Chapter 8 Ozzy #2
“Yeah,” she says, a humorless laugh. “He’s like mold. He just… stays.”
My mind starts working automatically. Name.
Carl. Relationship to Salem. Proximity. Financial motive.
There’s good money in trafficking. And there’s something about the way she said looked at me that makes my blood run cold.
I make a mental note so hard it feels like carving it into my skull: Have Dean run Carl.
Full background. Financials. Charges. Associates.
Salem’s gaze flicks to me, like she can sense the shift in my focus. “What?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I lie.
She narrows her eyes. “That’s a lie.”
I sigh. “It’s… a thought. A protective thought.”
Her mouth tightens. “About Carl.”
“Yeah,” I admit, because lying to her about this feels wrong. “We’re going to check him out.”
Salem goes still, shaking her head. “He didn’t—”
“I’m not saying he did,” I cut in gently, forcing my voice to soften. “I’m saying we don’t ignore any angle. You don’t have to protect him. You don’t have to protect anyone who made you feel unsafe.”
A beat.
Salem’s eyes shine for half a second. Then she looks away. “Okay,” she whispers.
I let the topic breathe. Then I ask, “What do you do for fun?”
Salem barks a laugh, sharp. “Fun?”
“Yeah,” I say, like it’s normal. Like it’s allowed. “Before… all of this.”
She stares at me like I asked her what it feels like to walk on the moon. “I work,” she says. “I… always work. I’ve always been too busy trying to keep my head above water.”
“Salem,” I say quietly, “that’s not fun.”
She makes a face. “It’s survival.”
“I know,” I say. “But I’m asking anyway.”
She thinks, chewing on it like it’s a foreign concept. Then she says, surprising me, “The skatepark.”
My brows lift. “You skate?”
Salem’s mouth tilts, pride flickering. “Yeah. I’m not, like, pro. But I love it. It’s… freedom. It’s speed. And if I fall, it’s my fault, not someone else’s.”
That hits me right in the gut. “What’s your board?” I ask, leaning in slightly despite myself.
Her eyes soften. “Just a Landyachtz Cruiser board. Orange. Beat up. Stickers everywhere. I miss it.”
“I’ll buy you another one,” I say reflexively.
Salem’s head snaps toward me. “No.”
I blink. “What?”
She shakes her head hard. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t start trying to fix my life with money,” she says, voice tight. “I’m not… I’m not a charity case.”
My chest aches, and I hold her gaze. “Salem. That’s not what I meant.”
She swallows. “It sounded like it.”
I exhale slowly. “Okay.” I nod once, letting her set the boundary. “No board. Not unless you want it. Not unless you ask.”
Her shoulders loosen slightly. “Thank you,” she whispers.
I shift the topic carefully. “What else? Besides the skatepark.”
Salem laughs again, smaller this time. “I don’t really… do much. Money’s always tight. Time’s always tight. If I’m not working, I’m sleeping. If I’m not sleeping, I’m worrying.”
My stomach twists. Because that isn’t living. That’s just… surviving in a different kind of cage. And I hate cages.
I look out at the creek, then back at her. “Okay,” I say.
Salem blinks. “Okay what?”
“I’m making a list,” I tell her.
Her eyes narrow. “A list?”
“Yeah,” I say, like it’s obvious. “Things we can do while we’re here. Lowkey. Safe. But… real.”
Salem stares at me like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to want that. “We’re supposed to be hiding,” she says.
“We are,” I agree. “But hiding doesn’t have to mean disappearing. It can mean… living quietly. Breathing. Relearning what normal is.”
She studies me. Then she says, wary but curious, “What’s on the list?”
I grin, slow and deliberate. “First item: teach you how to make coffee that doesn’t taste like regret.”
Salem snorts. “That’s not fun.”
“It’s necessary.”
She shakes her head, amusement in her eyes now. “Okay. What else?”
“Second,” I say, “creek again. But with snacks.”
Salem’s smile grows. “Okay.”
“Third,” I add, “find a skate spot nearby. Something small. Something safe.”
Her lips part slightly. She tries to hide how much she wants that. And she fails miserably. I keep going, because I’m already committed.
“Fourth: movie night. Fifth: I teach you how to throw a punch that makes a grown man reconsider his life choices.”
Salem lifts a brow. “Pretty sure I already know.”
“Then you teach me,” I say without thinking.
Her eyes flash. “I might.”
The air between us warms, not from the sun. From something else. Something hungry. Something dangerous.
I stand and offer my hand. Salem looks at it like it’s a trick. Then she takes it. Her fingers are cool from the water, but her grip is firm. I pull her up gently, and she steps close enough that I can smell her—clean soap, creek water, and the faint lingering sweetness of oatmeal.
My body reacts.
Hard.
Immediate.
Unwelcome.
Salem’s gaze drops, then lifts again, like she felt it too—felt the pull, the spark, the way we keep circling the edge of something we shouldn’t touch yet.
She swallows, and I let go of her hand before I do something stupid.
“Come on,” I say, voice rough. “Let’s get you warm.”
Salem nods and follows me back toward the trail, dripping and shivering and alive.
And as we walk back to Rainmaker, my mind is already building that list. It isn’t because I think fun will fix what she went through.
But because every laugh she manages, every moment she feels like herself again, is a piece of her I’m helping her steal back.
And I’m selfish enough to want to be there for every single one.