Ozzy (Wayward Kings MC Book 2)

by Zahra Girard

  “Yeah, nah. I don’t reckon anyone at the courthouse would be too keen on seeing you and me together like that. I’ll wear regular clothes — no cut, no patches, nothing to show I’m with the Kings — and if anyone asks, we’ll just say we’re dating while you’re here in town.”

  “Wait — what? I’ll say I just met you on Tinder or something?”

  She doesn’t sound convinced. But I don’t much care. There’s no way I’m going to just leave her in danger.

  I nod. “Whatever lie works the best. It’s either that, or I just follow you around. One way or another, I’m going to do whatever I have to do to keep you safe. You’re too important to me.”

  She frowns.

  “That’s a lot to ask. And besides, I can take care of myself.”

  I shake my head. “No. This isn’t a negotiation.”

  She’s capable as hell, and in so many other situations, I’d trust her. Hell, I’d bet on her against most anyone, but I can’t walk away from this one. I doubt the dead man in the hallway is the only one that’ll be coming for her.

  “So I don’t even get a say in this, huh?”

  “No. I’m not going to lose you, Maria,” I say. “This situation is a lot more dangerous than you realize. Let me watch your back. If we have to tell everyone I’m your fake boyfriend, fine, whatever, I’ll take on that job. But I refuse to let anyone else lay another hand on you.”

  Her frown softens, then breaks to a slight smile. She gets up on her toes, brings her now-clean face next to mine, and gives me a small kiss right on the cheek.

  “Fine. You can be my bodyguard. Or my fake boyfriend. Or whatever.”

  I grin, ear to ear like a bloody lunatic. “Fucking hell — it’s fake, but it feels good.”

  “Thank you for saving me, Ozzy,” she says. She kisses me again, longer, enough to make my toes tingle and my knees feel weak. It’s a wonder I stay standing. She breaks the kiss and looks up at me, eyes big and bright. “Now, can we get that dead body out of my room?”

  Chapter Seven

  Maria

  I’ve never seen Ozzy this way before. I’ve never thought about him in this light. He’s always just been something fun, lighthearted, a simple pick-me-up to enjoy whenever I went out west to visit Roxy or a friendly voice to chat and flirt with at the end of a stressful day.

  But, right now, he’s a rock.

  My rock.

  My protector.

  He’s something solid and strong that I can hold on to while the currents and sheer fucking insanity swirling here in Missoula threaten to drag me under.

  If I didn’t have him, I’d drown. I know that deep in my heart.

  I don’t have to doubt with him. I know where his heart is: keeping me safe.

  That little bit of surety is worth the world to me, right now.

  When he lets go of me — after telling me comfortingly to “sit down a minute” and then gently guiding me to the edge of the edge of the bathtub — my body instantly misses his touch.

  I sit down, pull air into my lungs, and shut my eyes.

  I try to get my thoughts together while he’ out into the hallway. Life’s gone from boring and frustrating to batshit insane in the course of ten minutes. It’s going to take a lot of work how to figure out how to balance Ozzy’s needs and our relationship with my real priority: keeping my career intact.

  The man who wants to keep me safe wants to kill my client. If he succeeds, my career will be just as dead as that man out in the hallway.

  Where the hell did I put that Jameson?

  Seconds later, I hear Ozzy’s voice. He must be on the phone.

  “Preacher, how are things looking over at that other blokes house?”

  Silence.

  “How many were there?”

  More quiet. A bit of swearing. I strain my ears listening, but keep my place at the edge of the tub.

  “Just two? You’re sure? And the lawyer’s fine?”

  A calm ‘uh-huh’ from Ozzy, and some muffled-but-loud talk from Preacher on the other end of the line.

  “Brother, you better get over here to the Hilton, then, and quick. Maria’s the other lawyer that clerk was talking about. Yeah, that Maria — the pretty one. I came in here and some bastard had his hands on her. He’s dead now, but we need to have a long talk. This shit’s mental.”

  He ends the call and, after a few seconds of ruffling and grunting, his head pokes back in through the door. His eyes linger on me for a second — enough to make me conscious of the fact that I’m still topless thanks to my attacker’s grubby hands — and he smiles at me.

  “Do you mind if I borrow your robe?”

  I gawk at him a little bit. “What? My robe? Why?”

  He motions for me to get up and I leave the bathroom. The body’s now on the lower shelf of the room service cart my attacker used to force his way in.

  “I need to cover him up. I reckon I can wheel this cart out here to the back parking lot — it’s late, this place is pretty empty, nobody will care — and then Preacher and I can go dump the body somewhere.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Fine. That sounds like a plan. But why do you need my permission to use the robe? Just use it.”

  He shrugs, slightly, and scratches behind his head. “Well, I figured a fancy hotel like this would charge you if one of the robes went missing, and if I were in your position, I’d be pretty pissed if I not only had to deal with a dead body, but also an extra bill.”

  I want to slap him. And kiss him. “No, it’s fine. The firm is paying for this place, so even if I do get charged, I’m sure they can cover it.”

  “Yeah? Flash place like this and it’s free for you? What about room service?”

  I smile. It’s cute how impressed he is at even something as basic as that. “Even that.”

  He whistles and keeps talking as he uses the robe to cover the body on the cart. “Well, I’m glad your company treats you so well. Good on them for recognizing how important you are.”

  Just a minute or two ago, I was feeling more afraid and violated than I’d ever thought possible and now, somehow, he’s managing to make me almost feel important.

  I kiss him again.

  It’s probably the longest, hottest kiss that’s ever been done next to a room service cart loaded with a dead body and a stolen bathrobe.

  Footsteps thud their way up the hallway and someone knocks heavily on the door. Ozzy leaves our embrace and opens the door.

  Preacher’s standing there, also looking a bit beat up, and surprised to see me.

  Conscious of my toplesness, I head to the bathroom for a second, grab the spare robe, and put it on.

  “Shit’s gone sideways, it seems,” he says, looking at the dead body — now mostly covered up and hard to distinguish from a regular bundle of dirty laundry and linens — and then to me and Ozzy. “What’s the play here, brother?”

  Ozzy stares at the dead body for a second, considering. Even though he looks thoughtful, he still sounds confident and in-charge. “There’s heaps of empty roads out here, so we can take him a few miles out of town, find some back roads and dump the body. Coyotes and other animals will take care of the remains. Then I think you should go back and check on the clerk and make sure he’s still ok.”

  I can’t resist cutting in. “Clerk? What about a clerk?”

  “Phil. We took him earlier. He’s still in our hotel room,” Preacher says, as if that’s all the explanation I need.

  “He’s a pretty good guy,” Ozzy says. “Though his life isn’t much to speak of. I think he was kind of grateful we kidnapped him.”

  I stare. “Grateful you kidnapped him?”

  “I wouldn’t be shocked if he tries to join the club after all this,” Preacher says. “What do we do after we check in on our captive, boss?”

  Ozzy shrugs. “That’s it for tonight. I’m staying here. If they’ve sent one person after her, they’ll probably send another, and I won’t allow that. Tomorrow, after I’ve seen
Maria off to work, you and I will meet up and come up with a plan. Obviously, we can’t kill her — she’s one of the good ones.”

  Preacher nods, slowly. “I hear you. I can handle that, even though it’s going to suck staying alone in that shitty motel with Phil.”

  Ozzy pats him on the back. “They have HBO, mate. You’ll be fine. And, even better, when we checked in, I saw in the TV guide that they’re going to do a marathon of that show you like. The one you were showing me the other day.”

  Preacher perks up almost instantly. “True Blood? You serious?”

  “Yeah, bro. One of the earlier seasons. Before it got all weird with those zombies and faeries and shit.”

  “Fuck, did you see what time it started?”

  Ozzy pulls his cellphone out of his pocket and checks the time. “You’ve got almost an hour, bro. If you hurry, you could probably make it without missing anything.”

  There’s no hesitation and almost no more conversation after that point — Preacher just grunts a “Call you tomorrow” to Ozzy and a “Goodnight” to me — and he seizes the cart. With Ozzy’s help, he wheels it out.

  I settle down on the bed. Pick up my surprisingly-unbroken bottle of Jameson, and take a sip.

  What a day.

  Ozzy’s gone about five minutes and three gulps. Even in that short time — and knowing he’s just around the corner — I still feel jittery being alone. It’s going to be a while before I’m comfortable by myself.

  And just as much as anything else, I’m upset with myself for being jittery. I’ve been in high pressure situations before; I’ve argued with powerful men, and powerful women; I’ve even come out on top from time to time.

  But back there? I freaked out.

  I cowered and screamed and then I gave up.

  I embarrassed myself.

  I can’t let that happen again.

  There’s a knock at the door and, even though I know who it is, it still puts my heart thumping.

  I answer it. Ozzy’s standing there, concern all over his face.

  “It alright if I come in?”

  I pull another drink from the bottle and step aside. “Yes, please.”

  He comes in quietly, surprisingly silent for a man as burly as him. His eyes are downcast, looking at the floor and the wall and the other spots speckled with drops of my attacker’s blood. “You alright?”

  I give him a look. “What do you think?”

  “I really don’t know. That’s why I asked.”

  “I’m scared. I’m angry. A man just broke into my room and tried to rape me — and worse, tried to get me to do things to fuck up my career.”

  He looks perplexed. “Messing up your career is worse?”

  I shrug, tossing my hands up.

  I start pacing.

  “Maybe. Yes,” I say, and that perplexed look is still on his face, which, even though I know he’ll never fully understand because he’s a guy, it still frustrates the hell out of me. “Look, I’m used to guys making unwanted passes at me, groping me on the bus, and other things I’d rather not talk about. I’ve dealt with all of it, and it is one of those awful, almost inevitable things because the world is fucked up. But my career? Ozzy, I am damn good at my job and I know that, in time, I’m going to fucking fight my way to the top. To have that taken away from me is more of a violation than anything someone could do to me physically. By ruining my career, they’re stripping away from me my dreams, my hope, and my future.”

  I drink again from the bottle.

  “I’m sorry, Maria,” he says, softly. “We’ll figure this out, and I promise, we’ll do this right.”

  “How?” I say. “How are we going to do that?”

  “I don’t know right now, but we’ll find a way. Trust me. I’ve handled dangerous shit before — this isn’t new to me — and no one wants this handled the right way more than I do,” he says, and then he takes me gently by the hand and leads me towards the bed. “Listen, you look completely knackered and you’re going to need your energy tomorrow. You should get some rest.”

  He’s right about that. The concept of bed and sleep sounds so inviting right now. I strip down to my underwear. He looks at me, but there’s hardly any desire in his eyes. I only see concern; he’s checking to see if I’m hurt.

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  “And I’m going to make sure you stay that way,” he says.

  I get into bed and, when my head hits the pillow and I pull the covers over myself, the full physical weight of today hits me. Sheer fatigue settles into my bones.

  “Where are you going to sleep?” I say, dreamily. Part of me wants to be more assertive and tell him to get into bed with me. The feel of someone — especially him — against me sounds so temptingly comforting. But I hardly have the strength to put words together, much less demand he jump into bed with me.

  Ozzy shrugs. “The couch looks nice. It’s a fair bit better than the beds in the hotel Preacher and I are staying at. But it’s going to be a while before I get any rest — that blood needs to be scrubbed up before it dries, otherwise you’ll have to answer some unwelcome questions in the morning.”

  I blink, slowly, sleepily, confused. “You’re going to scrub my floors?”

  Nodding, he comes closer, tucks the blankets in and kisses me on the forehead. “I am. Now, get some sleep. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  I shut my eyes. As sleep takes hold of me, I realize that — though I might not be anywhere close to certain about anything else — I’m as sure about Ozzy almost as much as I’m sure about myself.

  He cares for me.

  We might just make it through this.

  Chapter Eight

  Ozzy

  I don’t sleep much that night.

  I catch maybe a few winks in between scrubbing the blood off the floor and the point when I sit down on the couch to keep watch over her and keep myself awake by playing around on my the burner phone. The bloody thing is cheap, I’ve probably spent more on breakfast at Macca’s than Gunney spent on this thing, but it’s still able to get online and I watch the last of the rugby game with the sound off.

  The All Blacks win. There is some good in the world.

  But between the bit of sleep I get and the rugby game, I spend most of the night on guard duty while my brain grapples with the problem of killing David Ardoin while Maria seems determined to stand in my way.

  This isn’t going to be easy. This isn’t going to be simple.

  I owe my life to the club. But she holds my heart.

  While there’s still breath in my body and a heart beating in my chest, I’m going to keep her safe. While she’s sleeping she looks at peace — all the fear, all the anger, melts away. I want to keep her this way.

  I could get used to this view.

  Sometime just after sunrise, she starts stirring, and I rouse myself and put a pot of coffee on. By the time her alarm goes off and her eyes open, I’ve got a fresh cup ready for her.

  She smiles at me, and I forget about how tired I am.

  “Good morning,” she says as she takes the cup of coffee from my hand.

  “Morning,” I answer. “How’d you sleep?”

  “Good, considering all the shit going on. You?”

  “Fine. It’s a good couch. Are you going to be alright today, doing the whole lawyer thing?”

  Her eyes narrow and she sits up straighter, going prickly all of a sudden. “What do you mean? I know how to do my job and I’ve dealt with bullshit before. I’ll be fine.”

  I sigh. She’s got on the same hard attitude as usual; she’s so strong, but if she doesn’t let herself bend a little, she’s going to break.

  “It’s ok if you feel pressure. I’m not doubting your abilities as a lawyer. I just care about you, is all. You’ve probably figured this out already, but considering those bastards found you last night — so soon after you got here — it means they probably have someone on the inside. And it means we definitely haven’t seen the last of them.”<
br />
  “Fucking christ,” she mumbles, downing her still-hot coffee. “This is a holy hell of a lot of horseshit to be dealing with.”

  “I don’t mean to add to your concerns. Preacher and I will be watching your back, so, no worries, eh? We’ll keep you safe.”

  She gives me a look that says there will still definitely be worries.

  When she speaks, her voice gets even firmer and more resolute. “I’m going to a gun shop today, after I have another sitdown with my client. Will you come with? I want your help picking one out.”

  I smile, glad to see her taking a smart step. “Yeah, of course. I’d be glad to. You have something specific in mind?”

  She raises her hand, fingers clenched in the shape of a gun and makes a ‘bang’ noise. “Point. Shoot. Kill. I don’t have a small dick to compensate for, I just want to be ready if someone tries something again.”

  “Fair enough,” I say, taking a sip of my coffee and rolling the whole situation over in my head. Even though it’s sensible, I hate the idea that she feels like she needs a gun and that she’s sticking around in a dangerous situation. Even thinking about the possibilities of harm coming to her riles me up. “You know I won’t let anyone get to you, right?”

  Smiling gently, she slides out of bed.

  The morning light filters through the partly-open window shades and illuminates her pale, lithe body. Her blazing red hair glows like a second sunrise. She comes over to stand by my side, hardly dressed but wrapped in the light of the early day, and puts a hand on my shoulder.

  “I know, Ozzy, and I’m grateful. I’m thankful to have you in my life,” she says, giving me another kiss on the cheek. “But I’m still getting a gun. I need to be able to watch out for myself. It’s important to me. And if one of those sons of bitches does somehow slip by you, I’m going to blast his fucking head off. Now, come on, I’ve got a fucking job to get to.”

  * * * * *

  Maria and I hurry through the rest of our morning — finishing our coffee, grabbing a quick bite at the hotel breakfast — and I tail her rental car to the courthouse, parking about a block away to keep anyone from getting suspicious seeing her arrive with a rough-looking bloke like myself.