The first two chapters from “HARD”, Book I of the Filthy Fuckers MC Romance Series
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?”
“Precisely. You’re going to do what it is you do. So, go do it. Just make it interesting. We need something awe-inspiring.”
I stood from my seat and nodded. “Awe-inspiring four installment piece, coming right up, Mr. Rollins.”
“Three or four,” he said. “Depends on what you find.”
The thought of rubbing elbows with the members of a motorcycle club made me tingle all over. “You might not see me for a while. But, if it’s out there,” I said. “I’ll find it.”
“Take all the time you need,” he said. “Just make sure three or four weeks is enough.”
Three weeks with a real-life Jax Teller?
He had assigned me to three weeks in fucking heaven.
I turned toward the door. “See you in four weeks.”
“Three or four,” he snapped back.
Yeah, I guess it all depends on what this Navarro guy looks like.
“What’s he look like? Navarro?” I asked over my shoulder.
“He’s a big muscular fellow that’s covered in tattoos from head to toe, including his hands. Likes to drink beer and fight. Rough dude. Like I said, do your research first.”
Tattooed alpha male biker?
“See you in four weeks,” I said with a laugh.
I walked along the row of motorcycles that were parked outside the bar. Some of them were apparently new – fitted with painted saddle bags and multi-speaker stereos, while others were older and adorned with nothing more than a solo seat, a leather tool pouch, and ape hanger handlebars.
Albeit short, my study of Harley-Davidsons – and the men who rode them – provided me with enough information that I found the motorcycles, the men, and the concept of a close-knit biker club fascinating.
I couldn’t help but wonder what level of rejection I was going to get. There was no doubt in my mind that the members of the Filthy Fuckers MC weren’t going to agree to sit down and answer all of my questions over a glass of beer.
Dressed in cut-off jean shorts, Chuck’s, and my favorite tee shirt, I walked across the scorching asphalt parking lot toward the bar’s entrance.
I reached for the door, inhaled a shallow breath, and pulled it open.
Just be yourself, Peyton.
I stepped into the poorly lit bar and realized the only patrons were bikers. I was met by no less than twenty-four eyes, two of which I immediately recognized.
Nicholas “Crip” Navarro was the president of the Filthy Fuckers MC, and despite my being fifteen years his junior, I found him to be extremely attractive. He was 42, covered in tattoos, and as handsome as any man I had ever seen. Him being a biker made him even more attractive.
While mentally preparing to infiltrate the club, I studied many photos of the club’s known members, their motorcycles, and of Nick. In doing so, one thing stood out in each and every picture of him.
His remarkable blue eyes.
Now that they were locked on me, I searched for a glimmer of hope that I could remain strong-willed, independent, and above all, professional.
With my head held high, I clung to the thrill of the challenge, and walked directly toward the group of drunken bikers. Dressed in jeans, boots, and his leather vest, Navarro stood from the bar stool at his high-top table and turned to face me. With a bottle of beer dangling from one hand, he raked the fingers of his free hand through his black hair, brushing it away from his face.
His eyes fell to the floor and then slowly raised the length of my torso. After pausing to stare at my tits for a few long seconds, he eventually met my gaze. “You lost, little girl?”
I stutter-stepped, not quite knowing what to do. Roughly a dozen men surrounded him, and although they all looked at me with lustful eyes, it seemed they were waiting on his approval or rejection of me before they made any comments or passed judgement.
I swallowed hard and returned his stare. “No. I’d uhhm. I’d. I’d uhhm. I’d like to talk to you,” I stammered.
His eyes dropped to my bare legs. He grinned, revealing teeth much whiter than I expected him to possess. He raised his bottle of beer, took a drink, then lowered his chin slightly. “Show me your tits,” he demanded without so much as an ounce of expressed emotion.
It wasn’t at all what I expected. I cocked my hip. “Excuse me?”
He took another drink of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You want to talk to me? Show me your fuckin’ tits.”
Causing any other man to respect me would have required a no answer. To get Nick Navarro to respect me meant I needed to bare my tits.
I cleared my throat.
I nodded toward his waist. “Show me your cock.”
The man at his side, a muscular giant with collar-length hair and an awesome full beard, choked on the beer he was in the middle of swallowing and coughed out a laugh.
Navarro didn’t so much as crack a smile. Still cradling the bottle of beer in his hand, he reached for his belt, unfastened the buckle, and struggled to push his faded jeans down his thighs. As the material cleared the base of his dick – revealing a few inches of the rather thick shaft – my eyes shot wide.
I wondered just how far he would go.
While I stood and waited, fairly certain he wouldn’t get his entire cock out in a public bar – especially amidst the members of the MC – he pushed the denim a little further and it sprung free.
Well, there’s the answer.
I stood, open-mouthed, and did what any girl in the same situation would have done.
I enjoyed the scenery for a few seconds less than I really wanted to, laughed to myself at the thought of including the scene in my first written installment, and regretfully tore my eyes away from his thickness.
With the waist of his jeans at mid-thigh and his dick dangling from between his legs like the heavy slab of meat that it was, he raised the bottle of beer to his lips and took a drink no differently than if he was fully clothed.
I couldn’t help but wonder why he didn’t pull his jeans up, but was too wrapped up in the excitement of it all to give matters much serious thought. My heart felt like it was beating between my ears. I desperately wanted to take another look at his massive cock, but didn’t dare turn the event into any more of a sexually frustrating situation than it already was.
With his eyes locked on me, he finished his beer, handed the empty bottle to the six-foot-ten giant, and pulled up his jeans. He fastened his belt and cocked an eyebrow slightly. “Get ‘em out.”
What the fuck have I got myself into?
I inhaled a breath of courage, glanced around the bar, and made note that there was no one present except for me and the bikers. No waitress, no bartender, no nothing. Although I shouldn’t have, I found the thought of revealing my tits in front of the group of bikers to be sexually stimulating.
But, as my boss had clearly stated, I was a thrill-seeking weirdo.
Against my will – and best judgement – my pussy began to tingle.
I pulled my tee shirt off, shoved a portion of it into the back pocket of my shorts, and lowered the straps of my bra past the sides of my upper arms. While each and every wide-eyed biker stood in wait, I cradled the cups of my bra with my hands and pulled them down slightly, revealing the full ‘C’ cup boobs that made me the most sought after freshman in high school.
Navarro shook his head. His mouth twisted into a shitty little smirk. “Take off the bra.”
A tingling ran the length of my body, from my neck to my calves and back. But, instead of rubbing my goose-bump covered arms, I unfastened my bra, pulled it forward, and tossed it toward the giant who was apparently Navarro’s body guard.
Not that he needed one.
The bearded biker snatched my bra from the air in mid-flight. I made note of the patches on the front of his vest.
Pee Bee. Sergeant-At-Arms.
My focus shifted back to Navarro. His slight smile made me comfortable, and I quickly got lost admiring his eyes. I cocked my head to the side and pressed my biceps against the edges of my breasts. “Satisfied?”
He pursed his lips, stared at my tits for a few long seconds, and nodded. “Nice set of tits.”
I did my best to offer him a curtsy. It probably looked like I lost my footing and stumbled.
His eyes narrowed. “So, who the fuck are you?”
I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth, fought to swallow, and reached for my shirt. “Peyton. Peyton Price.”
“What’d you do, back your Hyundai into my fuckin’ bike?”
His entire body was covered in ink. Even his neck and knuckles were tattooed. He was far better looking than I expected him to be. I put on my shirt, then shook my head lightly. “No. I parked fifty feet from you guys. I wanted…I uhhm. I’m a reporter for the newspaper. The Union-Tribune. I’m doing an article, a three or four-piece installment on outlaw motorcycle gangs. I’d like to interview you.”
He stepped so close I could feel his breath on my face. “No gang members here, we’re a club,” he breathed.
He smelled like gasoline and adrenaline. My nostrils flared, my mouth watered, and my throat tightened. I swallowed heavily and muttered my response. “A uhhm. A club. An outlaw. An outlaw motorcycle club. Sorry, I misspoke.”
It was a foolish mistake.
He leaned away and shot me a glare. “Well, reporter, you better get your shit straight before you go writin’ anything. Some half-wit motherfucker goes and calls us a gang in the newspaper, and we’ll all be doing time in the joint under the RICO act.”
“So you’ll agree to it?” I asked excitedly.
He inched closer, completely obstructing my view of everyone who surrounded him. He raised his clenched fist in front of my face, extended his middle finger, and widened his eyes.
I peered beyond his tattooed finger and widened mine in return.
With our eyes locked, he slowly lowered his hand. The lack of space between us made doing so rather difficult, and his tattooed bicep lightly brushed against the nipple of my left breast. I shuddered as a result, quickly reminded that I hadn’t taken the time to get my bra back from his oversized body guard.
I felt the tip of his finger trace along the inside of my leg, just above my knee. Feeling his hand on my flesh did little to excite me. It was impossible.
I was already soaked.
Although I wanted desperately to look down and see just what it was he was doing, I kept my eyes fixed on his, rolled my shoulders slightly, and straightened my posture. He needed to know I wasn’t just some dumb girl who was going to be scared away easily.
I’ve got news for you, Nick Navarro, you’re not going to intimidate me.
The tip of his finger rose the length of my inner thigh for what seemed like a lifetime. He must have perceived the lack of objection on my part as an invitation to continue.
Still focused on his hypnotic eyes, I tried to refrain from showing any emotion. With him teasing me while a dozen of his brethren watched, it didn’t come easily. His hand came to rest at the frayed opening of my shorts.
His mouth twisted into a smirk.
I tried to swallow, but didn’t quite succeed.
I felt his finger slide beneath the leg of my shorts.
You’re not going to…
As he circled my clit with his tattooed digit, I considered objecting to his little game, but the words never came. Had I protested, it would have been a lie. My boss was right, I was a thrill-seeking weirdo, and having an outlaw biker come close to fingering me at noon in a remote bar in Escondido, California stood as all the proof that was needed.
Without warning, he pushed his finger inside of me.
I gulped a breath.
So much for remaining professional.
He stared into my eyes and grinned. “You like that, do you?”
I wasn’t a whore. Hell, I wasn’t even what a person that anyone in their right mind could describe as promiscuous. But, for whatever reason, I was allowing Nick Navarro to finger fuck me while the beer guzzling members of his club eagerly watched. Be it because I desperately wanted to write the piece, or because I found tattooed bikers insanely attractive was irrelevant.
The fact remained that the president of the Filthy Fuckers MC had his middle finger shoved so deep inside of me that I could feel the palm of his hand against my clit.
And, I liked it.
He curled the tip of his finger against my g-spot a few more times, bringing me to a shallow climax. Guilt washed over me. I made a feeble effort to writhe away from him, but failed miserably.
He gripped my neck with his free hand. “Going somewhere?”
An inaudible no puffed from my lips.
He pushed his finger deep and held his hand still.
I exhaled against his tattooed neck.
“Be at our clubhouse tomorrow at six o’clock,” he growled. “If you’re worth a fuck as a reporter, you’ll find it. Between now and then, I’ll decide if I’ll talk to you.”
As he pulled his finger from inside of me, I considered the possibility of him not wanting to talk to me after I showed up at his clubhouse.
I tugged against the legs of my shorts in an effort to situate myself. It provided no comfort whatsoever. I was way past horny and my pussy was a sopping wet mess.
I had no intention of sticking around while the other members of the club ogled me or expressed how they thought less of me for allowing their president to finger me senseless in their presence. I decided to wear the finger-fucking experience as a badge of honor. “Thanks for the talent-fingers,” I chimed. “I’ll see you at the clubhouse tomorrow at six.”
I grinned in return, turned away, and took a few steps toward the door. “For what it’s worth,” I said over my shoulder. “You’ve got a magnificent cock.”
And your finger’s not bad, either.
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