Filthy F*ckers: The Complete Series Box Set

by Hildreth, Scott

  Nick Navarro may have been a lot of different things to a lot of different people. To me, he was an outlaw biker.

  Having him fuck me was taking me to a place I had never ventured to.

  A place I was afraid I would yearn to return to, over and over.

  While he continued to fuck me like he was attempting to prove a point, he wedged his tattooed forearm between my hip and the bench. In a few seconds, I felt the tip of his finger circling my throbbing clit.

  “You’re gonna come back for this cock whenever I want you to.”

  Don’t worry about that, big boy.

  Until further notice, this pussy’s yours.

  I wanted to give a smart-assed response, but couldn’t seem to assemble my thoughts. As he rubbed my swollen nub and repeatedly filled me with his dick, my mind drifted off to a faraway place.

  After an immeasurable amount of time, a tingling began to run through me. Immediately following, his cock seemed to double in size. I fought against the pressure of his hand against my head, but eventually gave up. His hips slammed against my ass a few more times, and my pussy went into a thankful frenzy of its own.

  His thrusts slowed, but remained os-so-deep. His breathing became irregular.

  And.

  An orgasm shot through my body like a bolt of lightning.

  And then another.

  And another.

  “Fuck yesss,” he moaned.

  “Oh…My…God,” I cried out.

  While my body continued to convulse in the wake of countless earth-shattering micro-orgasms, I collapsed.

  My vision narrowed as he withdrew himself from inside of me. The sounds of the distant traffic, his breathing, and my heart beating became dull and indifferent.

  In short, Nick Navarro – and his big cock – changed my mind about everything.

  Chapter Six

  Nick

  I stared at the exterior wall of the shop, not sure whether to get off my bike, or fire it up and go for a ride. Peyton Price had my interest – and my attention – and I didn’t like it one fucking bit.

  She was a sexy little bitch, but I had no business with a woman in my clubhouse or on my mind, no matter how attractive she was. While contemplating a ride up the PCH, the unmistakable lyrics from Cypress Hill’s How I Could Just Kill a Man blaring over the rumble of Pee Bee’s loud pipes snapped me out of my funk.

  I turned toward the sound.

  With his long legs stretched out onto his floorboards, and his arms draped over his handlebars, he leisurely rolled into the lot.

  “What’s shakin’, Motherfucker?” he said as he came to a stop at my side.

  I shrugged.

  “Comin’ or goin’?”

  “Thinkin’ about havin’ a beer,” I responded.

  “Sounds good.”

  I nodded toward the shop. “Of all the shit you could be listening to, you’ve got to listen to that song?”

  He pulled off his helmet and ran his fingers through his long hair. “Cypress motherfuckin’ Hill, Boss. It’s good shit.”.

  “How I Could Just Kill a Man. Remind you of anything?”

  “Sure as fuck does,” he responded.

  I gave him my signature look. A cocked eyebrow. I’d used it so much over the years that one side of my forehead was wrinkled, and the other wasn’t.

  “That night Wood dumped his bike in front of that mansion up by Torrey Pines.”

  Pee Bee may have been absent minded when it came to the passage of time, and his sheer size alone removed fear from the list of emotions he felt, but other than that, he was real damned close to normal.

  Most of the time.

  “What in the fuck does Wood hitting a fox in Torrey Pines have to do with that song?”

  He looked at me as if I was a complete fool. “Wood hit the fox. Then that chick in the nightgown came out to see if we were okay. While she was tryin’ to get Wood bandaged up, I was starin’ at her tits and flippin’ through my iPod for something cool to listen to. I saw Cypress Hill, and thought it sounded good. So, that’s what I was listenin’ to the whole time she was standin’ there with her titties pokin’ out of that nightgown.”

  The owner of the thirty-million-dollar mansion was the widow of a Hollywood producer, and built like a porn star. In a sheer nightgown and a pair of designer flip-flops, she rushed from the house and offered to bandage Wood’s arm. The entire time, her silicone D-cups were all but hanging out of her nightgown. It was a story we’d talked about for years, but it had nothing to do with what was now on my mind.

  I got off my bike and turned toward the shop. “Well it reminds me of something else.”

  “Like what?”

  I unlocked the door, opened it, and motioned toward the steel drum. “We need to get rid of that body.”

  “Still in that drum?”

  I shot him a glare. “Where the fuck else would it be?”

  “Fuck, I don’t know. That’s why I asked.”

  “Do you really think I’d take that two-hundred-pound dead prick out of that drum and do something with him?” I asked. “He’s been in there cooking for three days.”

  “Two.”

  “It’s been three.”

  “Been two.” He looked at his watch. “Today’s Monday the 9th. Wedding was on Saturday the 7th.”

  Peyton had started her recording by saying, I’m Peyton Price beginning my interview with Nick Navarro, the president of the Filthy Fuckers MC. Today’s date is May 7th.

  “You sure it’s the 9th?”

  He glanced at his watch and nodded.

  If her assembly of facts was as inaccurate as her telling of time, I wouldn’t approve a single word to go to publication.

  “What?” he asked. “You got to be somewhere?”

  I shook my head. As we walked toward the refrigerator, I considered telling him about Peyton, reconsidered it, and then decided to tell him a shortened version of the truth. “That reporter chick came in here yesterday and interviewed me. The one from the bar. When she started her interview, she said it was the 7th. It wasn’t. It was the 8th. No big deal.”

  He grabbed two bottles of beer and handed me one. “Bitch might not know what day it is, but she’s hot as fuck.”

  I nodded. “She’s a sexy little bitch.”

  He tossed his lid into the trash. “You fuck her?”

  I opened my beer and took a long drink.

  “You fucked her, didn’t you?” He shook his head. “I swear, young bitches flock to your old ass.”

  I raised the bottle to my mouth and shrugged. “Young chicks dig old men.”

  “Since when?” he snapped back.

  “Since forever. With age comes maturity.” I tilted the neck of my beer bottle toward him. “Maturity brings comfort.”

  He choked on his beer. After wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he returned a dramatic glare. “Comfort in what?”

  “They know an old man will give ‘em a good honest fucking. No lies, no unmet promises, no pick-up lines. Just a lot of hard cock.”

  “And that’s enough to keep ‘em happy?”

  I waved my arms toward the empty shop. “You see any women in here complaining?”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s because I never told ‘em I loved ‘em, but I always fucked ‘em like I did.”

  “She suck good cock?” he asked. “Bitch has got some serious DSL’s.”

  “Dunno.”

  “She didn’t suck your cock?”

  “She was askin’ me question after question, and I’m sittin’ on the bench listenin’ to her, and trying my fuckin’ damndest to stay focused,” I explained. “But she’s wearin’ shorts, some Chuck’s, and a tight tee shirt. And she kept running her fingers through her fuckin’ hair. Bitch was driving me nuts. Next thing I know, I’m sittin’ right there with a fuckin’ chubby.”

  I motioned toward the bench with my beer bottle.

  “Where was she?”

  “Sittin’ on the drum.”


  He glared back at me in disbelief. “You had her sittin’ on Whip’s dead brother?”

  I grinned and nodded. “Didn’t want her sittin’ beside me. You know how I am about havin’ people in my space.”

  “Where’d you fuck her?”

  “Bent her over the bench.”

  He coughed out a laugh. “Just couldn’t fuck her while she was hovering over a corpse?”

  “I didn’t give a fuck if she sat on him, but I didn’t want to fuck her while she was layin’ her tits on him.”

  “Makes sense.”

  The things that made sense to a biker were undoubtedly different than what made sense to most people in the free world. I could tell any of the men in the club that I had a body to dispose of, and their response would be where is it? If the same question was asked of someone out of my group, most people would respond by vomiting.

  Or calling the cops.

  Our MC consisted of a close-knit group of men who would place their lives on the line for any of their club brothers. The comradery and devotion was as close to what I felt in the Navy. Often, my MC brethren reminded me of my SEAL team.

  “So, that’s something we need to get taken care of quick. Today, if possible.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The body in that fuckin’ drum.”

  “Wanna do it now?”

  “No. We’re gonna need to drive out to the desert. Or up to Temecula, by the mountains. Fucker’s been in that drum of Sodium Hydroxide since Saturday night, I’d say he’s about ready.”

  “Acid’s the way to go, huh?”

  “Sodium Hydroxide’s not acid. It’s lye. They use acid on T.V., but in real life, the shit doesn’t work. The fumes alone from hydrochloric or hydrofluoric would kill you. And it doesn’t do what they show it doing on T.V., believe me.”

  His face distorted. “How the fuck you know all this shit?”

  I tapped my index finger against the tattoo on my bicep of the eagle, anchor, trident, and pistol – the insignia of the SEALs.

  “Shoulda known,” he said.

  “They didn’t just teach us how to kill, they taught us how to do it and not leave a trace,” I said with a laugh.

  He tossed his empty beer bottle in the trash. “Funny. Government teaches you how to do that shit, and the same government will lock you up for doing what they trained you for.”

  “Don’t get me started.” I waved my hand toward the fridge. “Grab me one, too.”

  He opened the two beers, handed me one of them, and kicked the steel drum with the toe of his boot. “So we just pour him out on the ground?”

  “It’s gonna be a fuckin’ mess,” I explained. “We need to dump it somewhere, scavenge what’s left of the bones, and crush ‘em up. They’ll be pretty brittle. And hollow.”

  “Figure out when, and I’m good to go,” he said.

  “You ought to be, you dip-shit. Who doesn’t leave air holes when they do something like that?”

  “Well, Mr. Navy fucking SEAL, not all of us are special warfare experts. That’s the first motherfucker to ever have his face taped up by me. So, considering, I think I did a pretty good job,” he said in a prideful tone.

  “You did a damned fine job, Peeb. Just fell a little short on keepin’ the fucker alive,” I said with a laugh.

  “Fuck this prick. He swung a baseball bat at my head.” He kicked his boot against the drum. “If it wasn’t for my cat-like reflexes, you’d be buryin’ me in the desert, not him.”

  I raised my beer bottle. “I’m just fuckin’ with ya.”

  “Seriously, though. What are we gonna do about these pricks?”

  “The Savages?”

  He nodded. “Yeah.”

  “We both know they’re tryin’ to force us out, because they’ve been here longer. I haven’t got much interest in dissolving the club. You?”

  “Nope.”

  “So, we stand our ground. Sooner or later, they’ll back off. If they don’t, we go to war.”

  “I’m tired of lookin’ over my shoulder every fuckin’ time I hear a set of pipes comin’ down the road.”

  “You and me both, Brother. You and me both,” I said.

  “So what about this newspaper chick? You done with the interview?”

  I shook my head. “Just getting started.”

  “So she’s gonna be comin’ around for a bit?”

  “A long bit.”

  The words escaped my mouth before I had much time to think about my response. It was apparent from what Peyton said about the amount of hours she would need to invest in interviews that she would be around for some time. In my opinion, exposing her to a limited amount of the club’s activities would help matters as much, if not more, than interviews.

  Like it or not, if I wanted a favorable portrayal of the club in the newspaper, it was something that going to require a significant amount of time on her part, and mine.

  My fear was knowing I wouldn’t be able to keep my cock out of her. In reality, I was a Filthy Fucker in more ways than one.

  I raised my bottle of beer. “Filthy Fuckers forever.”

  Pee Bee raised his and clanked it against mine. “Forever Filthy Fuckers.”

  Truer words had never been spoken.

  Chapter Seven

  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.
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br />   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.