23. Ozzie
23
OZZIE
Three months later…
There’s not a single empty seat in the bar room at the Steel Saloon. It’s a full house as Kings come from all over town—and even some from out of town—to make it to Silver’s monthly meeting.
The bar counters are about as sticky as can be expected, though Mick swears he’s scrubbed the place down. Stale beer clings to the air as well as the salty scent of peanuts and pretzels that the barmaids pass around in bowls.
I’m on a stool, nursing my Diet Coke, practically invisible. In the past I’d been the one to call the meeting into order; I’d been seated up front at the table where everybody with an official club role sat.
The meeting’s kicked off by Flanagan, the new club secretary. I can barely look at him and his greasy hair and long, punchable face. Every time I do, I’m reminded of everything that’s gone wrong over the last six months.
I screwed up in some big ways, then ran away to Vegas for a few weeks, and when I returned, I had to fess up and come clean.
My mistakes weren’t the kind that blow over. They weren’t ones Silver, Mace, and the others could easily overlook.
I’m still dealing with the consequences of those fuck ups today. It might not ever be the same for me in this club. I’ve proven myself unreliable, untrustworthy, and an overall screw up.
Silver stands at the front of the bar room, right near the head table. All eyes swing his way and any chatter dies down. He’s got that kind of presence. That quiet confidence that’s authoritative and commanding.
When he talks, most people listen.
“I appreciate everybody turning up,” he says, his voice even. “This should be quick enough. Then you can all go back to getting drunk off your asses.”
A few of the guys chuckle. Mudd and Einstein tap their pints of beer together, causing some of the amber liquid to slosh over the rim.
“The weapons shipment came through clean,” Silver goes on. “No trouble. No complications. We got everything we were owed.”
Murmurs ripple through the crowded room. The mood in the air lets up a little, everybody relaxing in their chairs. Clean shipments mean nobody’s breathing down our necks trying to fuck with us.
Big Eddie raises his arm up. “That mean the Pena cartel hold up their end?”
Silver nods in answer, the light that streams in through the window making his silver strands stand out even more. “The agreement is in effect. We’re officially business partners.”
Bush snorts from where he’s seated across from Big Eddie. “Bet the Barreras won’t like that.”
“Good thing we don’t give a fuck what the Barreras’ve got to say,” Mace pipes up from the head table. He’s leaned back in his chair, arms folded over his chest.
“The Barreras know what happens if they come for us,” Silver says. “After what happened to Miguel and some of their other men earlier this year during the Saints bust, I doubt they want any trouble right now.”
“We can hope,” sneers Johnny Flanagan under his breath.
I watch as Mace’s jaw squares and, at his side, even Cash seems irritated. Nobody’s ever been too fond of Johnny—if it weren’t for his father Johnny Sr., club member for well over thirty fucking years at this point, the younger Flanagan would’ve been kicked out a long-ass time ago.
Fact is, I think he was only handed secretary ’cuz daddy called in a favor or two. He’s known Silver and Tom Cutler for decades now.
But he goes ignored. Nobody dignifies his mumbling with a real response.
Silver merely presses on. He updates us on other club business, including some of the new prospects and the bike show that some guys like Tito and Cash will be participating in.
I try to pay attention, but that’s always been a sore spot for me—my mind wanders easily and the club meeting’s no exception.
I think about how I used to be sitting up front with the guys. I used to be an active participant in these meetings, one of Mace’s right hands when he’d filled in as prez. In the aftermath of my fuck ups, I’m relegated to nobody in the crowd.
I’m more removed from the club than I’ve ever been. The guys have even pulled back from spending as much time with me.
I get it. I fucked up big time. Not only did I lie about going to rehab—after I’d already screwed up going on benders and wreaking havoc at club events—I went off to Vegas for a few weeks to go undercover in a federal fucking investigation.
I was caught up with Boone in the first place.
Most clubs would kick somebody out for that kind of infraction. Some clubs would permanently handicap or even put somebody six feet under for a violation like that.
If anybody had the slightest hunch I was giving info to the feds, it would be my fate.
But Silver’s kept me. He and the others have just… phased me out of things I was once a part of.
Maybe I never really belonged in the first place.
Everybody in this room has lived in Pulsboro or its surrounding towns all their life. I’m the only outlier that came from Southern California. Some gated community in Newport Beach where surfing was considered a hobby and my father sometimes drove a different car to work each day.
I’m a former trust-fund kid who grew up privileged and then went off the deep end. I threw it all away for tattoos, bikes, and a fast life of lawlessness.
When I came to the Steel Kings, I thought I’d finally found my place. The group where an outcast like me belonged. Now I’m not so sure the club really is my people.
Maybe I don’t have any. It’s not in the cards for me, just like finding love like some of the other guys.
“And last thing before I forget,” Silver says, the corner of his mouth spreading in a half-grin. He gestures to Logan at the head table. “Ghost here is about to be a father any day now! Teysha’s due any minute, so if you get a chance, congratulate him and buy him a case of diapers—and beer—he’s going to need both!”
Everybody erupts in applause for that. Several Kings get up and stride over to shake Logan’s hand and offer him their wise, and not so wise, fatherly advice.
The meeting officially over, I hop down from the bar stool and thank Mick for the Diet Coke.
He casts me an almost pitying smile. “No problem, Oz. You take care of yourself.”
The music’s turned up and the bar floor crowds with Kings kicking off the festivities that usually follow meetings.
There’s no use hanging around. Nobody’ll notice if I’m gone. At one point, I was the life of these parties. I was the guy blasting the music like a fucking DJ, downing shots and streaking down the street.
I’ve never taken myself too seriously, but these days, it seems that’s all I’m able to do.
The fun, carefree days are over.
Silver calls out my name when I’m a couple steps away from the door.
“Ozzie, got a second?”
I almost turn him down. Make up some excuse that I’ve got something else going on. But there’s no use lying. Whatever Silver’s got to say to me, he can say it to my face. My pulse beats harder, frustration clenching inside me like my hands do into fists.
I nod and start to follow him to the back, but we’re not alone—Mace and Logan join us, to more irritation from me.
What the fuck is this? An ambush?
“Yeah?” I say the second we’re in the club office. I lean against the back of the couch and jut my chin at Silver. “What’s up?”
Silver sighs, his expression like a disappointed dad. “We’ve been over this before… but some of the guys are worried.”
I bark out a laugh before I can stop myself. “Worried? Yeah, I got that loud and clear when I was erased from damn near everything. Which means no need to worry anymore, Silver. No more screw ups, right?”
“That’s not why we?—”
“I get it,” I cut in, pushing off the back of the couch and stepping toward him. “I’m a fuckup. I’m unreliable. You phased me out so I fell back. You don’t gotta sugarcoat it.”
Silver shakes his head and opens his mouth like he wants to argue, but I keep going, the words spilling out sharp and bitter. “Hell, it’s been that way since before Vegas. Before fucking Houston. But at least before you pretended like you weren’t judging.”
“Nobody’s judging you, Oz. We just want you taking your meds like you’re supposed to.”
“And I’ve been doing that! But don’t treat me like some clueless moron! I might be stupid, but I’m not that stupid. You think I don’t know it’s cuz of the undercover gig I was a part of? About the situation with Boone? Just say it—you don’t trust me anymore!”
Mace, leaning against the far wall, snorts. “Get your head out of your ass, Ozzie. This ain’t about us freezing you out ’cuz we don’t trust you. If that were the case, you would’ve been gone. We needed to be sure you were turning your life around.”
“Yeah?” I laugh again, louder this time, but there’s nothing funny about it. It tastes sour in my mouth. “Well, good luck waiting. 'Cuz it’s never gonna happen. Once a screw up, always a screw up. That clear enough for you yet?”
Mace's jaw tightens, his nostrils flaring. Silver manages to respond first.
“That’s not who you are,” he says calmly, though I detect pity in his voice. It makes my stomach churn. “We’re a brotherhood, Oz. We’re looking out for you?—”
“Don’t,” I snap. “I don’t need fucking pity.”
Mace steps into my face. “You’re acting a like a fucking ass. My patience is running thin. Get your shit together!”
“Or what?” I challenge, getting up in his face like he’s gotten up in mine. I grin crookedly at him, daring him to make a move. “What’re you gonna do, Mace? Punch me in the jaw again? Go ahead—I can take some hits. Yours are cake anyway.”
“None of that!” Silver quickly interjects himself, using his arm to push both me and Mace away from each other. “Keep your damn hands to yourselves. I mean it.”
“Yes, Dad,” I taunt. “Actually, I’ve got a father already, Silver. He’s back in California and he considers his only son to be dead. Maybe that’s how things need to be with the club too. I never belonged here. Later.”
I turn for the door, the tension pressing down on my chest. I need to get the hell out before I break something.
Or someone.
Logan’s hand lands on my shoulder, his grip firm enough to stop me. “Hey, you need a listening ear. Somebody to rant to. I’m around. I’ll drop by your trailer.”
I shrug off his hand. “Don’t bother.”
Nobody else stops me as I shove the door open and stalk out of the office. I can feel their gazes burning into my back as I leave, but I couldn’t give any less of a fuck. They don’t get it. They don’t get me. None of them do. They think I can be fixed, like I’m some busted bike in the Chop Shop waiting on a new part.
But some things stay broken.
Three hours and one trip to the liquor store later, I’m tossing back shots of White Oak like it’s water. The whiskey torches my throat like a trail of fire on its way down. The first few shots made me cough—hack, really—but after losing track of how many shots I’ve taken, the burn’s begun to feel good.
The edges of my vision have blurred, growing fuzzier, like the world’s distorted itself for me.
The bottle clinks against the rim of the glass as I pour yet another shot and end up spilling some on the floor.
It doesn’t matter. I’ll worry about stuff like that later.
Funny, considering I finally gave my place a deep scrub. That was when I first returned from Vegas and convinced myself I could do better.
I shove away from the kitchen counter and stumble back into the living room toward the couch. My boot catches on a loose floorboard and I nearly eat it, but I manage to crash down onto the cushions instead. The suede’s peeled and worn, creaking under my weight.
But it feels damn good sinking into it. My head lolls back and I laugh at my own clumsiness, the sound echoing in the empty trailer.
Mace. Silver. All of ’em act like they’ve got me figured out, like they even give a damn. They think they know what’s best, but they haven’t got a fucking clue.
I’ve tried my hardest. I’ve fought to keep my shit together. But no matter how straight I walk, I’m always the one people expect to fall—and they’re right.
No matter what, I always find a way to screw up.
There’s a reason it’s been the common thread in my life. I’m destined to be a wreck and nobody wants to deal with that kinda liability.
Not the guys at the club. Damn sure no woman.
My fuzzy mind wanders to Zoe for the first time in a while, though I try to course correct. I’ve been avoiding thoughts of her. Refusing to let myself think about how I fucked that up too.
I had a woman by my side for the first real time and I messed that up by pushing too hard. I turned her off and then went running scared when it came time to confront things. But Zoe wasn’t the only one afraid of getting close to someone.
What was the point when they always left in the end? If I didn’t fuck it up with Zoe in Vegas, then I would’ve fucked it up later down the road, and it would’ve been worse.
She’d come to her senses, realize I was a terrible partner, then she’d bail.
It would end the same anyway, so I might as well stop fixating on it. Push any thoughts of Zoe from my head.
I rub the heel of my hand against my eye socket, my brain too loud in the quiet. My thoughts pick me apart from the inside, the noise unbearable. I grab the glass again, throwing back another shot like it might shut it all up.
It doesn’t work.
I can’t take it anymore. Something’s got to change.
I climb off the couch and stagger toward the bathroom. The mirror catches my reflection and shows me a man with bloodshot eyes and flushed skin. I look a fucking mess and I know it as I wrench open the medicine cabinet and stare at the rows of pill bottles. All prescriptions. Mood stabilizers. Anti-psychotics. The things that are supposed to “fix” me. I snatch one, then another, then the rest, dumping them all into the toilet bowl.
The pills scatter—white, yellow, blue—like brightly colored candy against the porcelain. I laugh, woozy and bitter, as I flush them. They swirl along with the water and then disappear down the outlet in the toilet bowl.
The sound of the water as it rushes down the drain pulls me way back to a time in the past where I’d done this. Fifteen and fresh out of the doctor’s office with a shiny new bipolar diagnosis and a father who looked at me like I was both stupid and crazy. He shoved those pills into my hand like they’d make me normal. I’d magically become the son he always wished for.
But I wasn’t interested in being the perfect son. Not under his thumb. Not in his house. Not after years of his bad temper and mood swings that left me and Mom walking on eggshells. So I flushed every last one down the drain. I left the empty pill bottles on the bathroom counter for him to find.
His episode of rage was worse than any episode I’d had.
His features contorted into a fucking red-faced demon. The veins in his neck protruded. He’d busted open the door in my room and it was on. I wasn’t backing down, which only made it worse. Unlike my mother, I didn’t cower and hide from his flying fists. I didn’t seek to appease him in any way.
Instead, I taunted him. I took the hits like a man. I gave as good as I could, still growing into my body and abilities. By the end of it, I had a busted lip, black and blue face, and a couple broken ribs.
But I still never took the fucking medication under his roof. Which meant I won. He didn’t break me and he couldn’t control me…
The whiskey sloshes in my gut as I stagger to my bedroom, hands twitching with restless energy. I need out of this trailer. Out of Pulsboro.
Somewhere far away where no one gives a shit if I’m a mess. I shove open the closet door and reach for my duffel bag on the top shelf. My fingers graze the edge when a cardboard box tumbles down, spilling its contents across the floor.
“Shit,” I mutter, dropping to my knees.
Old crap scattered everywhere—concert ticket stubs, patches from my first club jacket, a few Polaroids faded with time.
My high school yearbook.
“Fuck,” I mutter. “Now this is a throwback.”
I prop it open and thumb through the pages, finding familiar faces, half-forgotten stories. I snort when I land on Bobby Moore. Poor bastard pissed his pants in front of everybody during gym class junior year. Then there’s the time we hauled the principal’s desk onto the roof—still one of my finest moments.
I almost close it when the class superlatives page catches my eye.
There I am, featured among the others. It’s no surprise I was voted Class Clown.
My photo’s smack in the center, all cocky smirk and spiky gelled hair. Less ink on my skin, but a lip ring I thought was the coolest fucking thing at the time.
A corner of paper peeks out from the back of the book. I slide it free, discovering it’s a folded-up envelope, yellowed around the edges. My name’s scrawled across it in my father’s stiff handwriting.
My pulse kicks up. I don’t remember this. Why don’t I remember this?
I pull the folded-up letter from inside the envelope and stare down at the words. They rearrange themselves at first, a mix of the whiskey and dyslexia, before I blink and force myself to read:
Oswald—
By now, it’s become clear you can’t stay here. The havoc you’ve caused is too much for your mother, and I refuse to stand for it. We can’t live like this anymore. Our lives would be easier if you removed yourself from the equation.
Enclosed is five thousand dollars. It should be enough to get you started somewhere else.
Take it and don’t ever come back. As far as we’re concerned, we have no son.
This is what’s for the best.
My whole chest seizes, and for a second, I think I might hurl. The room tilts, and a hot, aching pressure crawls up my throat.
He wanted me gone. I didn’t leave because I chose to like I’ve spent the last decade telling myself I did—I left because I read this letter and realized it’s what they wanted.
For my entire adult life, I’ve told myself I made the choice. It was me who up and left, packing my shit and running off.
But it was at my father’s suggestion. He told me to leave and that I was no longer their son before I ever moved out.
I’d had the order of events wrong. Probably my attempt to cushion the blow and ugly reality my own parents hated my guts.
A broken sound tears out of me. I don’t even recognize it as I let out a roar of pent-up fury and frustration. I rip the letter to shreds and let the pieces rain down on the floor.
“Screw you, you fucking piece of shit for a father!” I snarl at the torn pieces of paper. “You wanted me gone? You thought you got rid of me? What if your worst nightmare turns back up on your door? What then, you fucking dipshit?!”
I’m shaking as I stand and snatch up my duffel bag to fill with a few of my things. I need to get away from Pulsboro, go on a trip somewhere, and as I grab my helmet off the shelf and swing my duffel bag over my shoulder, I know the destination I have in mind.
The one place that needs to be burned down to the ground for what they did to me and how they discarded me like trash.