12. Ozzy
Ozzy
“ C ome on, Brumby,” Patrick growls, the nickname dripping from his mouth like venom.
He forces the gun inside me again—cold, heavy, merciless.
My back arches—not in pleasure, never that—but in agony as the jagged edge of the pistol tears through already brutalized and sensitive flesh.
I bite down hard on my lip until the taste of blood floods my mouth.
I won’t scream. Not this time. I won’t give him the sound he wants.
At least, I try, but when he twists the gun, I can’t stop myself.
“FUCK!” My voice is garbled and rough as my whole body jerks.
White-hot pain flashes across my vision like lightning.
A sob escapes, strangled and involuntary.
My breath catches in my throat as the barrel scrapes deeper—metal and flesh should never meet like this.
I can feel every unforgiving edge. I clench my fists against the table, nails cutting half-moons into my palms.
“You feel that?” he breathes, leaning over me, his sweat dripping onto my cheek. “That’s the sound of God not giving a fuck about you, Brumby. Now, where did Lolly go?”
My eyes sting from the tears and blood trickling down my temple. I meet his gaze, blurry and burning, and I still don’t beg.
The pistol shifts again. He pulls it part way out, then drives it back in with a sharp thrust. My scream rips free before I can swallow it. It echoes off the walls like a wounded animal’s cry.
He just smirks.
“Beg, Brumby,” Patrick hisses, crouching low enough so I can see the delight twisting his already ugly face. “Beg me to stop. Tell me what a worthless, filthy, lying little whore you are. Tell me where my sweet Lolly ran to, and I’ll think about it.”
I shake my head slowly. My defiance and need to protect the other girl who was here with me, the one I helped get out only hours ago, are all I have left.
“Lolly…” My voice is weak and shaking from the pain and trauma, but I glare directly into his steely eyes. “Who?” I spit.
I hear it—the cold click of the hammer being pulled back on the gun, still inside me. He raises his eyebrows, like this is some sick game. Like this is poker and I’ve just called his bluff.
“Go on then,” he whispers. “Wanna see if luck is on your side tonight?”
My vision spins. My heart pounds so hard I’m afraid it’ll crack my ribs.
I should be terrified. Maybe I am. But more than anything, I feel determined.
Protective. I will not let them find her because Ally no longer exists.
She is a ghost, a whisper, the invisible friend I needed to cope with this. She has to be in order to survive.
I look him dead in the eye and I spit in his face. The saliva mingles with sweat and blood as it drips down his cheek. “Lolly…who?” I grit out again.
He laughs. A low, rumbling sound that makes my skin crawl.
“That’s my girl. You know I love your determination.
” There’s a loud click as he pulls the trigger.
My entire body goes still. I don’t flinch.
Not externally. But inside, I shatter. The sound echoes through my skull, bouncing off the thin walls of my sanity.
He yanks the pistol out of me with a sickening squelch, and I cry out—raw, broken.
“Oi!” he yells over his shoulder, wiping my spit off his face with the back of his arm.
“Hugh! Your turn. She doesn’t want to talk.
May as well use that mouth for the only thing it’s good for.
” My body tenses as heavy footsteps approach.
And all I can do is float outside myself—mind disconnected from flesh—while I close my eyes as I feel Hugh grab my hair and shove me to my knees.
I gag on the intrusion in my mouth but don’t bite down, despite wanting to.
I feel the barrel of the pistol at the back of my head as Hugh assaults my throat and I continue to keep my eyes closed, praying to a god that obviously doesn’t exist, that this will all end soon.
I jolt upright in bed, my chest heaving like I’ve just come up for air after being held underwater too long.
Sweat clings to my skin, soaking the sheets which have twisted around my legs like restraints.
My breath comes in ragged bursts as I claw at the blankets, fighting them like they’re the hands I escaped years ago.
My fingers sting. I look down and—shit. Three of my fake nails are gone, snapped clean off. Red half-moons and gashes of blood smear across my forearms where I must’ve clawed myself in the flashback. The phantom ache between my legs makes me want to scream.
It’s been years, Oz. Your body’s healed.
Mostly.
I stumble out of bed, every step heavier than the last as I drag myself toward the kitchen. I stop at the bottom of the stairs, my hand resting on the banister like it’s the only thing keeping me upright. The thought comes before I can stop it—Jackson.
Jackson and his truck. The way he didn’t touch me until I asked.
The way he let me lose it and never flinched.
The way he looked at me like I wasn’t broken, just..
. rebuilding. He let me hug him and cry; he made sure I felt safe.
And I did. I can’t remember a time I felt that safe before, especially after what has happened.
My brain catches up just as I reach Jackson’s door, heart in my throat, knuckles lifting like they’ve got a mind of their own. I knock lightly before freezing. What the hell am I doing? It’s the middle of the night. He’s probably sleeping. I should leave?—
I’m about to turn and run away when the door opens.
He’s shirtless, all sleep-rumpled hair and half-lidded eyes and enough bare muscle to make me forget why I’m even here for a full three seconds.
“Tink?” His voice is raspy from sleep, and something about it lights a spark in the back of my throat. “What’s up?”
“Can I come in?” I ask quickly and then wince. “No, never mind, I-I’m sorry, I’m an idiot. I don’t–”
“Shhhh…” He waves his hand and yawns. “Girl, it’s the middle of the night. I ain’t got that kind of brain power yet.” He motions for me to come in while moving aside.
I step inside, and his room hits me like a memory. Big, warm, worn-in. There’s a window—of course there is—and I avert my eyes from the black glass. I don’t need any more memories tonight.
“You people and your windows,” I mutter.
“Most people like the view.” He yawns again while opening his water bottle and taking a sip.
“Most people didn’t run naked at gunpoint through that kind of scenery,” I murmur before I can stop myself.
His water bottle hits the floor with a dull thud. “What?” His voice isn’t groggy anymore. It’s razor-sharp.
“Forget it. I shouldn’t have?—”
I watch him come to stand closer. His hand goes out, maybe to touch my face, but he stops and pulls back, and…
it kills me. It kills me because it’s exactly what I need, but not what my body will allow.
I want him to touch my face, call me baby, and wrap his arms around me.
He has such strong arms. I bet they would feel so good if my fucking body would let it happen.
“I don’t know what to do,” he admits quietly, and god, I feel that in my bones.
“How so?” My voice is barely above a whisper.
“I don’t know how to help when I can’t even hold your hand. I don’t know what you’ve been through, and I don’t want to scare you by guessing wrong.”
“I had a flashback in my sleep,” I admit, swallowing the shake in my voice. “Woke up clawing myself bloody.” I lift my arms to show him, and his face hardens—like rage is simmering just beneath the surface.
Without a word, he walks to the foot of his bed and drops to the floor, sliding his arms through the metal posts of the footboard.
“Come here, Tink.”
I blink. “What are you?—?”
“I’m not touching you. Just... come here.”
I kneel in front of him, heart in my throat. His torso is bare. There isn’t one tattoo on his body, but my eyes find a scar on his abdomen and frown.
“What happened?” I ask, brushing a fingertip across it before I can stop myself.
“I was about fifteen. Thought I could impress a girl by hopping a fence and messing with a bull.” He chuckles, and the sound is soft, fond. “Got my ass kicked. Pop’s ass chewing afterward was worse than the goring though.”
I laugh softly and trail my fingers across the scar. His muscles twitch beneath my touch, and I yank my hand away.
“Sorry.”
“It’s alright. Just tickled a little.”
My chest tightens. “Why are you doing this?”
His eyes meet mine, and something in them knocks the air out of me.
“Because you stayed with my dad during that storm. You saved my boys. You’ve done nothing but give, Tink. You deserve someone willing to sit in the dark with you when you can’t breathe.”
I don’t know what possesses me to do it. Maybe it’s the way he says it, or maybe it’s the ache in my chest, but I lean in and wrap my arms around him, burying my face in his neck. He smells like cedar and soap and safety.
I could stay here forever.
“This is a bad idea,” I whisper against his skin.
“Probably,” he whispers back, brushing his cheek against mine. “But I’ll always choose to keep you safe—whether the choice is good or bad.”
I pull back, straddle his thighs, and look into his eyes. No judgment. Just warmth. Steady. Unmoving.
Running my hand over my neck, I open my mouth.
“I was drugged at a bar,” I begin through the lump in my throat.
“They took me and… kept me. One of the ways they made sure I couldn’t leave or misbehave was a correction collar they forced me to wear.
It was modified and sharpened to stay pierced in my skin, and when it was tightened, or they jerked on my leash…
” I trail off as the thought of the collar ripping my throat flashes through my mind. “Well, I’m sure you can imagine.”
His face goes white, like he’s in physical pain just hearing it.
“So, yeah.” I force a laugh. “I got out of there and was pretty bad off, lots of scars…I didn’t want to look at something so ugly, so…” I gesture to my tattoos.