24. Ozzie
24
OZZIE
The wind bites at my face as I tear down the highway, the engine of my Softail Deluxe humming beneath me like music to my ears. This time of year, the air is crisp and cool enough to keep me alert and awake as I ride for hours.
The California border blurs past, a sun-bleached sign welcoming me back to a place I swore I’d never return to. The sky’s that kind of pale, washed-out blue, like summer’s still got its claws in the season, refusing to let go.
Riding on an open road has always been the one thing to quiet my chaotic brain. All the static and noise fades out, replaced by the steady pulse of the road underneath my tires. There’s no judgment or expectations. It’s just me, my bike, and the pavement stretched out before me.
By the time I hit Newport Beach, the sun’s started its slow crawl toward the horizon. The salt in the air greets me like an old familiar friend. Palm trees sway along the streets, their fronds rustling in the breeze. I ride by million dollar homes and their manicured lawns and notice all the luxury cars occupying the streets. At a red light, some teenagers cruise by on skateboards, laughing loud enough to cut through the rumble of my engine.
I watch them, remembering a time when I was them. Just some kid with my skateboard heading out with pals to go enjoy ourselves. Back then, nothing felt serious. School was a joke, something to survive not excel in. I’d bomb tests no matter how hard I tried. Words on a page never lined up right and things like algebra were an even bigger waste of time.
What was the point when I’d never live up to expectations?
And now here I am—back where it all started.
I ease the bike to a stop in front of the wrought-iron gates of my parents' place. The Spanish Eclectic style home with its sloped red roof and white walls dredges up even more memories from the past. Countless times I snuck out after hours only to return minutes before dawn.
Neatly trimmed hedges flank the front of the home, the rest of the lawn and paved driveway like something ripped out of some home magazine. Perfect and polished in every way. Mom wouldn’t have anything less.
Keeping up appearances has always been important to her.
A couple minutes pass where I’m lurking in front of the tall gates, processing what it’s like to be back at my childhood home.
The front door opens. My mother steps out in a floral blouse and capri pants, her blonde hair swept up in some fancy twist. She approaches the gardener currently trimming the hedges and starts gesturing to the work he’s doing. Probably pointing out all the flaws as she demands perfection.
I duck back from behind the front gate, heart pounding in my chest like I’m fucking fourteen again trying to sneak into the house unseen.
No more than a couple seconds later, the gate grinds into motion, sliding off to the left. Someone’s used their remote to open it.
I bow my head the moment I realize who it is, hiding my face from view. Not that the man behind the wheel of the sleek black Maserati notices.
My father’s speaking to somebody through his Bluetooth earpiece as he grips the wheel and steers his pricey set of wheels through the open gate. He parks in the center of the driveway just like old times. He’s getting out of the car when my mother’s done bitching out the gardener and goes over to greet him.
Temptation flickers through me, the urge to step through the open gate and pop up out of the blue like their worst nightmare.
This is what I came all the way to Newport for. I wanted to cause some trouble and disrupt their perfect little humdrum lives. Maybe make my mother cry and get some licks in on my father as payback for the times he had no problem putting his hands on me.
For a second, I’m on the verge of doing it. My boots edge forward and I’m curling a tattooed fist thinking about how sweet it’d be to introduce it to my father’s face.
But then… I don’t.
The urges, the adrenaline, the bitter thoughts and feelings, all fade at once. Instead, I swallow against the lump in my throat and then start backing away. I mount my bike half a block down and twist the throttle, peeling away from the curb before they can ever see me. Before they ever know their son’s come back from the dead.
Hundreds of miles traveled and years of bad memories stuck in my head, but it doesn’t change the reality of the situation. Something I should’ve realized sooner than later, no matter how fucked up and unresolved it all is.
There’s nothing left for me here.
There’s no repairing what was broken between us. I’m better off staying dead.
I pull into the parking lot of Corner Spirits, the first liquor store that I happen to come across once I’ve managed to escape Newport.
My boots crunch over cracked asphalt as I head inside. Fluorescent lights flicker from above the dusty shelves that are stocked with products I suspect are way past the expiration date. I stop in front of the row of whiskey bottles in the beer and liquor aisle and grab some of the cheap stuff. Heritage Barrel, twenty-five ounces for seven bucks.
It’ll get the job done.
At the register, a couple stands ahead of me, tangled up in each other. The guy’s hand rests low on his girl’s hip as she laughs at something he whispers into her ear. It’s the kind of easy affection I’ve always craved from a woman. That kind of bond where you’re each other’s world even when you’re out in the real world. You’ve only got eyes for each other.
Something inside me twists, sharp and heavy, but I shove it down. No point wanting what’ll never be mine.
I pay in cash and haul my bottle back to the bike, the engine rumbling under me as I ride down the highway. Newport’s lights blur far behind me, swallowed by the dark stretch of road. Twenty minutes later, I pull into the lot of a cheap motel called the Sea Breeze Inn. The sign’s missing a letter and the paint peels from the walls like dry, dead skin. Though it’s a far cry from anything breezy or inviting, it’ll do for the night.
The room smells of mildew and stale cigarettes, but it’s a place to drink myself blind. I dump my duffel on the bed, pull out the whiskey, and tear off the cap. No glass in sight, I snag a paper cup from the bathroom. The liquid trickles out of the bottle into the paper cup, the smoky scent hitting my nose.
But I don’t take the shot like I planned to.
I can’t bring myself to do it as I sit back and stare at the paper cup, feeling like I’m at a crossroads. I can take the shot, get fucked up, go on another bender at some bar or strip club like I’ve done countless times.
…or I can actually try to do better. I can get over the fucking mental block that exists in my brain, telling me I might as well keep messing up since I’m already a screw up.
Nobody else decides that but me.
I have total control of myself. I’m the one who determines whether I keep fucking up and repeating the same cycle over and over again.
If I take this shot, I’m doing what I’ve always done. I’ll end up in the same place. How many times do I need to go down that road before I get my shit together?
Mind still not made up, I reach into my duffel and feel around for my phone charger so I can get the battery life back up. My fingers brush against a torn scrap of paper. I tug it out to see what it is and my heartbeat doubles once I recognize the handwriting.
Zoe’s number scribbled on the paper. She’d jotted this down when she’d shown up to my trailer in Pulsboro. I couldn’t find my phone from the blackout haze I’d been in the night before and she wrote it on a scrap of paper instead.
I should toss it in the trash.
Our time together was over three months ago. It’s a period from the past that needs to remain there.
I shouldn’t even be thinking about her, but here I am, staring at the numbers like some desperate asshole who doesn’t know how to let go.
I sink onto the bed, running my thumb over the worn edges of the paper. My mind drifts back to the nights we spent together. The good and the bad. Moments I’ll never forget, even if I didn’t realize at the time how they’d live rent free in my head even months later.
Zoe always stood her ground and it drove me fucking crazy. But it was also so fucking addicting that I couldn’t get enough. She challenged me and I challenged her and we collided in the most brutal yet satisfying way.
With some work and effort, I got her to relax a little, and in time, she had me straightening up. She made me want to do better and clean up my act. She was trusting me to be her partner during her investigation and I wanted to meet that standard. Show her I could be relied on; I could be the one person she opened up to…
Her laughter always felt so earned. So did the small moments of vulnerability she showed me, where for once she let down those impossibly high walls, and let me in. My eyes close as I remember her touch, and how she’d kiss me back just as deep as I was kissing her, like she needed it as much as I did.
I know I shouldn’t. She’d be better off without me dragging her down. But my hand moves on its own, grabbing my phone and punching in the numbers from the scrap of paper. My pulse thuds in sync with every ring.
One.
Two.
Three.
Then a click.
“Agent Rodriguez,” answers a male voice.
I blink, thrown off. “Uh… I was… is this Zoe Strauss’s number?”
“This cell was on her desk,” the guy says. “It was her burner from a previous assignment. Is this Oswald Gallagher? You’re saved as a contact in her phone. The name came up when you called.”
Fuck. That’s right.
This must be the number she used undercover as Jade Fowley. I don’t have Zoe’s real number.
I rub the back of my neck, debating whether to hang up. “Is she available? Can you give her a message?”
“Agent Strauss is on a leave of absence,” Rodriguez says. “I believe she’s visiting family. But I can let her know you called if she does return.”
Family.
…as in her mother and father in Pomona?
My heart lurches at the thought. “Nah, that’s alright. Don’t bother. I’ll get in touch another way.”
We hang up on that note with me dropping my phone onto the bed.
A moment goes by where I sit still, shoulders slumped, feeling the weight of disappointment crush me. I had hoped I’d get to hear her voice again. We could’ve caught up and talked, even for a few minutes.
It could’ve been the closure I need.
Rodriguez had said she was on a leave of absence visiting her family. That had to mean her parents. She’d told me they live in Pomona. Did that mean she was in Cali too?
The possibility makes way for a fresh wave of hope. It’s some sliver of light in what feels like a dark tunnel trying to pull me in.
I grab my phone again, fingers flying over the screen as I search her name and look up all the addresses ever associated with her. In this day and age, nothing’s private. Nothing’s kept off the internet, for better or worse. That includes phone numbers, addresses, and other personal info.
It doesn’t take long to track down an address in Pomona. That has to be her parents’ place. I remember her talking about them—the mess they always got themselves into while she was stuck being the backbone of the family. I picture her alone and exhausted as she fixes their lives for the thousandth time, handling the burden they put on her.
I could help. Offer myself and anything she needs, whether that’s sorting their shit out, or being a listening ear.
The whole thing sounds fucking crazy when I pause long enough to think too much about it, but taking chances is all I have left. If I want to see her again, this is what I’ve gotta do.
I snatch my helmet and keys off the table where I’ve placed them and head for the door.
Whatever happens next—good or bad or fucking ugly—I need to see her again.