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I straightened my posture and cleared my throat. “Upon returning home from the war, Nicholas Crip Navarro formed a band of hand-selected brothers not much different than the men who fought at his side during the eight-year-long protracted armed conflict in Iraq.”
His face expressed not one ounce of emotion.
I maintained eye contact and continued. “To the layman, the differences between his military and state-side brethren were crystal clear. To Navarro, the five-foot-eleven, 200 pound tattooed war veteran – and president of the Filthy Fuckers Motorcycle Club – there were no differences. To understand the similarities in the men, one must be able to peer well beyond the surface of the club’s members. Navarro gave me a look deep inside the makings of his club, and after doing so, I was able to see the members not for who and they appeared to be, but for who they truly were.”
“You done?” he asked.
I shook my head. “If war broke out in these United States tomorrow, and I was in charge of my own well-being, the US Marines nor the Army would have the honor of defending me. I’d make one phone call, and one only – to Navarro. And after that call, I’d drift off into a deep slumber, knowing no harm would come to me.”
His mouth curled into a shitty little smirk.
“You know the only problem with that story?” I asked.
“Nope.”
“I couldn’t make that one phone call. Because I don’t have your fucking phone number.”
“You know my only problem I’ve got with you being at my clubhouse, reporter?”
I shrugged. “Uhhm. I guess not.”
“Every time you open your pretty little mouth, all I can think about is shoving my cock in it.”
I was flattered.
Kind of.
“I don’t know whether to say thank you, or fuck you.”
He chuckled. “I like your attitude. The number’s 619 447 1035. And no, I won’t repeat it.”
Six, one, nine, four, four seven, one, zero, three, five. Six, one, nine, four, four seven, one, zero, three, five. Six, one, nine, four, four seven, one, zero, three, five. Six, one, nine, four, four seven, one, zero, three, five.
“I don’t need to write it down, I’m a reporter.”
Six, one, nine, four, four seven, one, zero, three, five.
He nodded. “Impressive. How’s the article coming?”
“Just getting started,” I responded. “We need to, uhhm, meet again. Soon.”
Six, one, nine, four, four seven, one, zero, three, five.
I studied him. His clothes served him all too well. His shirt hugged his muscular torso like a black glove, leaving nothing about his washboard stomach and massive chest to the imagination. His worn denim jeans were tight against his shapely butt, more proof that all of his leisure time wasn’t spent in the bar.
His ass was the product of countless hours at the gym.
Charlie Hunnam was no longer the object of my sexual desire.
Nick Navarro was.
“I’m busy right now, reporter,” he said. “Give me a shout tomorrow, around noon. Maybe we can have coffee and a crunchy little biscuit. How’s that sound?”
Six, one, nine, four, four seven, one, zero, three, five.
“Alright,” I said, turning away. “Talk to you tomorrow.”
I opened the door to the Jeep, climbed inside, and did an imaginary fist pump.
Yes!
And, the entire drive home, all I could think of was him shoving his cock in my mouth every time I started to speak.
