4. Jackson #2
“What the hell happened?” Jensen asks breathlessly, shoving out of his wet shirt as we all strip down in the living room. The tile’s easier to mop up than the wood, and we’ve been through this enough times to know the drill.
“Fucking Leroy,” I hiss, peeling my soaked jeans off and nearly collapsing from the pain in my thigh.
“Got stuck out there, and then a damn tree limb decided to take a bite outta me.” I wrap a towel around my waist, biting back another curse as I lower myself onto the ottoman.
My muscles are starting to seize now that I’m cooling down, and my leg feels like it’s on fire.
I hear Ozzy as she walks back in, her hair twisted into a messy bun, her soaked clothes replaced by soft shorts and a slouchy long-sleeve that slides off one tattooed shoulder. Her legs are bare, inked, thick, and fucking distracting as hell.
“Alright, let’s have a look,” she says, kneeling in front of me.
Her fingers are fast but gentle, tugging at the soaked rag covering the wound.
I try not to stare—I fail miserably . I glance at her thick, tattoo-covered legs as she sits on her feet.
Fuck, she’s so curvy. Her legs are fucking delicious and wiggle when she moves in a way that just–
“Ow! Son of a bitch!” I hiss at the burning sensation in my leg.
“Sorry, you had some bark in there,” she explains, holding up the piece with her tweezers to show me.
“You enjoyed that far too much,” I grind out through an annoyed laugh.
“Not as much as I should’ve.” She smirks, dipping her gauze into antiseptic.
We’re alone now. The air feels heavier. The storm outside rages, but in here, it’s quiet—just the hiss of the wind and the slap of rain against the windows.
“You need stitches,” she murmurs, frowning as she eyes the cut. I follow her gaze as it trails up—lingering a little longer over my naked torso.
“See something you like, Tink?” I grin, flexing my pecs with a cocky bounce.
She rolls her eyes so hard I think she might sprain something while feigning a gag. “Get over yourself,” she mutters, standing up and padding barefoot to the kitchen. She returns with a bottle of whiskey and drops it into my lap.
“Drink.”
“Bossy,” I chuckle, uncapping it. “But I’m not complaining.”
“You will, ” she mutters, rummaging through her kit.
When I see the suture pack, I cough. “Wait a damn minute—” I shift, but the towel knot slips, and I freeze. Great. If I move now, all of my junk will be front and center. “Tink,” I let out a nervous laugh. “Listen, I… you’re a nurse, I get that, and while I’m sure you can do?—”
She gives me a dry, unamused look as she stares at me.
I’m annoyed at how fucking pretty she looks right now in her baggy clothes and no make-up.
Like… really fucking pretty. “Listen, big man,” she states with all the attitude in her body.
“Nobody, and I mean nobody, sutures a wound like me. Now, take another shot, shut the fuck up, and lie down. If you start crying, I will absolutely make fun of you.”
Not one to be called out, I snort before taking another long swig and staring back at her.“Tink, if I lay down, you’re gonna get more than an eyeful.”
A slight smirk plays across her lips before she hands me a small square of gauze.“That should handle it, right?”
I laugh. I can’t help it. She’s a fucking asshole, and it’s kind of…
alright, it’s downright hilarious. Nothing about her is what you would expect, given how high maintenance she appears to be with her hair, nails, make-up and clothing.
I’m starting to think it’s more for show.
Nothing about her underneath this disguise she wears is what you would expect.
She hands me a paper sheet and is about to start when we both freeze, hearing the second loud cry we’ve heard this evening. This one causes my blood to run cold.
My boys … My dogs, Rocky and Bear, are outside, barking and crying in the distance. They must’ve got out while Jensen and Carter were tying everything down. I hear one of them let out a cry like they are in pain, and it twists my fucking gut. I have to get to them.
I shove the whiskey aside and push up, hissing as my leg screams in protest.
“No,” Ozzy shouts sharply, reaching for me. “You’ll rip it open worse?—”
“I don’t care!” I roar, my voice raw with unfiltered panic. “They’re my fucking dogs!” She flinches and I instantly regret the tone in my voice, but I don’t have time to apologize as we hear another bark, farther away. I try to move again, but my body won’t cooperate.
“Goddammit!” I slam my fist into the cushion, pain flaring through my leg, my head, my heart. I can’t get to them. Not fast enough.
Ozzy’s eyes lock with mine. No hesitation. No fear.
Just fire.
She’s already moving, grabbing her boots and shoving her feet in as she heads for the door.
“Ozzy, don’t?—”
“You can't run. I can,” she says without turning around. “Trust me, I’ll get them.”
She’s willing to go out into this again? Into the chaos. For me. For my boys. And I have to sit here, shaking, bleeding, helpless.
“Fuck!”