Chapter 12 Ozzy
TWELVE
OZZY
Cornhole is not a sport. It’s a psychological test designed to expose how quickly a person can go from “I’m having fun” to “I will end you” over a beanbag.
Salem thinks this is hilarious. I’m… adjusting.
We’re out on Atta Boy’s patio where the string lights come on early and the air smells like hops and smoke from the little firepit tables. The brewery crowd has spilled outside—laughter, clinking glasses, someone’s dog weaving between legs like it owns the place.
Salem’s cheeks are flushed from cider and sunshine, her hair half-loose from the ponytail, and she’s smiling like the world didn’t try to bury her last week.
I’d pay a lot of money to keep that smile right where it is.
Across from us, Brock Atwood stands with his arms crossed, grinning like a man who’s never lost in his life. Beside him is Shepherd Atwood—taller, calmer, with the kind of relaxed confidence that makes you trust him instantly… until he nails a perfect shot and ruins your day.
Brock tosses the beanbag with a lazy flick. It arcs. And it lands with a loud thump. Dead center. He throws his hands up. “Money.”
Salem groans dramatically. “He’s insufferable.”
Shepherd’s mouth twitches. “He’s worse at home.”
Brock points at us. “You two wanna forfeit now or keep getting humbled?”
I square up like I’m preparing for combat. “We’re not forfeiting.”
Salem grabs a red beanbag and squints at the board like she’s trying to calculate wind resistance with pure rage. “I will not be emotionally bullied by a man named Brock.”
Brock gasps. “My name is powerful.”
“Your name is a protein bar,” Salem snaps, then throws. Her bag hits the board and slides right off. She stares at it like it betrayed her personally.
Brock howls with laughter. Shepherd laughs too, quieter, like he’s enjoying her attitude.
I lean in toward Salem, voice low. “Bend your knees.”
She narrows her eyes. “Don’t you dare ‘bend your knees’ me. That’s skateboard talk.”
“It’s… body mechanics,” I insist.
“It’s condescending,” she counters.
I smirk. “It’s accurate.”
She throws me a look, then tries again. This time the bag lands on the board and stops. Not in the hole—but close. Salem lifts her chin like she won the Olympics. “Ha.”
Brock claps mockingly. “Great job, champ.”
Salem flips him off.
Shepherd laughs. “I like her.”
“Everyone likes her,” Brock says, eyes flicking to me with a grin like he’s already decided something. “You two visiting?”
“Something like that,” I answer smoothly, same line as earlier.
Brock doesn’t push. He just nods like he gets the vibe. Like small towns know how to mind their business when the energy says don’t ask.
The game continues.
Brock and Shepherd are clearly a practiced team. They’re consistent, annoying, and way too entertained by how invested Salem gets. Salem, meanwhile, is fueled by spite and cider.
I’m fueled by the desire to impress her and the fact that I hate losing. At one point I manage a clean hole shot and Salem actually squeals, grabbing my arm.
“Yes!” she shouts. “Okay, Ozzy!”
Brock groans. “Ugh, romance.”
Shepherd smirks. “Let them have it.”
Two women enter the patio. One with long, wavy brown hair. She heads straight toward Brock and wraps her arms around him. He wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her in. He kisses her temple like he’s done it a thousand times before.
“This is my wife, Willow.”
She smiles brightly at us. “Hope he’s not being an obnoxious winner.”
He laughs. He tugs her closer. “Winner being the operative word.”
The other woman wraps her arms around Shepherd, and they share an intimate moment.
It makes me long for something like that with Salem.
To be able to hold her in my arms and not care what the world thinks.
Shepherd introduces his wife, Felicity. I can see the love shining between them, and seriously… I fucking want that.
Salem beams at me, eyes bright, and for a few seconds I almost forget we’re hiding. I almost forget the world. Then it hits.
The feeling. I’m frozen as instinct prickles at the back of my neck. That feeling of being followed. Watched. Like someone is there.
My smile fades. I don’t move abruptly. I keep my posture relaxed. I keep my face calm. But my attention shifts.
I scan the lot, looking for anything out of place. Anything that isn’t supposed to be there. Hell, I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I know something feels off. The laughter around us is still normal. The patio is still warm. The string lights still glow.
And yet— I feel watched.
I let my gaze drift casually over the patio, over the fence line, over the street beyond. Then I see it. There’s a white van parked across the lot at the edge of the street. Not in a spot that makes sense. Not angled like someone’s getting out for a drink.
Just… sitting.
Engine maybe off. Maybe on. The windows are tinted. My blood cools. It could be nothing. Could be a delivery van. Could be someone waiting to pick up a friend.
Could be— I don’t do “could be” when Salem is with me.
Salem tosses another bag and laughs when it bounces wrong. “Okay, I blame gravity.”
Brock grins. “Gravity hates you.”
Shepherd glances at me. “You good?”
My eyes flick back to the van. “Yeah,” I say automatically. But my body is already shifting into protect mode. My hand slides to Salem’s lower back like it belongs there.
She notices instantly. Her smile falters. “Ozzy?”
I lean in, voice low, calm. “We’re leaving.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “Why?”
“Just trust me.”
She swallows. Then she nods, because she does trust me now, and that trust is a weight and a gift and I carry it carefully.
I straighten and force a smile toward brothers and their wives. “Hey—this was fun. Sorry, but we’ve gotta head out.”
Brock blinks. “Already? We were about to destroy you completely.”
Salem manages a tight smile. “You already did.”
Shepherd studies my face for half a second, something sharpening in his gaze—like he recognizes the shift. “You need anything?” he asks, quietly.
I give him a small nod of respect. “We’re good.”
Brock claps me on the shoulder like we’re old buddies. “Come back. I like you two.”
Salem’s voice is soft. “Thanks for being so nice.”
Brock grins. “We’re Atwoods. We’re always nice.” He tugs his wife closer.
Shepherd snorts. “That’s a lie.”
We slip away from the patio, Salem close to my side. I keep my stride normal. I keep my head level. We step onto the sidewalk.
Salem’s fingers curl around my fingers. “Ozzy, what’s happening?”
I glance down at her, forcing my voice to stay steady. “I think we might’ve been made.”
Her breath catches. “Made? Like… found?”
“Maybe,” I say. “Maybe not. But we’re not waiting to confirm.”
Her eyes flick behind us, panic starting to rise.
I squeeze her hand once. “Don’t look.”
She swallows hard and faces forward, trying to breathe.
The SUV is parked a few blocks away. Too close if that van is a tail. If I walk her straight to the vehicle, I’m handing them a bow on top of our location. So I steer her away from it.
“We’re taking a walk,” I say, like it’s casual.
Salem’s voice wobbles. “A walk where?”
“A loop,” I murmur. “We’re going to see if we’re being followed.”
Her fingers tighten on mine. “Ozzy…”
“I know,” I say. “I’ve got you.”
We turn down main street, blending into the evening crowd. The town is cozy at night—storefront lights glowing, people strolling with ice cream cones, couples holding hands.
It makes me angry, in a quiet way. Because Salem deserves to be just another girl walking under string lights. Not a girl who has to look over her shoulder. We weave down a side street, then another. I watch reflections in windows. I glance in parked cars’ mirrors.
Salem stays close, her breath shallow. “I don’t like this,” she whispers.
“I know,” I answer.
Her voice trembles. “What if they’re angry? What if—”
I stop walking abruptly and turn her gently by the shoulders, forcing her to face me. Salem’s eyes flash up, wide with fear. I keep my voice low, firm. “We don’t spiral.”
Her lips part.
I press my forehead lightly to hers for a second, grounding us both. “We handle what’s in front of us. Right now, that’s getting you back safe.” My heart pounds. The need to keep her safe is overwhelming.
Salem nods, swallowing hard. “Okay.”
“You with me?”
“Yes.”
I pull back and scan the street again. Still no van, no creeping headlights, no slow roll past the intersection. We keep moving. Ten minutes pass. Nothing.
My instincts ease slightly, but I don’t trust the quiet. I don’t trust any clean exit. Eventually we loop back toward the SUV. We come at it from a different direction, watching the lot first.
The street’s clear, and my pulse steadies. Still, I make Salem stop behind a storefront window while I scan the entire block. Then we move. Fast but not frantic. We get into the SUV, doors locked instantly, engine on.
Salem’s hands shake as she buckles.
“You okay?” I ask.
She swallows. “No.”
I nod once. “Fair.” I pull out slowly, blending with traffic. Then I start the pattern. Two rights. A left. Back past the same intersection. A loop. A circle. Checking. Watching.
If someone follows, they’ll either stay with us or break off.
We make three loops. By the time we’re back on the rural road toward Rainmaker, Salem’s shoulders finally drop a fraction.
But my grip on the wheel stays tight. Because if that van was nothing, fine.
If it wasn’t nothing—then someone is sniffing around.
And that means we have less time than I wanted.
Rainmaker comes into view, lights low, silent and waiting like it’s holding its breath. I pull into the driveway, kill the engine, and immediately scan the tree line. Nothing. Still, I don’t relax.
I usher Salem inside first, locking the door behind her. “Go,” I order gently. “Make some tea. And then cozy on the couch with a blanket.”
Salem hesitates. “Ozzy—”
“Go,” I repeat, not harsh—just firm.
She nods and moves toward the kitchen, her steps tight and quick.
I do my sweep. Front windows: secure. Back door: locked.
Cams: normal. There’s zero movement and I try to exhale.
I check the hidden panel where the comm gear is stored.
Everything’s intact. Then I check the driveway on the cameras again—zooming, panning, scanning for any headlights lingering where they shouldn’t. Nothing.
My pulse doesn’t slow. Because my body doesn’t know how to believe “nothing” anymore.
I head to the kitchen. Salem sits at the table with a blanket around her shoulders, mug in both hands like she’s trying to anchor herself.
Her eyes lift to me, searching. “Was it real?”
I sit across from her, close enough to touch if she needs it, and I keep my voice steady. “I don’t know,” I admit. “But it felt wrong.”
Salem nods slowly, lips pressed together. “Okay.”
I reach for my phone and step into the hall for privacy, turning my back slightly so Salem doesn’t worry. Then I call Arrow.
He picks up immediately. “Talk to me.”
“It might be nothing,” I say, “but I got a bad read in Magnolia Ridge. White van parked weird at the edge of the lot near Atta Boy Brewery. Felt like surveillance.”
Arrow’s voice goes sharper. “Did it follow you?”
“I didn’t let it,” I answer. “We walked in circles. Took the long way. I didn’t see it again.”
“Good,” Arrow says. “Any plates?”
“No,” I admit. “Didn’t want to look too hard and tip it.”
Arrow exhales. “Okay. I’ll flag it. I’ll tell Rae to watch for any reports—local cams, traffic, anything. You back at Rainmaker?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Safehouse is secure. No pings.”
“Keep her inside tonight,” Arrow orders. “No more town until we know.”
My jaw tightens. “Copy.”
Arrow pauses. “Ozzy.”
“Yeah?”
“You did good,” he says quietly. “Calling it early is why we’re still alive.”
I swallow. “Yeah.”
“And Ozzy,” Arrow adds, tone softer, “if Salem gets spooked… remind her we can move you. Maddox Security has other safehouses.”
“I will,” I say.
I hang up and stand in the hallway for a second, staring at the dark window like I can see threats through it. Then I go back to Salem.
She watches my face like she’s trying to read the outcome.
I soften my expression deliberately. “Arrow’s having Rae check it,” I say, keeping it simple. “We’re staying in tonight.”
Salem nods, but I can see the fear still sitting behind her eyes.
I move closer and crouch beside her chair, my hand resting on the edge of the table—not touching her yet, but close. “Hey,” I say gently, my heart pounding. “Look at me.”
Salem’s gaze meets mine.
“You’re safe,” I tell her. “Right now, you’re safe. And if anything changes, I’ll know before they get within a mile of you.”
Her breath trembles. “You promise?”
I nod once. “I promise.”
Salem’s eyes shine, but she blinks it away quickly like she hates tears. Then she whispers, “I was having fun.”
“I know,” I say, and anger burns in my chest again. It’s hot and sharp. “And you’re going to have fun again.”
Her lips part like she wants to believe me.
I hold her gaze and add in a low voice, “Nobody gets to steal that from you.”
Salem exhales slowly. She leans forward just a little, her forehead almost touching my shoulder. And I finally let my hand slide to her hair, smoothing it back carefully.
Outside, the woods stay quiet. Inside, the safehouse stays warm. But my instincts stay awake. Because somewhere out there, someone might’ve gotten close enough to see her laugh.
And if they did, then they just made the worst mistake of their lives.