Blood & Bones: Ozzy by Jeanne St. James

Chapter Seventeen

Dutch dropped an old,ratty shoebox on the bar in The Barn. It was held together with big rubber bands to keep the lid on.

Ozzy’s heart thumped in his throat. In the past couple of weeks, his brothers hadn’t discussed Shay’s father and the possibility of him having a tie with the Fury.

He blew the smoke from his hand-rolled out of his nostrils. “That it?” he asked, unable to unglue his eyes from it. It was a stupid-ass question because he knew exactly what it was.

It might be another dead end, just like the missing person’s case file for Shay’s father. Jet had convinced her pig brother to read through it and see if there were any clues. There’d been none. Jet’s brother told her any photos attached to the file were long gone, too. That cold case had gone into a deep freeze since no one had touched it in almost twenty years.

The pigs at the time had done some interviews with Marshall Graham’s family, friends and even co-workers, but nothing came up and no evidence was found to consider it foul play. They set it aside figuring he simply walked away from his life. That meant the man left his friends, family and job without a word.

To Ozzy, that seemed suspicious, especially with how Shay talked about him. But to five-o… Maybe to them it was common that adults simply ran away from their lives all the time. They’d get sick of their responsibilities and just bolt. Of course, when they did, they’d simply disappear without a word since they didn’t want those responsibilities chasing after them.

Still, it was fucking strange. His gut instinct was screaming at him that it had something to do with the Originals. That Shay’s father might’ve somehow gotten caught up with the mess back then.

He kept hoping like fuck that wasn’t true, but he wasn’t ruling it out.

There could be something in that box to confirm his suspicions. Or, again, it could be another dead end. If it was, he didn’t know what else to do to help Shay figure out what happened to her father.

They might never know and she might have to accept that fact.

“What’s that?” Trip asked, moving behind the bar to grab an empty mug, with a lit joint dangling from between his lips and his signature black baseball cap on his head.

“Buncha old photos of some of the boys.” As Trip poured himself a draft, Dutch leaned across the bar, snagged the joint right from Trip’s lips and took a long hit. After he let the smoke roll from his mouth, he explained, “Took me a bit to figure out where the fuck I put them when I moved into the place I’m livin’ in now.”

“You go through them?” Ozzy picked up the full mug Trip slid in front of him before the prez began to pour a beer for himself.

“Yeah, but none of them made me remember anyone named…” Dutch squinted.

Ozzy paused with the mug lifted to his lips, waiting for Dutch to finish. When he didn’t, he reminded him, “Marshall Graham. Christ.”

Dutch huffed. “Just fuckin’ with you.”

“The fuck you are.”

Dutch tapped a finger to his temple. “Got a memory like a fuckin’ trap, remember?”

“Yeah, a mouse trap. Lookin’ at them didn’t jog anything loose from that damn rusty trap?”

“It’s not like their fuckin’ real names are printed on the fuckin’ things. Still don’t remember anyone named Marshall Graham. Lookin’ through those memories didn’t knock anythin’ loose, either.”

Trip took a long swallow of his own beer, swiped a hand over his mouth, then said, “Let’s see ‘em.”

Suddenly anyone who was related to an Original was at the bar crowding around the box. Rook, Cage, Judge, and even Sig, joined Ozzy, Dutch and Trip.

Rook pulled Cujo from inside his cut and placed him on top of the bar.

“Get that rat off the bar,” Trip growled.

Rook said, “I put him down, he’s gonna try to scrap with Justice and Jury.”

Both American Bulldogs were asleep on the bus benches nearby. But it wouldn’t take much to wake them. Especially a three-pound four-legged terror that had a yap that made Ozzy want to poke his eardrums out.

Trip shook his head, grabbed the box and dumped all the photos out in an avalanche, making the Chihuahua tuck his tail and run to the other end of the bar, barking and snarling like the photos were going to bite him in the ass.

Ozzy hoped like fuck those photos didn’t bite him in the ass.

He’d only become an Original for one reason and no one but him knew what that reason was. Even over twenty-something years later. It was a secret he’d kept and one he planned on keeping until he was dead and buried.

“Dog’s as fucked up as you,” Ozzy said to Rook, then turned to Dutch. “You give them Mad Dog 20/20 in their bottles as babies instead of milk?”

Dutch shrugged. “Helped them sleep.”

“Not takin’ any parentin’ tips from you, old man,” Trip said with a laugh. “The fuck if I want my boys endin’ up like Cage and Rook. Shoulda dropped them out in the middle of the woods once Bebe left.”

“Thought about it. But by then, they were old enough to find their way back,” Dutch grumbled and took another hit off the joint before handing it back to Trip.

“Speakin’ of the love of your life,” Cage began, picking up a photo. He showed it to everyone, then flipped it to Dutch. “There she is. The best choice you ever fuckin’ made. We’re fucked up ‘cause of your fuck-up. Know that, right?”

Dutch picked up the picture of Bebe off the bar in front of him and tore it to pieces. He shrugged. “But she had a tight-ass snatch until your fat head stretched it out. She also had a skilled mouth. That mouth and cunt were like fuckin’ witchcraft. They put a spell on me.”

“Woulda been smarter if you’d kept it in her mouth, then,” Judge grumbled.

Ozzy snorted and shook his head.

His humor quickly fled when Dutch picked up one of the old photos and whipped it toward Trip and Sig. The VP stood next to his brother, not thumbing through the photos like Trip. Instead, he was eyeing up the pile cautiously.

“There’s one of your old man,” Dutch told them.

Trip turned it over and stared at the blurry photo of Buck, the late club president.

Dutch sifted through the pile some more, found what he was looking for and threw one at Sig. “Here’s one of your old man, Sig. Well, your fuckin’ old man ’til we all found out it wasn’t Razor’s swimmer that tagged your whore momma’s egg.”

Sig had let the photo drop in front of him and didn’t bother to turn it over. He only stared at the backside of the yellowed Polaroid.

The shit that went down between Razor and Buck—mostly due to Buck fucking Razor’s ol’ lady and Silvia lying to him about Sig being Razor’s son—was what caused the beginning of the end for the Fury.

Razor shot Buck dead for being betrayed. Ox, the sergeant at arms at the time and Judge’s old man, ended up taking out Razor in retribution for killing the club’s prez. Then shit just went bat-shit crazy from there. Nobody trusted anybody and the brotherhood turned on itself. It was either duck and run, or go out with guns blazing.

Most decided to go out with guns blazing and the majority ended up dead, in prison or on the run.

While for Ozzy, it was a perfect cover for what he had come there to do, for everyone else, it was total devastation and destruction. For the club, for the brotherhood, for the families. Especially for the kids left behind.

No one knew who all was left standing at the end unless there was obvious proof. Like when Ox and his ol’ lady were hauled away by the pigs. Or when Sig witnessed Razor shooting Buck in the damn back in the middle of fucking his mother.

Sig raised his dark eyes from the photo still lying on the bar in front of him, then without a word, turned and walked toward the door.

“Hey, need you to look through these, in case you remember anyone,” Ozzy shouted to his retreating back.

Sig didn’t react to Ozzy’s words, he just continued as if he hadn’t heard him and walked out of one of The Barn’s side doors, slamming it behind him.

“Goddamn it, Dutch,” Ozzy growled. “You had to fuck with him, you asshole.”

“What? He can’t handle lookin’ at some fuckin’ photos? Since when did he turn into a pussy?”

“If I gotta explain it to you…” Trip said with a shake of his head. “Fuck that. Ain’t gonna waste my fuckin’ breath.”

“Back then we weren’t goddamn soft like you all are now,” Dutch grumbled. “We didn’t bend a fuckin’ knee to our women. We didn’t get hurt feelin’s. Or cry about shit. It was a different time.”

“Yeah? And look what fuckin’ happened,” Judge reminded him. “And, just to be clear, nobody here’s bendin’ a fuckin’ knee to our women.”

Dutch grunted. “Yeah, keep tellin’ yourself that. All of you got your nuts in a vise and your women are the ones crankin’ it tighter. Pinchin’ those nads ’til you sound like sissies.”

Ozzy noticed Trip’s fingers tense on the photo he was holding and his spine snap straight.

“It’s called fuckin’ respect. Somethin’ the Originals never had for their fuckin’ women,” Judge growled, side-eyeing Trip and noticing the same reaction.

“Don’t think you should be one to be givin’ out relationship advice, old man,” Rook said, digging through the pile of photos.

“Or parentin’ advice,” Cage, Dutch’s youngest son, added.

“Can we drop this shit and concentrate on tryin’ to figure out who the fuck Marshall Graham is?” Ozzy barked. “That’s the past we should be concentratin’ on. Not who’s bendin’ a goddamn knee to their ol’ ladies. Or whose momma was a whore.”

Jesus Christ, it was a Fury fuckfest back then. He didn’t think any of the Originals or their women were loyal. And Bebe certainly wasn’t a good example of a mother or ol’ lady.

“Yeah, would be nice to know if Shay’s the daughter of an Original,” Trip said as he kept sorting through the pile. His movement remained a lot stiffer, like he was trying to hold on to his temper.

Sig and Trip had issues with each other in the beginning. But in the past three years, Ozzy had noticed their relationship becoming more solid. Especially after Sig found Red. Trip tended to protect his younger brother and wanted to keep him out of the joint and on a positive path. He didn’t want anything triggering Sig to make him spin out of control.

Trip was a great leader, a million times better than his father, so if Shay was a daughter of an Original, the prez might be able to convince her to stay in town. A possible benefit to Ozzy.

That right there was the whole damn reason they were looking at these photos. Not to take a trip down memory fucking lane.

Trip picked up a black and white picture of Pete. “Takin’ this one, Dutch. For Stella. Gonna blow this one up for her and put it up in the bar.”

“Lemme see that one.” Ozzy plucked it from Trip’s fingers and stared at Liz’s father. Now that they knew Liz and Pete were related, he could see a slight resemblance.

Stella and Liz looked nothing alike, though. Liz must have mostly taken after her mother, the same with Stella. Though, Stella looked more like Crazy Pete than Liz.

“Fuck, here’s one of Tin Man,” Judge said, staring at another Polaroid.

“And look, here’s one with Ham, Tigger and Beans. Remember them?” Rook asked, his eyes narrowed on the photo he was holding.

Ozzy forgot about the photo in his hand and pulled the one out of Rook’s.

“Hey!”

Ozzy ignored his complaint as he stared at it.

“Only too well,” Judge muttered. His head lifted and he shot a look toward the double barn doors that led out to the courtyard. “Jemma comes in here, this shit is gettin’ put away. She don’t need no reminder of all the bullshit we saw and lived through. She got enough nightmares.”

“That’s for fuckin’ sure,” Cage said. “Didn’t think she’d ever come home for good. The past almost fucked up our future. Thank fuck she did, but don’t need this shit to stir up her memories.”

Ozzy studied the photo of the three Fury brothers standing in front of their sleds, wearing their cuts with their heavily tattooed arms crossed over their chests. All wore dark sunglasses and skull caps. All had bad attitudes Ozzy remembered all too well.

Ham. Dead.

Beans. Ham’s best buddy. It was a joke that they were named Ham and Beans. But Ozzy had no idea where he ended up.

“Know what happened to Beans?” Ozzy asked Dutch.

The old man shrugged. “Fuckin’ ghosted when all the shit went down. He was one of my best mechanics, too.”

“What happened to Ham?” Trip asked Dutch next. “You remember?”

Ozzy tensed and snuck a glance at Dutch. The old man had said something a couple of weeks ago that made him wonder if he knew what Ozzy did to Ham.

“Nope,” the Original answered. “No fuckin’ clue.”

Ozzy blew out a breath.

Dutch continued, “Figured he took off like a little bitch. If they didn’t end up six feet under, they ended up goin’ to ground. Pete and me were the only ones willin’ to stand ours.”

Ozzy’s jaw shifted at Dutch’s words since he was also one who took off, disappearing into the night. “Nothin’ left to stick around for. You had the garage. Pete had the bar. What the fuck did the rest of us have, if we were still breathin’ or not thrown into a concrete box like Ox?”

Dutch scratched at his bushy salt-and-pepper beard. “I guess nothin’. But Beans had a fuckin’ job.”

“How you know Beans didn’t end up dead, too?” Trip asked the garage owner.

“Don’t.”

Ozzy put the picture of the three Originals aside and pulled another one from the pile. One of Buck and Razor standing together next to their sleds. Their arms around each other’s shoulders and both smiling.

Best friends. Brothers.

The two who started it all.

The two who ended it all.

Years after that picture, both betrayed each other. Both dead.

Ox landed in prison, then ended up dead.

Tin Man. Also dead. Ozzy was pretty sure Dutch took him out for whatever reason, but that wasn’t Ozzy’s business. Just like it wasn’t Dutch’s business what Ozzy did to Ham.

Dutch had his reasons. Ozzy had his.

Tigger also landed in prison. Ozzy had no fucking clue about what happened to him after that.

“What happed to Tig?” Ozzy asked Dutch. “You ever hear?”

“Got his head crushed in by a twenty-pound weight.”

“Damn.” Ozzy swept his hand through the photos, flipping over some more to see who they were of. “This ain’t all of us.”

Dutch let out a snort. “Fuck no. Think we were standin’ around posin’ for fuckin’ pictures? Like some kinda models?”

Ozzy began to collect the photos and throw them back in the box. “All right, I’m takin’ this for now to show Shay later. I’ll get them back to you when we’re done with them.”

“Keepin’ the one of Pete,” Trip reminded him.

“Yeah,” Ozzy said. “We know Pete ain’t Marshall Graham.”

“We know Ox ain’t, either,” Judge added.

“Coulda been Beans since he disappeared,” suggested Rook. “Don’t remember him havin’ a daughter, though. Shay say what her pop did for work?”

Ozzy shook her head. “Didn’t ask.”

“Wouldn’t that be smart?” Judge asked.

“Sorry I ain’t a genius like you,” Ozzy answered the club enforcer.

Judge tipped his head. “Should ask.”

Trip tossed two more loose photos back into the open box. “Report back soon as you show her these. Too bad we don’t got a picture of everyone. Thought Pete woulda had some in his apartment, but we went through everythin’ when we moved Stella outta there and Dodge in. He didn’t have much of anythin’.”

“The bar was his life,” Rook said. “That’s all he had.”

“Stella. He had Stella,” Trip reminded him, becoming tense once again.

“She wasn’t around, Trip,” Cage said. “We drank in Pete’s all the time before he died. Never saw her once. Not ’til after he was gone.”

“She was goin’ through some shit herself,” Trip muttered.

“Ain’t sayin’ she was a bad daughter, just sayin’ she wasn’t around. He died sittin’ at that fuckin’ bar.” Rook added, “Alone.”

“Exactly where he wanted to take his last breath,” Dutch grumbled. “And, yeah, that bar was his fuckin’ life.”

“Don’t ever wanna hear you sayin’ that shit around Stel, you got me?” Trip growled. “Fuckin’ never. None of you.” He tucked the picture of Crazy Pete inside his cut. “Now, we done walkin’ down memory lane?” He glanced at Ozzy. “You got what you need?”

Ozzy put the rubber bands back around the box to secure it and nodded. “Yeah. I’ll show them to her tonight.”

“Like I said, report back. Can’t imagine her pop was an Original but look what happened with Liz. And I keep sayin’ there are more of us out there.”

If this box of photos turned out to be a dead end, he wasn’t sure what to do next.

Maybe nothing.

And maybe that’d be for the best.

* * *

“What’s that?”Ozzy growled as he entered the bedroom.

Shay quickly shut her laptop. She had wanted to check her email quick to make sure she hadn’t missed anything important. “Nothing.”

“Ain’t nothin’. It’s work. Got Monday through Friday to do work.” He approached the bed with an old shoebox in his hand. It was circled by a couple of rubber bands. From appearances, those may be the only thing keeping it together.

“Out of anyone, you should know owning, or managing,” she raised an eyebrow at him, “a small business, isn’t a Monday through Friday nine-to-five endeavor.”

He put the box down and grabbed her computer from her lap, placing it on top of the only dresser he had in his bedroom. And, of course, out of her immediate reach. “Don’t mean you can’t take some time off.”

“I do, when I don’t have any work on my schedule. Do I have to mention that whole sunshine and hay thing again?”

“Fuck no.”

“Good. Because that would mean you didn’t listen.”

He huffed. “Listened. Heard you. I thought you heard me, too.”

She smiled at all his grumbly goodness. “Are you demanding me to take time off for you? Or for me?”

“For you, but yeah, I’m also bein’ fuckin’ selfish. Our time’s limited and wanna make the most of it.”

“Maybe I’ll come back for my twenty-fifth class reunion.” She rolled her lips inward at that joke. Because she was definitely not attending any more class reunions. The last one was enough, thank you very much.

He grunted and climbed onto the bed next to her, dragging the box closer.

“Should I ask you the same question that you asked of me?” She lowered her voice and growled, “What’s that?” with her eyes on the shoebox.

She expected a chuckle out of that, but instead his face remained serious. He grabbed the box, removed the rubber bands and then dropped it in front of where she sat cross-legged against the headboard.

Photos. A whole box of them.

Her pulse began to quicken. In that box might be proof that her father was somehow tied to the Fury before his disappearance. “Is he in there?”

“Don’t know. A few of us went through them and your father’s name don’t ring any fuckin’ bells, so you need to go through them and see if you recognize him. This ain’t everyone, of course. It’s only the photos Dutch happened to have, so it ain’t much but it’s somethin’. And as Trip always says, somethin’s better than nothin’.”

She shot him a quick glance, then turned her focus back to the box in front of her. She began to pull the photos out one by one, carefully studying each, and when she didn’t recognize her father in it, put it to the side in a neat pile.

Most of the photos were old, faded Polaroids. Some of them were developed when using film was a normal thing. Unlike now with digital cameras and cell phones.

Some were blurry, but she still found them fascinating.

The men looked rough and left no doubt that they were bikers. She could also see the camaraderie between the club members in some of them and wondered what happened to tear that closeness apart.

She lifted her head and glanced at Ozzy sitting next to her on the bed, wearing old cotton shorts with his bare legs stretched out in front of him, his gray eyes glued to her. “How many members did the Fury have back then?”

He did a sloppy shrug. “Don’t know. Never counted. But includin’ the prospects, gonna guess at least thirty. Changed all the time, though, and not everyone was around all the time. Club runs and most pig roasts would usually get everyone in one spot.”

“Thirty? Holy smokes.” That was a small army. “You don’t have that many in the Fury now, right?”

He shook his head. “Fuck no. Thinkin’ Trip would like to get it to that number but it ain’t even close. Only got five prospects right now. Those will add to our numbers but it takes them a year to get patched in and every prospect don’t make it. Some leave on their own. Some get voted out.”

“Being a prospect is tough, huh?”

“Yeah, ain’t easy, that’s for fuckin’ sure. Pretty much a slave for a year. You do shit jobs and are treated lower than dog shit. Wanted to walk away a few fuckin’ times but was determined to get my full set of patches.”

“Do you think your brotherhood is more solid now than it was back then?”

“One hundred fuckin’ percent. Trip runs a tight ship. He don’t put up with any bullshit and he certainly ain’t gonna put up with any disloyalty. This is his kingdom and he’s gonna rule it like one.”

“What if someone else wants to be president?”

“Then they can throw their name in the hat durin’ the annual vote.”

“Has anyone ever challenged him yet?”

“Fuck no. Right now, nobody wants that shit other than him. Will someone eventually come along and challenge him in the future?” Ozzy shrugged again. “Maybe. But unless Trip does somethin’ really fucked up, can’t imagine the members votin’ for anyone else.”

“Do you guys have an actual election?”

“Haven’t needed one yet. No one’s challenged anyone’s current spot. No point in havin’ one if no one else gives a fuck.”

That was true.

She found the dynamics of the MC fascinating. The brotherhood, the businesses, an MC having an executive committee and even elections.

“Does the club have some sort of by-laws?”

He nodded. “Yeah. By-laws and rules. It’s up to Judge to enforce them.”

“What does he do if someone breaks a rule?”

“Depends on what it is. Usually it’s discussed in one of our officer meetin’s first, then we decide the punishment that he’s gotta dole out.”

“Like a verbal warning?” she asked.

“Could be.”

“Written warning?”

Ozzy made a noise at the back of his throat. “Ain’t a fuckin’ traffic stop.”

“Does the punishment ever get physical?”

“It could and has. Depends on what the brother did. If it’s bad enough, it could get a brother’s colors stripped.”

That didn’t sound pleasant at all. “What does that mean?”

“Means your ass is kicked out, your cut’s taken from you and you gotta remove any tattoos that indicate you belonged to the club.”

“Like that tattoo on your back?” She couldn’t prevent the squeak in her question because that back tattoo was huge. How did someone remove that?

“Yeah. When your colors get stripped, means your colors get stripped. Gotta cover that tattoo or remove it.”

She stared at him. “How do you remove it?” Maybe she shouldn’t ask. Maybe she really didn’t want to know.

“Coupla different ways—”

She lifted a palm to stop him and shook her head. “I don’t want to know. I can imagine and that’s bad enough.”

When he tipped his head in acquiescence, she turned her attention back to the pictures of when the Fury was considered an “outlaw” club.

Dangerous and violent.

It was hard to believe Ozzy had been a part of that. She didn’t see him as either of those things. At least, she hadn’t seen it. If he was, he was hiding it very well. She would think it would be difficult to hide that kind of behavior from her for so long.

And if she’d seen it, she wouldn’t be staying in his apartment or sleeping with him.

What she had seen was his protectiveness. Of her, of his club family. Also, she’d witnessed how stubborn he could be.

“Are there any of you in this box?”

“Yeah. Saw one.”

“Show me.”

He took the box and turned it over, dumping all of the photos she hadn’t gone through yet onto the bed. He sifted through them and finally picked up one of the yellow-aged Polaroids.

In her excitement, she plucked it from his fingers before he could give it to her.

She studied the photo of a very young Ozzy. “How old were you here?”

“Eighteen. It was taken right after I earned my patches.”

He had only a little bit of scruff on his face, not like the thick, full beard he had now. No lines spidered out from the corner of his eyes and his long hair in the photo was gray-free, but he didn’t appear happy or carefree.

With lips pressed into a slash and his expression hard, he looked way too serious for a teenager.

“You look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders in this picture.”

He didn’t deny it. Instead, he took the photo from her fingers, stared at it for a few seconds, then tossed it back in the box.

He leaned over, grabbed the photos she’d already gone through and dumped them back into the box, too. He tipped his head toward the remaining pile. “Gettin’ late. Got plans to do somethin’ else other than look at old photos with you.”

“Are you telling me to hurry without actually telling me to hurry?”

“Ain’t afraid to tell you that,” he answered. “Want you naked beneath me soon.”

Her breath shuddered at his demand. “What if I want to be on top this time?”

“Ain’t gonna argue that. On top, under me, don’t give a fuck as long as I’m inside you.”

He might be a very skilled lover, but he certainly wasn’t romantic. He was direct and to the point.

“But this is history. The club’s history. Your history. It shouldn’t be rushed.”

“Then you can look at them tomorrow.” He lunged as if he was going to grab all the photos.

She squeaked and whacked his arm. “No, don’t you dare. I’m going through these now.”

He tipped his head again. “Okay then, now I’m gonna say it… Hurry.”

She smiled at his impatience and began to sort through the photos again, taking her time to look at each one, but not recognizing anyone in the remaining photos.

The more she searched for proof of her father, the more glum she became when she realized she may never find out what happened to him. Where he went. Why he simply disappeared.

All without a word or even a trace left behind.

Maybe this was a sign she needed to give up and leave it as a mystery unsolved. But, for goodness’ sake, she had hoped…

As she picked up the last photo—not a Polaroid, but an actual four-by-six print that had been developed from a roll of film—the hair on the back of her neck stood and ice skittered down her spine.

She brought it closer to her face to make sure she was seeing the person in the photo clearly. To make sure she was really seeing what she was.

Maybe she just wanted to see it so badly, she was imagining it.

Was she?

It was a photo of three men, all wearing what she now easily recognized as Fury cuts and all standing in front of Harleys.

Her eyes flicked from the MC member standing with his legs apart to the bike behind him.

She knew both the man and the motorcycle.

Very well.

Her chest tightened and her throat began to close.

How was it possible?

She looked in the very corner of the photo and read the date. It wasn’t taken before she was born, but after. It was actually not long before he disappeared.

Not long at all.

My God… “I don’t understand,” she whispered, running her thumb over the picture she held in her lap.

“What?”

She lifted her gaze and met his. His gray eyes were narrowed on her and they dropped to the photo in her hand.

“What?” he asked again, more forcefully the second time. “Shay…”

He ripped the photo from her fingers and stared at it.

“Do you remember them?” Her whispered question had a shake to it.

“Yeah,” he murmured, wearing a similar frown like the one he wore in the picture. “Remember all three.”

She leaned her shoulder into his and pointed at her father. “Him. That’s him.”

Ozzy’s shoulder tensed against hers as he stared at the man she pointed at.

“He was one of your brothers. He was an Original. I had a gut feeling, but that was all I had. Until now. Until this. Holy smokes…” She slapped a hand over her forehead. How could it be?

“You’re talkin’ about this one.” He pointed at the picture. “This one right here?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

Ozzy squeezed his eyes shut and his fingers tightened on the photo. So much so that she thought he would tear it.

“Be careful. I want to keep that if Dutch will let me,” she said quickly and tried to pry it from his fingers. He wouldn’t release it.

When he opened his eyes again, she put out her hand for the photo. After a long pause, he reluctantly gave it to her.

“You sure it’s him?”

She nodded. “Of course. I remember what my father looked like. That’s definitely him.” Her heart thumped in her chest. “That means… That means he must have gotten caught up in whatever happened with the club at that time. Whatever went down. Right? That would explain his disappearance but… But…” She closed her own eyes this time and tried to put the brakes on her spinning thoughts. “That means he didn’t desert us, right? He… Something else happened to him to keep him from coming home to me and my mom. Right?” When he didn’t answer, she grabbed the T-shirt he still wore. “Right? He got caught up in the violence that was going on? The fighting within the club?”

Ozzy raised his gray eyes from the photo in her lap to her. “Yeah. He musta got caught up with the shit goin’ down back then.”

Tears burned her eyes. “Why wasn’t his body found? Maybe he isn’t dead. Maybe he disappeared to protect us. To keep us safe from whatever went down with the club.” She wanted desperately to cling to this hope.

But why wouldn’t he have reached out to her mother once the turmoil with the club died down and things became safe again? Why wouldn’t he want them to join him later?

Or at least send a message to his mother telling her to sell the house and come to him wherever he was. To make their family whole again.

“Do you think he’s still alive? Is he out there somewhere?” She twisted her head to look at him.

All she wanted was a sliver of hope. Just one damn sliver.

But simply looking at Ozzy’s expression shattered that sliver into tiny fragments.

Even worse, he didn’t seem to be happy about her finding out the truth. Who her father was. What he belonged to. What he’d hidden from Shay.

Holy smokes, had her mother even known? Or did he keep it a secret from her, too?

He couldn’t have hidden it from his wife, could he?

Or did he only hide it from his daughter? The daughter who loved him so much.

The daughter he warned about staying away from the club. An MC that he actually belonged to.

He told her those men were dangerous.

Dangerous.

But he was one of them.

He was an Original.

He’d worn a Fury cut.

Just like Ozzy.