Chapter 151
Chapter 152
Chapter 153
V. Ex Con
Chapter 154
Chapter 155
Chapter 156
Chapter 157
Chapter 158
Chapter 159
Chapter 160
Chapter 161
Chapter 162
Chapter 163
Chapter 164
Chapter 165
Chapter 166
Chapter 167
Chapter 168
Chapter 169
Chapter 170
Chapter 171
Chapter 172
Chapter 173
Chapter 174
Chapter 175
Chapter 176
Chapter 177
Chapter 178
Chapter 179
Chapter 180
Chapter 181
Chapter 182
Chapter 183
Chapter 184
Chapter 185
Chapter 186
Chapter 187
Chapter 188
Chapter 189
Chapter 190
Chapter 191
Chapter 192
Chapter 193
VI. Money Shot
Prologue
Chapter 194
Chapter 195
Chapter 196
Chapter 197
Chapter 198
Chapter 199
Chapter 200
Chapter 201
Chapter 202
Chapter 203
Chapter 204
Chapter 205
Chapter 206
Chapter 207
Chapter 208
Chapter 209
Chapter 210
Chapter 211
Chapter 212
Chapter 213
Chapter 214
Chapter 215
Chapter 216
Chapter 217
Chapter 218
Chapter 219
Chapter 220
Chapter 221
Chapter 222
Chapter 223
Chapter 224
Chapter 225
Chapter 226
Chapter 227
Chapter 228
Chapter 229
Chapter 230
Chapter 231
Chapter 232
Chapter 233
Chapter 234
Chapter 235
Chapter 236
Chapter 237
Chapter 238
Epilogue
VII. Hard Corps
Prologue
Chapter 239
Chapter 240
Chapter 241
Chapter 242
Chapter 243
Chapter 244
Chapter 245
Chapter 246
Chapter 247
Chapter 248
Chapter 249
Chapter 250
Chapter 251
Chapter 252
Chapter 253
Chapter 254
Chapter 255
Chapter 256
Chapter 257
Chapter 258
Chapter 259
Chapter 260
Chapter 261
Chapter 262
Chapter 263
Chapter 264
Chapter 265
Chapter 266
Chapter 267
Chapter 268
Chapter 269
Chapter 270
Chapter 271
Chapter 272
Chapter 273
Chapter 274
Chapter 275
Chapter 276
Chapter 277
Chapter 278
Chapter 279
Chapter 280
Chapter 281
Chapter 282
Chapter 283
Chapter 284
Chapter 285
Chapter 286
Epilogue
Also by Scott Hildreth
THIS BOOK IS A WORK OF FICTION.
All names, locations, club names, and incidents in this book are a figment of the author’s imagination, and are depicted in a work of fiction in all regards. Any likeness to fact is pure coincidence. The club depicted in this book does not exist; it was created for this book. Lastly, the colors depicted in the cover and described in this book are a creation of graphic artistry, and are not actually the colors for any Motorcycle Club known to exist by the author.
The Filthy Fuckers Series
Dedication
To the nameless woman who was raped, only to see her rapist receive six month’s jail time. This is not justice, but it is all I have. And it is for you.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, are coincidental.
HARD 1st Edition Copyright © 2016 by Scott Hildreth
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at designconceptswichita@gmail.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
Cover model: Michael Wajchert
Photography by: Reggie Deanching @ R+M Photography
Cover design by Jessica www.creativebookconcepts.wordpress.com
Follow me on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/sd.hildreth
Like me on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/ScottDHildreth
Follow me on Twitter at: @ScottDHildreth
Prologue
Peyton
I pushed his office door open just enough to peer inside. He stood at the far side of his desk with his hands on his hips and his eyes fixed on the skyline. I cleared my throat. “Your email didn’t make a lot of sense.”
He turned to face me and shrugged. His crisp white shirt didn’t have a single wrinkle in the fabric, a reminder of how early in the day it was. He studied me for a moment and shook his head lightly. “It was as straightforward as it could be.”
It wasn’t. It never was with him. His cryptic messages – always without punctuation – made it problematic to understand his desire, and even more difficult to believe he was the editor-in-chief of the Union-Tribune, San Diego’s largest newspaper.
But he was. No differently than his father, and his father’s father, Camden Rollins III was the man in charge.
I swept my thumb across the screen of my phone and stared at the email. “Need something on filthy fuckers make it hard edgy and in-your-face maybe a three or four installment piece depending on what you find.”
He brushed his hands along the thighs of his pants, chuckled, and sat down. “Everything you need is right there.” He motioned to the chair positioned in front of his desk. “Have a seat, Peyton.”
I shoved my phone into the front pocket of my jeans, walked into his office, and sat down. “What – or who – are filthy fuckers?”
“You’re not much of a reporter.” He chuckled. “The Filthy Fuckers are an Outlaw Motorcycle Gang. But, like all the motorcycle gangs, they like to be called a club. You know, like the Sons of Anarchy,” he said.
Tattooed men made me go all wobbly-legged. Tattooed bikers made my lady bits ache. I nodded eagerly. “I’m going to do a piece on a motorcycle club? A real motorcycle club?”
There were very few television personalities I cared for, but no differently than half of the female population in the nation, I’d crawl naked through a mile of broken glass for a chance to suck Charlie Hunnam’s cock.
“Real? Yeah, these guys are real, alright. The Filthy Fuckers are as rough as it gets. President’s name is Nicholas Navarro. He goes by Nick or Crip to his brothers in the club. You’ll need to interview him p
ersonally unless you want rumors and bullshit. Scuttlebutt around town is that they’re close to declaring war with Satan’s Savages. After some of what we’ve seen from these clubs in the past, The Union-Trib would like to call it before it’s national news.”
“Holy shit. Yeah, I’m stoked,” I said. “Not that I’m complaining, because I’m not, but if you don’t mind me asking, why me? A girl doing a four installment piece of a motorcycle gang?”
“Three or four, depending on what you uncover.” He leaned back in his chair, folded his arms in front of his chest, and shook his head. “And why you? You’re a thrill-seeking weirdo, and everyone here knows it, including me. That’s why. Half my staff would be scared to death, but you’ll dive in head first.”
He was right, except for the weirdo part. I loved driving my Jeep to the most remote place I could find, parking it, and rock climbing wherever I wasn’t able to get to by vehicle. Hang gliding and paragliding from the cliffs at the Torrey Pines Gliderport in La Jolla was a common occurrence for me. And, I always volunteered to follow each unsolved death in the city, hoping I could turn it into a homicide, but so far it never happened.
“I’m not a weirdo,” I said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“An adventurous reporter who leaves no stone unturned.”
“I like that better,” I said. “So what do I do? They’re not just going to agree to talk to me.”
“That’s it? That’s your best advice?”
He leaned forward, adjusted his tie, and sighed. “When was the last time you did what I told you to do?”
I shrugged.
“Precisely. You’re going to do what it is you do. So, go do it. Just make it interesting. We need something awe-inspiring.”
I stood from my seat and nodded. “Awe-inspiring four installment piece, coming right up, Mr. Rollins.”
“Three or four,” he said. “Depends on what you find.”
The thought of rubbing elbows with the members of a motorcycle club made me tingle all over. “You might not see me for a while. But, if it’s out there,” I said. “I’ll find it.”
“Take all the time you need,” he said. “Just make sure three or four weeks is enough.”
Three weeks with a real-life Jax Teller?
He had assigned me to three weeks in fucking heaven.
I turned toward the door. “See you in four weeks.”
“Three or four,” he snapped back.
Yeah, I guess it all depends on what this Navarro guy looks like.
“What’s he look like? Navarro?” I asked over my shoulder.
“He’s a big muscular fellow that’s covered in tattoos from head to toe, including his hands. Likes to drink beer and fight. Rough dude. Like I said, do your research first.”
Tattooed alpha male biker?
“See you in four weeks,” I said with a laugh.
Maybe longer.
Chapter One
Peyton
I walked along the row of motorcycles that were parked outside the bar. Some of them were apparently new – fitted with painted saddle bags and multi-speaker stereos, while others were older and adorned with nothing more than a solo seat, a leather tool pouch, and ape hanger handlebars.
Albeit short, my study of Harley-Davidsons – and the men who rode them – provided me with enough information that I found the motorcycles, the men, and the concept of a close-knit biker club fascinating.
I couldn’t help but wonder what level of rejection I was going to get. There was no doubt in my mind that the members of the Filthy Fuckers MC weren’t going to agree to sit down and answer all of my questions over a glass of beer.
Dressed in cut-off jean shorts, Chuck’s, and my favorite tee shirt, I walked across the scorching asphalt parking lot toward the bar’s entrance.
I reached for the door, inhaled a shallow breath, and pulled it open.
Just be yourself, Peyton.
I stepped into the poorly lit bar and realized the only patrons were bikers. I was met by no less than twenty-four eyes, two of which I immediately recognized.
Nicholas “Crip” Navarro was the president of the Filthy Fuckers MC, and despite my being fifteen years his junior, I found him to be extremely attractive. He was 42, covered in tattoos, and as handsome as any man I had ever seen. Him being a biker made him even more attractive.
While mentally preparing to infiltrate the club, I studied many photos of the club’s known members, their motorcycles, and of Nick. In doing so, one thing stood out in each and every picture of him.
His remarkable blue eyes.
Now that they were locked on me, I searched for a glimmer of hope that I could remain strong-willed, independent, and above all, professional.
With my head held high, I clung to the thrill of the challenge, and walked directly toward the group of drunken bikers. Dressed in jeans, boots, and his leather vest, Navarro stood from the bar stool at his high-top table and turned to face me. With a bottle of beer dangling from one hand, he raked the fingers of his free hand through his black hair, brushing it away from his face.
His eyes fell to the floor and then slowly raised the length of my torso. After pausing to stare at my tits for a few long seconds, he eventually met my gaze. “You lost, little girl?”
I stutter-stepped, not quite knowing what to do. Roughly a dozen men surrounded him, and although they all looked at me with lustful eyes, it seemed they were waiting on his approval or rejection of me before they made any comments or passed judgement.
I swallowed hard and returned his stare. “No. I’d uhhm. I’d. I’d uhhm. I’d like to talk to you,” I stammered.
His eyes dropped to my bare legs. He grinned, revealing teeth much whiter than I expected him to possess. He raised his bottle of beer, took a drink, then lowered his chin slightly. “Show me your tits,” he demanded without so much as an ounce of expressed emotion.
Excuse me?
It wasn’t at all what I expected. I cocked my hip. “Excuse me?”
He took another drink of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You want to talk to me? Show me your fuckin’ tits.”
Causing any other man to respect me would have required a no answer. To get Nick Navarro to respect me meant I needed to bare my tits.
I cleared my throat.
Twice.
I nodded toward his waist. “Show me your cock.”
The man at his side, a muscular giant with collar-length hair and an awesome full beard, choked on the beer he was in the middle of swallowing and coughed out a laugh.
Navarro didn’t so much as crack a smile. Still cradling the bottle of beer in his hand, he reached for his belt, unfastened the buckle, and struggled to push his faded jeans down his thighs. As the material cleared the base of his dick – revealing a few inches of the rather thick shaft – my eyes shot wide.
Holy shit.
I wondered just how far he would go.
While I stood and waited, fairly certain he wouldn’t get his entire cock out in a public bar – especially amidst the members of the MC – he pushed the denim a little further and it sprung free.
Well, there’s the answer.
I stood, open-mouthed, and did what any girl in the same situation would have done.
I stared.
I enjoyed the scenery for a few seconds less than I really wanted to, laughed to myself at the thought of including the scene in my first written installment, and regretfully tore my eyes away from his thickness.
With the waist of his jeans at mid-thigh and his dick dangling from between his legs like the heavy slab of meat that it was, he raised the bottle of beer to his lips and took a drink no differently than if he was fully clothed.
I couldn’t help but wonder why he didn’t pull his jeans up, but was too wrapped up in the excitement of it all to give matters much serious thought. My heart felt like it was beating between my ears. I desperately wanted to take anoth
er look at his massive cock, but didn’t dare turn the event into any more of a sexually frustrating situation than it already was.
With his eyes locked on me, he finished his beer, handed the empty bottle to the six-foot-ten giant, and pulled up his jeans. He fastened his belt and cocked an eyebrow slightly. “Get ‘em out.”