10. Ozzy #2
“Well, I should—fuck!” I cry out. I had gone to move, only to have my foot caught in the bars of the stall door. “Fuck!” I curse again while trying to jerk it out, but it doesn’t budge. I try to twist my shoe out and hiss in pain.
“I can’t believe I have to say this,” Jackson says, deadpan, “but Ozzy, your foot can’t bend in that monstrosity you call a shoe.”
“They’re not monstrosities, they’re art.
” I snap as he chuckles while watching me trying to balance on one heel.
God, am I regretting these shoes. I mean, they’re perfection—black faux leather, lace-up ankle boots with chrome plating, a finger bone as the heel with studded straps.
But I would absolutely give anything to not be in them right now.
He snickers while walking around the gate. “You want help, or should I let you keep hopping around like a drunk flamingo?”
“Don’t touch me,” I warn, panicked but trying not to show it.
“You’ve got two options, baby: I leave you here, or…” He sighs dramatically. “We take the shoe.”
“I will kill you if you take my—oof!” I try to twist and jerk my foot free, only to fall on my ass.
“You alright?” he snickers, and I glare at him.
“Such a gentleman,” I mutter while crossing my arms.
“Baby, I can’t be a gentleman if you won’t let me touch you.” Baby. The things that simple name does to me coming out of his mouth… goddamn it. I need to take a cold shower and maybe change audiobooks.
“Fine,” I mutter, completely unamused. “Just… not the ankle.”
He kneels behind the gate. “I’m going to have to touch your calf.
” he announces, and when I feel his hand on my leg, it sends both fire and ice through me.
Instinctively, I stiffen and try to move away, but I’m stuck, and panic fills my stomach.
“Hey now,” he taps my calf with his hand lightly.
“Relax, I’m trying to figure this contraption out.
” I focus on my breathing as he unlaces my shoe, and before I realize it, he’s holding my foot in his hand and feeding it back through the hole to ensure I don’t get hurt.
The gesture is so sweet, especially when he lets go and I see he scratched the top of his hand.
He comes around and hands me my shoe so I can put it back on.
“Sorry about your hand,” I say softly while retying my shoe and standing up.
Jackson looks at his hand and shrugs. “I didn’t feel it. My hands are so scarred and calloused, you’d have difficulty hurting them.”
I laugh, the tension momentarily breaking—and then the scream from the house splits the air.
Dorothy.
We take off running, gravel flying under our feet. Jackson's ahead for a second, but my panic propels me faster. I barrel into the house, heart pounding like thunder in my ears.
Running into the house, I’m filled with dread when I see Morris’ door is open.
“No,” I pant as I race up the stairs, my entire body feeling as though I’m wading through quicksand suddenly. No, not yet. Not now. I run into the bedroom and nearly collapse when I see Morris on the floor, alive. He’s fallen out of the bed.
But he’s alive.
“Oh my god,” I breathe, collapsing to my knees beside him. “Morris, what—what happened?”
“Ah, I was trying to get up to take a leak. I fell.”
I furrow my brows at him.“Morris, you go in a urinal bott–”
“I know that!” he snaps while trying to get up. “It’s on the damn dresser. I couldn’t get it.”
Guilt fills me. Had I not been outside, I would’ve heard him call. “Okay, Morris, let me help you up,” I insist as I reach under his arms to heave him onto his bed.
“I’m sorry, girlie,” he mutters, and I know it’s because he wet himself.
I scoff and give him a light, playful shove.“Don’t be. I nearly wet myself coming in here, so it’s cool. Let’s get everyone out and get you cleaned up.” I help him into bed, ignoring the mess and my trembling arms. I feel Jackson’s eyes. I turn and find him frozen, pale.
“Jackson,” I hiss, ushering him and Dorothy out of the room so Morris doesn’t hear me. “Help or go. Don’t gawk like it’s a goddamn exhibit.”
Jackson just stares through me, not moving.
“Jackson?” Dorothy’s voice wavers. “Hun, he’s alright. Just a fall.”
“That’s my dad?” Jackson croaks, like the air’s been punched out of his lungs.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “That’s your dad.” I barely get the words out of my mouth before Jackson’s face hardens, and he turns, storming off down the stairs.
“Jackson!” Dorothy sobs as he walks out the door, slamming it behind him. I give Dorothy a pat on the shoulder as she dries her eyes. “I should start dinner,” she whispers, and I nod slowly.
“Alright, I’m going to get him cleaned up,” I sigh and head back to the bedroom.
“Leave the clothes and sheets out here, and I’ll gather them up to clean in a bit. I was finishing up a chocolate cake for dessert tonight and need to go get it out of the oven.”
“Meals on heels!” I declare as I bump open Morris’ bedroom door with my hip, holding a plate of chocolate cake in one hand and two mugs of hot tea in the other.
“Guess what time it is, old man? I vote romcom tonight. Maybe something sappy, so you’ll cry, and I can finally call you a little bitch with reason. ”
He snorts from the bed, the blanket tucked up to his chest, his face lit in the glow of his bedside lamp. “You put on a romcom, I swear to Christ I’ll flatline out of spite. Where’s the one with the guy in the mask that murders all the teens?”
I smirk as I set the tray down. “Halloween. A classic. Man after my own heart.” I glance over.
“If I had one.” I climb into the bed beside him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Honestly? It kind of is. Morris’ room is the only place in this house where I can sit still without needing to monitor every door and window.
“Eat some of that cake because I ain’t sharing once the movie starts,” I tease.
Morris chuckles and rests his head back.
I queue up the movie while he takes a bite of cake, and we fall into a quiet rhythm—the kind you only get when you’ve built a strange, unspoken trust with someone who has nothing left to prove.
After a few moments, he says it softly, like it just slipped out of his throat:
“Jackson looked good today. Strong.”
I stiffen, but I don’t let it show. Not on my face. Just in the twitch of my fingers as I pass him the tea.
“Well,” I say lightly, “he’s got Dorothy’s genes.”
Morris huffs out a weak laugh. “Would you believe I looked just like him? Not long ago, either. Maybe a year. Hell, it’s funny how fast it happens… how you wake up one day and your body don’t belong to you anymore.”
I glance at him. Really look. The gray in his hair has grown out since I first arrived, his skin translucent in places, paper-thin and spotted with bruises. His breathing is slower today. Not struggling—but slowed like a song playing underwater.
“I can see it,” I admit honestly. “In the jaw. The way you both grind your molars when you’re annoyed.”
“Dorothy says we’re twins when we’re being assholes.”
“She’s not wrong.”
He lets out a real laugh this time, followed by a dry cough. I press the mug into his hand again and lean my head against the headboard, watching the movie flicker on the screen.
“I haven’t seen Jackson in six months,” he mutters, like the words taste bitter. “Before you get all pissy with him,” he warns as I bolt up, “it’s my doing. I didn’t want him seeing me like this. Didn’t want him to think of me like this.”
“Like what?” I swallow hard. That hits too close to home.
“Like I’m a sick old man, pissing himself.” Morris gives me a long, unreadable glance. “You saw his face; this wasn’t how I wanted my boy to remember me. No father wants to have their boys realize they aren’t made of steel.”
I don’t respond. I just nudge the plate of cake toward him again.
“Anyway,” I say, changing gears, “Theo took me to see the horses today. I got to feed and brush one of them, Betty,” I say while putting a forkful of cake near his mouth. I smile when he takes it.
His eyes brighten, and a rare smile pulls at his lips. “Oh yeah? How is my girl?”
“Your girl?” I ask while taking another bite.
“Betty has been my girl since I helped birth her twenty years ago. Rode her every day until I couldn’t ride anymore, about a year ago.
” He lets out a shaky breath, and I twist my lips in thought as I rest my head against his bed.
I need to get Morris out of this room, even if it’s just one last time.
“You know,” he breathes out while looking at me. “I don’t recall saying you could sit your ass on my bed with me.”
Raising a brow, I take another bite of cake.I sigh while shaking my head. “You should feel honored. You’re the first man I’ve willingly shared a bed with in well over five years.”
“Only one of us is willing here, girlie,” he mutters and takes another bite of the cake when I offer. “I know you’re just trying to make me husband number seven to get my money.”
I chuckle, shaking my head, before sipping my tea. “I mean, I have seen your bourbon collection.” I grin. “A girl can be tempted. But I dunno, your wife may have something to say about that. For whatever reason, she’s pretty smitten with your grouchy ass.”
He chuckles but then goes quiet, eyes drifting toward the window.
“My Dorothy,” he says softly, the rasp in his voice turning tender. “Best thing I ever did. She doesn’t deserve this.”
“You think anyone deserves this?” I murmur. “You didn’t do anything to end up here.”
He doesn’t answer, and I don’t push. Some wounds are too old to suture.
The horror movie kicks into a chase scene—teenagers screaming, blood flying. He snorts. “You think if I scream like that, someone’ll come running to check on me?”
“Probably not,” I tease, spooning another forkful of cake into his mouth.