Ozzy (Wayward Kings MC Book 2)

by Zahra Girard

  “What more can you tell me about your client?” he says.

  I sigh.

  I knew this was coming at some point or another.

  “He’s an asshole. He’s only cooperating because he has the self-preservation instincts of a rat. And he’s doing it in the sleaziest and worst way possible by trolling all of us — his lawyers and the US Attorney — by drawing this out in some kind of masturbatory self-aggrandizing exercise,” I say, then pause. “Oh, and, one other thing: I’m still not going to help you kill him.”

  He flinches at the last part.

  Maybe I put too much bite into it.

  Maybe I need to eat more.

  “I’m here to do my job, Maria. I have to keep my friends and family safe.”

  I take a look around the room before answering. Thankfully, no one is watching or even close enough to overhear our conversation.

  “Ozzy, I can’t help you. I have to look out for my — and my client’s — best interests, which as much as I hate this cockroach of a man, doesn’t include getting him shot in the fucking head. Not only would that be bad for him, it’d be really bad for me.”

  “We can set it up so none of it falls back on you. Preacher and I are pretty good at this sort of thing.”

  I sigh. “Good at ‘this sort of thing’? You sound like you’re fucking proud of it.”

  “If I sound like I’m fucking proud if it, it’s cause I am fucking proud of what I do,” he says, finishing his beer and slamming the glass down on the table loud enough to draw a few confused looks from the other guests in the lounge. “If I were back in New Zealand, I’d be a second-rate tradie or working on some fucking dairy farm. Here, I’m an enforcer. My word means something to my brothers. To my family. To people I respect. That’s worth a whole hell of a lot to me. Do you understand that?”

  I’ve never seen him this incensed before; he’s lit with passion and ambition.

  It’s something I can respect: he’s not just the dumb-but-hot biker I can have a fun fling with every time I head out West to visit Roxy, Bear, and their kids — he’s a man making something out of himself and climbing the ladder in his own way.

  “What’s your end game? Why do you do what you do?” I say, sharp enough it almost sounds like I’m snapping at him.

  It catches him off guard. He waves to the bearded bartender for another beer and, when it comes, he takes a long drink of it, thinking, before he speaks.

  “Respect. Pride. Just like anybody else. When I’m old, and fat, and have a bunch of grandkids running around making a mess of my house, I want to have the kind of satisfaction you get when you’ve done a job well. I want the pride of knowing the people you care about look up to you,” he says, then he pauses and looks at me intently, in a way I haven’t seen him look at me before. He’s sizing me up. It’s intimidating. And hot. “What about you? What do you get out of defending someone like David Ardoin?”

  I pause.

  What do I get out of working for that creep?

  “He’s one of those sacrifices I have to make to get ahead. The man is trash. I hate him. He probably doesn’t deserve anywhere close to the kind of deal he’s going to get, but, if I want to get anywhere — if I want to respect myself at the end of the day and know I did what’s best for myself and my career — I have to deal with him.”

  “You know he’ll probably hurt someone again. Probably hurt a lot of people. Are you ok with that? Seems to me your hands are going to be as dirty as anyone else’s.”

  He probably will hurt others. He might very well hurt me, I want to say. But I don’t because I know that’ll do nothing to dissuade Ozzy from wanting to kill him. Hell, that’ll just give him more incentive to put a bullet in that man’s brain.

  Instead, I shake my head and shrug my shoulders. “I don’t get to make that choice. That’s not what this job is about.”

  “So, you’re just following orders? I’ve heard that excuse a few times before.”

  I stiffen up. “What about you? Isn’t that exactly what you’re doing?”

  “Yeah, I’m here because Gunney told me to. But, hearing just half the shit this guy’s done — the women he was trafficking in, the drugs, all of it — even if I wasn’t ordered here, I’d probably still look this guy up and put a bullet in his brain. I have principles.”

  “Oh, so murder is a principle now?”

  “If I knew a piece of shit like him was going to get off, and go right back to being a piece of shit, yeah, I’d murder him. Kill him. Whatever term you want to use. I don’t understand double-crossers like him. People that only care about themselves and will fuck over everyone just to get ahead. I’m a single-crosser, Maria. I pick my side and I take my stand.”

  I stare a second.

  I blink.

  “Single-crosser?”

  He shrugs. “Yeah, that’s the word for it, right? Or maybe it’s just crosser. Like, double-crossers cross their enemies and their friends. But single-crossers just cross their enemies.”

  “I don’t think that’s a word, Ozzy.”

  Another beer glass goes down, empty, and, since we’re one of the only people left in the lounge, the bartender’s watching us and has a new beer ready almost right away. He has a second Manhattan for me, too.

  “Maybe it’s not, but English is a living language though, right? And if I asked some bloke off the street to explain the difference between double-crossers and single-crossers, he’d know what I’m talking about.”

  “Ok, ok, I get it. Fine.”

  “Maria, all I’m saying is, people like him are the worst kind of people. If you only have loyalty to yourself — if you turn on your family or friends or anyone else to make things easier for yourself — you deserve what you get. Family is more important than a lot of people think. And if sacrifice family for yourself, you’re going to have a really lonely life.”

  His eyes bore into me and the rebuke in his voice stings enough that I finish my Manhattan in one long pull. It stings hearing it from him.

  But as much as it hurts, I respect him more for saying it.

  I don’t hold it against him for wanting to do what it takes to protect his family. There’s a part inside me, buried deep, that might even agree with him.

  “Ozzy, I know what you’re saying,” I say, the words coming slowly as I struggle to put my thoughts together. I’m not used to being challenged like this, especially not from him, and I hate feeling on the defensive. “I can’t set anything up. I can’t get you in a room alone with him or anything like that. It’s not that I don’t want to, in a way, it’s that he is under serious lockdown. The only time he’s out is when we meet with him at the US Attorneys office. When they bring him in, it’s with a police escort.”

  “So what are you getting at?” Ozzy says, his voice only slightly softer.

  I’m grasping for straws, looking for some sort of compromise. I care about him, I care about the Kings and everyone in them, but what he’s asking of me is more than I can deliver. I need to come up with something else — some other solution — to keep this case from turning into a bloodbath and I need to push that solution hard. “What if I can keep the Wayward Kings out of it?”

  “What do you mean?” He looks unconvinced, but wavering.

  I seize on that with everything I have.

  I reach out, I put my hand on his, my leg brushes his underneath the table, and I put as much heat in my voice as I can muster. It isn’t hard — the confidence he’s showing is attractive; even before this, I could imagine how it’d feel to be in bed with him, his arms pinning me down, his lips roaming my body.

  His dominant side is intoxicating.

  His confidence, his loyalty, his fierceness, they’re all qualities that excite me in just the right way.

  But they’re also hard as hell to deal with when I’m on the other side.

  I have to convince him.

  I don’t want Ozzy hurt in any sort of attempt on David Ardoin’s life and, just as much, I don’t want
my career to take the hit. I’ve worked so hard to get where I am. And to see it all end with a bloody shootout? To lose everything I’ve built just so a piece of scum like David Ardoin can take a bullet in his brain?

  No.

  “Think about it: I can steer him away from even mentioning the club. I know I can,” I say. “That solves both our problems and it puts away some terrible people that he’s worked with. People that deserve to be in jail.”

  There’s enough interest in his eyes that I know he’s thinking seriously about what I’m saying. He squeezes my hand, his leg brushes back against mine and I see a welcome light in his eyes.

  “Are you sure that’s something you could do?”

  It’s inviting. Suggestive. It gives me hope that I can change his mind.

  Whatever it takes.

  This is my chance.

  I squeeze his hand back. Lean forward.

  “Don’t you believe in me?”

  “I’ll think about it,” he says, slowly.

  “Come on, Ozzy, you’re the one in charge here. Gunney sent you to keep the club safe. They don’t care about what happens to a bunch of hick criminals. Think of all the horrible things they’ve done. These are people that deserve to be put away.”

  He smiles. “You’ve got a point there…”

  He’s wavering.

  I need to change his mind. I need to push him, hard, with everything I have.

  And I want to forget — even for just a moment — about all the insanity going on in my life. I want to feel good again.

  Maybe I can kill two birds with one stone.

  I’ve made up my mind.

  “Let’s go,” I say, my voice searing with heat.

  “Go?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Let’s get out of here. Come on.”

  I don’t hesitate. I finish my drink and grab him by the hand and lead him from the table.

  It isn’t far to my room.

  As the elevator descends to my floor, my heartbeat rises and I feel this tingle of excitement go through my body. It starts in my hand, where my skin meets his, where I’m holding him and leading him back to my room. Though neither of us say a word, we both know what is going to happen.

  The lock clicks as I swipe my key against it; the door slides open effortlessly as I push it open. We make it two steps inside before I can’t hold back any longer.

  I sigh, excited breath escaping my lips, heart pounding in my chest. I turn to face him.

  I need this.

  Hopping up on my toes, I press my lips against his. I’m not gentle. I’m not hesitant. I’m not going to give him any room for second thoughts. I’m going to convince him to my side.

  He kisses me back and this moan sounds deep in his throat. Hot, hungry, filled with need and want, like some desire stronger than he’d realized has woken up.

  “Maria,” he whispers as he brushes some of my hair back behind my ear.

  “Shut up and kiss me.”

  My tongue parts his lips, explores his mouth, turns his moan louder and hungrier.

  My skin tingles at his touch, electric desire lighting every nerve.

  I want this.

  I want him.

  Strong. Confident. Powerful.

  I’ve wanted him for so long.

  “Take me,” I whisper into his ear.

  “With pleasure.”

  He seizes me by the wrists, lifts my hands above my head and presses them to the wall. With his body, he forces me backwards, until I’m flat against the wall. Until there’s not an inch of space between us.

  My body next to his. His lips against mine.

  His lips break our kiss and venture down my neck.

  He nibbles at my shoulder, biting me, drawing a gasp from my lips.

  I shift my hips, blood surging through my veins — urgent, hungry, desperate. I grind myself against him and he growls again, pressing into me. I can feel the heat between his legs, feel the size of him.

  I lick my lips.

  Dizzy, heated, hungry, wet.

  I need this.

  He shifts his grip — pinning both my hands above my head with just one of his. His free hand caresses my cheek and he looks me in the eyes.

  “I’ve thought about fucking you from the moment I saw you,” he murmurs into my ear, his breath ticking me, teasing me. “You fucking thrill me like I’ve never known before.”

  With his free hand, he seizes the collar of my shirt, ripping it open. Buttons fly and scatter and clatter to the floor. A two-hundred dollar shirt, effortlessly torn to pieces.

  “Nights where I couldn’t sleep, I’d shut my eyes and imagine your red lips wrapped around my cock. I’d never come so hard as I do when I think about you.”

  There’s a bulge growing in his pants, pressing itself against me. Blood and lust pumping through his veins, filling his cock, calling out to me.

  “Fuck, I want you, Ozzy,” I whisper. “When I first met you, I knew I wanted you. Wanted this.”

  My body is tingling and the heat surging through my veins is deafening in my ears — it’s screaming, calling out for me to turn his fantasy into reality.

  He kisses me again. “Even the taste of your lips drives me wild.”

  “Let me show you what these lips can do,” I whisper. “Let me put them where they belong.”

  His free hand takes hold of my hair, pushing me down, though he doesn’t need to — I love how he’s dominating me.

  “Show me. Suck me.”

  I kneel on the tile floor, fingers fumbling with the belt and buckles of his jeans. I can see the size of him pressed against the fabric. He’s big, and he’s all mine.

  I don’t wait once I finally get his cock free — I swallow him, deep in my throat, until I gag, until spots burst in my vision. I hold him there until the need to breathe is overwhelming. I want him to use me, I want him to dominate me, I want him to see my side, I want to forget for a short time about all the fucked up shit going on in my life.

  “Fucking hell, you’re gorgeous,” he growls and takes me by the hair again, pulling me onto his cock, gagging me. “Put that beautiful mouth to work.”

  I love it. I love every moan I draw from him. Every sound of pleasure, every gasp, every groan, pushes me harder. I suck, I stroke, I swallow, I work my tongue around his pulsating cock.

  I love every second I’m on my knees in front of him, pleasing him, submitting to him.

  “Do you like that?” I say, looking up at him from my knees.

  “Holy hell, I love seeing your lips on my cock,” he growls again, startled, his cock pulsing hard inside my mouth. He pulls back, breathing hard to get himself under control, and I have to fight the urge not to lean forward and take him back inside my mouth. His cock is throbbing inches from my lips. “Ease up a fucking second — you’re too fucking hot and too fucking good at this.”

  I blush. It’s so blunt it’s flattering. “How do you want me?”

  He doesn’t answer with words — he leans down, picks me up, and throws me over his shoulder like I’m weightless. Carrying me across the room, he tosses me on my back and gets between my legs. I don’t even have a second to yelp before his tongue is on me.

  He’s gentle at first, taking his time, his tongue wandering up my thighs, working slowly towards my pussy — teasing it but never touching it.

  I need to feel more. I ache for it. I reach down to grab him by the head, but he snatches my hand by the wrist and forces it aside.

  “Stay right there,” he says, and with each word, I feel his warm breath against my pussy, taunting me with how close his lips and tongue are. “You don’t move unless I tell you to move. You don’t speak unless I tell you to beg.”

  “Yes-” I start, my words dying as his tongue gently brushes my labia and a shock runs through me.

  And again.

  Still so light and gentle, but more than enough to make me quiver.

  Each time grows firmer, yet between each lick he wanders over my body — kissing and
caressing, making me beg and scream inside for him to do more.

  He’s driving me mad and loving every second of torturing me. Teasing me until I’m ready to break. There’s a grin on his face every time I look between my legs.

  He pushes me until I’m ready to break, and then he pulls me back from the edge. Time and again, until I’m shaking. Until, growling softly, he wraps his lips around my clit and sucks gently — drawing it up, out, for his tongue to caress.

  Holy shit.

  I start. Shaking, twitching, my body out of my control. It’s like I’ve stuck my finger in a light socket; my body shakes and my muscles tense, building and building and crying out for that extra bit of pressure to make me explode.

  He holds me there.

  He knows he’s ruining me.

  He’s going to make me beg.

  “Please, Ozzy,” I start.

  “You know what I want to hear.”

  Same smile, same light in his eyes, same maddening not-quite-enough pressure with his tongue. He’s got me on the edge.

  “Please, Ozzy, I need it,” I manage to force out the words.

  He stops.

  He stops.

  My body is tingling — ready to break — and he stops.

  “Please what?”

  His tongue is right there. Right there. Just inches from where it needs to be and he stops. My whole body is begging for that final push over the edge — and he stops.

  “I want to come. Please. I need to come,” I say. Begging. Pleading. “Please make me come.”

  He loves it. He has total control over me.

  Rumbling wordlessly, his tongue brushes me again. Over and over, faster and faster, in just the right way that I can feel myself falling, breaking into bliss.

  “Yes,” I moan, digging my fingernails into the bed.

  And then, something gently, carefully, slides inside me.

  It’s warm. Firm. His finger. It touches this spot deep inside me that needs to feel his touch.

  “Do you like that?” his voice vibrates against my clit.

  My eyes shoot wide and I look down and see his bright, knowing green eyes looking back at me. The last thing I see before I break, gasping, moaning, thrashing, is that smirk on his face.

  He winks at me.

  Fuck, the man ruins me.