Ozzy Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

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  Ozzy

  An MC Romance

  By

  Zahra Girard

  Copyright © 2018 by Zahra Girard

  All rights reserved. This ebook or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you'd like to share this book with another, please purchase a separate copy for them. Thank you for respecting the hard work that went into my work.

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  Join My Dirty List!

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  Chapter One

  Maria

  A jarring, nails-on-a-chalkboard voice screeches at me through the intercom on my desk phone, like a banshee with a throat infection. It’s just enough to pull my attention away from the work in front of me: research, cases, client reports, as much as I can handle, as much as it takes to distinguish myself. It’s a nightmarish workload, but it’s all part of my plan. It’s the reason I even have an office of my own, and why words like ‘promotion’ and ‘partner’ are realities in my vocabulary, instead of the whispered fantasies of my coworkers.

  “What is it, Janet?” I say, rubbing my blurry eyes back into focus.

  “Ms. Houlihan, Mr. Watkins called. He wanted to inform you that the meeting this afternoon with Mr. Grayson and his associates has been moved up an hour. It’s at one o’clock, now.”

  I start. Sit up straight and put aside the iPad full of case files that I’ve been staring at for the last forever-and-a-half.

  Even on her best days, my assistant, Janet, has a voice that reminds me of Fran Drescher with a side of emphysema. It’s a voice that I’ve grown to like and appreciate, strangely enough, because it means anyone who calls keeps their messages short and sweet just to get off the phone with her.

  She’s the prickly sonic barrier between me and any asshole I don’t want to talk to. Today’s Janet’s first day back after a few days off with a cold. Her voice is even worse than usual. I love it.

  “Did he say why?” I say.

  “Something about the details of the case changing, and some more of Mr. Grayson’s, uh, business partners, being pulled into it. Sounds like you’re going to need the extra time because the scope of everything has expanded. Mr. Watkins said some of these business partners will be at the meeting, too. I told him you’d be there, and were more than capable of handling the extra work.”

  It’s moments like these that I’m especially grateful for Janet. Without her, I’d be unemployed, or at least sitting in some human resource manager’s office waiting for a stern scolding, if that message came to me directly.

  “Did he offer any sort of apology for being such a rude fuckwit and only calling five fucking minutes before the meeting is supposed to start?”

  “I asked that, too.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, but in a nice way.”

  I love this woman.

  “And?”

  “He said, since he’s the ‘Watkins’, in ‘Meagher, Thatcher & Watkins’ and Mr. Grayson is paying six figures for our services, so we can damn well accommodate a small schedule change. You, especially, if you want to maintain your prospects for promotion.”

  Even before she’s done explaining, I’m squeezing the bridge of my nose as a stress-headache hammers away at my temples like a speed-addicted drummer at a metal concert.

  Even my bosses can be obstacles to success. I just have to keep working harder. I’ve come this far on my own, I can keep going.

  “Ok, Janet, I need you to shuffle around the rest of my day. Move everyone that I’ve got scheduled for this afternoon to tomorrow.”

  “The Grayson meeting should only be a couple hours, are you sure want to move everything?”

  “Do it, please. I’m pretty certain I’ll be leaving right after and doing my research for this Grayson debacle through happy hour.”

  I stand up, pound the cold remnants of my post-lunch cup of coffee, grab the stack of files for the Grayson case — which are probably already out of date considering these last-minute changes — and force that all-important professional smile on my face as I hurry out the door and race towards the elevators.

  I need to nail this.

  Success means I’ll be positioning myself to take a significant step up the ladder at this firm. Someday, maybe, I’ll even see my name among ‘Meagher, Thatcher & Watkins’. Thoughts like that make all the bullshit of the here and now almost seem worthwhile.

  Five minutes. Just five minutes until the most important meeting of my career.

  I can do this.

  * * * * *

  Three minutes.

  I pace outside the unisex restroom down the hall from the conference room.

  The door’s locked and, no matter how many times I jiggle the handle, the lackwit inside doesn’t seem to pick up the hint: hurry the fuck up.

  Looking down the hall, I can see Mr. Watkins — thick, mostly-salt hair in a side-part, short, immaculately trimmed beard and six-foot-two aura of unshakeable confidence — give me a look and tap his Rolex. I’d have to be blind not to know what that means.

  I knock on the door. Hard.

  “Can you hurry up?”

  A voice that sounds like it comes from the dirty depths of the sewer calls back. “Yeah, yeah, don’t get your panties in a bunch.”

  There’s a flush.

  Some cursing. A splash.

  Then a second flush.

  Then, silence. No sound of running water. No hand-dryer. Nothing.

  The door opens.

  Ugh.

  A grotesque smile from a wrinkled, triple-chinned face that’s covered with patches of stubble and a crooked, bulbous nose that reminds me of a mottled pear. A leer from rheumy brown eyes. A gut that bulges and strains against the confines of
a wrinkled shirt.

  “Well, well, who might you be?” he says, his voice just as greasy as that malformation that barely qualifies as his face.

  “Busy,” I say, trying to move around him.

  Even if he weren’t standing in the doorway to the bathroom, it’d be hard to get around his bulk in anything smaller than an aircraft hangar.

  “Too busy for me, sweetheart? Do you even know who I am?”

  He doesn’t move.

  You’re my Sisyphean boulder. Because maybe I was too ambitious in my last performance review.

  “Are you fucking serious?” I say.

  “Why don’t you blow off whatever boss has got you fetching his coffee and you and I get to know each other? Whatever you make on your secretary salary, I can pay you more. Trust me.”

  Boulder-gut takes a step closer, greedy fingers twitching and making pinching motions.

  I do not have time for this shit.

  “Fuck off.”

  I cock my knee and unleash. Perfect shot. I grit my teeth as my knee hits his groin — not out of pain, but for the sheer grossness of only being separated from touching his dick by millimeters of fabric. Unsurprisingly, my knee doesn’t hit anything substantial except his overhanging gut.

  He drops to his knees in a satisfying fashion. His too-fat face now a ketchup shade of red. In any other circumstances, I’d pause a moment to enjoy the sight, but I don’t even have time for that. I’ve got to pee and I’ve got a meeting to get to.

  I step around his prone bulk and dart into the restroom, slamming the door behind me.

  * * * * *

  I open the door to the kind of scene I’ve only witnessed in my nightmares: Mr. Watkins, red-faced, pupils-dilated, fists-clenched, waiting for me in the hallway. Further down the hall, with his fat head poking out of the conference room, the same bulky creeper stands staring at me, managing a look that somehow combines rage and lustful leering.

  He didn’t learn his lesson.

  “Maria,” Mr. Watkins starts.

  “Sir?”

  “I see you met Mr. Grayson’s business partner.”

  I cross my arms. “Oh, you saw?”

  “I did.”

  I grit my teeth. “If I did anything improper, sir, I apologize. I didn’t realize it was acceptable behavior for clients to try to sexually assault their legal counsel.”

  He sighs, some of the red fades from his face, and he runs a hand through his thick gray hair. “It isn’t. Ever. Listen, I’m not upset with you, Maria. I’m upset that now I can’t have you on this case thanks to Grayson’s business partner, Alastair Lalonde, whom you just met. I doubt things could remain professional, now.”

  I frown a second, trying to figure out why life would waste an attractive name on that mess of a man; Alastair seems more like a ‘Chet’ or a ‘Marv’. Or ‘shithead’.

  “I can still work this case. I can promise you, there won’t be any further unprofessional outbursts.”

  “I know you can promise that, but I’m not sure he can. And trust me, it was hell and a half getting them to calm down and see reason,” he says. “But, after an incident like this — however justified — you’ll be assigned to something else.”

  God damn it.

  “What kind of impact is this going to have on my prospects, sir?”

  He laughs. “I saw the whole thing, Maria. Don’t worry — you’re in the clear. And this may work out for the best. There’s a special case that really could use your attention. And I’d consider it a favor if you’d be willing to take it up.”

  I perk up. First I get to teach humility and hesitation to a pervert, and now life, for once, might reward me for it.

  “What’s that?”

  There’s a steely click as he undoes the buckles on his briefcase. He pulls out a thick manila folder labeled Ardoin, David and hands it over.

  “A old college friend of mine reached out to me about a week ago. He runs a solo practice and he’s landed a case that’s more than he can handle on his own. He wanted to know if I could spare anyone. Now that you’re free, I actually have someone capable to spare. I’d like you to head out there immediately. Do well, and you could see yourself on the fast track from Junior Associate to Senior Associate. Use your company card for tickets and whatever else you need when you get there.”

  I flip through the folder. Words like US Attorney, cooperating witness, organized crime hop out at me. This might not be too bad, after all.

  “Head to where?”

  “Missoula, Montana.”

  Chapter Two

  Ozzy

  Perfect silence, perfect peace, everything’s exactly as it should be, except for the gentle, distant snores coming from the back room. In this sublime moment, the clubhouse is my sanctuary.

  For a few hours most every early morning when it’s Rugby season — during that short period when the pub closes for the night and reopens for the day — the place is mine. And while the club will have church later, now is my time to worship.

  I pick up the remote and, with the push of a few buttons, I’m soon basking in the glow of the television. The world becomes simple in just the way I like it: rugby, food, beer, and, later, I’ll spend time with my brothers.

  Life is good.

  I have a home, I have a family, men and women who took a chance on a Kiwi bloke like me after I showed up at their door, and I have pride in what I do. That patch on my cut — Enforcer — is something I work hard to live up to every single day.

  And today’s a special day: the All Blacks — New Zealand’s National team — are playing the Wallabies. New Zealand’s best up against whatever it is that qualifies as ‘good’ in Australia. This match is going to be a satisfying shoe-in.

  And that’s not all that makes today special.

  Smile on my face — because it’s only three minutes into the match and my team has already scored — I pour myself a pint, heat up a steak and cheese pie in the microwave, and set my phone out on the table in front of me so I can open up the tracking number for the package I ordered.

  There’s a hardworking woman out there that’s been on my mind since the day I met her and she’s got a present coming her way.

  Every few minutes, I hit refresh on my phone, and urge the bloody thing to make that simple change from ‘Out for Delivery’ to ‘Delivered’.

  I know if I shut my eyes — though I won’t, because then I’d miss a moment of the game — I can imagine the smile on Maria’s face as she opens up her presents. Half a country away, I can hear the joyful curses as she sees each of the gifts I spent time picking out for her.

  And then, even though she’s tired as hell from her job, she’ll ring me. And that’ll be the best part of my day — hearing her voice.

  From two thousand miles away, she lights up my days and heats up my nights. Toughness and brains wrapped up in a dynamite red-headed package.

  “Will you turn that shit down?”

  I turn around.

  Preacher’s in the doorway. His face is gray, his eyes half-open, and he’s holding onto the door frame for dear life.

  “Come on, brother. This is important. National bragging rights. If we beat the Wallabies, I’ll be able to hold it over my cousin Seth in Brisbane. And my cousin Seth is kind of a dick, so I think you can understand that I need to watch this game,” I say.

  Preacher doesn’t move, except to rub his temples. “Come on. I am hung over as shit, man. Please.”

  I get up and head to the bar, pulling down an empty glass. “I reckon you’d have to be if you’re sleeping here instead of your cabin. You know the best cure for a hang over, right?”

  “No more beer, brother,” he says, shaking his head. “But if you make me a Bloody Mary, I’ll let you keep your game on. I might even watch it with you.”

  “Deal.”

  I whip up the Bloody Mary in no time. I even add a little bit of piri piri sauce to give it some extra kick to help knock out Preacher’s hangover. Then I’m right back w
here I need to be: in my chair, checking my phone and watching my team stomp Australia.

  The game’s going perfectly — we’re up 28 to 0 when the half ends — and the only thing putting a damper on my mood is the bloody UPS delivery man seems to be taking his time getting the package to Maria.

  “What the hell do you keep rubbing on your phone for?” Preacher says, after about the twentieth time that I’ve checked the tracking number. “Are you watching porn on that thing? Anything good?”

  I shake my head and point to the TV. “Not porn. Just checking something. Besides, that up there is better than any porn, bro. You want to get any Kiwi excited, you show him that.”

  “So you’re saying you’re excited right now?”

  “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  It’s a good game, and the All Blacks are performing excellently. Why the hell wouldn’t I be excited?

  “Physically excited right now?”

  “Well, yeah, bro. It’s a good game. You bet I’m physically excited.”

  Preacher looks at me like I’ve lost my damn mind.

  “You’re seriously hard right now?”

  “This is a big thing, bro,” I say, pausing to sip my beer and put him on edge. “But if you’re asking if I have an erection: no, I don’t. I haven’t had an erection from a rugby match in a couple years. Not since the All Blacks won the World Cup. I watched the finals in a pub in Tauranga. Hell, I’ll bet every bloke there was hard by the end of the match.”

  Preachers eyes bug a little bit and he finishes half his Bloody Mary in a gulp. “I will never understand you.”

  I shrug and get back to the game.

  The door to the pub opens and slams shut behind us and thudding footsteps pound their way to stand right between Preacher and me. One heavy hand settles on my shoulder, another heavy hand settles on Preacher’s.

  “Just the two I’ve been looking for,” Gunney says, then his eyes drift on up to the TV. “What the hell are you two watching this early in the morning?”