Blood & Bones: Ozzy (Blood Fury MC 9)

Yeah, if she found out he’d spent his whole allowance tonight—even though it wasn’t much—plus the money Mr. Johnson paid him for mowing his lawn this week, she’d be pissed.

He grimaced.

He’d rather get a video game console for at home, but she’d never let him spend his money on that, a reason he kept going to the arcade instead of where he was supposed to be: at his classmate Tim’s studying for tomorrow’s English test.

He didn’t give a crap about school. He only wanted to hang with his buds and destroy their asses at Galaga. And, of course, see his initials, TKO, at the top of the screen.

He grinned.

Tommy stopped short on the dark sidewalk in front of Mr. Johnson’s house, which was three houses down from where he and his mother lived.

The lots in their neighborhood were tiny and the houses seemed even smaller, so he could clearly see the motorcycle parked at the curb up ahead, even though the street lamp had burned out a long time ago. Tonight, the moon was bright enough to reflect off the chrome on that bastard’s bike.

The corner of his lip curled up. He hated that fucker.

He didn’t know what his mom saw in him. All he did was drink, curse, smoke and smack her around.

He had a stupid name, too.

Fender.

How dumb was that? Who thought that name was cool?

No one. When he told his friends what it was, they all fell over laughing.

That stupid name was even embroidered onto a patch on that stinky, filthy leather vest he wore.

The one that had big patches on the back. The patches that made him think he was tough. A badass.

He wasn’t.

He was just an asshole.

His “road name” was just as stupid as the name on the back.

Deadly Demons MC.

He wished his father would get out of prison and kick that asshole from West Virginia out of his mom’s bed and out the door. Tommy was now big enough he could help him.

But his mom said his dad was never getting out. He would die in there before he’d ever be done serving his time.

She stopped visiting him a few years ago. She’d given up on her husband and told Tommy to do the same.

All because of a mistake Thomas Oswald, Sr. made. A mistake his dad couldn’t fix. Or take back.

A robbery gone wrong. A big house in a gated community broken into.

It was supposed to be a quick and easy job, that was what his dad’s buddy said.

It was anything but.

Two responding cops ended up shot in the head as his dad and his buddy tried to escape, did their best not to get caught.

Tommy wasn’t sure if it was his dad who even pulled the trigger.

Didn’t matter.

His dad had done something stupid and now had to pay for it. But then, Tommy was now paying the price, too, since he had to deal with assholes like Fender banging his mom and sitting at the kitchen table in his dingy tighty whities while scratching his droopy balls and belching loudly like the pig he was as his mother made the asshole food he didn’t help pay for.

The dirty asshole biker also never helped with the bills. When Tommy said something to him one night about that, Fender told him he paid his mom in dick. And that he only stopped in and stayed overnight once a week when he was in the area.

Seeing that motorcycle right outside their house tonight meant that Fender must have made his weekly “deposit.”

Tommy’s fingers tightened on the strap of his backpack and he set his jaw. He took long strides over to the bike backed against the curb and stared at it for a long moment, hating it almost as much as he hated Fender.

He glanced over his shoulder toward the house to make sure no one was watching, then sucked snot up through his nasal passages until he had a big, thick hocker on his tongue. Then he spat the wad on the center of the seat.

Nah. That wasn’t good enough.

He shot another quick glance over his shoulder, then balanced his weight on his left leg, lifted his right foot and, with everything he had, he kicked the bike over.

He cringed at the noise the falling bike made when it hit the pavement. He quickly scrambled up the tiny front yard and hid in the shadows. Just in case Fender came out to investigate the noise.

But knowing that fat drunk, he was probably already passed out with a beer still in his fat mitt in what used to be his father’s recliner.

Tommy should go in and spit a hocker dead center on the asshole’s face.

He waited in the dark for a few more minutes and, when Fender didn’t come rushing out of the house—bellowing like he normally did—Tommy snuck around to the window he’d left unlocked.