11. Jackson #2
I look down at my hands between my bobbing legs.I start to deny it, but what’s the point? “Maybe,” I admit. “I-I don’t know what it is. She gets under my skin. She makes me feel…” I shake my head, rubbing the back of my neck. “Like I’m coming unraveled and grounded at the same damn time.”
“She reminds you you're alive,” Pops says, and damn, that hits harder than I want it to. “You don’t gotta know what it is right now, but don’t lie to yourself either. Don’t waste your time running from something that makes you feel.”
I nod, throat too tight to respond. I stand, placing my hat back on my head. “I better go. Jensen’s dragging me to The Spur.”
Pops smirks faintly. “That pretty redhead back?”
I chuckle, grateful for the shift in subject. “Yeah. He plans to stare at her like a lovesick pup until closing.”
I start to walk away, but he speaks again, soft and almost missed.
“You’re doing a good job, Jackson. I’m proud of you.”
That brings me to a dead stop. My chest caves inward, like he just sucker-punched the breath out of me.
I nod without turning around. “Thank you, Pops.”
His voice is already fading as I reach the door. “Remember what I said. Ozzy stays. She belongs here. Even if she doesn’t know it yet.”
I close the door behind me and lean against it, eyes shut, trying to swallow the goddamn lump in my throat. Despite being happy that I talked with him, seeing Pops this way…it guts me.
“Mama,” I call down the hall. “I’m gonna go take a shower, I’m done in there.”
Once I step into my room, I toe the door shut behind me and strip out of my work clothes like they’re suffocating me. Every muscle in my back aches from hauling fence posts all goddamn day, and my shirt sticks to me like a second skin, soaked with sweat and regret.
I toss the clothes into the hamper and head straight for the shower, turning the water to near-scalding before stepping in and letting the spray hit me hard in the chest.
“Fuck,” I groan as the heat stings across my bruised ribs; a not-so-subtle reminder of when Leroy rammed me into the barn door yesterday. That goat’s an asshole. But Ozzy? She just whispers to him, and the damn beast turns into a docile puppy. It’s maddening. Everything about her is.
I lean one hand against the tile and drag the other through my hair, water cascading down the back of my neck. My mind shifts, uninvited and too damn familiar, to the way Ozzy looked today.
Short shorts. Crop top. That little heart-shaped cutout right over her chest like a bullseye begging me to look. As if my eyes don’t already find her without permission. As if I don’t know every curve and bounce of her body like it's fucking gospel.
My jaw clenches, and I look down. Of course . I’m half-hard already, the tension simmering like it always does when I’ve been around her for more than five minutes.
“Goddamn it,” I mutter under my breath, rubbing a hand over my face like it’ll scrub the image of her out of my head.
But it never does. Not the way she looked brushing down Betty with that soft little smile.
Not the way her hips sway when she walks.
Not the way those piercings glint under her shirt—just enough to haunt me.
It’s always like this lately. Obsessive. Compulsive. Dirty.
Shame curls in my gut as I wrap my hand around my cock, already stiff and throbbing. I shouldn’t be doing this. I’ve told myself that every night for the past week—and yet, here I fucking am.
My hand strokes slow at first, like I’m punishing myself for needing it.
For needing her. I squeeze tighter, pumping from base to tip, the way I imagine she would—rough, mean, maybe even with a sneer on her face.
God, she’d be such a tease. She’d talk shit the entire time.
Maybe call me a good boy. I let out a harsh breath and press my forehead against the cold tile.
“Fuck… Ozzy,” I groan, dragging my hand faster now, unable to stop the fantasy from overtaking me.
Her thighs around my head. Her voice in my ear, low and dangerous.
Her nails raking down my back, leaving blood and satisfaction in their wake.
She’d bite me. Own me. And I’d let her. Hell, I’d beg for it.
My hips start to rock, chasing the high I hate myself for craving. My abs tighten. That familiar coil winding in my gut.
“Shit—fuck!” My voice echoes off the tile as I jerk through the orgasm, coming hard, my body twitching with every pulse. My free hand slaps the wall for support and I ride it out, head thrown back, jaw clenched, eyes shut tight. I don’t want to see her. Not like this.
The water’s still pounding against me when I finally sag back against the wall. I slide down until I’m crouched, elbows on my knees, panting like I just ran ten miles.
I feel… disgusting.
This isn’t just a crush. It’s something else. It’s in my fucking bones. It’s in the way I can’t breathe when she’s too close, and I hate the look on her face when she flinches from my hand. I hate that she doesn’t know I’d never hurt her. And I hate that I still touch myself to her anyway.
This ain’t just about lust anymore. It’s obsession. It’s need. It’s something dark and wild I’m not ready to name yet.
And worst of all? I’ll be right back here tomorrow to do it all over again.
“I don’t want to be here long,” I grumble as I pull into the gravel lot outside The Spur.
The neon sign flickers and the familiar twang of a country cover band spills out from behind the swinging saloon doors.
The place smells like whiskey, dust, and bad decisions.
It’s meant to look like an old-school honky-tonk, but it feels more like a cheap movie set.
That said, it’s ours. We’ve been coming here since before we were old enough to drink.
Though, since Pops got ill and I had to up my workload, it’s been a while since I had a night out.
“Well, we’re here,” Carter yawns beside me, already loosening the collar of his shirt and rolling up his sleeves. “Time to find out who's gonna call me Daddy tonight.”
“Come on,” Jensen says as he hops out of the truck, completely ignoring Carter’s comments.
“I don’t know how long Leon will hold our table,” he mutters, and I shake my head with Carter.
Jensen has a specific round table he has to sit at.
It’s away from everyone and the crowds, but he can still see the door, dance floor, and, of course, the bar.
We step inside, and the world narrows into warm light and beer-soaked wood.
Boots clack against floorboards, pool cues crack in the back, and laughter rides the buzz of conversation.
And then there’s Niamh—fresh off the plane from Dublin and already glowing like she owns the place.
She’s small but sharp, with strawberry blonde hair and eyes so green you’d think someone painted them on.
“Look at you boys!” she beams, her Irish accent strong. Usually, it’s strongest when she’s coming from her country. She gives Carter and me a hug before landing on Jensen.
“Jensen,” she says, her voice dipping. “What’s the craic?”
Jensen freezes looks from her to Carter and me, then back. “We… have a table in the back,” he manages, voice flat as a dead raccoon on the highway.
Niamh’s smile dims, but she doesn’t show it long. “Right, then. Follow me.”
Once we’re seated and she’s off taking our orders, I punch Jensen in the arm. “I didn’t get guilt-tripped into leaving the ranch just to watch you fumble your dick into your own mouth.”
“I panicked!” Jensen hisses. “She looked at me, and I forgot what craic meant, and I nearly asked her to have my children.” He groans, dropping his head into his hands.
“Well, that would’ve been entertaining,” Carter teases, half-focused on the dance floor. “But not as entertaining as that.”
He nods toward the bull. And sure enough, perched on the back of that mechanical beast like sin herself, is Ozzy. Dressed in black. Writhing. Laughing. Owning every man’s attention in the room. Mine included.
Jesus Christ, could she look any hotter ? I watch as she leans back and her hips roll forward, causing her black T-shirt to slide up, giving us all a view of her belly button ring and what appears to be a bat tattoo peeking out from her jeans.
My chair scrapes the floor before I know what I’m doing. I’m on my feet, threading through horny fucks who need to put their eyes back in their heads or lose them. Theo’s at the front, grinning at the chaos, flirting with some girl like it’s just another Friday night. She sees me and jumps.
“Bubs,” she squawks, trying to block my line of sight. “You gonna challenge Oz? Because that girl is?—”
Ozzy goes flying, hitting the mat like a goddamn pro. She pops up with hair wild, eyes shining, shirt riding up just enough to reveal that tattoo again before she sees me.
“Jackson?” Her voice is breathless—part surprise, part challenge.
I don’t get to answer. Some dipshit ranch hand—Scott, from Bennett’s Ranch—steps toward her with a grin too wide and hands too eager. I’m moving before I think. Before I blink. I grab his wrist mid-reach and bend it back until he winces.
“Scott,” I say, calm as a bomb. “I know you wasn’t about to grab this pretty lady without her permission, were you?” Ozzy stiffens as her face pales.
“N-no, sir,” Scott stammers. “Just—askin’ her to dance.”
“You ask with your mouth, not your hands,” I growl. “And she ain’t interested.”
“Actually,” Ozzy mutters, “I could be.”
“You ain’t,” I bite out, not bothering to look at her. “Get your ass to the table. I’m not babysitting you all night.”
“No one asked you to, Superman,” she snaps, brushing past me and heading for the bar. I watch her go, jaw clenched so tight my teeth hurt. She’s fire and fury and fucking fearless—and I’m drowning in it.