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He snagged his discarded jeans off the floor and tugged them on as he moved out of his bedroom, down the hall and by the time he hit the kitchen downstairs they were fastened.
He twisted the deadbolt and yanked open the door, ready to ream out whoever was being a dick.
He swallowed his words and frowned at the man who stood grinning at him, wearing a fucking Fury cut.
Trip’s gaze dropped to the name patch.
Ozzy.
His eyes slid to the right to read the patches which said, “Manning Grove” and “Original.”
What the fuck?
Who the fuck was this guy?
“Got a lot of fuckin’ nerve to wear a cut that don’t belong to you,” Trip growled.
The man jerked his chin toward something behind Trip in the kitchen. “You mean like you?”
Trip ground his molars. His cut was hanging over the back of one of the chairs at the kitchen table. “That belongs to me.”
“Bet it was Buck’s, though. Am I right?” When Trip didn’t answer, the guy continued. “Back then, it was always ‘finders’ keepers.’ Pussy, booze, scratch, drugs, whatever. Didn’t apply to our sleds or our cuts, though. Those were sacred.”
“It was handed down.”
The man, who planted his hands on his hips, dropped his head, shook it and snorted. “Right.” He lifted it again and met Trip’s gaze. “A cut’s supposed to be buried with a brother.”
“Should be. Not always possible,” Trip muttered. “Who are you and what the fuck you doin’ here?”
“Guess you don’t remember me.”
Trip let his gaze slide over the man’s face. He had to be in his late thirties, maybe even early forties, which meant he was young when the Fury imploded. But Trip couldn’t say he remembered the man. He was wearing a black leather skull cap, so Trip couldn’t tell what color his hair was, but from where Trip stood, his eyes appeared some sort of gray.
That didn’t shake any memory loose. Nor did the name Ozzy.
“Dutch put the word out. Said the Blood Fury’s gonna rise from the bloody wreckage. Or maybe he said from the ashes. Like one of those fuckin’ birds.”
Trip had no clue who this motherfucker was and hesitated to say shit about the club. “Yeah.”
“Want in.”
He wanted in. Just like that.
“Gimme a sec.” Trip pulled out the cell phone he’d tucked into his back pocket on the way out of his room. He held it up and snapped a photo of the man, who grumbled a curse as he did so. He sent the photo to both Judge and Dutch at the same time. Know this MFer?
A few seconds later Dutch texted him back with a laughing emoji and the words: Yeah. A fuckn asshole. But 1 thats doable w/ a lil lube.
Judge’s answering text quickly followed: No fuckn clue.
Before Trip was done reading Judge’s text another one came in from Dutch. Need a sec, there U fuckn go. Followed by a thumb’s up emoji.
Where the fuck the old man learned emojis and text speak... Trip shook his head. But what did he mean by “need a sec?”
Need a sec for what?
Then it hit Trip.
“Satisfied?” Ozzy—if that was his name—asked with a crooked grin.
“Nope.”
“Was a member when you were a fuckin’ snot-nosed kid.”
Trip sucked at his teeth. “Don’t look old enough to call me a snot-nosed kid.”
“Right. Lied about my age. Became prospect at seventeen, patched at eighteen. Think you were about fourteen at the time. A pain in the ass, though. Cocky little shit.”
Trip set his jaw. “And you think you’re gonna walk the fuck right back in where you left off? Why shouldn’t you prospect now?”
He’d already told Dutch that former members and blood of former members wouldn’t need to prospect. But since he was prez, he could be a “cocky little shit.”
Ozzy shrugged out of his cut, and, with one hand, ripped his shirt over his head. He turned to show Trip his bare back. “Just got my rockers when shit went down. Ink was still fresh on my skin.”
Those colors were no longer fresh. But that cut, those colors... Trip’s gaze landed on the super sweet Harley parked next to his.
Like Dutch said, with a little lube, any asshole might do. He’d rather have a club full of assholes than one of pussies.
Trip’s gaze slid back to Ozzy when the man turned back around to face him, pulling his shirt back over his head and sliding on his cut.
“Guess you planned on walkin’ the fuck back in,” Trip said.
“I can roll if you wanna be a dick. Got better things to do than work my fuckin’ ass off for nothin’.”
“Won’t be for nothin’.”
“Yeah, tell that to my eighteen-year-old self. Spent a year lickin’ boots and takin’ it up the ass. When I finally got my rockers, got fucked again but without a tube of lube in sight. My ass and my attitude got a bit raw from that fuckin’.”
