Chapter 5 Salem
FIVE
SALEM
The first thing nobody tells you about getting rescued is this: Once the adrenaline wears off, your body starts sending in complaints like it’s a customer service department with a personal vendetta.
My muscles ache in places I didn’t know could ache.
My hands won’t stop trembling, like they’re trying to shake the memory out of my bones.
And my stomach… My stomach is a full-blown riot.
I sit curled on the passenger seat of the SUV, wrapped in Ozzy’s hoodie like it’s armor, knees tucked up because it makes me feel smaller, safer. The cab smells like clean leather and pine air freshener and—this is going to sound insane—Ozzy.
Not cologne. Not fake “man” scent. Just… him. Warm skin. Soap. The faintest trace of something smoky, like he’s been near fire and came away untouched.
He drives with one hand on the wheel and the other resting near the console, relaxed like he’s not on a mission with a target in the passenger seat. Maybe that’s what makes him so dangerous. He looks like he belongs anywhere. Even here. Even now.
The road unspools in front of us, dark and empty, flanked by sleepy trees and the occasional set of headlights passing like ghosts. The hills rise in the distance, black shapes under a moon that feels too bright.
Safehouse Rainmaker. Fully stocked. Quiet. Hidden. A place I’m supposed to breathe again. But breathing is hard when my stomach is trying to eat my spine. I press a hand to my middle and let out a quiet groan.
Ozzy’s eyes flick to me, and then back to the road. “You hurt?”
“No,” I say, then immediately betray myself when my stomach makes an aggressive sound that could be mistaken for an animal growl.
Ozzy’s mouth twitches.
I glare at my own body. “Don’t.”
“It’s fine,” he says, voice low, amused. “Your stomach’s just… expressing itself.”
“I haven’t eaten since—” I stop, because time has become a blurry smear of fear and controlled breathing and pretending I wasn’t starving. “I don’t even know.”
His expression changes instantly. The humor drains, replaced by something sharp, protective, and quietly furious. “Okay,” he says. “We’re fixing that.”
My throat tightens at the easy certainty in his tone. Like feeding me is as simple as stopping for gas. Like my needs are allowed to exist without costing me something. I swallow. “Could we… pull over? Like… a drive-thru?”
Ozzy glances at the clock on the dash. It’s late. So late it’s early. “Yeah. Of course.” Then, after a beat, he adds, “If you say you’re fine and you don’t want to be a bother, I’m going to ignore you.”
I blink at him.
He keeps his eyes on the road, but his jaw shifts, like he’s already decided my hunger is non-negotiable.
I try for sarcasm because sarcasm is my safety blanket. “So you’re saying you’re not big on consent?”
His head turns just enough for me to catch the side of his grin. “I’m big on consent. I’m not big on you pretending you don’t deserve food.”
My chest gives this tiny, stupid ache. I look out the window before I do something embarrassing like get emotional over fries.
We take an exit and drift down a smaller road lined with closed shops and dark windows. Everything is asleep. The kind of quiet that makes you feel like the whole world is holding its breath. Then I see it. A glow ahead—pink neon, flickering slightly, like a heartbeat.
Ozzy turns into the lot.
The sign above the building reads:
MOONLIGHT MUNCHIES
And beneath it, in bright cursive: WE ALWAYS SATISFY YOUR CRAVINGS
I stare. I stare some more. Then I turn slowly to Ozzy. “What is this place?”
Ozzy pulls into the lot. He looks at the building like he’s also processing the absurdity. “It’s the only thing open.”
My gaze drops to the second sign in the window. BURGERS · brEAKFAST · ADULT TOYS
I blink. Then I blink again. “You brought me,” I say carefully, “to a place that sells pancakes and… handcuffs.”
Ozzy clears his throat like he’s trying to stay professional. He fails. “Technically, it sells sliders and… a variety of accessories.”
“A variety.”
He shrugs. “Multifunctional establishment.”
I press my lips together, trying so hard not to laugh that it becomes physically painful.
Ozzy’s eyes flick to mine. And then we both lose it. It starts as a quiet snort from him and a sharp little laugh from me, and then suddenly I’m laughing for real—full-bodied, shocked laughter that feels like my ribs are relearning how to expand.
Ozzy leans back in the driver’s seat, chuckling, his head tipping against the headrest. For a second, the world doesn’t feel like a trap. It feels like a ridiculous story I’ll tell someone later, when this is all over.
When I’m real again. When I’m free.
Ozzy steers the SUV toward the drive-thru. “Come on. Drive-thru.”
“Please tell me the drive-thru speaker is shaped like a—” I stop.
Ozzy points at me. “Don’t.”
“I wasn’t going to say it.”
His eyebrows lift. “You were.”
I smile, and it surprises me how natural it feels.
We roll forward into the drive-thru lane. The menu is lit up like a Vegas marquee. Everything is themed.
The Quickie
The Aftercare Platter
Full Moon Special
The 69
The Walk of Shame Breakfast
I cover my mouth with my sleeve. “This is unhinged.”
Ozzy taps the steering wheel. “We’re in Saint Pierce-adjacent. Unhinged is the local currency.”
The speaker crackles. A soft voice drifts out. “Welcome to Moonlight Munchies. You lookin’ to satisfy hunger, loneliness, or both?”
I choke.
Ozzy pauses, deadpan. “Hunger.”
The voice sighs. “Sure. What can I get you?”
Ozzy glances at me, silently offering me the choice. My throat tightens again at that small respect—like I have agency, like I’m not just being dragged from place to place.
I clear my throat and lean toward the window. “I want the Aftercare Platter.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then the voice says, “Solid choice.”
Ozzy’s mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile.
“And can I add chocolate chips to the pancakes?” I ask.
“Absolutely,” the voice replies, like chocolate chips are sacred.
Ozzy leans in. “And I’ll take The Quickie. Three mini-sliders, fries, coke.”
The voice hums approval. “Quickie’s popular tonight.”
Ozzy doesn’t miss a beat. “I bet it is.”
I burst out laughing again, quick and startled. Under different circumstances I’d spend all day here, laughing and loving this place. It’s right up my alley.
Ozzy glances at me, eyes bright. “What?”
“You walked right into it,” I say.
“I did not,” he protests, but his grin says he knows exactly what he did.
“Would you like to super size?” the attendant asks.
“Super size what exactly?” I ask, more to Ozzy than the attendant.
But she answers anyway, “The complimentary dildo. Each order comes with a standard five-to-seven inch dildo, your choice of skin tone. You can upgrade to a six-to-eight inch with a suction cup base. And if you say, “Yes, please,” we’ll make it extra thick for you.
I hold my breath, trying not to laugh. Ozzy looks about the same. Like he’s trying to hold back the laughter as well. He shakes his head.
I can’t help myself. “Super sized, and yes, please.” The words roll off my tongue easily, and I can’t hold back the laughter as Ozzy rolls the SUV forward.
The neon sign reflects in the glass, painting Ozzy’s face pink for a second.
It does something unfair to him. Because he’s already gorgeous in that “dangerous man who makes bad decisions look hot” kind of way.
And then there’s the mohawk, the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the way his eyes keep tracking me like he’s making sure I’m still here.
The cashier hands over the bag, then pauses like she’s clocking us for the first time. Her gaze slides to me, then to Ozzy. Then she smiles—small, knowing.
“Stay safe,” she says, and there’s no judgment in it. Just… human.
Ozzy nods once. “We will.”
He passes her cash and takes the bag. As we pull away, the scent hits me through the paper—grease, syrup, bacon, warmth.
My stomach makes another noise. It’s loud and angry. I know it’s not ladylike, but I feel like I could rip through this bag right now. I’ve never been this hungry in my life. I can feel my blood sugar dropping with every minute that passes.
Ozzy snorts. “Your body is very honest.”
“My body is a traitor,” I mutter.
He turns onto the road again and hands me the bag like it’s precious. I peel it open with trembling fingers. The first bite of the egg sandwich nearly makes me cry. It’s hot. Salty. Real. I close my eyes, chewing slowly like if I savor it enough, it’ll anchor me back into my life.
Ozzy watches me out of the corner of his eye. “Good?”
I nod, swallowing hard. “It’s… perfect.” And then, because I can’t help myself, I say, “I didn’t know you were the kind of guy who takes a girl to a fast-food sex shop on a first date.”
Ozzy’s head snaps toward me. “This is not a date.”
“Mm,” I hum, taking another bite. “Sure.”
His grip tightens slightly on the wheel. “Salem.” It’s a warning. Also… my name in his mouth again makes my skin prickle.
I chew, swallow, and glance out at the neon glow fading behind us.
We always satisfy your cravings. The slogan lingers in my head. So does the fact that the building sells adult toys next to breakfast platters like that’s a normal, wholesome combo. And I—because I’m apparently allergic to peace—start thinking about the sex-store part of it.
About Ozzy.
About how he moved through that building like a predator with purpose.
About how he shielded me without making me feel small.
About how his voice dropped when he told me he’d hurt them.
And then my mind does something wildly inappropriate: It imagines what it would feel like if his hands weren’t just guiding me out of danger.
If they were on me because he wanted them there. If he kissed me.
If he— I take a long drink of syrupy soda and try to drown the thought. It only makes it fizz louder.
Ozzy glances over again, noticing the way I’ve gone quiet. “What?” he asks. “You okay?”
I swallow. “I’m… thinking.”
“That’s dangerous.”
I narrow my eyes. “Excuse you?”
He smiles like he’s proud he got a rise out of me. “You get this look. Like you’re planning to start a fire.”
I take another bite, chewing slowly, watching him from the corner of my eye.
He’s focused on the road. But I can feel his awareness of me like a hand hovering just above my skin.
I’m tired. And for some reason, that makes the question in my chest rise like it’s been waiting for permission.
The neon sign flashes in my mind again. We always satisfy your cravings.
I glance at Ozzy’s profile—strong jaw, sharp mouth, that ridiculous hair that I hate how much I like.
Then I make a choice. I wipe syrup from my thumb and say, as casually as I can manage: “So… since we’re apparently doing the full Moonlight Munchies experience… ”
Ozzy’s eyebrows lift slightly. “Uh-oh.”
I turn toward him, pulse skipping. “Are you a… toys guy?” I ask.
The SUV goes very quiet. Ozzy’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. His eyes flick to me. “Salem,” he says slowly, voice roughening, “are you asking me what I think you’re asking me?”
I hold his gaze, heart hammering. “Yes,” I say, because I refuse to be embarrassed by my own curiosity. And because if I’m going to rebuild myself, I’m going to do it honestly.
Ozzy exhales, the sound low and shaky, like he’s trying to regain control of his body. Then he says, very quietly— “Yeah.”