26. Ozzie
26
OZZIE
Zoe’s lost in a daze as I set her back on her feet. Her body’s stiff, like she’s still in flight mode. Her breaths come in short, sharp gasps, chest rising and falling way too fast.
“Shit, Zoe,” I mutter, still confused myself. “What the hell were you thinking? You almost got turned into fucking roadkill!”
She doesn’t answer. Just stands there, glassy-eyed and rattled as if doesn’t register I’m even standing in front of her. That I just yanked her ass out of oncoming traffic. I take in the sight of her from her puffy eyes to the cheeks wet with tears that have fallen to the way her long, thick braids are scattered over her shoulder like she’s been moving so much she doesn’t care.
Then I see it—the blood at the corner of her lip.
Something’s up. Something bad.
I step toward her, grabbing her at the elbows for a closer look. “Is that a cut on your lip? Who did this?”
She blinks at me, those wild eyes darting everywhere but mine. My stomach knots, a sick, ugly feeling rolling through me.
“Zoe,” I growl, this time rougher. “Who. Did. This?”
I already know the answer. We’re outside her family home. She was fleeing fast as if desperate to reach the other side of the street. My gaze travels past her for a look at the house behind us—the old, sagging porch, the weak glow of the porch light, the cigarette butts littering the cracked steps. The screen door offers a preview of the mess inside.
It bangs open a second later, loose on its hinges.
Her father emerges, his features contorted in fury.
The blood in my veins heats up as our gazes connect and I’ve got the sudden taste for violence.
“Get the hell away from my property!” he shouts, his speech slurred.
“You did this?” I yell back at him. “You hit her?”
“None of your damn business! Who the fuck are you?”
“Somebody about to beat your ass for putting your hands on her!”
Her father stumbles down a porch step, fists clenched like he’s ready for a fight. “Disrespect me again and you’re about to be on the floor!”
Rage explodes inside me like a match tossed into gasoline. I let go of Zoe so fast she staggers back, my feet already carrying me toward him.
“Answer me, you piece of shit!” I’m in his face now, snatching at the front of his shirt, yanking him forward. The stink of beer and cigarettes rolls off him, making my stomach turn.
“Let go of me!” he snarls, trying to shove me away. “You’re about to be laid the fuck out!”
“Ozzie, no! Just leave it!” Zoe’s behind me now, grabbing at my arm.
Leave it? After he did this to her?
“How I deal with my daughter is a family matter. It’s none of your damn business!” He swings on me, sloppy and slow.
Anticipating the move, I duck out of the way, then slam him back against the porch column behind us. The wooden pillar rattles from the hard collision.
I press my forearm hard against his throat, cutting off his air enough to make him sputter and squirm. His breath hitches, panic flashing in his bloodshot eyes.
“Listen real carefully, old man,” I growl, my voice deadly low. “The only reason I’m not knocking you out cold right now is ’cuz your daughter’s asked me not to. So you’re gonna do exactly what I say.”
He gasps for air, hands clawing weakly at my arm barred across his throat. I press down harder, watching his face go slack from lack of circulation.
“Say it,” I order. “Tell her you’re sorry. Tell her you’ll never lay a goddamn hand on her again.”
His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. I press down even harder.
“Say it!”
A strangled wheeze escapes him. “I’m… I’m sorry. I won’t… won’t do it again.”
“Louder!” I bark. “Mean it!”
His whole body trembles between me and the porch column. “I’m sorry, Zozo! I won’t touch you again!”
I lean in, glaring at him with teeth bared. “And if you ever do lay a hand on her again, I’m cutting it the fuck off. Both of them. You hear me?”
His head jerks up and down frantically.
Good.
I drop my arm from his throat and step back. He sinks to his knees, looking like a pathetic piece of shit the way he sputters for more air. Mrs. Strauss makes her first appearance, scrambling down the porch steps in tears, hurling accusations at us.
“Get away from him! Get away from my husband!”
The way she throws herself at him like a shield is nauseating. Glancing over at Zoe, I can see I’m not the only one who feels that way.
There’s pain etched onto her face, eyes still so shiny I could see my reflection in them. It’s the look of heartbreak, her brows pushed together and lips rolled tight as if to hold in the cry begging for release.
Zoe’s finally seeing her parents for what they are; she’s coming to terms with the fact that they’ve been users all along.
They’ve never loved her like they should.
“Come on,” I say, voice still rougher than usual. My temper’s still driving me, the urges to wreck her father almost unbearable. I reach for her wrist to pull her with me. “You need to get out of here. For your own sanity.”
For my sanity too… or else I will wreck him.
She doesn’t fight me on it. She doesn’t even say a word. Just lets me pull her away from the house and toward my bike, away from the man who never deserved to call himself her father.
We head to Zoe’s studio. She’s quiet the entire ride over. The craziness at her parents’ house seems to weigh on her, leaving her exhausted and spent. I have to help her with the keys to unlock the door to her apartment.
The door swings open and she trudges inside almost like she’s sleepwalking. She drops her purse and set of keys on the kitchenette counter and then crosses the compact space without bothering with a light.
I’m the one who flicks the switch nearest the kitchenette, lighting up the place.
Her studio is… barren. Squeaky clean but lacking any real character. Everything’s minimal, making the space look hardly lived in. There’s no color unless you count white and gray, and not a single personal item that’s decoration.
Where most people would place a couch, Zoe’s put a treadmill. It’s positioned directly in front of a mounted TV. The only other pieces of furniture she’s bothered with are two bar stools by the kitchenette counter and the bed tucked into the corner by the window. Even the bedding’s minimal, white sheets, pillows, and a thin blanket swathed across the top.
If you told me somebody lived here, I’d call you a liar. I’m nobody to judge when my trailer regularly looks like a damn tornado’s passed through, but whatever this is, is the opposite. It’s like some huge vacuum combed through the place and sucked out any warmth and life.
It makes me look over at Zoe, an ache in my chest for her. She’d probably never admit it—vulnerability’s damn near her kryptonite—but this is a cold, lonely space. This is somewhere that’s been like a prison cell for her.
Zoe makes it to her bed, rubbing her arms, a lost expression on her face. Then, like her body’s given up on her, she drops onto the side of the bed and stares down at her sneakers before she tries to slide them off.
The task seemed easier than it is, as the left shoe gets stuck on her heel and she gives up altogether.
I don’t give it any thought. I just move.
Crossing the room in two short strides, I kneel in front of her and take her left foot in my hand, gently sliding it out of her sneaker. I do the same for her right until only her plain black ankle socks cling to her feet and she’s staring down at me like it hasn’t registered what I’ve done.
Her hazel eyes usually hold a spark that’s amazed me at times. But right now, they’re puffy and bloodshot, glossed by unshed tears.
Fuck… I’ve never wanted to take away someone’s pain more. I want to be the person that she lets in…
An instinctual urge awakens inside me like it never has before with anyone else. I want to be the guy she can depend on right now. Maybe I’ve always wanted that. I just hadn’t known it.
My mind searches for other ways I can help. Something I can do or say to make things easier for her.
Then I remember her bedtime ritual and snap into action. I push to my feet and head to the kitchenette to make her favorite herbal tea. At the hotel in Vegas, she’d relied on the single-serve coffee pot and some Viva Las Vegas mug she’d bought in a gift shop to make her cups of tea before bed. Drawing a few cabinets open, I’m able to find everything I need, including the box of tea.
A few minutes later, I return to her with a sleep shirt I’ve dug out of her dresser and the warm mug of herbal tea I’ve made.
“Figured this might help,” I say.
She blinks like she’s forgotten I’m here, still in some kind of trance from tonight’s events. I set the mug down and hold up the sleep shirt.
“You should get in bed. Get some sleep. It might help.”
Slowly, she nods, though she makes no attempt to reach for the shirt.
I’m cautious about my next suggestion, fully aware how it could blow up in my face. Her old, stubborn ways can return in the blink of an eye.
“You want… you, uh, want me to help you into it?” I ask.
Again, she nods, gaze set on the floor, so withdrawn and sullen I’m not even sure I feel comfortable leaving her alone like this.
My hands, covered in tattoos and scars from all the times I’ve gotten into trouble, are slow-moving and gentle. I give her the time and space to reject my advances as I reach for the hem of her t-shirt and ease it off her. Our fingers meet as she tries to tug down the strap of her bra next.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ve got it. I’ll unhook it.”
It takes some maneuvering, but she lets me undo the rest of her bra and then we work on her jeans. In the end, I slide the sleep shirt over her head, failing to resist a soft caress of her cheek.
We’re so close that I can feel her energy. I can fucking feel the heartbreak.
My hands ache to pull her to me, wrap my arms around her, surround her in all the warmth and affection I can. All things she more than deserves.
I tamp down on the temptation and remind myself that I can’t overwhelm her. As much as I’d like to put my arms around her, this goes how she wants it to. It’s a miracle that she even let me back into her life, even if it’s just for tonight.
Whatever she’s thinking, she doesn’t draw away from me. But she still doesn’t look me in the eye, like she’s too ashamed. A small breath puffs out of her as she stares at the ground between our feet and mutters, “I just wanted them to love me.”
My throat tightens. I can relate more than she knows. It’s the same exact wish I had for my parents. “They’re your mom and dad. Of course you wanted that.”
“Ever since I was a kid, I had this fantasy that one day… almost like magic… they’d get clean. They’d wake up and realize they had two little girls to take care of, and they’d be the kind of parents you see in TV sitcoms. I guess a part of me… I don’t know… I never let go of that dream.”
“They should’ve. That’s what they should’ve done for you. Both you and your sister.”
She lets out a broken laugh. “But I never grew out of it. Not even when I should’ve. I just doubled down on it. They were all I had left after Zani…”
Zoe turns away from me and drops back down on the side of the bed, sitting forward with her elbows resting on her thighs and her hands covering her face. I lower myself down next to her, gradually touching my hand to her back.
When she doesn’t flinch or recoil, I start rubbing slow, circular patterns. It’s not much, but it’s some kind of touch. Something I hope soothes her.
“After Zani died, I convinced myself I could fix them. I could fix everything. I took the burden of everything—like always—and made it this… centerpiece of my life. Like if I could take Boone down and get my parents’ act together, at least I could find some peace after losing her. I wouldn’t blame myself for everything anymore.”
“Something tells me they didn’t help with that thinking,” I say. “It kept you coming back to clean up their mess.”
“They said I abandoned them… and I told myself they were right.” She speaks through her fingers, still covering her face. “I had my first real episode after Zoe passed. I… I lost it for a while. And I convinced myself that if I could hold it together, keep myself in check, basically fixate on being…”
“Perfect?” I offer.
She sits up, hands dropping from her face. From a profile view, her expression’s between a reluctant smile and pained grimace. “Perfect. You keep calling me that. I’ve never been anything close. I just mask for the world because everything on the inside is so… ugly. Such a mess. It was easier to pretend I had it all together.”
“At least you tried to have your act together. You didn’t let the mess all hang out like me. I’ve been a screw up my whole life and I started leaning into it. I figured why not if people thought I was one anyway? If my own damn parents were ashamed, might as well give them more stuff to be ashamed about. It seemed a whole lot more fun doing things that way.”
She snorts, shaking her head. “We’re so messed up. It’s a wonder we’re even functioning. We’re lost causes.”
“Nah. We’re not lost causes. We’re just works in progress.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“It’s true. I’ve come to realize that it’s relative. People don’t define who you are. Neither does our past or the mistakes we make. We define ourselves. We get to choose the kind of people we are. We make that choice every single day when we wake up and have another day to live.”
“I’ve… never thought of it that way,” she admits.
“Honestly? Me neither ’til tonight. I’ve realized I don’t want to be the guy I’ve let myself become. Some destructive asshole who disappoints everybody around him and goes off on benders every few weeks. It’s not good for me. But I’m the only guy who can make that change. Just like only your parents can do better for themselves.”
“You’re right,” she mumbles, drawing a shaky breath. “They have to do the hard work. I have my own shit to sort out.”
“You will. I know you will.”
“How?”
I shrug. “Because you’re you, Special Agent. You’re pretty fucking amazing, whether you realize it or not.”
“I can always count on you to make me feel like a badass.”
We both laugh, the mood in the air lightening some. Zoe wipes at her eyes and takes her time seemingly sorting through whatever thoughts fill her head. I’m patient letting her. We’re on her timetable tonight.
“You’re pretty amazing too. I’ve told you before, I admire how… free and open you are. Just so unfiltered. I need a little bit of that.”
“I’ll rub off on you again, fed. Don’t forget how it started to happen in Vegas.” I cut her a crooked grin that she bashfully looks away from.
“You know,” she says, “I thought about you a lot these past couple months.”
My ears warm up at those few words. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. A lot. I wanted to reach out. I almost did. But I stopped myself.”
I let my hand travel from her back to her lap, where I scoop up her hand in mine. “That’s alright. We’re with each other now.”
“I was so surprised to see you. I’ve been in Pomona for my leave of absence, because what else would I do if not fixate on my parents’ mess? I had to question if I were in Texas.”
I clear my throat, suddenly nervous. “About that. I came to Cali to confront my parents—fucking stupid, I know—but then I was thinking about you and I called the number to your burner phone. Your partner, Rodriguez, answered, and I figured out the rest from there.”
“The rest? As in my parents’ address?”
“The internet has way too much info on it.”
She laughs. “I had a feeling that was the case.”
“I had to come see you. I couldn’t stand never getting the chance again. There I was, about to bury myself in a bottle of whiskey, and I couldn’t do it. It wouldn’t solve anything. But it sure as hell would make things worse. I’ve got a lot of changes to make. Including going back on my meds. For good this time.”
Her eyes widen in shock. “Ozzie, you went off them?”
“As of twenty-four hours ago. I know,” I say quickly. “I know I shouldn’t have. I was being a fucking idiot. I’m going back on them. I promise I’ll stay on them. This is about proving to myself that I can. But also…”
“Also what?”
“Showing you I can be the kinda guy you can depend on. I want to be the person who gets clean for you.”
She glances down at our linked hands resting in her lap. “Ozzie…”
“Look, I know any kind of closeness makes you uncomfortable. We can take things slow. Real slow. Get to know each other more. Figure ourselves out together.”
“I think…” she pauses to give my hand a squeeze. “I like the sound of that.”
Before I can stop myself or think about all the reasons I probably shouldn’t, I cup her by the cheek and turn her head toward me, placing a warm kiss on her mouth. She immediately relaxes against me, parting her lips, seeking more.
Not to be dramatic or a fucking sap, but kissing Zoe after months apart feels like the first burst of sunlight in a long time.
I’m left reveling in how sweet and supple it is. How her lips feel so damn right pressed against mine. How I’ve never felt closer to anybody than the woman who makes me want to be a better man.
In Vegas, we discovered an insatiable sexual appetite for each other. But we’ve come full circle, finding something much deeper. Something that’s not fake or superficial like the relationship we’d created to take down Boone.
This is real. This is so damn real that it’s not perfect and it’s not easy, but that’s what makes it worth it.
I pull back just enough to rest my forehead against hers. “Bed?”
“Bed,” she answers. Then she adds, “Stay?”
A half-grin comes to my face and I kiss her again. “Stay.”
She curls up under the sheets and I slide in behind her. My arm wraps around her waist and I pull her close. We settle into position like puzzle pieces always meant to fit together.
I smell sugar as I wake up the next morning. It’s thick in the air as I rub my eyes and sit up in bed. Music fills the room, some catchy pop song I don’t recognize, the TV screen showing some kind of music station that’s been brought up.
My gaze slides over to the kitchenette area where the woman in a sleep shirt is dancing and using a spatula as a microphone as she cooks pancakes on a griddle.
I blink, still groggy, and try to figure out if this is real or a dream.
Zoe’s shaking her ass, holding the spatula up like she’s singing into it.
A grin stretches across my face as I lean back against the bed pillows and watch the show. She returns to the griddle long enough to flip the pancakes onto the other side, then transitions into a smooth two step that makes me laugh. The lyrics she does sing along to are off-key, but her enthusiasm—and how fucking good she looks in that sleep shirt—make up for it.
She’s transferring the pancakes to waiting plates on the counter when I clear my throat and get her attention.
“You selling any tickets to this concert, or is this a private show?”
She jumps slightly, startled, before spinning toward me with wide eyes. Then her face softens into a shy smile. “Fortunately for you, it’s your lucky day. VIP show just for you.”
“That’s what I like to hear.”
“Hope you like pancakes. It was all I had for breakfast.” She sets both plates down in front of the bar stools at the kitchen counter.
“You kidding? I demolish pancakes.”
She laughs. “Just make sure you don’t put hot sauce on them. I’ve provided the syrup for a reason.”
“Don’t knock it ’til you try it, babe.” I smirk, joining her at the stools and grabbing a fork.
She groans dramatically but sits down next to me, shaking her head in mock disappointment. The moment feels easy, natural in a way that I’m not used to. I dig into my pancakes, cutting through the warm, fluffy stack, watching as syrup drips down the sides.
The first bite is perfect. I hum in satisfaction. Zoe notices and gives me a pleased little smile.
For a while, everything’s simple. It’s just the two of us, eating pancakes and talking about stupid stuff like her terrible taste in music (to which she kicks me under the counter).
“Ouch,” I groan. “You kick me when you should be getting better taste in music.”
“I’d love to see your playlist. Something tells me it’s full of either death metal or gangster rap.”
“That… actually is pretty damn accurate.”
We’re laughing some more when the violent vibration from my phone interrupts us. The screen lights up all the way from the bed, showing a slew of text messages coming through. I drop my fork against the plate, producing a clanging noise as I jump off the stool and go to check all the notifications.
Turns out, it’s not just texts that have come through. I’ve got missed calls too.
Seven of them.
I select the last person who called me, which was Cash, and ring him back. He answers on the first ring.
“Oz, we’ve been trying to get a hold of you. You weren’t at your trailer.”
My gaze meets Zoe’s. “I’m, uh, I’m out of town. What’s up?”
Cash exhales a breath, sounding grim. “It’s all over the news. The bus transporting Boone and Rollins to prison crashed.”
“It crashed ? How the fuck did that happen?!”
“It was run off the road,” Cash continues. “By a motorcycle crew.”
I go still, clutching my phone tighter. “You don’t mean it was the…”
“That’s exactly who it was. The Road Rebels busting their prez, Rollins, out before he could go back—and Boone too by association.”
“Do the police know where they’ve gone?”
“There’s a manhunt underway. But you know what that means.”
“Yeah,” I answer, tearing my gaze away from Zoe. “A storm’s coming.”
“Wherever you are, we need you back. Silver wants you at the saloon. You need to be briefed on everything else.”
“Alright, give me some time. I’ll be there by tomorrow. I’ll drive through the night.”
Zoe’s padded over by the time we hang up. She’s eyeing me like she already knows what could be wrong. Her natural instincts tell her who exactly is involved.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” she asks.
My jaw clenches and I give a nod. “He’s escaped. And he’s probably coming for payback.”