Blood & Bones: Ozzy (Blood Fury MC 9)

“See you survived. How was it?”

As tired as she was, his gravelly voice suddenly woke up everything inside her.

He wasn’t even her type, so she didn’t understand why her body was reacting the way it was to him.

“To put it simply, enlightening.”

“Not sure if that’s good or bad.”

“Neither,” she answered truthfully.

As he sucked in the next lungful of smoke, she wrinkled her nose. Whatever he was smoking didn’t smell like tobacco.

“Are you smoking a doobie?”

Ozzy snorted and the smoke shot out of his nose. “A doobie?”

She flapped a hand around. “Whatever it’s called. I don’t know. I’ve never…”

“You never smoked weed… ever? Not even in school with your friends?”

“I guess you would have to have friends to succumb to peer pressure.”

“Don’t gotta be peer pressure. Could just be havin’ fun. You know, like at a party.”

“Had to have friends to be invited to a party.”

He glanced up at her, his brow furrowed. “Were you a cunt or somethin’? Why didn’t you have friends?”

She blinked at his easy use of the C-word. It wasn’t a word most people threw around lightly, though she had silently said it in her head several times tonight. But, thankfully, not once had it accidentally slipped out.

“Oh, probably because I was a shy, awkward nerd who let myself think no one liked me because I wasn’t good enough. That’s one reason.”

“Why’d you think you weren’t good enough?”

She debated giving him more than she had earlier today, but what would it hurt? “Basically, I was invisible. And when I wasn’t, I wished I was.”

“How could you have been invisible?” He ran his gaze from the top of her head to her aching toes. “Don’t look invisible to me.” He tipped his head at the chair next to him. “Take a load off. Those shoes are hot as fuck, but I bet they fuck up your feet.”

“They do.”

“Then sit.”

She stared at the chair he had indicated and, with an accompanying sigh, settled next to him and watched him take another inhale of his… “What should I call that so I don’t sound like a dork?”

He blew the smoke up and away from her and casually lifted his shoulders. “Joint will work. Better than doobie.”

His deep chuckle had her smiling at her own faux pas. His eyes landed on her smile and his chuckle faded away. But then, so did her smile.

“Get up,” he suddenly demanded.

“What? You just told me to sit.”

“Know it. Get back up.”

He was so damn bossy. When she was about to tell him that, he lifted both eyebrows, stopping her before even the first word was released. Instead, she rolled her eyes at him and then groaned when she stood due to the pain in her arches. And her toes. And her heels.

Hell, in every part of her feet.

He quickly got to his and adjusted both wood chairs until they faced each other. Then he tipped his head to her chair again and ordered, “Sit.”

She opened her mouth once more in preparation to inform him about how bossy he was and, once again, he only lifted both eyebrows. He then pointed to the chair and, of course, she sat.

She mentally sighed at herself for obeying him. “Does everyone simply follow your orders like that?”

Once she was settled comfortably back into her chair, he did the same, but now they faced each other.

“Nope. Just you.”

Of course. “Is there a reason we need to face each other?”

“Yep.” He patted his thigh. “Foot.”

Huh?

He tucked his marijuana cigarette between his lips, slapped his thigh again and repeated, “Foot.” Like he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“What—”

His sudden lunge forward made her heart seize and she sucked in a sharp breath. He grabbed one of her ankles, pulled her foot onto his lap, kept his long, warm fingers wrapped around it and ripped off her shoe, letting it drop to the pavement.

Holy smokes, it was amazing how good her foot suddenly felt simply by removing that torture device.

“Other one. Or do I gotta fetch that one, too?”

With an exaggerated, but fake, grumble of complaint, she put her other foot in his lap and this time he didn’t rush to slide the shoe off her foot.

Oh no, he took his time, the back of his knuckles sliding up the center of her sole as he removed it. Luckily her feet weren’t ticklish or he probably would have been accidentally kicked in the face.

Once he let that shoe drop to the ground, he took another long draw on his joint. When he was done, he held it out to her. “Will help you relax.”

She shook her head. “I can’t.”

“Not that you can’t, you won’t. There’s a difference.” As demanding as he was, she was relieved when he didn’t push her to partake in sharing the joint with him. Instead, he shrugged, took one more hit and ground out the lit end of the joint on the wide arm of the chair. Afterward, he tucked it inside the vest he was wearing, she assumed into some inner pocket.