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They might never know and she might have to accept that fact.
“What’s that?” Trip asked, moving behind the bar to grab an empty mug, with a lit joint dangling from between his lips and his signature black baseball cap on his head.
“Buncha old photos of some of the boys.” As Trip poured himself a draft, Dutch leaned across the bar, snagged the joint right from Trip’s lips and took a long hit. After he let the smoke roll from his mouth, he explained, “Took me a bit to figure out where the fuck I put them when I moved into the place I’m livin’ in now.”
“You go through them?” Ozzy picked up the full mug Trip slid in front of him before the prez began to pour a beer for himself.
“Yeah, but none of them made me remember anyone named…” Dutch squinted.
Ozzy paused with the mug lifted to his lips, waiting for Dutch to finish. When he didn’t, he reminded him, “Marshall Graham. Christ.”
Dutch huffed. “Just fuckin’ with you.”
“The fuck you are.”
Dutch tapped a finger to his temple. “Got a memory like a fuckin’ trap, remember?”
“Yeah, a mouse trap. Lookin’ at them didn’t jog anything loose from that damn rusty trap?”
“It’s not like their fuckin’ real names are printed on the fuckin’ things. Still don’t remember anyone named Marshall Graham. Lookin’ through those memories didn’t knock anythin’ loose, either.”
Trip took a long swallow of his own beer, swiped a hand over his mouth, then said, “Let’s see ‘em.”
Suddenly anyone who was related to an Original was at the bar crowding around the box. Rook, Cage, Judge, and even Sig, joined Ozzy, Dutch and Trip.
Rook pulled Cujo from inside his cut and placed him on top of the bar.
“Get that rat off the bar,” Trip growled.
Rook said, “I put him down, he’s gonna try to scrap with Justice and Jury.”
Both American Bulldogs were asleep on the bus benches nearby. But it wouldn’t take much to wake them. Especially a three-pound four-legged terror that had a yap that made Ozzy want to poke his eardrums out.
Trip shook his head, grabbed the box and dumped all the photos out in an avalanche, making the Chihuahua tuck his tail and run to the other end of the bar, barking and snarling like the photos were going to bite him in the ass.
Ozzy hoped like fuck those photos didn’t bite him in the ass.
He’d only become an Original for one reason and no one but him knew what that reason was. Even over twenty-something years later. It was a secret he’d kept and one he planned on keeping until he was dead and buried.
“Dog’s as fucked up as you,” Ozzy said to Rook, then turned to Dutch. “You give them Mad Dog 20/20 in their bottles as babies instead of milk?”
Dutch shrugged. “Helped them sleep.”
“Not takin’ any parentin’ tips from you, old man,” Trip said with a laugh. “The fuck if I want my boys endin’ up like Cage and Rook. Shoulda dropped them out in the middle of the woods once Bebe left.”
“Thought about it. But by then, they were old enough to find their way back,” Dutch grumbled and took another hit off the joint before handing it back to Trip.
“Speakin’ of the love of your life,” Cage began, picking up a photo. He showed it to everyone, then flipped it to Dutch. “There she is. The best choice you ever fuckin’ made. We’re fucked up ‘cause of your fuck-up. Know that, right?”
Dutch picked up the picture of Bebe off the bar in front of him and tore it to pieces. He shrugged. “But she had a tight-ass snatch until your fat head stretched it out. She also had a skilled mouth. That mouth and cunt were like fuckin’ witchcraft. They put a spell on me.”
“Woulda been smarter if you’d kept it in her mouth, then,” Judge grumbled.
Ozzy snorted and shook his head.
His humor quickly fled when Dutch picked up one of the old photos and whipped it toward Trip and Sig. The VP stood next to his brother, not thumbing through the photos like Trip. Instead, he was eyeing up the pile cautiously.
“There’s one of your old man,” Dutch told them.
Trip turned it over and stared at the blurry photo of Buck, the late club president.
Dutch sifted through the pile some more, found what he was looking for and threw one at Sig. “Here’s one of your old man, Sig. Well, your fuckin’ old man ’til we all found out it wasn’t Razor’s swimmer that tagged your whore momma’s egg.”
Sig had let the photo drop in front of him and didn’t bother to turn it over. He only stared at the backside of the yellowed Polaroid.
The shit that went down between Razor and Buck—mostly due to Buck fucking Razor’s ol’ lady and Silvia lying to him about Sig being Razor’s son—was what caused the beginning of the end for the Fury.
