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Chapter Twenty
Peyton
Although it seemed my mind was elsewhere, I sat at my desk and attempted to manufacture a story out of minimal facts and zero desire.
“Working your magic?”
The sound of Mr. Rollins’ voice made me cringe. I had no story, no passion to write one, and for the first time that I was aware of, didn’t really care about performing my job or exposing the facts.
“It’s coming pretty slow,” I responded.
“It’ll come. It always does. At least for you.”
I grinned and turned toward the monitor. “I hope so.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“Just give me some time.”
“Take all the time you need,” he said. “Just make sure you get it right in the end.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Let me know if you need anything.”
I nodded. “Will do.”
I stared at the screen while my hands hovered over the keyboard. After several minutes of zero productivity, I opened my browser, did a search for any information about the Savages being hospitalized, and found nothing.
Disappointed, I closed the browser, and began to type.
The life of an outlaw biker is one that most individuals will never completely comprehend. I have had the luxury of being exposed to one such group, the Filthy F*ckers MC, for some time.
In doing so, I have learned
I stopped typing, read what I had written, and erased everything. Frustrated, I picked up my phone and sent Navarro a text message, hopeful that he’d respond favorably. It was a long shot, but well worth a try.
Want to grab lunch? No interview. Just lunch??
I tossed the phone on my desk, looked around my office, and decided it was a disastrous mess. Thirty seconds into the reorganization of my entire library, my phone beeped.
I picked it up, hopeful, but without much expectation.
Please say yes. Please say yes. Please say yes.
The message was from Navarro.
Meet me at the clubhouse in 30?
I smiled, typed yes as my response, and paused. After erasing the one-word message, I re-typed my response.
Thank you.
