Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 118332 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118332 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
“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.