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.
Chapter 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.
“Nichol
as…”
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.”
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.”
Chapter 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.
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.
Chapter 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. “W
hat?”
“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.”
Filthy F*ckers: The Complete Series Box Set Page 12
