Chapter 6 Ozzy
SIX
OZZY
Two hours. That’s how long I’ve known Salem Bloom, and somehow we’ve already covered: escape routes, trauma survival, breakfast pancakes, and whether or not I’m a “toy guy.”
My life has always had a certain… chaotic rhythm. But this? This is jazz played with a flamethrower.
The SUV hums under me as Rainmaker’s road climbs into the hills—winding, narrow, the kind of route that makes you feel like you’re leaving civilization on purpose. The trees thicken. The air changes. The moon hangs low and bright like it’s watching.
Beside me, Salem is quiet. She’s silent in a way that feels deliberate.
Like if she stops listening, the world might get her.
Her hands are wrapped around a cup of soda like it’s the only thing anchoring her.
She ate like she hadn’t tasted real food in years, and I had to look away a couple times because it hit too hard—watching someone devour normalcy with shaking fingers.
Now she stares out the window, jaw set, eyelashes casting shadows on her cheek.
And I can’t stop replaying it. Her voice, casual like she was asking the time. Are you a… toys guy? My brain still doesn’t know what to do with that. My body knows exactly what to do with it, which is deeply unhelpful.
I keep my eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel, while my mind runs the highlight reel on a loop like it’s determined to ruin me.
The neon sign.
Her laugh.
The syrup on her fingertips.
The way she looked at me when she asked that question—like she was daring me to be honest. Like she was testing whether I’d flinch.
And the worst part? I didn’t. I answered.
Yeah. One word. Quiet. Real. Now the cab is full of all the things that word implies, and we’re both pretending it isn’t. Because she’s been through hell.
Because I’m supposed to be professional.
Because I’m driving a woman to a safehouse, not to a bedroom.
And yet my mouth still tastes like the idea of her.
I glance at her, carefully. “Hey,” I say softly, breaking the silence before it turns into something heavier.
Her eyes flick to me, alert.
“You good?” I ask.
A beat. Then she lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Define good.”
“Not starving,” I say. “Not bleeding. Not back in that building.”
Her throat moves as she swallows. “Then… yeah.” She looks away again fast, like she doesn’t want to show the cracks.
I grip the wheel a little tighter. Professional.
Focused. Mission. Rainmaker comes into view ten minutes later.
It’s tucked into the hills like a secret somebody paid to keep.
A long, low structure with dark wood siding, big windows that reflect the night instead of spilling light, and a wraparound porch that makes it look like it could be a cozy vacation rental if you didn’t know it was designed for people who need to disappear.
Dean said it’s fully stocked.
The driveway crunches under the tires. I kill the engine, and silence settles around us—just wind through trees, distant night sounds, the soft tick of cooling metal.
Salem’s gaze tracks the house, measuring it. “Is it… safe?” she asks, voice tight.
“As safe as we can make it,” I say. “Camera perimeter. Motion sensors. No close neighbors. And nobody knows you’re here except the people you saw at HQ.”
She nods, but she doesn’t look convinced. I don’t blame her.
I get out first, circling to her side. When I open the door, cold air slips inside. She steps down onto the gravel.
I grab the duffel from the trunk, then the bag of food trash Salem shoved into a corner. She reaches for it too, like she’s determined not to be a burden.
I block her with my shoulder gently. “I’ve got it.”
Her eyes flash. “I can carry a bag.”
“I know,” I say. “Let me do something for you without you fighting me like I’m your enemy.” That lands.
Her mouth opens, then closes. She exhales through her nose. “Fine.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, and lead her toward the porch.
Inside, Rainmaker is warm. Quiet. The air smells faintly like cedar and clean linens.
Lights come on automatically as we enter, motion-activated, soft and low.
There’s a living room with a deep couch, a worn leather chair, a big coffee table.
A kitchen that looks too normal—pots, plates, a fruit bowl like someone’s trying to pretend this is just a weekend getaway.
A hallway leads to two doors. I set the duffel down and do what I always do. I sweep. I check corners, closets, behind curtains. I check windows and locks. I check under beds because I’m a grown man who has absolutely had to drag people out from under beds before and I don’t trust anything.
Salem stays near the entryway, watching me with an expression that’s half annoyed, half… something softer. “You always do that?” she asks quietly.
“Yeah,” I say, checking the back door lock. “Habit.”
“From what?” she presses.
I glance back at her. There are questions behind her eyes that are not about locks. They’re about who I am when I’m not making jokes. I don’t give her the ugly details. Not tonight. “From the fact that people suck,” I say simply.
She nods once like that answer makes sense in her bones.
When I’m satisfied, I return to the living room. “All clear,” I say.
Salem exhales like she’s been holding her breath since the SUV stopped. She shifts her weight, suddenly looking small in the oversized hoodie, exhaustion pulling at her posture.
I grab the duffel and carry it down for her anyway because I’m apparently incapable of not doing things. I push open the bedroom door— and stop.
Because there’s one bed.
Not two.
Not a pull-out.
One single bed in the center of the room with clean sheets and a blanket folded at the foot. I stand there for a beat, staring at it like it’s personally offended me. Behind me, Salem peers around my shoulder.
“Oh,” she says. The word is quiet. Not flirty. Not teasing. Just… tired.
I clear my throat. “You get the bed. I’ll take the couch.”
Salem’s gaze stays on the bed, then slides to me. “I’m not—” She swallows. “I’m not trying to make this weird.”
“I’m not either,” I say. “It’s not weird.”
It’s weird.
It’s not weird because of sex.
It’s weird because of her. Because my body keeps reacting like it recognizes her, like it wants to fold around her and keep her there. Like it wants to be the safe place, not just lead her to one.
I step aside so she can enter.
She moves slowly, like her body is finally letting the crash hit. “I’m going to shower,” she says, voice small and stubborn at once. “If that’s okay.”
“It’s your house,” I say, then correct myself because it sounds wrong. “It’s yours for now.”
She nods and goes to the attached bathroom with the duffel. The door shuts softly.
I stand in the quiet bedroom for a moment, listening to the faint sound of water pipes shifting, Salem moving around. Then I force myself out.
Couch. Mission. Professional.
In the living room, I collect the leftover food bag from Moonlight Munchies and head to the kitchen to dispose of it. The pink neon sign is long gone, but the memory isn’t. I open the bag, intending to toss wrappers, and— something pink and glossy stares back at me.
Ah, yes. The ‘bonus’ item. The dildo that came with the meal.
I hold it up, squinting at the label.
Super sized.
I stare at the dildo like it might bite me.
My shoulders shake. “You’ve got to be kidding,” I mutter to the empty kitchen.
I don’t know whether to be horrified or impressed.
Then I do the only sane thing a man can do when holding a surprise sex toy in a safehouse kitchen at three in the morning: I tuck it into a drawer.
Deep in a drawer. The kind of drawer you forget exists until you’re looking for a single battery and find something that changes you.
I shut it. I lean back against the counter and exhale. This is my life now.
The shower turns off. A few minutes pass.
Salem emerges in the doorway wearing black lounge pants and a soft shirt from Juno’s bag, her hair damp, face scrubbed clean.
She looks younger like this. And more tired.
Her eyes sweep the living room like she’s mapping exits even while she’s walking toward sleep.
“You okay?” I ask.
She nods. “I’m exhausted.”
“Good,” I say gently. “Sleep.”
Her mouth tightens. “You’re sure you’re fine on the couch?”
“Yep,” I lie.
She watches me a beat longer, then turns back toward the bedroom. “Night, Ozzy,” she says quietly.
“Night, Salem.”
She disappears into the room. The door closes. And the house settles into stillness again.
I pull my phone out, check the secure channel—one quick message to Rae that we arrived. One to Arrow: Rainmaker secure. She’s in bed. I’m on couch.
Arrow replies immediately: Don’t be stupid.
I snort. No promises.
I kick off my boots, stretch out on the couch, and stare at the ceiling.
My mind refuses to shut off. It replays her question.
The tone of it. The bravery behind it. The curiosity that felt like reclamation.
Sex, for her, probably isn’t simple. For her, it might be a battlefield.
And she asked anyway. Not because she wanted a hook-up. Because she wanted control back.
I close my eyes. I try to sleep. I almost do. Then I hear it. A small sound from down the hallway. A strangled, half-choked breath. Then another. The bed creaks. A muffled word—more like a plea than a name.
I sit up instantly, heart slamming. I’m down the hall in two seconds, the door already open, my feet silent on the wood. Salem is thrashing lightly in the bed, brow furrowed, hair stuck to her cheek, arms tightening like she’s trying to push something away.
“No—” she whispers, broken. “Don’t—”
My chest goes cold. I step closer. “Salem,” I say softly.
She doesn’t wake. Her breathing turns ragged, panicked, like she’s trapped in it.
I don’t hesitate. I climb onto the edge of the bed and gather her carefully, easing her into my arms like she’s something fragile and fierce at the same time. “Hey,” I murmur into her hair. “You’re safe. You’re here. It’s Ozzy. You’re not there.”
Her body jolts. Her eyes fly open. For a second, she’s not seeing me. She’s seeing whatever nightmare she just crawled out of. Her hands shove at my chest, weak and frantic. Then she recognizes me. Ozzy. The room. The dim light.
Her breath catches, and her face crumples for one raw second. “I—” she whispers, voice shaking. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t,” I say immediately, holding her steady. “Don’t apologize.”
She swallows hard, eyes wet, staring at the wall like it might swallow her. “I can’t—” She inhales sharply. “I can’t do that again. Not alone. I can’t—”
I smooth my hand over her hair carefully, slow, grounding. “You’re not alone,” I say.
Her gaze flicks to mine. And the way she looks at me—like I’m a lifeline she hates needing—nearly splits me in half. “Ozzy,” she whispers.
“Yeah?”
“Will you—” Her throat bobs. “Will you sleep in here? With me? I’m… I’m scared.”
My entire body stills. Not because I don’t want to. Because I want to too much. And because the moment I agree, everything gets more dangerous. Not for the mission. For me. For the parts of me I keep locked down because wanting is a liability.
I keep my voice steady. “I can.”
Relief floods her face so fast it’s painful.
“But,” I add, because I need her to know the rules, “I’m not going to take advantage of you. I’m not going to touch you unless you want me to.”
Salem’s eyes soften. “That’s not why I want you here.”
I hold her gaze.
“I want you here because… I can breathe when you’re close,” she admits, and the honesty of it makes my throat go tight.
“Okay,” I say, voice low. “Then I’m here.
” I shift carefully, sliding under the blanket beside her without jostling her.
She turns toward me immediately, pressing into my side like she’s been starving for warmth as much as food.
I wrap an arm around her, firm, protective—no wandering hands, no pressure—just a wall.
Salem’s fingers clutch my shirt. Her breathing slows. But she still trembles.
I press my mouth to the top of her head—barely a touch, more promise than kiss. “You’re safe,” I whisper again. “I’ve got you.”
Her voice is tiny when she answers. “Don’t leave.”
My chest aches. “I won’t,” I say. And I mean it. Even if it wrecks me. Even if I’m already in too deep.
Salem’s eyes flutter closed again, exhaustion dragging her under. I stay awake, listening to her breathe. Rainmaker is quiet. The hills outside are dark. The world is still dangerous. But here, in this room, with her curled against me like she belongs—
I make myself a vow I don’t say out loud. They stole her. They hurt her. They tried to turn her into a thing. And if they come for her again… they’re going to learn what “hurt” really means.