7. Jackson
Jackson
“ I ’m tired!” Carter whines from the roof, dragging the word out like a five-year-old denied a snack.
“Do I look like I give a shit?” I growl, my voice muffled from under the hood of Ozzy’s busted-up car named Gretchen.
The damn thing is a miracle on wheels. I’m not sure how it survived the storm—or how it’s still running now—but the poor old girl took a beating.
From the way Ozzy damn near wailed over her like she was mourning a fallen soldier, you’d think the car had a pulse.
Odd, considering the thing didn’t look much different than it did before the storm. But what do I know?
Ozzy did a lot during the storm, though.
Hell, too much. She saved my dogs, stood by my pops when no one else could, and damn near got herself killed.
So, I’m repaying the favor by popping out dents in her car, changing her oil—which is basically tar at this point—and maybe.
.. just maybe... I might’ve had one of the ranch hands run into town to grab her a set of new tires.
Her old ones? Smooth as a damn bowling ball.
“You know…” Carter’s drawl pulls me out of my thoughts.
I glance up, my brow twitching with irritation as I catch him lying on the roof shirtless, sun glinting off his tanned skin like he’s modeling for a cheap calendar.
“If you’re trying to fuck Hellraiser,” he muses, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face, “there are easier ways to do it. Cheaper, too.”
My spine stiffens instantly.
The wrench in my hand feels a little too comfortable.
“What the fuck did you just call her?” I ask, straightening up, my tone dropping in a low, warning tone.
Carter rolls onto his stomach, kicking his legs behind him like a goddamn teenage girl. “Come on, it’s a good one, right? Hellraiser? ‘Cause she is one… and it’s an Ozzy?—”
“I know the goddamn song,” I cut him off, the edge in my voice sharp enough to draw blood. “But don’t call her that.”
“Jesus,” Carter chuckles, exchanging a glance with Jensen, who’s wisely keeping his mouth shut. “Relax, man. Since when, and why, do you care so much?”
“I don’t,” I snap too quickly.
“Uh-huh.” Carter smirks, eyes glinting with mischief. “You saying you wouldn’t fuck Hellraiser? I mean, look at her. Tits. Ass. All that attitude.” He whistles low, shaking his head. “You ain’t into that anymore? What happened? You hit forty, and your dick shut off?”
The rage that pulses through me is instant. “I said, stop calling her that.”
“Alright, alright.” Carter holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Damn. Touchy, aren’t we?”
“I wouldn’t fuck her,” I mutter, turning back to the car. Lie . “She ain’t my type.” Bigger fucking lie . The truth? I’ve been thinking about her. Too much.
Ever since that night after the storm, after I saw her soaked and shaking, her makeup smudged and body trembling from exhaustion, I’ve been thinking about her.
Every damn night. And every damn night since, I’ve done something I shouldn’t be doing in the shower, thinking about the way her hands felt on me when she bandaged my leg.
Thinking about her lips. Her laugh. The fucking way she looked up at me with fire in her eyes.
And I hate myself for it. Because she’s not for me. She’s wild. Untouchable. And broken in ways I don’t even fully understand.
But none of that stops my body from reacting whenever she’s around. It doesn’t stop the heat from curling low in my gut when I see her.
It sure as hell doesn’t stop the guilt that hits me like a freight train after my nightly masturbation sessions.
I try to shake it off and focus on the task at hand. But just as I’m about to go back to pretending like I don’t give a damn?—
“What are you doing to Gretchen?”
Her voice echoes from behind me. Low, smooth, and threaded with suspicion.
I glance up and—fuck. She’s standing on the porch, one hand on her hip, head tilted slightly, her eyes narrowed in confusion.
She’s wearing skin-tight black jeans that look painted on, ripped in all the right places, exposing glimpses of tattooed skin and fishnet stockings underneath.
Her crop top looks like it’s been artfully washed in bleach too many times, clinging to her curves and stopping just above her belly button.
Her lips? Black. Glossy. Sinful.
Fuck. I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry.
“Uhhh…” I blink, dragging my eyes away from the unholy sight in front of me. “Well… Gretchen needed an oil change. And tires.”
I pull my hair back, securing it with a rubber band just to have something to do with my hands.
Ozzy’s brows knit together as she steps off the porch, her boots crunching against the gravel as she heads toward me. “I didn’t ask you to do this.”
I lean against the front bumper, crossing my arms as I let out a dry laugh. “Yeah, apparently you’ve never asked anyone, judging by the sludge you had in your engine and those bald-ass tires.”
Her eyes narrow as she peers under the hood, running her hand over the cylinder head cover. When she pulls it back, her palm is smeared with grease.
“I guess she’s a little dirty,” she mutters, wrinkling her nose.
I snort. “A little? Tink, when was the last time you changed the oil?”
She shrugs, lifting one shoulder. “You mean… the gas? I filled it up?—”
“Oh my fucking God,” I groan, running a hand down my face. “The oil, Ozzy. How has this car not just stopped on you?”
She shrugs again, unbothered. “What can I say? Gretchen’s a fighter.”
“Didn’t your dad ever teach you how to take care of a car?”
Her expression changes just a fraction. Enough for me to notice.
“No,” she answers softly. “I don’t have a dad.” The air shifts. “And this is my first car,” she adds quickly, her tone clipped now, like she’s trying to move past it. “I bought her online a couple of years ago.”
I study her, my chest tightening in ways I don’t fucking like.
“How is this your first car?”
“Because I lived in bigger cities,” she huffs, crossing her arms. “Cars were a nuisance. I took public transit or…ya know, walked.”
I nod slowly, taking in more than just her words. The edge in her voice. The way she’s avoiding my eyes.
“Is there something you need?” I ask, trying to change the subject.
“Yeah.” Her walls are back up. Her expression hardens. “I need to go to town. Your father needs medicine and a few other things.”
I nod, wiping my hands on a rag. “Come on, then. I’ll take you.”
Ozzy stiffens, shaking her head almost instantly. “Just give me the keys. I’ll go alone.”
I laugh lightly, shaking my head. “Not happening, Tink. No one drives my truck but me.”
Her jaw clenches. She looks toward the roof, probably thinking about asking Carter.
“Carter doesn’t have a vehicle right now,” I cut her off before she can speak. “And Jensen’s is in the shop. You got me or…ya know, you can walk.” I can see the idea flutter through her mind instantly. Jesus Christ. She’s actually considering walking. “Get in the damn truck, Ozzy.”
I expect her to fight me. But after a moment—one filled with her muttering something under her breath—she stomps toward the passenger side of my silver Chevy, grumbling the entire way.
The ride is tense. Too tense.
Ozzy presses herself against the door like I’m some threat she’s trying to avoid, her body language screaming defense.
“Is there a problem?” I finally ask, glancing at her as I pull onto the main road. “Do I smell or somethin’?”
“I don’t like other people in the car with me,” she mutters, her fingers twisting in her lap.
I frown. “Why? I’m not gonna wreck.”
“It’s not your driving,” she explains quickly, looking out the window. “It’s… it’s like being claustrophobic. I feel… trapped.” Her voice drops at the end, barely above a whisper and it causes my stomach to tighten.
“Trapped how?” I ask softly.
She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t have to.
Her hands are clasped together, knuckles white, her knees bouncing so fast it’s making the whole damn truck shake.
Taking care of Jensen and his panic attacks his whole life, I know what’s happening.
I pull over and shift the truck into park before turning toward her.
Ozzy’s body freezes and she looks wild.
“Whoa, hey.” I raise my hands, palms up. “I ain’t gonna do nothing, Tink.”
Her eyes are wide, her breath coming too fast, her body locked.
“I’ll tell you what,” I say softly. “How about you drive? Huh? You want to drive the truck?” Her eyes snap to mine, uncertainty swirling with fear.
“I’m serious,” I murmur, pulling the keys out and holding them out to her.
She opens the passenger door and all but falls out of the cab, stumbling into the unruly weeds on the side of the road.
I flinch when I hear her vomiting in the grass.
Sighing, I get out of my seat and walk toward her, stopping short of actually reaching her for fear she might run.
After she finishes, I grab a warm bottle of water from the back of my cab.
“Better than nothing,” I shrug when she eyes the bottle.
I watch as she gargles and spits the liquid out before staring at me, her makeup running from the forced tears from vomiting.
“Tink…” I don’t know how to ask the question. I don’t know if I want to know the answer. But I also know I can’t continue to trigger her. “Ozzy, I need you to throw me a bone here,” I plead softly, earning myself a weary look.
“I don’t like men,” she says before sipping her water. “I don’t like being alone with men, I don’t like being touched, and I don’t like feeling powerless.”
“Okay,” I reply slowly, trying to figure out the right thing to say.
“I won’t touch you, and you are not powerless.
Not with me, alright? Do you want to drive the truck?
” I ask again while opening my hand to show her the keys.
“Here, take them.” For a second, I think she’s going to bolt.
But then—her hand trembles as she reaches out, plucking the keys from my palm.
I make sure her fingers don’t brush mine.