HOT as F*CK, Page 3

  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 over my head, 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 pulled my shirt over my head, situated it, and shook my head. “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 a 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.

  Completely.

  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.

  A lot.

  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.”

  He grinned.

  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.

  Chapter Two

  Nick

  Pee Bee was the club’s Sergeant-At-Arms. The enforcer. The position didn’t require him to be organized, and maybe that was a good thing, because it seemed he often fell short in that respect. Based on his lack of planning alone, I often wondered why both of us weren’t doing time in prison.

  Serious time.

  “What do you mean, you hope he’s not home?”

  It was midnight, and being dressed in black helped conceal us from the view of potential late night onlookers, but at six foot eight and
260 pounds, hiding Pee Bee entirely was like trying to cover up a circus elephant with a fucking cocktail napkin.

  He turned to face me and shot me a confused stare. “It means I hope he’s not home, Crip.”

  Positioned fifty feet behind the home we were planning on breaking into, I glared back at him. “After we crawled through a dozen back yards, waded through a fuckin’ river in the storm sewer, then hiked three fuckin’ miles you’re not sure if this prick’s gone?”

  He pulled his backpack over his shoulders, removed a wire coat hanger, and shrugged. “Supposed to be at a wedding.”

  “Supposed to be?”

  He nodded an unconvincing nod. “That’s what I was told.”

  My service as a Navy SEAL made our late night theft of two motorcycles simplistic in comparison to some of the missions I had been involved with. It did very little, however, to assure me that we weren’t going to be caught. “I hope your source was good.”

  He straightened the wire into a four-foot-long hook. After a quick inspection of his break-in tool, he shoved a wooden wedge into his pocket and then shouldered the backpack. “Yeah, me too.”

  Still positioned deep in the back yard, I watched the home for several long seconds. All of the windows were dark, and there were no flickering lights, which led me to believe no one was home watching television.

  With slight reluctance, I decided to proceed. “Ready?”

  He nodded. “Yep.”

  I pointed toward the corner of the house. “We’ll go around the left side of the house, and I’ll stay beside the garage until you’re inside. After the door’s up, I’ll hop in there with ya. As soon as I do, pull the fucker closed until we get ‘em unlocked.”

  He straightened the wire a little more, then held it at arm’s length for an inspection. “Got it.”

  Breaking into a garage was easy. It took a coat hanger, someone with a steady hand, and less than ten seconds. The two motorcycles we were taking would be just as simple, requiring nothing more than a Bic pen to steal them.

  After having a brother’s bike stolen from a bar one Saturday night, stealing the president of Satan’s Savages bikes in retribution was a risk I was willing to take. The president of most motorcycle clubs would demand that a prospect commit the theft as an initiation to the club.

  But I wasn’t a typical president.

  I’d never ask my brothers to do anything I wasn’t willing to do myself.

  After cautiously walking around the front of the house, I stood watch while Pee Bee worked his magic. Five seconds later, and he quietly opened the garage door. After I ducked inside, he pulled the door down behind me.

  The garage was empty short of the two motorcycles that were parked inside. “The Super Glide’s unlocked,” he said after reaching for the key switch.

  I turned the key switch of the Softail. I wasn’t as lucky. “This one’s locked.”

  I reached in my pocket, pulled out a Bic pen, and pushed the barrel of the pen into the round key opening. After a few seconds, the lock turned freely. “Good to go,” I said. “Open the door. We’ll take Oceanside back toward the freeway and meet at the shop.”

  He grabbed the handle of the garage door. “Sounds good.”

  I raised my leg over the seat, sat down, and started rolling the motorcycle toward the closed garage door. The sight of the door leading into the house swinging open made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

  Someone shouted from just inside the house. “What in the fuck!?”

  It wasn’t the Savage’s president, Whip, but the guy could have easily passed for his brother. I kept my eyes locked on him while trying to get off the bike, and soon decided it must have been Whip’s brother.

  “Motherfuckers,” he grunted as he turned and ran inside the house.

  Pee Bee’s eyes met mine and instantly went wide. There was now a risk if we attempted to leave – the man inside the house may return with a gun before we got away. I realized the risks associated with breaking into the home, but I had zero desire to get shot in the back. With little time to think, and even less to react, I swept the kickstand down and steadied the bike.

  Pee Bee shot past me and ran into the house after the retreating man.

  It seemed like a fool’s move, but it was probably our best bet. Without as much as a second’s thought, I followed right behind him. As I rounded the corner to the living area, I heard the unmistakable sound of fists hitting flesh.

  “What were you gonna do with that?” I heard Pee Bee shout. “You a fuckin’ baseball player?”

  With his legs in the living room, and his upper body concealed by the doorframe of what I suspected was the bedroom, Whip’s look-alike was on his back. A baseball bat lay beside him on the floor, and Pee Bee sat on his chest, pounding him without mercy, one fist at a time.

  As no one was coming to the beating victim’s rescue, I immediately assumed the small home was empty – short of the guy getting pummeled by Pee Bee. My experience in the military, however, taught me that assumptions could get a man killed.

  I quickly searched the home, found it empty, and walked back to the living room. When I returned, the man on the floor appeared to be unconscious, and Pee Bee still straddled him while digging through his backpack.

  “Come on, let’s beat feet,” I said.

  “Hold up,” he responded.

  He pulled a roll of duct tape from the bag. “This ought to work.”

  I chuckled. “For what?”

  “Taping him up.”

  “What the fuck for?”

  He stood up glared at me as if I were an idiot. “So the dumb fucker doesn’t call the cops or whatever.”

  I nodded and stepped toward him. “Let’s make it quick.”

  While I held the man’s legs above the floor, he taped his ankles together with about a dozen wraps of tape. After tearing the tape in two, he then taped the man’s arms to his torso with an equal amount of tape.

  He swung the toe of his boot into the side of the man’s head. “Pick up his head.”

  I laughed to myself and lifted his head from the floor by his neck. He began to moan; a sign he was obviously regaining consciousness.

  Pee Bee kicked him in the side of the head again, hard.

  “God damn.” I chuckled.

  “Fucker came at me with a ball bat, Crip. Fuck this dude.”

  “I’m with ya,” I said. “Just make it quick.”

  From his forehead to his chin, he wrapped the man’s head in duct tape, making it one solid ball of grey tape. It wasn’t what I was expecting, but it would definitely be effective in keeping him from talking.

  While Pee Bee placed the remaining portion of tape back into the backpack, the man started to thrash around. I realized in the rush that Pee Bee hadn’t taken time to leave any air holes in his handiwork.

  I motioned toward our flopping victim. “Fucker’s suffocating.”

  Pee bee sighed. “How long’s it take for a guy to, you know, run out of…” he paused and shouldered his backpack again.

  “Oxygen?”

  “Yeah,” he said with a nod. “Oxygen.”

  “Maybe a minute or so?” I shrugged. “Something like that. Give or take.”

  The man continued to thrash about, flopping like his life depended on it.

  “Maybe we ought to poke some breathing holes in that tape, huh?”

  “Unless we’re tryin’ to kill him,” I responded.

  “Still got that pen?”

  “Where’s yours?”

  He shrugged. “I dunno.”

  I pressed my hands to my pockets, realized I didn’t have my pen, and then remembered it was still in the key switch of the Softail in the garage. “It’s in the fuckin’ garage. Be right back.”

  I sauntered to the garage, retrieved the pen, and returned. Pee Bee was standing over the man with his arms crossed, staring down at him.

  He nodded toward the motionless man and shrugged. “He quit.”

  “Quit what?�
��

  He pressed the sole of his boot into the man’s hips, pushing him across the floor a few inches. “Moving.”

  “How long’s it been?”

  He narrowed his eyes and stared back at me. “How long’s what been?”

  I knelt down, poked two holes in the tape where I expected his nostrils to be, and waited. “Since he fuckin’ moved.”

  He shrugged. “I dunno. Fucker was floppin’ when you went to get the pen, then he just stopped.”

  I took his pulse.

  Nothing.

  I sighed. “Fucker’s dead.”

  He returned a stare of disbelief. “Are you kiddin’ me?”

  “Nope.” I shook my head and stood up. “Dead as fuck.”

  The plan was to steal the two motorcycles as payback for what Satan’s Savages had done. I was a firm believer in an eye for an eye. A theft on their part deserved a theft in return. Murder wasn’t out of the question, but it definitely wasn’t something I had planned on when Stretch dropped us off.

  I cleared my throat. “Gonna call Stretch and have him drive around to the block west of here. The way we came in. We’re gonna toss this prick in the back of the truck and haul him to the shop.”

  “Why don’t we just leave him here?”

  “His dead ass is proof we committed murder. If we take him, it might be a couple of days before Whip calls it in, and even then, it’ll just be a missing person report. See if you can find his cell phone, we’ll take it, too. And we’ll need to wipe this place down, anywhere and anything we touched.”

  “Got it.”

  “And we’re leaving the bikes,” I said.

  “What the fuck for?” he snapped. “We need some get back for what these bastards did.”

  “If we take ‘em now, it’ll sure look to Whip like it was the work of the Fuckers. If we take the dead guy and leave the bikes, Whip ain’t gonna suspect shit. And I think killin’ Whip’s brother is enough get back for stealin’ a bike.”

  He nodded. “Good call.”

  I grabbed a hand towel from the bathroom and wiped down the bikes, door handles, the garage door, and the bathroom. After convincing ourselves the entire place was free of our fingerprints, I pocketed the dead man’s cell phone and grabbed the baseball bat.