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Chapter Four
Nick
She sat on the drum with her legs crossed and her forearm draped over her bare thigh. She was a gorgeous little bitch, and keeping my hands off of her went against the grain of my very existence.
I motioned toward the recorder. “Doesn’t matter what we discuss, before you print anything, I proof read it. No exceptions,” I said sternly. “Is that fucker on?”
“Yes, it’s on. And, if those are your conditions, I’m fine with that.” She raised the recorder to her mouth. “For the record, I’m Peyton Price beginning my interview with Nick Navarro, the president of the Filthy Fuckers MC. Today’s date is May 7th.”
I nodded. Agreeing to the interview wasn’t something I did for notoriety or publicity. Making outlaw motorcycle clubs less of a target for the Department of Justice’s overeager agents that seemed to infiltrate them on a daily basis was enough of a reason for me. And, if the article was written properly, the Filthy Fuckers MC could look like a bunch of choirboys.
I fixed my eyes on hers. “Get to it.”
“Okay,” she said. “It’s obvious you’re alone. I couldn’t help but notice the only motorcycle here was parked beside my Jeep. It looks, well, pretty rough. Is it yours?”
“Sure is,” I said with a nod. “I’m not much on electric starters, loud stereos, or windshields. Call me old school, but I’d rather kick start my sled and have the wind in my face. And a coat of paint doesn’t make it any faster, so I don’t have one.”
She looked confused. “Sled?”
“Bike, sled, motorcycle, scoot. They all mean the same thing.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, I like it.” She grinned. “It’s unique.”
“That makes two of us.”
“How many men are in your club?”
“Enough to resolve any problems that we encounter.”
“How long has the club been in…how long has the club been together?”
“Since the fall of 2007.”
“Were you the one who founded it?”
“The one and only.”
“Had you ever ridden in an MC prior to starting this one?”
I shook my head. “Nope.”
“What prompted you to start the club?”
“Prompted me?”
“Yes,” she said. “What in your life changed? What happened to make you feel that starting the club was in your best interest?”
“The war ended. At least for me.”
“Were you a veteran?”
I cleared my throat and glared back at her. “I am a veteran.”
“Sorry.” She dropped her eyes to the floor. After a short pause, she looked up. “So, you came back from the war, and following your return, you started the club?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
She scooted to the edge of the drum. Her bare legs dangled over the edge like bait. “For the sake of this and any future conversations,” she said. “When I speak of an MC, I’m referring to an outlaw motorcycle club.”
