first installment on the piece, and Navarro would see right through me.
I felt like such a girl.
I’d be much better of just telling him the truth.
I exited the highway, came to a stop at the traffic light, and then slowly proceeded down the street toward the clubhouse. When I got close enough to get an unobstructed view of the building, I could clearly see that there were three motorcycles parked in front.
I envisioned a secret meeting, drug deal, or weapons transaction going down. I considered driving past, but curiosity got the best of me. I turned through the gate, drove slowly toward the front of the building, and came to a stop beside Navarro’s eclectic example of a motorcycle.
I grabbed my recorder and pushed the door to the Jeep open.
“I don’t recall giving you a standing invite to stop by my clubhouse at will, reporter.”
I turned toward the voice, but saw no one. I responded nonetheless. “You didn’t.”
Be assertive, Peyton.
Take charge.
I scanned the empty garage. Navarro was nowhere to be found. I cleared my throat. “But if you want this article to make your club look good in the eyes of all who read it, I suggest you cooperate with the woman who is writing the article.”
Navarro stepped from inside the garage and stood ten feet in front of me with his arms folded in front of his chest. Dressed in a pair of well-worn jeans, boots, and a black wife-beater, he looked every bit the part of a biker. He raised his right hand to his face, clenched his fist, and exhaled into the void between his thumb and forefinger.
With his eyes locked on me, he inhaled a long slow breath, then lowered his fist. Without so much as saying a word, his extremely commanding presence seemed to suck the confidence from my very soul.
I was left standing in front of him feeling small, helpless, and without a single thought of my own.
I was his for the taking.
I turned my head to the side and swallowed heavily, hoping he didn’t notice. As I turned to face him, I feigned a cough, then met his gaze. “I need your phone number.”
He continued to stare. “You want my phone number. You don’t need it.”
I straightened my posture and cleared my throat. “Upon returning home from the war, Nicholas Crip Navarro formed a band of hand-selected brothers not much different than the men who fought at his side during the eight-year-long protracted armed conflict in Iraq.”
His face expressed not one ounce of emotion.
I maintained eye contact and continued. “To the layman, the differences between his military and state-side brethren were crystal clear. To Navarro, the five-foot-eleven, 200 pound tattooed war veteran – and president of the Filthy Fuckers Motorcycle Club – there were no differences. To understand the similarities in the men, one must be able to peer well beyond the surface of the club’s members. Navarro gave me a look deep inside the makings of his club, and after doing so, I was able to see the members not for who and they appeared to be, but for who they truly were.”
“You done?” he asked.
I shook my head. “If war broke out in these United States tomorrow, and I was in charge of my own well-being, the US Marines nor the Army would have the honor of defending me. I’d make one phone call, and one only – to Navarro. And after that call, I’d drift off into a deep slumber, knowing no harm would come to me.”
His mouth curled into a shitty little smirk.
“You know the only problem with that story?” I asked.
“Nope.”
“I couldn’t make that one phone call. Because I don’t have your fucking phone number.”
“You know my only problem I’ve got with you being at my clubhouse, reporter?”
I shrugged. “Uhhm. I guess not.”
“Every time you open your pretty little mouth, all I can think about is shoving my cock in it.”
I was flattered.
Kind of.
“I don’t know whether to say thank you, or fuck you.”
He chuckled. “I like your attitude. The number’s 619
I felt like such a girl.
I’d be much better of just telling him the truth.
I exited the highway, came to a stop at the traffic light, and then slowly proceeded down the street toward the clubhouse. When I got close enough to get an unobstructed view of the building, I could clearly see that there were three motorcycles parked in front.
I envisioned a secret meeting, drug deal, or weapons transaction going down. I considered driving past, but curiosity got the best of me. I turned through the gate, drove slowly toward the front of the building, and came to a stop beside Navarro’s eclectic example of a motorcycle.
I grabbed my recorder and pushed the door to the Jeep open.
“I don’t recall giving you a standing invite to stop by my clubhouse at will, reporter.”
I turned toward the voice, but saw no one. I responded nonetheless. “You didn’t.”
Be assertive, Peyton.
Take charge.
I scanned the empty garage. Navarro was nowhere to be found. I cleared my throat. “But if you want this article to make your club look good in the eyes of all who read it, I suggest you cooperate with the woman who is writing the article.”
Navarro stepped from inside the garage and stood ten feet in front of me with his arms folded in front of his chest. Dressed in a pair of well-worn jeans, boots, and a black wife-beater, he looked every bit the part of a biker. He raised his right hand to his face, clenched his fist, and exhaled into the void between his thumb and forefinger.
With his eyes locked on me, he inhaled a long slow breath, then lowered his fist. Without so much as saying a word, his extremely commanding presence seemed to suck the confidence from my very soul.
I was left standing in front of him feeling small, helpless, and without a single thought of my own.
I was his for the taking.
I turned my head to the side and swallowed heavily, hoping he didn’t notice. As I turned to face him, I feigned a cough, then met his gaze. “I need your phone number.”
He continued to stare. “You want my phone number. You don’t need it.”
I straightened my posture and cleared my throat. “Upon returning home from the war, Nicholas Crip Navarro formed a band of hand-selected brothers not much different than the men who fought at his side during the eight-year-long protracted armed conflict in Iraq.”
His face expressed not one ounce of emotion.
I maintained eye contact and continued. “To the layman, the differences between his military and state-side brethren were crystal clear. To Navarro, the five-foot-eleven, 200 pound tattooed war veteran – and president of the Filthy Fuckers Motorcycle Club – there were no differences. To understand the similarities in the men, one must be able to peer well beyond the surface of the club’s members. Navarro gave me a look deep inside the makings of his club, and after doing so, I was able to see the members not for who and they appeared to be, but for who they truly were.”
“You done?” he asked.
I shook my head. “If war broke out in these United States tomorrow, and I was in charge of my own well-being, the US Marines nor the Army would have the honor of defending me. I’d make one phone call, and one only – to Navarro. And after that call, I’d drift off into a deep slumber, knowing no harm would come to me.”
His mouth curled into a shitty little smirk.
“You know the only problem with that story?” I asked.
“Nope.”
“I couldn’t make that one phone call. Because I don’t have your fucking phone number.”
“You know my only problem I’ve got with you being at my clubhouse, reporter?”
I shrugged. “Uhhm. I guess not.”
“Every time you open your pretty little mouth, all I can think about is shoving my cock in it.”
I was flattered.
Kind of.
“I don’t know whether to say thank you, or fuck you.”
He chuckled. “I like your attitude. The number’s 619
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