Filthy F*ckers: The Complete Series Box Set

by Hildreth, Scott

  “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.

  Chapter 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.

  Chapter 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 problems, 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.

  He nodded his head toward the trash can. “See what I mean? There you go, tryin’ to intimidate me.”

  “What?”

  “Bustin’ bottles and shit. Subliminal stuff. You ain’t tryin’ to hear what I got to say.”

  I shook my head and turned toward the fridge. “I missed the trash can. And your little speech made no sense.”

  “I was tryin’ to be nice.”

  “Since when are you nice?”

  “Fine, motherfucker. How about this,” he snapped back. “Until Whip and them fellas raped her, you didn’t give a fuck about her or how she felt. All you cared about was dippin’ your dick. Then, they raped her. All of a sudden, you feel like you gotta take care of her.”

  I opened my beer and stared back at him. “Not true.”

  “True as fuck.”

  I shook my head. “She’s been different since she came to the shop on the first day.”

  “Grab me a beer, motherfucker.” He motioned toward the fridge. “Different how?”

  I shrugged. “She surfs, snowboards, fucking bungie jumps, drives a Jeep--”

  “She drives a Jeep? She drives a fucking Jeep?” He burst into laughter, and eventually caught his breath. “That’s your excuse?”

  “Amongst other things.”

  “There’s 200,000 bitches in SD that drive Jeeps.”

  “Like you said earlier, asshole. I wasn’t done.”

  “Hurry the fuck up and get done,” he said. “I got another point to make.”

  I turned to the fridge, grabbed another beer, and handed it to him. “All the things she does aren’t important. The fact she does them is.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “It defines what type of person she is. She’s adventurous.”

  “And that’s what you like about her?”

  I nodded. “Yep.”

  “That’s what you’re lookin’ for in life?”

  “I’m not looking to get fucking married, Peeb. Not even to have an Ol’ Lady. I was just saying that I enjoy it when she’s around, and I hoped she keeps coming around after the article’s done.”

  “And you say you’re sayin’ all this because she’s adventurous?”

  I nodded. “Yep.”

  He glared at me while took a long drink of beer.

  He lowered the bottle and wiped his beard with his free hand. “Why didn’t you put an ad on Craigslist five years ago? Tattooed biker seeks adventurous bitch. Must drive Jeep and bungie jump.”

  “Now you’re being an asshole.”

  He chuckled. “Don’t get me wrong, I like the little bitch. She seems to be a solid motherfucker. I mean, if you’re askin’ me. But you sayin’ you’re wantin’ to keep her around and shit just makes me think it’s for the wrong fuckin’ reasons.”

  “What if I was saying it, and she hadn’t been raped?”

  “But she was.”

  “I’m aski
ng you, asshole. What if she wasn’t?”

  He shrugged. “It’d be a different story. I’d probably say somethin’ like, damn, Crip, you’re finally settlin’ down.”

  “I’m not settling down. I’m saying I enjoy her company.”

  He finished his beer, tossed the empty bottle into the trash can, and met my gaze. “I guess all I’m sayin’ is this. Don’t enjoy it for the wrong reasons.”

  Standing there staring back at him, I had no response to give. All I could do was hope that what I felt was a result of a clear mind, not a sympathetic one.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Peyton

  The weather in the San Diego’s area was perfect, at least in my opinion. Spring and early summer temperatures were in the high 60’s and low 70’s. Navarro and I sat at the coffee shop, enveloped in silence. As the early-morning sun warmed my legs, I wondered just why he had scheduled our morning meeting.

  He rocked his chair on its rear legs. “Got anything for me to read yet?”

  “The article?”

  “Yeah.”

  It seemed things between us had become awkward. At least much more than before. It had been two weeks since the incident, and although I felt much better about everything, I certainly didn’t feel normal. I wondered if he sensed it, or if he had reasons of his own for being someone other than his natural self.

  “No,” I said. “Not yet.”

  He dropped the chair back down on its legs and reached for his coffee. “What’s the hold up?”

  “Hold up?” I shot him an evil stare. The real kind, not the friendly version. “Have you ever written anything for publication?”

  He looked at me like I had three heads. “No.”

  “Well,” I said. “It isn’t easy. I’m trying to decide where to take it. And we’re not done with the interviews.”

  “I was just asking.”

  I was tired of people asking. Camden asked every time he saw me. Navarro was asking. I even asked myself, but lately those times had become infrequent.

  “It’ll be done when it’s done. And, when I’m done with it, you’ll be the first to know. You’ve got to proof it, remember?”