7. Jackson #2
When she climbs into the driver’s side, I slide into the passenger side, watching as she adjusts the seat and grips the wheel with both hands like it’s a lifeline.
I look at her—eyes focused, jaw tight and I remember what she said about Leroy.
“He was scared and cornered. He just needed someone to make him feel safe.”
I swallow hard, the weight of her words pressing down on me. Because maybe she’s looking for someone to make her feel safe, too.
And God help me—I’m starting to think I want to be that someone.
“Jackson!”
My name cuts through the noise of the pharmacy line, wrapped in that familiar rasp of mischief and dirt-kicking grit. I look up to see Theo, our honorary little sister—short, blonde, covered in sun and sweat, and stomping toward me like she owns the whole damn town.
“Theo,” I greet, grinning as I pull her into a hug. “When the hell did you get back?”
“Yesterday,” she replies, smirking. “Was gonna come back last week, but y’all had that nasty-ass weather. Couldn’t get a plane anywhere near you fuckers.”
I nod, my eyes already drifting to scan the store.
Where the hell is Ozzy?
Theo’s talking, her words flying like spitfire.
Something about her grandma chasing cowboys in Montana and her brother Bryce being a self-righteous dick.
Same shit as always, but I’m barely catching half of it because I feel this tug—low in my gut, restless and hot—and I know it’s because Ozzy’s not in my line of sight.
She’d been quiet since we got back in the truck. Withdrawn. And it unsettled me in a way I don’t have a name for.
“Did you get—” I jerk at the sound of Ozzy’s soft, gravelly voice behind me.
I spin around to find her standing there, a basket on her hip, her arms crossed tight like a barrier. She gives me a clipped, forced smile and nods toward Theo.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Her tone’s off. Tight. Too polite.
Oh…Does she think something’s going on between me and Theo?
It shouldn’t please me. But it does. And that pisses me off more than anything.
I fight the smirk tugging at my lips, but I can’t stop my eyes from dragging down her frame. Fuck, she’s too damn beautiful, and those fucking fishnets are doing all the wrong things to my brain.
Theo whistles low. “Well, hello there, beautiful. Name’s Theo.”
Ozzy hesitates, then places her hand in Theo’s rough one.
“Ozzy,” she replies. “I’m a nurse for the Rowes.”
Theo grins, slapping my chest. “Shit, so you’re the one Derek’s lady called in a panic? Well damn, you’re even hotter than the stories made you out to be.”
Ozzy’s brows lift. “You work at the ranch?”
“Yes, ma’am. Since I was old enough to hold a shovel. Those boys and Mama Dorothy raised me. Jackson’s like my big brother.”
I don’t miss the way Ozzy’s shoulders loosen at that.
Interesting. No! Jackson…it’s not interesting. It’s the least interesting thing that could possibly be happening.
We chat for another minute, but my attention is already shifting—something doesn’t feel right. Like a change in air pressure before a storm. It’s Ozzy. She is trying to stay engaged as she says goodbye to Theo, but her eye flinches every few seconds. It takes me a second before I hear it.
Click.
The unmistakable sound of a phone camera shutter. I turn to follow the sound and there he is—Dean fucking Hickerson.
Beer gut. Red face. Hair clinging to the last stages of a failed comb-over and phone in hand.
It’s pointed directly at Ozzy. My blood boils so fast it makes my vision blur.
“Jackson, don’t,” Ozzy warns, her voice trembling just enough to send me over. She’s upset. This piece of shit is upsetting her.
I ignore her pleas as I storm over to the fucker. Dean’s still snickering like some bloated weasel when I snatch the phone out of his hand.
“What the hell, Rowe!” he blubbers, stumbling back.
I scroll through his phone and my stomach twists. There are dozens of pictures of Ozzy. In the store, walking the aisles, bent over a cart, looking at books.
“Dean, I swear to Christ,” I growl as I grip the man by the collar of his shirt when he tries to snatch the phone from my hand again.
“Keep reaching for the phone, and I’m gonna break every goddamn finger on your hand.
” I look at the screen again and my heart sinks when I see Ozzy in a different outfit.
I remember that outfit. It’s from that night—the night she came back shaken, asking how far the nearest city was.
The same night I dismissed her fears like she was being dramatic.
He’s been following her, watching her… hunting her.
I hear my own voice, a sick echo: “Maybe don’t walk around covered in metal and tattoos. You obviously enjoy the attention.”
I hate myself. I fucking hate myself for not realizing why she was asking about another place to shop. I will kick my own ass later. But right now, I’m seeing red, and it’s all for this stupid waste of space, motorcycle-riding mother fucker.
I slam Dean against the checkout counter, my fist twisted in his collar. “Ya know, Dean, I’ve put up with you and that dumbass biker gang for a long fucking time. But now, I’m seriously considering killing you.” His breath catches but he’s smart enough not to fight against me.
I delete every photo—starting from that night—and wipe his cloud clean before slamming the phone onto the conveyor belt, hard enough to spiderweb the camera lens.
“New rule,” I snarl, voice low and deadly. “You, or any of your biker wannabe buddies, so much as look at that sweet girl again, I’ll do what I just did to your phone to your fucking face. Got it?”
He nods like a man who’s seen death. Good. I walk away, fists still clenched, heart hammering.
Ozzy’s by the door. She’s pale and quiet with her brown eyes big and round. She doesn’t fight me when I take the bags from her, doesn’t say a word as we walk to the truck.
But I can feel her shaking beside me and it guts me. I don’t want her scared of me.
Once inside, she starts the ignition with trembling fingers. The silence is deafening. And I’m about to say something just as she exhales.
“I didn’t ask you to do that.” She’s trying to sound strong, but it’s not working.
“I know,” I say, voice flat. “I’m pretty sure you told me not to.”
She stares out the windshield. “Right.” Her voice breaks. Just slightly. “I just… I don’t know what to do with that.”
Releasing a soft huff, I take my hat off and throw it on the dash. “With what?”
She’s silent and it causes me to glance over to her—and fuck. Her lip is trembling. Not the dramatic kind or the ‘look at me’ kind. It’s the kind that makes you realize someone’s holding everything in so tight, they're about to shatter.
“Tink?” I ask, but it’s too late.
She flinches and every emotion running through her shuts down. It’s like someone flipped a switch and turned all the lights off.
“You ready to go?” she asks, her voice distant.
She doesn’t wait for my response. She pulls out of the space and starts driving like we’re just two strangers sharing a ride. Like I didn’t just threaten to kill a man for taking her photo.
We make it less than ten minutes into this torturous drive, and I can’t take it anymore. “Pull over,” I state. Ozzy doesn’t answer and doesn’t listen. “Tink. Pull. Over.”
She sighs in irritation while jerking the wheel onto a gravel turnout just off the road. She throws the truck in park, and we sit in heavy silence.
“I don’t need you to protect me,” she says finally, staring straight ahead. “I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time.”
“I know,” I answer, “but maybe I want to anyway.”
She turns slowly, eyes narrowing. “Why?”
Why? Because I can’t sleep unless I know you’re okay. Because I get hard every time I think about you bossing me around. Because I hate every man who’s ever looked at you like you were something to take.
Well, I can’t voice any of that to her.
“Because I was a dick. And I should’ve listened to you that night when you were asking about another city.”
The tension between us is a livewire now, crackling in the air. Ozzy shifts in her seat. Slowly. Her eyes meet mine and they burn. “I don’t know what to do with you, Superman.” she whispers.
I lean in just a fraction, terrified that if I even breathe the wrong way, she’s going to run.
There’s only a breath between us, our faces close enough I can count the flecks of gold in her eyes. Close enough to taste her anger, her fear…her want.
My hand moves, slow and careful, brushing against her fingertips.
Her breath hitches and she pulls away as if I burned her.
“Oz—”
“Let’s go,” she says softly as a shaky sound scrapes her throat.
I don’t stop her. We continue to ride and fuck if it’s not more awkward now than before. I steal a glance and see the walls she’s built around her, and I know I’ve fucked up. That one touch I stole…may have just cost me everything.