Chapter 11 Salem
ELEVEN
SALEM
If you ever want to truly humble a confident man, put him in roller skates and give him a mission. Ozzy Oliver has taken down bad guys. Broken into compounds. Outrun armed men. Probably glared someone into confessing. But four wheels under each foot?
His villain origin story.
We’re in the back of Rainmaker where the pavement opens up into that little service strip—our makeshift training ground.
Ozzy’s in black shorts and a t-shirt, wearing skates that look like they’ve been waiting their whole life to embarrass him.
His mohawk is up, his posture is serious, and his face is set like he’s about to interrogate the ground.
I tighten my laces and try not to laugh. I fail. A snort escapes me.
Ozzy’s eyes cut to mine. “Don’t.”
I lift my hands innocently. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking it,” he accuses.
“I’m thinking a lot of things,” I admit.
His stare drops to my mouth—just for a second. Then he clears his throat and pushes off. His skates roll forward. So does his body. Too forward. His arms shoot out to the sides like he’s trying to catch an airplane.
“Bend your knees!” I call.
“I AM!” he shouts, bending nothing. He wobbles, panics, and clutches the air.
“Stop fighting it!” I laugh.
“I’m not fighting it,” he says, voice strained. “I’m negotiating.”
“Negotiate with your knees,” I tell him, skating closer. “Loosen up.”
Ozzy’s expression is pure betrayal. “This is not loosening up. This is—” He sways. His eyes widen. He grabs my shoulders.
I catch him automatically, our bodies bumping in a way that makes my breath hitch.
Warmth meets warmth. His hands grip my arms. My fingers curl around his waist for stability.
For one heartbeat, the lesson disappears.
It’s just Ozzy. Close. Solid. Smelling like soap and clean cotton and something that makes my stomach flip.
His gaze locks on mine. Heat crackles. Then he says, dead serious, “If I die, tell Arrow I went out heroically.”
I blink. Then burst out laughing, the tension shattering.
Ozzy exhales like he’s been released from a spell. “Okay. Laugh at me. That’s fine.”
“I’m not laughing at you,” I say, still giggling. “I’m laughing with you.”
“Sure,” he mutters.
I reach up and tap his chest. “You’re doing great.”
He lifts a brow. “Liar.”
“I’m a clipboard warrior,” I remind him. “I don’t lie.”
Ozzy’s mouth twitches. “That’s… not a rule.”
“It is now,” I declare.
We try again. This time, he makes it halfway down the strip without grabbing me like I’m a life raft. It’s progress. Barely. We skate, wobble, laugh, and “take breaks” that are suspiciously just excuses for Ozzy to lean on the fence and stare at me like he’s trying to memorize my face for later.
I pretend not to notice. I can’t pretend not to feel it, though—the restless hum under my skin. It’s there. It’s subtle. I swear it makes my chest warm with hope. With desire. I like the way he stares at me.
I push off, skating in a slow circle, breathing in the cool air, letting the movement steady my thoughts. Then I roll back toward Ozzy, stopping in front of him carefully. “Ozzy,” I say.
He straightens immediately, attention snapping to me. “Yeah?”
“Can we go somewhere?” I ask, voice softer than I mean. “Just… not here. I’m getting a little restless.”
Ozzy’s eyes search my face like he’s checking for panic signals, trauma triggers, danger.
I shake my head quickly. “I’m okay. I just… I want to see people. Normal people. A street. A shop. Something that isn’t… hiding.”
Ozzy exhales slowly. Then he nods. “Okay.”
Just like that. No argument. No lecture.
“Where?” he asks.
I shrug. “Anywhere. Is there a town nearby?”
Ozzy glances toward the tree line. “Magnolia Ridge is about twenty-five minutes out.”
The name makes something flutter in my stomach—like I’ve heard it in passing, like it’s a place that exists in the universe of normalcy.
“What’s it like?” I ask.
Ozzy’s mouth curves. “Small. Cute. Main street vibes. Shops. Coffee. Bookstore.”
My eyes widen. “Bookstore?”
Ozzy’s grin deepens. “Yeah.”
My excitement hits too fast, too bright. It almost scares me. But I nod anyway, trying not to look like a kid offered candy. “I want to go,” I say.
Ozzy’s gaze softens. “Then we’ll go.”
We change out of skates, trade pavement for sneakers, and pack light like we’re going on a mission—because we kind of are. Ozzy checks the perimeter cameras, verifies there’s no chatter on the secure channel, and reminds me that we need to not draw attention to ourselves.
Like I’ve ever done that in my life before. I’m good at being invisible. Just ask my mother.
Still, my heart thumps as we pull out of Rainmaker’s driveway. We’re leaving the bubble. We’re stepping into a world where someone could recognize me.
Where someone could be looking.
Ozzy’s hand rests on the steering wheel, relaxed but ready. His eyes flick to mine. “You okay?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
Then I add, quieter, “If I start freaking out, can we leave?”
Ozzy’s jaw tightens in that protective way. “We leave the second you want.”
Something in my chest loosens.
We drive through winding roads and rolling hills, and then Magnolia Ridge appears like a postcard—tree-lined streets, quaint storefronts, a few people walking dogs, strings of lights even though it’s daytime like the town refuses to be anything but charming.
I stare out the window, stunned by how… normal it all looks. How safe it looks. Like nothing bad could ever happen here. Which is a lie. Bad things happen everywhere. But still. It’s beautiful.
Ozzy parks a little off main street and we step onto the sidewalk.
The air smells like coffee and sunshine and something sweet baking somewhere.
I inhale like I’m trying to breathe in a life I never had.
Ozzy keeps close but not hovering. His gaze tracks everything—cars, people, reflections in windows.
He’s relaxed in his shoulders, but I can tell he’s scanning.
Always scanning.
We stroll past a boutique with floral dresses, a tiny diner, a shop window full of handmade candles. Then I see it. A sign in big black letters: BOOK, SPINE, AND SINKER
I stop dead.
Ozzy glances at me. “Bookstore?”
“Yes,” I whisper like I might scare it away.
Ozzy’s mouth curves. “Let’s go.”
The bell above the door jingles when we enter.
The warmth hits first—cozy air, the scent of paper and vanilla candles. Rows of bookshelves stretch across the shop, and there’s a little seating area with mismatched chairs and a table stacked with romance novels. Romance. My chest tightens.
I’ve read romance before, but always in secret, always like it was something I didn’t deserve. Like love stories belonged to other girls. Girls with soft lives and supportive mothers and futures that didn’t feel like a cliff.
Ozzy drifts along the shelves like he belongs in a bookstore, which is somehow even more ridiculous and sexy than him in roller skates. He pulls out a book and flips it over, reading the back.
“Do you actually read?” I tease.
Ozzy doesn’t look up. “I read.”
“What do you read?”
He glances at me, eyes amused. “Stuff that tells me how to break things.”
I laugh. “Shocking.”
We move deeper into the store and I notice a little crowd gathered near a table.
A man stands there signing books—brown hair, charming smile, confident energy. A stack of paperbacks sits beside him with a banner that reads: TRIPP ATWOOD — LOCAL AUTHOR SIGNING.
Next to him is a woman with warm eyes and a friendly face, chatting with customers like she knows everyone.
Tripp looks up and smiles at us as we approach. “Hey there. Welcome in.” His voice is easy, like he’s been talking to readers all day.
The woman beside him beams. “Hi! I’m Millie. Let me know if you need help finding anything.”
Ozzy nods politely. “Thanks.”
Tripp’s gaze flicks between us like he’s reading our vibe, and his smile turns a little mischievous. “You two together?”
I choke a little.
Ozzy just… smiles. Slow. Unbothered. Dangerous. “We’re… together,” he says.
My face heats.
Millie claps softly like she’s delighted. “That’s adorable.”
Tripp laughs. “Millie lives for cute couples. It’s her whole brand.”
Millie gives him a look. “And you live for attention. That’s your brand.”
Tripp touches his chest like he’s offended. “I’m a humble artist.”
Millie snorts. “Humble, sure.”
Ozzy’s eyes gleam. “I like them.”
I do too. Their banter feels like something I’ve watched from the outside my whole life. People who love each other teasing without fear. It makes something ache inside me, sharp and sweet.
I glance at the stack of books and pick one up, running my fingers over the cover.
Tripp leans forward. “You read romance?”
I hesitate, then shrug. “Sometimes. It’s hard to read something you don’t believe in.”
Tripp’s eyes meet mine, and a slow smile spreads. “Ah, a cynic,” his eyes meet Ozzy’s, “you’ve got your work cut out with this one.”
Ozzy smiles like he’s up for the challenge, and it surprises me. “We’re on a mission to open her up to new things. New experiences.”
Tripp nods like that’s a very serious answer. “Respect. Romance keeps the world spinning.”
Millie smiles warmly. “Do you want me to wrap it up for you?”
I blink. “Oh—I don’t have to—”
Ozzy slides in smoothly. “We’ll take it.”
I glance at him, startled. He gives me a look that says let me. So, with a shrug, I let him. Millie rings it up and hands me the bag like it’s a gift.
Tripp signs the inside cover with a flourish, then looks up at us. “If you two get hungry, you should check out my family’s brewery restaurant.”
Ozzy tilts his head. “Brewery?”
Tripp nods. “Atta Boy. Best food in town. My brothers run it. Great beer. Great burgers. Great everything.”
Millie adds, “And if you tell them Tripp sent you, they’ll roll their eyes and pretend they don’t love him.”
Tripp grins. “They love me.”
Millie mouths, They tolerate you.
I laugh. A real laugh.