that?”

  I nodded. “I do, but--”

  He raised his hand in the air. “Motherfucker, I ain’t done.”

  I sighed. “Continue.”

  “Okay. So you don’t like Ol’ Ladies, and you bang bitches like the rest of us. Hit ‘em and quit ‘em. Some cute little bitch with an attitude comes along, and you start beatin’ that little pussy of hers up. Well, here’s my point.” He crossed his arms and shot me a glare. “All you was doin’ was fuckin’ her. That’s it. Never would have amounted to shit. When she was done with that article, I guarantee you that you’d have kicked her to the side.”

  “What’s your fucking point, Peeb?” I tossed my empty bottle toward the trash can, missed, and it crashed to the floor and shattered.