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“It’s been three.”
“Been two.” He looked at his watch. “Today’s Monday the 9th. Wedding was on Saturday the 7th.”
Peyton had started her recording by saying, I’m Peyton Price beginning my interview with Nick Navarro, the president of the Filthy Fuckers MC. Today’s date is May 7th.
“You sure it’s the 9th?”
He glanced at his watch and nodded.
If her assembly of facts was as inaccurate as her telling of time, I wouldn’t approve a single word to go to publication.
“What?” he asked. “You got to be somewhere?”
I shook my head. As we walked toward the refrigerator, I considered telling him about Peyton, reconsidered it, and then decided to tell him a shortened version of the truth. “That reporter chick came in here yesterday and interviewed me. The one from the bar. When she started her interview, she said it was the 7th. It wasn’t. It was the 8th. No big deal.”
He grabbed two bottles of beer and handed me one. “Bitch might not know what day it is, but she’s hot as fuck.”
I nodded. “She’s a sexy little bitch.”
He tossed his lid into the trash. “You fuck her?”
I opened my beer and took a long drink.
“You fucked her, didn’t you?” He shook his head. “I swear, young bitches flock to your old ass.”
I raised the bottle to my mouth and shrugged. “Young chicks dig old men.”
“Since when?” he snapped back.
“Since forever. With age comes maturity.” I tilted the neck of my beer bottle toward him. “Maturity brings comfort.”
He choked on his beer. After wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he returned a dramatic glare. “Comfort in what?”
“They know an old man will give ‘em a good honest fucking. No lies, no unmet promises, no pick-up lines. Just a lot of hard cock.”
“And that’s enough to keep ‘em happy?”
I waved my arms toward the empty shop. “You see any women in here complaining?”
“Nope.”
“That’s because I never told ‘em I loved ‘em, but I always fucked ‘em like I did.”
“She suck good cock?” he asked. “Bitch has got some serious DSL’s.”
“Dunno.”
“She didn’t suck your cock?”
“She was askin’ me question after question, and I’m sittin’ on the bench listenin’ to her, and trying my fuckin’ damndest to stay focused,” I explained. “But she’s wearin’ shorts, some Chuck’s, and a tight tee shirt. And she kept running her fingers through her fuckin’ hair. Bitch was driving me nuts. Next thing I know, I’m sittin’ right there with a fuckin’ chubby.”
I motioned toward the bench with my beer bottle.
“Where was she?”
“Sittin’ on the drum.”
He glared back at me in disbelief. “You had her sittin’ on Whip’s dead brother?”
