8. Ozzy
Ozzy
“ W hat in the fuck did you do to your shirt?”
I stop dead in the doorway of Morris’s room, my arms full of pharmacy bags. His voice is sharper than usual, less gravelly and more judgmental, which means he’s either in rare form or particularly cranky today.
“And your pants,” he adds before I can respond. “I know damn well you’re getting paid enough to wear pants without holes in them.”
I arch a brow and glance down at myself.
My shirt—black, shredded, and bleach-stained—hangs just above my navel.
The rips in my jeans crawl up my thighs, revealing flashes of tattooed skin and worn fishnets.
Honestly, it’s a miracle I didn’t end up arrested for dressing provocatively and terrifying the local livestock .
Setting the bags down on the dresser with more force than necessary, I face him fully. “Now Morris,” I coo with exaggerated sweetness, “if I were to cover up, how would the world know I’m a desperate attention-seeking menace to your polite society?”
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even crack a grin.
Shit.
Turning back to the dresser, I sort through the bottles and check them off the list while trying not to think about everything that just transpired between Jackson and me.
That whole scene in the store with that man…
Dean? And Jackson’s reaction? I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.
The way he grabbed that bastard, snarling like a protective beast. The way he said sweet girl like it wasn’t some condescending jab but a real, honest thought he’d let slip before he realized it.
Goddamn it.
I drag my focus back to the task at hand, even though my hands are a little too shaky, and my chest feels like it’s vibrating from something I can’t name.
“I heard Jackson let you drive his truck,” Morris says after a long pause.
I glance over my shoulder. “Oh? And where did you hear that?” I ask, trying to play it cool.
“Theo called. Said there’d been quite a scene in the store.”
I wince before muttering out, “Of course she did. Your town loves the gossip.” I keep my back to him as I adjust the pill trays and crack open the blister packs with trembling fingers.
What I don’t say is that the scene humiliated me.
That the moment I saw Dean with his phone, my skin went ice cold, and the sound of that shutter hit me in the gut harder than any punch.
Because people see me—see my ink, my piercings, my hair, my clothes—and they make a decision. Whore. Slut. Addict. Trash. Sometimes they say it with words, sometimes with their eyes. Dean? He said it with pictures.
And Jackson? Jackson turned into a goddamn storm. He could’ve ignored it. Could’ve looked the other way like most men do. But he didn’t. He saw me.
And worse? He defended me. Called me sweet. And I liked it.
I fucking liked it.
“Yeah, well,” I quip with forced lightness, laughing under my breath.
“You all should know better than to let me loose in public. The villagers will be grabbing their pitchforks or chucking Bibles and holy water at me. And that shit’ll ruin my very expensive makeup.
” Still no smile from Morris. I risk a glance back.
He’s staring at me—quiet, sharp and seeing right the fuck through me.
Like he’s waiting for me to drop the act. Like he’s not buying it. Not the joke. Not the grin. Not the flippant attitude I’ve polished and worn like armor for years.
My stomach twists. I can’t have this. Not from him. “Sorry if Jackson got himself in trouble. I told him to keep his big mouth shut. Typical man, doesn’t listen.”
Morris waves a hand at me, dismissive. “I didn’t raise my boys to keep their heads down while someone’s being hurt.”
I roll my eyes and turn to check his monitors. “I wasn’t being hurt.”
“Really?” His voice is lower now. “Because you look kinda like a kicked puppy.”
I freeze. His words hit harder than I expect, burrowing past my ribs and sitting somewhere deep inside me. It’s not the words themselves—it’s how gently he says them.
“Fuck off, old man,” I mumble, trying to laugh. It comes out dry. Weak.
“You don’t gotta pretend with me, girlie,” he mutters, eyes half-lidded now. “I’m sorry that fucker hurt you.”
I stiffen.
“Which one?” I ask, under my breath.
He doesn’t miss a beat. “All of them.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, clench my jaw, and stare at the floor so hard it might catch fire. I will not cry. Not here. Not in front of him. Not when I’ve worked so hard to stitch myself back together.
I glance over, hoping he’s dozed off. But he’s not asleep. Not yet. Just resting his eyes, like he knows I need the space but isn’t willing to let go completely.
My voice is barely above a whisper. “I could deal with the physical pain all day, every day.”
“I know,” he murmurs. “It’s the mental pain that hits the hardest.”
I blink at him.
He smiles, tired and soft. “I wasn’t always a rancher, girlie.”
I open my mouth to ask, but he’s already drifting off, his head tipping slightly to the side.
“I know all about the nightmares,” he mutters before sleep takes him. And I just sit there, letting the silence wrap around me like a weighted blanket. My heart aches in places I thought had long since gone numb.
Because hearing him say that? It made me feel less alone. And God, I hate that it helps.
“So…”
Indy’s voice floats through my earbud, syrupy-sweet and too bright for how heavy my body feels in the bathwater. “How’s it going there?”
I lean my head back, resting it against the edge of the tub, fingers skimming absently through the fading bubbles. Everything aches, but it’s not the physical kind. It’s the emotional soreness after too much pretending, too much smiling, too much fighting not to break.
“I’d rather hear about you and Derek,” I deflect. “Have you two decided to mate for life yet?”
She giggles. “He took me to a resort where you swim with penguins.”
“Oh my god, so obviously this is it for you two. I’ll make sure to get a purple bridesmaid gown,” I mutter, letting bubbles rise and pop around my toes.
She hums in contentment, and I envy her ease. “Seriously, though… Derek said the storm was awful.”
“Yeah,” I agree, voice soft. “It was wicked.”
I could say more. That I nearly lost my mind in the dark with the power out and the thunder cracking like gunfire.
That I watched a tree almost crush Jackson.
That I carried his dog, bleeding and panicked, through hail.
That I felt seen when Jackson called me a sweet girl and I haven’t stopped thinking about it.
But no. I won’t. That’s a door I won’t open, not even with Indy.
Instead I continue to mask, despite how heavy it is to keep it up. “Things are fine. Morris is a crotchety old man, just like me, so we are pretty cool. Dorothy doesn’t listen to reason and is exhausted so I help when I can.”
“And the guys?” she presses.
“Fine,” I reply curtly. “Carter is terrified of me. Jensen doesn’t speak. And Jackson is… whatever.”
I rinse off, ignoring the way my heart skips at the name. He’s whatever.
Indy snickers. “You know it’s okay to like a guy, right?”
“No,” I answer flatly, climbing out of the tub and grabbing my towel. “It’s not. Not for me.”
“But whyyyy?”
I sigh as I start drying off, rubbing my skin raw. Her question grates, and not because I haven’t asked it myself—screamed it into pillows, cried it into showers—but because she says it like I can just choose to be fine now.
“You know why,” I mutter as I pull on my pajama pants, yanking the drawstring a little too tight.
“You’ve been in therapy for years?—”
“I said no.”
She’s still talking as I apply my face cream, massaging too hard, my skin stinging.
“Ozzy—”
“Cupcake,” I snap, cutting her off as I march out of the bathroom, heart hammering, blood rushing in my ears as I freeze at the window.
My breath seizes. Something’s outside, it’s pitch black. But—I see it, a flicker. A beam of light, moving side to side.
My blood goes cold.
No. No, no, no, no, no.
I inch toward the window, heart galloping, sweat prickling down my spine. My throat tightens so fast it feels like a fist closing around it.
A sound…yelling, maybe? I can't make it out, too muffled?—
I rip the earbud out and fling it across the room, before pressing my ear to the glass. I hear the wind rustling, static and?—
“brUMBY!”
I jolt back, my side slamming into the dresser.
No. No. That name. That voice. It’s him.
My lungs stop working. My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
Patrick.
How did he find me? He’s in prison. He can’t be here. But I hear him again.
I hear a chain. The fucking chain. Dragging over gravel like a leash from hell.
My knees give out. I catch myself against the bed frame, fingers trembling as my vision doubles.
“No,” I whisper, over and over like a prayer I don’t believe in.
He’s here.
He’s here.
He’s here.
I run. I don’t think—I react. Bolting down the stairs barefoot, my wet hair whipping behind me, I crash through the front door.
I don’t even know what I’m looking for. My car? It’s useless. Jackson tore it apart. I hear the voice again, closer now.
“Brumby…”
God.
The sound of the chain scraping over dirt roots me in place. My hand flies to my throat as if I can protect myself before he slaps the collar on me again.
I brace against the side of the car, my legs locking. My other hand curls into a fist against the cold metal, nails biting into my palm.
I can’t breathe. My skin is on fire. My lungs are filling with water.
“There you are…”
The voice is so close now I can feel it against my skin.
I scream, “Get away from me!” Stumbling, I begin to run blindly in the darkness and completely panicked.
Terror surges through every muscle as I rip through the yard and into the trees—branches slapping my face, feet stumbling on roots and rocks.
I trip and fall, hard—mud coats my knees and palms, but I scramble to my feet, gasping, sobbing, choking on air I can’t get into my lungs.
He's behind me. I can feel him. Smell him. Hear the sick laughter.
“brUMBY! Get back here, you bitch!”
No.
Not again.
I’m not running anymore. I’m crawling.
Crawling through wet grass and broken branches, mud streaking my arms and soaking into my shirt, my skin stinging with scrapes. My breathing’s gone sharp and ragged, gasping like I’m drowning on dry land.
The trees don’t look like trees anymore.
They’re walls.
Cold and familiar.
The smell of dirt and rust and old sweat slams into me, and suddenly I’m not in the woods outside the ranch—I’m back there.
In that place.
In his place.
The wind howls overhead, but in my mind it’s a generator humming, and the rustling leaves become the sound of chains being dragged.
My body folds in on itself—my hands press into my ears.
It’s too late. He’s already here.
“Get up.”
His voice is inside me, thick and sticky like oil.
“Be a good whore, Brumby.”
I can feel the cold of the tile floor. The sting of leather against the backs of my thighs. The prongs biting into my neck, yanking me forward until I choke.
“You belong to me.”
No.
“No,” I whisper. “No, no, no, no!”
My body shakes violently, uncontrollably. My nails claw at my arms. My hands scramble, trying to get some traction in the mud, but it’s useless.
My voice is hoarse, but I don’t even remember screaming. I can’t hear Indy’s voice. Can’t remember where I am. The ranch is gone. The stars are gone; all that’s left is him. I scream again, a feral sound ripping from my chest.
I scream until I can't breathe, until my throat burns like it's on fire. And still—no one comes.
Of course no one comes.
No one came before. No one ever came. I learned not to wait, not to hope.
Not to make a sound louder than a breath, because he liked it when I screamed.
I bite down on my wrist—hard—until I taste blood and my teeth sink into my skin like anchors.
Pain is real. Pain is now. Pain means I’m still here.
My vision is static. Black and white fuzz dancing across my eyes.
The trees seem to almost pulsate. Twist. My own heartbeat pounds in my ears like war drums, and I’m losing time.
Seconds. Minutes. Hours.
I don’t know. I can’t see anything but him.
Patrick.
Towering over me, sweating and smiling, his eyes cold and dead.
“I missed you, Brumby.”
I scream again, the sound ripping from deep in my gut like it’s been waiting years to get out.
“YOU’RE NOT REAL!”
But he is. He feels real. The snap of his belt is real. The sound of metal scraping against concrete is real. The weight on my chest is real.
My body thrashes in the dirt, like I can shake him off. Like I can crawl out of my skin and leave the memories rotting inside it.
I don't care if I die out here. I just want it to stop.
I curl into myself, forehead in the dirt, sobbing like a child; like that girl I used to be before he turned me into this shell of a human.
My fingers dig into the earth like it can hold me together.
But nothing holds.
And I break.
God help me, I break.