Blood & Bones: Ozzy by Jeanne St. James

Chapter Seven

As soon asOzzy pulled up to The Barn for Sunday’s run, he shut his sled down, dismounted and went on the hunt for the oldest surviving Original.

Dutch.

At least oldest surviving that they knew of.

He had an idea of where to look for him because the old man had his pre-run ritual.

Ozzy took long strides through church, jerking his chin up in greeting to whoever was hanging around before the run. Some of the guys who lived in the bunkhouse didn’t roll out of bed until a few minutes before. Members like him, Dodge, and Shade, the brothers who didn’t live on the property, came a little bit earlier. But not by much.

Nobody in their right fucking mind wanted to roll out of bed early on a Sunday. Especially the brothers with ol’ ladies. Ozzy didn’t blame them. If Liz was still…

He shook his head and kept moving, readjusting his thinking.

If he would’ve had Shay in his bed last night, he would’ve taken her again this morning before heading out.

Not seeing the garage owner in any of his usual spots, he yelled out to Rook standing behind the bar, sucking down what looked like a huge mug of coffee. “You seen your old man?”

“Unfortunately,” Dutch’s oldest son responded, tipping his head toward the bunkhouse. “In the back since he now thinks it’s his job to wake up everyone still sleepin’.”

“In a very unique way,” Jet added with a grin, also with a travel mug of what Ozzy guessed was coffee in her hand. Possibly even spiked since she had to deal with an asshole like Rook as her ol’ man.

He yanked open the door that separated the bunkhouse from The Barn and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimmer interior of the long corridor.

A female voice came from his right. “Coffee, Oz?”

The single swinging door to the kitchen was propped open and he spotted a couple of the sweet butts. He stepped inside to see Brandy and Amber. Easy, with his long hair already pulled up and covered with a leather skullcap for the ride, was leaning back against one of the stainless steel counters, a plate in hand and held up to his lips, using a fork to practically shovel what looked like eggs into his mouth.

“Want breakfast, baby?” Amber asked, coming closer and stroking his chest under his cut.

“Whataya makin’?”

Amber shot him a smile. “What do you want?”

He considered the sweet butt’s question. He could have her make him a plate of eggs and maybe some toast or something, or he could get in a quick blowjob or fuck.

He’d used Shay as his spank bank material last night, but his fist wasn’t nearly as good as the real thing.

He could bend Amber over, close his eyes and imagine…

Her hand slid from his chest down his gut and then she rubbed his soft dick over his jeans. “Can’t decide? I can help.” She winked.

He hated when the sweet butts winked. They were horrible at it. It wasn’t sexy, it was awkward. And when they did it, it looked like two elephant ears flapping together because of their fake eyelashes with gooped-on mascara.

But if a couple of them scrubbed the makeup off their faces, they’d look about twelve. So, it was best to keep the makeup on and just deal with scrubbing lipstick off his dick afterward, or washing his pillowcases when their makeup ended up smeared all over them.

Small price to pay for great head or tight snatch who he could easily evict from his bed afterward. He never let any of them stay the night except for…

“Fucking motherfucker,” he muttered under his breath.

Amber’s forehead wrinkled when she frowned. “I do something wrong?”

He shook his head. “No, babe, ain’t you. Gonna pass on your offer. Lookin’ for Dutch.”

If he drank coffee right now, he’d have to keep pulling out of formation to take a piss alongside the road. Then he’d end up at the back of the pack breathing everyone else’s exhaust.

It seemed the older he got the smaller his bladder got.

“You see him?”

Amber stepped past him and into the doorway to peek her head out. “He’s not in the hallway?”

“Didn’t see him. Who’d he pick this mornin’?”

“Angel.”

“Maybe he’s done already.”

“Then she better get her ass in here to help,” Amber huffed with a toss of her red hair. Not naturally red like Red’s, but a dyed red that wasn’t anywhere near natural. He had no idea why these girls liked changing the color of their hair so much.

He wasn’t asking, either. Instead of a short answer, he’d get a whole explanation about something he couldn’t give a shit about and he didn’t have time for that this morning.

Angel was really good at edging when it came to head, instead of like the rest, who just went to town with one goal in mind. Well, except for Billie, the queen of edging. She could make it a marathon session. Sometimes it was great, sometimes it was drawn-out torture.

“Gonna keep lookin’.” He headed back out of the kitchen and farther down the bunkhouse corridor where sometimes Dutch simply leaned back against the wall and had one of the sweet butts drop to her knees right on the concrete floor.

But the long hallway appeared empty. He paused, tilted his head and listened. The grunting he heard could be coming from any of the occupied rooms, but it wasn’t muffled behind a closed door, so he figured by following the mating call, he’d find who he was looking for.

He headed all the way toward the rear door of the bunkhouse and paused when he spotted Scar leaning one shoulder against the door jamb into the prospects’ quarters, the big room that housed three double bunkbeds.

The prospect hated living in the same room with the rest of the prospects, but if he wanted to keep his Fury cut, he had no choice.

Only dressed in boxers, the man’s body was packed solid with tattoos. Most of them probably inked into his skin during his bids in prison. His expression was neutral as he held a large knife and sliced off a chunk of the red apple in his hand. He used the knife as a utensil to lift the fruit sliver to his mouth. His attention wasn’t turned to Ozzy but elsewhere.

Most likely watching the action around the corner just out of Ozzy’s eyesight.

“He wake you up?” he asked Scar.

The man’s dark, almost black, eyes, turned toward him. “What you think? If I can’t watch the back of my fuckin’ eyelids, might as well watch the show.”

Ozzy kept moving until he could peer around the corner. Dutch was like clockwork. He had to blow out the dust from his own pipes before blowing it out of his sled’s straight pipes.

“That it is,” Ozzy muttered.

Like he expected, with Angel on her knees, Dutch was leaning against the wall near the bathroom the prospects shared. His head was tilted back, his mouth slightly open, his fingers intertwined in Angel’s hair and the sweet butt was going to town like she was trying to siphon gasoline through a hose.

Her eyes were closed, her hand was fisting the root and she was jerking his dick at the same time she was sucking it. She also had a hold of his fucking gray-haired, wrinkly-assed balls.

Though, Ozzy shouldn’t say shit about the man’s gray pubes since Ozzy already found a few himself and, as soon as he spotted them, ripped those motherfuckers out.

He winced at the recent memory.

Since he had a few moments to wait, he turned back to Scar. “Thanks for escortin’ that asshole out last night.”

Trip figured putting Scar at the door at Crazy Pete’s was the best spot for him for now. Especially since he was currently not needed to keep an eye on Hillbilly Hill. The feds had cleared the mountain but there’d been no sign yet of the Shirleys re-infesting their compound like the roaches they were.

Scar turned out to be a great bouncer because he was intimidating. Even better, he was always up for the challenge of getting a patron out the door if they were causing a problem. On the nights it wasn’t busy, Dodge put him to work doing other menial shit.

“So, who’s the new piece?”

Ozzy’s chin rose and he narrowed his eyes on Scar. “She ain’t a piece.”

“Looked like some random piece to me.”

Fucker.

He studied the asshole prospect. He always seemed to be spoiling for a fucking fight and said shit on purpose to get a reaction. The prospect fed off those reactions and lived for conflict. Again, it made him a perfect door man and bouncer at Crazy Pete’s.

But if he kept causing problems with Fury members, he might not be a prospect for too long. He’d already stomped on a few of Ozzy’s brothers’ toes, even though he’d been warned one too many times.

One of these days he was going to stomp on the wrong fucking toes. Like Shade’s.

If Scar said the wrong thing to Chelle, or even tried anything with Josie or Maddie, Shade would take Scar out like a goddamn biker ninja and in less than a day Scar would go from a prospect to fertilizer in a far field on the farm.

When Ozzy’s fingers curled into fists, Lizzy’s “Why do you guys always have to use your fists instead of your words?” came back to haunt him.

He’d never backed away from a fight and, if he was pushed far enough, he wouldn’t back off with teaching a lesson to the cocky ex-con. Scar stood there appearing deceivingly relaxed when he was probably prepared for Ozzy to get in his face and maybe even get physical.

Instead, Ozzy did what the asshole least expected. He used his damn words. He hated every second of it. “Might need to clean your glasses, then.”

“Don’t wear glasses.”

“Then you better get some.” Ozzy made sure his tone held a sharp warning.

Scar casually sliced off another piece of apple and lifted the blade with the fruit to his mouth. “Didn’t know I got vision coverage under my insurance plan.”

Ozzy snorted. “When d’you ever have a fuckin’ job where you had insurance?”

“Got free medical care inside.”

“Then go back,” Ozzy suggested. “I can help make that happen if you got the dumb-fuck notion it’s better inside than here.”

Scar dropped his head as he sliced off the next piece of apple, but Ozzy didn’t miss his grin. Yeah, the fucker thought he’d bait him.

It was all a fucking game to Scar. One he might lose if he wasn’t careful.

Ozzy turned enough to keep Scar in his peripheral vision but also to keep an eye on Dutch to see when the garage owner was done doing his thing.

“Christ,” he muttered. How long could the old man go?

Ozzy didn’t want to be jealous but, for fuck’s sake, how could he not be?

He wanted to have the conversation with the old man before the run, not afterward because the man might just disappear later and Ozzy would miss his opportunity.

Fuck it.

“Angel, wrap it up,” Ozzy said as he moved closer. “Need to speak to the old man.”

One of Dutch’s eyes opened and it glared at him. “Who the fuck you callin’ old?”

“You, old man.”

“You ain’t no young buck. Bet I got better stamina than you.”

Right now, seeing what he was seeing, Ozzy wasn’t going to argue that. “You got a good twenty-five years on me.”

Dutch’s fingers gripped Angel’s hair even tighter as he began to guide the sweet butt’s head up and down his dick faster. “Bullshit. I ain’t that old and you know it, asshole.”

“The grays on your nuts say otherwise.” Dutch was only about fifteen years older than Ozzy, but he liked to bust his balls anyway to get him riled up.

“You wanna get a better look while you’re suckin’ them?” Dutch growled.

“Didn’t know you were into that.”

“Just gotta close my eyes. A trick you probably learned in prison. Sure that ugly motherfucker standin’ over there knew that trick well. Feels the same when your eyes are closed. Right, Scar?”

“Now, Dutch, don’t make the prospect cry.”

Dutch huffed out a half-laugh and his jaw got tight as Angel sped up her pace. “Why you interruptin’ my Sunday mornin’ routine?”

“‘Cause I can and ‘cause if you didn’t want to be interrupted, you shoulda taken it elsewhere. And anyway, most men’s mornin’ routines are shit, shower and shave, not shit, shower and suck. Bet you haven’t seen a razor in a long time.”

The single opened eyeball pointed Ozzy’s way. “You’re one to talk. When’s the last time you’ve touched a fuckin’ razor?”

Ozzy slid his fingers down his beard. “Difference is I trim mine. You just let yours go like you’ve been lost in the jungle for the past twenty years.”

Dutch snorted and then glanced down at Angel. Her eyes were now open and she was listening to the exchange between him and Dutch, her eyes bouncing back and forth like she was watching a tennis match. Her pace hadn’t paused once during the exchange.

“Get it, girl,” Dutch told her.

Ozzy scratched the back of his neck as Angel “got it,” and Dutch gave it to her. With two final pumps of Dutch’s hips, Ozzy knew the exact moment the Original shot his load down Angel’s throat.

A few seconds later, Dutch’s eyelids lifted, he patted Angel on the head, said, “Good girl,” and then pulled his spent dick from her mouth before tucking it back in his jeans and zipping up.

As Dutch fastened his belt buckle, Angel got to her feet and turned to Ozzy with a look that he could read clearly since he’d seen it enough.

“Next time,” Ozzy muttered at the unspoken offer. “Got business to talk about.”

One of Dutch’s bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows lifted. “Business?”

“Yeah. Not for anyone’s ears but yours right now.”

Dutch frowned and tugged on his beard. “You need to talk about it now? How much time we got before my knuckle-headed son calls for us to mount up?”

By knuckle-headed son, he was referring to Cage, since Dutch’s youngest boy was the club’s road captain.

Ozzy shrugged. “Won’t take long, just need a minute.”

Dutch jerked his chin to the rear door of the bunkhouse. “Outside.” He turned to Angel. “Come get us if they start a search party.”

“Will do, Dutch.” She got up on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek before heading down the corridor toward The Barn.

Dutch wrinkled his nose and wiped at the spot where Angel kissed him. “Just swallowed my load, then she’s gonna put her fuckin’ lips on my face?”

Ozzy snorted and shook his head as he headed out the back door. Dutch followed, securing the door behind them once they were outside.

Ozzy glanced up at the two metal landings to the apartments above the bunkhouse to make sure they were empty before asking, “You remember an Original named Marshall Graham?”

Dutch squinted and pursed his lips while stroking his bushy salt-and-pepper beard. “What was his road name?”

“Dunno. Was hopin’ you’d know. Don’t remember anyone by that name. Maybe he was gone before I became a prospect.”

Dutch shrugged. “Never gave a fuck about anyone’s real name. Just called everyone by their road name. Or I made up one. Like for you when I used to call you Rat Turd.” He grinned.

Yeah, that nickname was hard to forget. It was worse than the shitty name he was given as a prospect. Dutch, the asshole he was back then and still was, started calling him that and then everyone else picked up on it. Though, most of them whittled it down to calling him Turd. Someone had even used a Sharpie and wrote Turd over his prospect name patch that was embroidered with his real prospect name, Punk.

His sponsor had given him that name because Ozzy looked so young at the time. Probably because he was. He’d lied and said he was eighteen when he really was a year younger. It wasn’t like they were asking for ID, either.

The Originals didn’t give a shit if he was underage, they were just glad for another prospect to be their bitch. Since, like sweet butts, most were abused to the point they never stayed long enough to earn their patches.

So, it went from “Hey, Punk, grab me a fuckin’ beer,” to “Hey, Turd, go fetch me some snatch.”

Didn’t matter, he was only there until he could find out the info he was searching for. It wasn’t like he could walk in and start asking questions. If he had, he might’ve ended up buried somewhere. Most likely while still alive. Like the time a federal agent went undercover and tried to infiltrate the club.

Ozzy hadn’t seen it, but he’d heard about it. Rumor had it that Ox had kept a “trophy” from the agent like a goddamn serial killer. Ozzy didn’t know what it was or whatever happened to it.

Ozzy knew he had to be slick about gathering info. He kept his ear to the ground and occasionally acted dumb so he could ask a general question nobody would get suspicious about. But mostly he just paid attention.

As a prospect, he was pretty much invisible unless he was needed for something specific.

With a shitload of patience, Ozzy finally figured it out. Eventually he had no doubt who had broken into their home and killed his mother.

Then he began to plan…

When he found out who it was, he was so close to being patched-in, he decided to wait until he was a member and was completely trusted. Then figure out a way to get the job done without it falling back on him. At only eighteen, he didn’t need to make a whole outlaw MC his enemy.

Once the bricks began to crumble and fall, the perfect opportunity presented itself and Ozzy jumped on it.

He took care of the business he’d come for.

Thirteen months of his life in that hell hole and every fucking second was worth it in the end.

The only good thing about getting the Fury’s colors inked into his skin when he had no plans on staying was that it made it easier to get his foot back in the door once Trip began to rebuild the club.

Getting the colors permanently tattooed onto a member’s back was supposed to mean loyalty to the club.

Some of the Originals forgot that.

“Why do you fuckin’ care about this guy?” Dutch asked him, drawing Ozzy back to the present. “‘Cept for us, the Originals are history. You got fuckin’ lucky.”

What the fuck was the old man talking about? “What d’you mean, I got lucky?” Because he was still breathing at the end?

“Somehow you weren’t anyone’s target.”

The little hairs on the back of Ozzy’s neck began to rise. “Had no reason to be.”

Dutch lifted one bushy eyebrow. “Sometimes an Original didn’t know they were a target ’til it was too fuckin’ late. Whether there was a good reason to be a target or not.”

Like Ham. He didn’t know he was in Ozzy’s crosshairs until it was too late.

It worked out fucking perfect.

But with Dutch’s comment, he wondered if anyone knew it was him that took out Ham and the reason why.

Right now that didn’t matter, he wasn’t talking to Dutch about Ham, he wanted to find out who Shay’s father might’ve been.

Maybe if he could find out the man’s road name, he could find out what happened to him and why he suddenly dropped out of Shay’s life. Ozzy figured the worst, but didn’t want to tell her until he knew for sure. If he told her, depending on what happened.

If he was dead, like Ozzy suspected, at least it would give Shay some closure. Maybe not in the way she wanted it, but it would be something.

Like Trip always said, something was better than nothing.

“Marshall Graham,” Dutch said again, staring up into the hazy August sky. He pulled out his sunglasses from inside his cut and slid them on. “Yeah, don’t ring a bell. And I still got a mind like a steel trap.” He looked right at Ozzy. “I don’t forget shit.”

Ozzy kept a tight hold on his reaction.

“So, why the fuck are you askin’ about this Marshall guy? You think he was an Original?”

So much for that steel trap.

Ozzy shrugged. “He could’ve been. He lived in Manning Grove at the time while the club was still around, rode a sled and hung out at Crazy Pete’s.”

Dutch tilted his head and stroked his beard some more as Ozzy watched the old man’s wheels turn. “What else you know about this guy? Maybe more deets will shake somethin’ loose.”

“Deets? You’ve been bangin’ too many young chicks.”

Dutch flapped a hand around. “Don’t be a fuckin’ hater just ‘cause you don’t got the skills to snag ‘em and bag ‘em like I can.”

Yep, the younger women he’d sometimes snagged were rubbing off on the old man.

“He had a daughter named Shaylyn. Shaylyn Diggs, but guessin’ that’s a married name or somethin’ since the man’s last name was Graham. So Shaylyn or Shay Graham. Don’t know the mother’s name but guess I could find out.”

Dutch’s dark eyes narrowed. “Why you lookin’ for him?”

“This Shay Diggs is stayin’ at the motel.”

Dutch’s eyes became slits as his bushy eyebrows drew low. “She came lookin’ for her pop?”

Ozzy shook his head. “No, came back for a high school reunion. Happened to jaw a bit with her. Took her out to Pete’s last night. She asked me about my cut and started talkin’ about her old man. Asked if I knew him. Wanted to talk to you to see if you knew anythin’ about him. Told her I’d ask you.”

“Why’d my name come up?”

“Because she saw my patch that tells everyone with two fuckin’ eyeballs I’m an Original, that’s why. She asked, I explained and we actually had a convo. Should try it sometimes, women can actually use their mouth other than to just suck your dick.”

“Who said I wanna hear them blather on about bullshit? For you to have an actual convo with this girl, you had to be workin’ her. Maybe I should see and talk to her myself. You tag and bag her last night?”

Christ.

“You ain’t fuckin’ her, old man, we don’t even know who she is or what ties she might got to the Fury.”

“Then now’s a good time to do her. ‘Cause if she ends up being the daughter of an Original and Trip finds out, he’ll probably put her on the do-not-fuck list faster than you can get her naked.”

“Doubt she’s the daughter of an Original, but just wanna be sure.” And the fuck if Ozzy was letting Shay talk to Dutch directly. “And you’re talkin’ about doin’ a chick you haven’t even seen.”

“You saw her. You’re chasin’ that tail. Figure she can’t be butt ugly, then.”

Ozzy twisted his head and stared out over the back field until his blood pressure dropped a fucking notch.

“Oh, yeah, you’re lookin’ to hit that. Can see your jaw poppin’. The same as it does every time you see Lizzy with that Angel.”

Liz was the last person he wanted to talk about right now.

When he looked back at Dutch, the old man was grinning and his eyes held amusement.

Fucker. Dutch had been yanking his chain on purpose.

He sighed. “Can we get back to what we were talkin’ about?”

“Snatch?”

“Marshall Graham.”

“Yeah, you must have a hard-on over her if you’re goin’ outta your way to help her.”

Ozzy planted his hands on his hips and sighed again. Talking to Dutch was sometimes like talking to Daisy, Judge and Cassie’s six-year-old. Trying to keep the Original on track could be just as difficult.

“She never saw him wear colors or anythin’?”

Ozzy glanced up from staring at his boots. “No. If he belonged to the Fury, he hid it. She remembers seein’ us around town but her father told her to avoid the club.”

After a long moment, Dutch finally said, “Coulda been livin’ a double life. It was common back then for a patched member to have a wife and family, then a piece or ol’ lady on the side.”

“Still is for some clubs. Some got their ‘corporate’ life and their club life.”

“Too much fuckin’ work. One ol’ lady to deal with was too fuckin’ much for me. ‘Specially the one I had.”

“Yeah, you picked a real winner, brother,” Ozzy said, remembering Bebe, Cage and Rook’s mother. Though, mother might not be the right term for her unless “fucker” was on the end of it.

“At the time I thought havin’ an ol’ lady who could suck a knob off a door was winnin’. Learned I was wrong. Good thing she could pop out boys since that ended up being the only thing worthwhile when it came to that connivin’ bitch. Worked hard to get her knocked up, then had to pay her to keep from gettin’ out the coat hanger both times.”

“Christ,” Ozzy muttered. “Didn’t realize she didn’t want the boys.”

“Bebe wanted what Bebe wanted and it wasn’t a stretched-out cunt.” Dutch grinned. “Gave it to her anyway.”

“If she didn’t want them, I’m surprised she stayed around as long as she did.”

“Bitch had it easy. I paid for everythin’. And she got to ride all the dick she wanted.”

Unfortunately, Ozzy remembered that, too. Bebe had even tried to ride his when he first became a prospect. He had been tempted to tell her he was only seventeen to get her to leave him the hell alone, but she probably wouldn’t have cared. Might have even chased him harder. The woman was goddamn crazy.

But Dutch’s ol’ lady gave Ozzy limp dick. Even if she didn’t, a prospect getting caught banging a member’s ol’ lady was a death warrant.

It also wasn’t an easy death.

“Well, think about it. Maybe somethin’ will shake loose,” Ozzy finally said.

“You gonna talk to Trip, Sig and Judge, too? They might remember that name.”

“Yeah, wanted to check with you first, but since you’re a dead fuckin’ end, I’ll hit them up after the run.”

“Might not be a dead end,” Dutch murmured, scratching at his beard.

“Yeah?”

“Got some boxes around somewhere with a shitload of old pictures. Could show her some of those to see if she recognizes her pop in any of them.”

Ozzy stared at him. “You got pics?”

“Think so. Just gotta find them. Talk to the others first, they don’t remember him, then I’ll look but ain’t gonna break a sweat if I don’t gotta. Also, talk to Stel, if this Shaylyn’s pop hung out at Pete’s, maybe she remembers the name.”

Sometimes the old man had a good idea. “Yeah, I’ll check with her, too. But again, not ’til after the run. Don’t want this fuckin’ up today’s ride. Club business can come after.”

The back door opened and Castle, one of their newer prospects, poked out his head. “Was told to come get you two.”

“You don’t look like fuckin’ Angel,” Dutch griped.

Ozzy headed toward the door Castle disappeared behind and threw over his shoulder, “She probably seen enough of those wrinkled gray-haired prunes hangin’ under your dick today.”

“Better prunes than fuckin’ raisins like yours,” was Dutch’s come-back.

“I’ll check back with you after the run before I talk with the others. Maybe something useful will spill from that fuckin’ steel trap of yours for once.”

“Everythin’ that spills from me is fuckin’ gold.”

“Yeah, maybe that’s why Castle had to come get our asses. Angel’s too busy spending all that gold you shot down her throat.”

“Yeah, she needs to thank me since she’s now a goddamn cumillionaire.”