The man was impressive and a great leader.
Again, unlike his old man who was a goddamn tyrant. One Ozzy was surprised hadn’t been shot dead way before it finally happened.
Ozzy was tempted to do it several times himself when he was a prospect. But he gritted his teeth and took the abuse a prospect took just to stay in good with the club. By doing so, he could keep his ear to the ground to find out who did his mother dirty.
He tucked a joint between his lips, grabbed a disposable lighter sitting abandoned on the bar, and lit it, taking a few quick puffs to get it burning evenly. Once it was, he took a long drag and held it deep, hoping it would dull the sharp prickle of cactus needles stuck under his skin down a notch or two.
“C’mon, Oz. I have something that’ll distract you better than that.” Crystal gave him a wink and drew her middle finger along her hot pink Lycra-encased camel toe.
What he needed was a whole fucking bottle of whiskey and pussy older than twenty-one.
He tossed the Bic lighter back on the bar and stood up. “Heading over to Crazy Pete’s where I can drink in fuckin’ peace.”
“Do you want company?” Crys asked him, batting those big blue eyes of hers. He was surprised she didn’t dye her damn eyelashes to match her hair.
“Nah, Rainbow Bright, I’m good.”
Crystal’s brow furrowed. “What’s Rainbow Bright?”
“Christ,” he muttered, getting to his feet.
“Don’t let us chase you out,” Crash called out, settling on a stool at the other end of the bar as Stella stepped behind it to pour three beers. She stopped drinking the second her piss tested positive.
As in pregnancy test, not drug test.
Trip was expanding his empire by adding to his family and was a very happy camper about it.
At least if Liz was still drinking that meant she wasn’t knocked up yet.
The Fury prez came over and clapped him on the back. “Don’t gotta go, brother.”
“Yeah, best I do.”
They shared a look and after a second Trip nodded. “It’s only an occasional weekend ’til my son comes.” He said that only loud enough for Ozzy to hear.
Yeah, and after that it would be more often.
Fuck my life.
Hitting the road was looking better by the second.
“You know why I did my fuckin’ bid in prison, brother. Don’t make the same mistake,” Trip warned. “Ain’t worth it.”
“You’re right. Snatch ain’t worth fightin’ over.” He strode past the prez and out the side door, heading toward where he’d parked his sled.
Now he wasn’t sure if he was in the mood to head to Crazy Pete’s. Maybe he’d head back to his place, kick up his feet on the back deck and drink himself into oblivion.
It was Friday night, though. Pete’s could be hopping with some cougars. Usually they came out to prowl in an attempt to get their claws into Dodge.
That motherfucker got a lot more random pussy working at the bar than Ozzy did managing the motel. Lucky fucking bastard. His Fury brother would simply escort them upstairs and a few ball-emptying pumps later be back working behind the bar, serving a beer with a smile.
The women loved him as long as they weren’t looking for more than what Dodge wanted. Which was only getting off. It was rare that any of his conquests got to wake up in Pete’s old apartment above the bar. If ever.
But then, the only one that ever woke up in Ozzy’s bed had been—
“Ozzy.”
Yeah. Her. Fuck.
He stopped but didn’t turn around. Instead, he closed his eyes and did his best to breathe calmly. Her sandals could be heard moving quickly along the dry August ground, even over the damn deafening chorus of crickets.
He took another drag on the barely-lit joint he’d forgotten was still in his hand. Once he did, he held it deep until his lungs burned.
He felt her, heard her and even smelled that familiar goddamn scent of hers as she came around to stand between him and his escape.
He tipped his head back, opened his eyes and blew the smoke straight up toward the night sky. When he was finished, he tipped his head down to catch her eyes. In the dark, he couldn’t see the color, but he knew what they were.
Just like she knew what color his were.
“Back again?”
“Is this going to be a problem, Oz?”
“Dunno.” He pinched out the end of the joint. “Is it?”
“Only if you make it one.”
He dug his tin out again, tucked the roach away and pulled out a hand-rolled cigarette. “Don’t know why you keep comin’ back.” He tucked it between his lips and patted his cut, then the front pockets of his jeans, searching for his Zippo.
What the fuck did he do with it? He swore it was in his pocket. Was he losing his goddamn mind?