Filthy F*ckers
The Complete Series Box Set
Scott Hildreth
Contents
Author’s Note
The Filthy Fuckers Series
I. Hard
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
II. Rough
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
III. Dirty
Prologue
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Epilogue
IV. Rigid
Chapter 117
Prologue
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Chapter 132
Chapter 133
Chapter 134
Chapter 135
Chapter 136
Chapter 137
Chapter 138
Chapter 139
Chapter 140
Chapter 141
Chapter 142
Chapter 143
Chapter 144
Chapter 145
Chapter 146
Chapter 147
Chapter 148
Chapter 149
Chapter 150
Chapter 151
Chapter 152
Chapter 153
Chapter 154
Chapter 155
Chapter 156
Chapter 157
Chapter 158
Epilogue
V. Nuts
Prologue
Chapter 159
Chapter 160
Chapter 161
Chapter 162
Chapter 163
Chapter 164
Chapter 165
Chapter 166
Chapter 167
Chapter 168
Chapter 169
Chapter 170
Chapter 171
Chapter 172
Chapter 173
Chapter 174
Chapter 175
Chapter 176
Chapter 177
Chapter 178
Chapter 179
Chapter 180
Chapter 181
Chapter 182
Chapter 183
Chapter 184
Chapter 185
Chapter 186
Chapter 187
Chapter 188
Chapter 189
Chapter 190
Chapter 191
Chapter 192
Chapter 193
Chapter 194
Chapter 195
Chapter 196
Chapter 197
Chapter 198
Chapter 199
Chapter 200
Chapter 201
Chapter 202
Chapter 203
Chapter 204
Chapter 205
Epilogue
VI. Thick
Prologue
Chapter 206
Chapter 207
Chapter 208
Chapter 209
Chapter 210
Chapter 211
Chapter 212
Chapter 213
Chapter 214
Chapter 215
Chapter 216
Chapter 217
Chapter 218
Chapter 219
Chapter 220
Chapter 221
Chapter 222
Chapter 223
Chapter 224
Chapter 225
Chapter 226
Chapter 227
Chapter 228
Chapter 229
Chapter 230
Chapter 231
Chapter 232
Chapter 233
Chapter 234
Chapter 235
Chapter 236
Chapter 237
Chapter 238
Chapter 239
Chapter 240
Epilogue
Also by Scott Hildreth
VII. His Rules
Prologue
Chapter 241
Chapter 242
Chapter 243
Chapter 244
Chapter 245
Chapter 246
Chapter 247
Chapter 248
Chapter 249
Chapter 250
Chapter 251
Chapter 252
Chapter 253
Chapter 254
Chapter 255
Chapter 256
; Chapter 257
Chapter 258
Chapter 259
Chapter 260
Chapter 261
Chapter 262
Chapter 263
Chapter 264
Chapter 265
Chapter 266
Chapter 267
Chapter 268
Chapter 269
Chapter 270
Chapter 271
Chapter 272
Chapter 273
Chapter 274
Chapter 275
Chapter 276
Epilogue
Also by Scott Hildreth
Also by Scott Hildreth
Follow Scott
THIS BOOK IS A WORK OF FICTION.
All names, locations, club names, and incidents in this book are a figment of the author’s imagination, and are depicted in a work of fiction in all regards. Any likeness to fact is pure coincidence. The club depicted in this book does not exist; it was created for this book. Lastly, the colors depicted in the cover and described in this book are a creation of graphic artistry, and are not actually the colors for any Motorcycle Club known to exist by the author.
Dedication
To the nameless woman who was raped, only to see her rapist receive six month’s jail time. This is not justice, but it is all I have. And it is for you.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, are coincidental.
HARD 1st Edition Copyright © 2016 by Scott Hildreth
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
Cover model: Michael Wajchert
Photography by: Reggie Deanching @ R+M Photography
Cover design by Jessica www.creativebookconcepts.wordpress.com
Follow me on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/sd.hildreth
Like me on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/ScottDHildreth
Follow me on Twitter at: @ScottDHildreth
Prologue
Peyton
I pushed his office door open just enough to peer inside. He stood at the far side of his desk with his hands on his hips and his eyes fixed on the skyline. I cleared my throat. “Your email didn’t make a lot of sense.”
He turned to face me and shrugged. His crisp white shirt didn’t have a single wrinkle in the fabric, a reminder of how early in the day it was. He studied me for a moment and shook his head lightly. “It was as straightforward as it could be.”
It wasn’t. It never was with him. His cryptic messages – always without punctuation – made it problematic to understand his desire, and even more difficult to believe he was the editor-in-chief of the Union-Tribune, San Diego’s largest newspaper.
But he was. No differently than his father, and his father’s father, Camden Rollins III was the man in charge.
I swept my thumb across the screen of my phone and stared at the email. “Need something on filthy fuckers make it hard edgy and in-your-face maybe a three or four installment piece depending on what you find.”
He brushed his hands along the thighs of his pants, chuckled, and sat down. “Everything you need is right there.” He motioned to the chair positioned in front of his desk. “Have a seat, Peyton.”
I shoved my phone into the front pocket of my jeans, walked into his office, and sat down. “What – or who – are filthy fuckers?”
“You’re not much of a reporter.” He chuckled. “The Filthy Fuckers are an Outlaw Motorcycle Gang. But, like all the motorcycle gangs, they like to be called a club. You know, like the Sons of Anarchy,” he said.
Tattooed men made me go all wobbly-legged. Tattooed bikers made my lady bits ache. I nodded eagerly. “I’m going to do a piece on a motorcycle club? A real motorcycle club?”
There were very few television personalities I cared for, but no differently than half of the female population in the nation, I’d crawl naked through a mile of broken glass for a chance to suck Charlie Hunnam’s cock.
“Real? Yeah, these guys are real, alright. The Filthy Fuckers are as rough as it gets. President’s name is Nicholas Navarro. He goes by Nick or Crip to his brothers in the club. You’ll need to interview him personally unless you want rumors and bullshit. Scuttlebutt around town is that they’re close to declaring war with Satan’s Savages. After some of what we’ve seen from these clubs in the past, The Union-Trib would like to call it before it’s national news.”
“Holy shit. Yeah, I’m stoked,” I said. “Not that I’m complaining, because I’m not, but if you don’t mind me asking, why me? A girl doing a four installment piece of a motorcycle gang?”
“Three or four, depending on what you uncover.” He leaned back in his chair, folded his arms in front of his chest, and shook his head. “And why you? You’re a thrill-seeking weirdo, and everyone here knows it, including me. That’s why. Half my staff would be scared to death, but you’ll dive in head first.”
He was right, except for the weirdo part. I loved driving my Jeep to the most remote place I could find, parking it, and rock climbing wherever I wasn’t able to get to by vehicle. Hang gliding and paragliding from the cliffs at the Torrey Pines Gliderport in La Jolla was a common occurrence for me. And, I always volunteered to follow each unsolved death in the city, hoping I could turn it into a homicide, but so far it never happened.
“I’m not a weirdo,” I said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“An adventurous reporter who leaves no stone unturned.”
“I like that better,” I said. “So what do I do? They’re not just going to agree to talk to me.”
“Do your research. You’ll figure something out.”
“That’s it? That’s your best advice?”
He leaned forward, adjusted his tie, and sighed. “When was the last time you did what I told you to do?”
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