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“Newspaper reporter my ass, you came here for my cock, didn’t you?”
“I uhhm.”
“Didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
The sound of his voice was such a turn-on.
I had no business going to his clubhouse unannounced, but to be an effective reporter, I needed a realistic means of getting in touch with him, and I had no means short of hunting him down.
Convinced the drive to the warehouse was my only option, I considered viable options that I could explain which would support my need to see him with such urgency.
I have a few questions regarding the club’s process of initiating prospects.
How many miles, on average, do you ride a year?
Do your members also have other means of transportation?
Does the club have a means of income, or is it self-supporting through dues and contributions?
Does the club participate in charitable events?
Shit.
None of the questions were critical for my 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.”
