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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.
