Page 11 of Hot as F*ck Bundle

“It’s summer, and we’re in San Diego,” I said. “Everyone wears shorts.”

He took a step back and folded his arms in front of his chest. “Tell you what, little girl. If you promise to tell me the truth, and I mean always, I’ll agree to an interview. How’s that?”

I couldn’t believe it. It was exactly what I hoped for, but in no way what I expected at least not so soon. “Sounds great,” I blurted.

He extended his hand. “So, we got a deal?”

I wondered just what type of handshake he had planned. The pull me close bro hug, the soul brother web of the thumb bump with a hand-twist, or maybe slapping the palms together and then pounding knuckles? I reached for his hand slowly, not sure of what to do.

He gripped my hand in his and shook it in a conventional, gentlemanly manner.

He released my hand and shot me a serious look. “So, were you working the other day? At the bar?”

It seemed like an odd question. I answered nonetheless. “Yeah.”

“And now?”

“Yeah, I suppose. Why?”

He shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and cocked an eyebrow. “Not counting today and yesterday, when was the last time you wore shorts to work? Before you answer, remember, you made a deal with the devil.”

I recalled no such deal. “A deal with the devil?”

“Yeah. Remember? We shook on it. And, sooner or later you’ll figure it out, but I’m the devil himself,” he said, his voice filled with pride.

“The devil, huh? Interesting. As far as the shorts go.” I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Take a fuckin’ guess.”

“Never?”

He coughed out a laugh. “That’s what I thought.”

“You got me,” I said, twisting my hips teasingly. “I wore the shorts because I liked what you did to me the other day.”

He nodded as if he’d made the only point he intended to. “So, you going to take notes?”

I found his prompt changing of the topic from sexual to business abrupt and odd. I was left to wonder if he liked what we shared in the bar as much as I did. After convincing myself he was doing nothing more than playing a game with me, I responded. “I’d like to record our conversations. Are you okay with that?”

He pulled his hands from his pockets. “I prefer it,” he said. “Leaves less for you to fuck up.”

I noticed the fingernail on his left index finger was black. I made a mental note to ask about it later. “I don’t fuck up.”

“We’ll see about that.” He turned toward the open garage. “Follow me.”

I rushed to the Jeep, grabbed my purse, and fought to catch up with him. Although I expected him to take me to an office or secret meeting room in a remote corner of the clubhouse, he sauntered up to a workbench at the far wall. With minimal effort, he hopped up onto it and sat down.

He motioned to a steel drum that was sitting beside him, kicking the top of it with the heel of his boot. “Make yourself comfortable.”

The drum looked new and was remarkably clean. While wondering if it was commonplace for bikers to use steel drums for stools, I sat down and looked around the garage. “We’re uhhm. We’re going to do it here?”

“What’d you expect? Starbucks and some of those crunchy little chocolate biscuits? Yeah, we’re doin’ it here.”

I reached into my purse, pulled out my digital recorder, and held it between us.

He nodded once.

The interview began.

And Nicholas Crip Navarro came to life.

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