15. Ozzy
Ozzy
D erek Rowe is… not what I expected.
Then again, I don’t know what I expected. I’ve seen the other Rowe men—Jackson with his brooding glances and stoic hands, Carter with the smirks and the half-assed parenting panic, Jensen with his quiet steadiness. I guess I assumed Derek would be the same.
He’s not. He’s more.
He’s taller, broader. The kind of broad that makes you wonder what he’s benching in his free time just for fun.
His entire body is inked in black and grey.
That kind of work takes years, commitment, and probably more pain tolerance than most have.
Muscles wrap around his arms, chest and tattooed neck like coiled rope.
He looks like a man who’s either going to sketch your portrait or ruin your life. Maybe both.
“Hey,” he says, voice rough and low as he sticks out his hand. “I’m Derek.”
Before I can decide what to do with that, Carter calls from behind me.
“Hellraiser ain’t into physical contact!”
“Get the fuck off Gretchen, you bitch!” I snap, spinning around to see the idiot lounging on the roof of my car like he’s tanning in Miami. I storm toward him, grab the heel of his boot, and yank.
The boot gives but Carter doesn’t. Which causes me to fly backward and land flat on my ass with a dull thud.
“Goddamn it,” I whine while rubbing my ass. I don’t even get a second to wallow before a hand is in front of my face. Jackson. Of course.
He says nothing, just watches me with that unreadable look of his, like he’s trying to figure out whether I’m about to bite or cry. I grab his hand and let him haul me to my feet, which he does like I weigh nothing. The second I’m up, he releases me like my skin burned him.
Perfect.
Without a word, he walks to Carter, who is still cackling on the roof, and grabs him by the shirt and belt.
“Wait, wait, wait—Jackson, don’t—” But it's too late. Carter flies—not far, but far enough to crash to the ground with a winded grunt.
Jesus Christ. That was… that was hot. And I hate that it was hot. But my thighs are very aware that it was hot.
I hear Derek huff out a laugh behind me. “Trying to show off for your girl, huh?”
Jackson doesn’t even look at him. “There ain’t no showing off. Tink’s not the type to be impressed. She’s the type to yell until your ears bleed.”
“Damn right,” I mutter, brushing myself off.
Jackson’s eyes flick to mine, slow and assessing, before turning back to Derek. “Between being sick all week and not sleeping thanks to Carter’s surprise baby bomb, I don’t have the patience for this today.”
Derek’s face pales instantly. “You were sick?”
“Oh, for the love of God, it was a cold. Like… a literal cold.” Jackson’s voice rises as Derek retreats like he’s about to start burning linens. “Jesus, you wouldn’t think he grew up on a damn ranch the way he panics.”
When Jackson turns back around, his gaze immediately narrows. “Why are you staring at him?”
I blink. “I wasn’t staring. I was looking.”
He cocks a brow. “Well, stop looking.”
“I wasn’t aware that looking was a capital offense.”
“I…” He shakes his head, jaw tight. “I don’t have the energy for your shit today, Ozzy. Go on, keep staring at my old ass brother if that’s what you’re into,” he grumbles before storming off, leaving me confused.
“What the fuck was that?”
“Making old Jackie jealous, huh?” Carter grins as he strolls up, still rubbing his back from the Jackson toss.
I blink at him. “Don’t you have a kid to parent?”
His face falls. “Fuck! Where did I leave him?” I shake my head before walking off while Carter yells at me to help him find Wyatt. Wyatt’s fine. He’s with Dorothy, where he’s been all day. But it’s good for Carter to feel a slight panic.
Jealousy, huh?
Was that what that was? Because if so… I don’t know what to do with it. But part of me—a deep part, buried under all the scars—likes that he looked at me like I was his.
Even if he won’t say it.
“Well,” Morris sighs, letting his head sink back into the pillows as I finish rinsing the cloth in the basin beside him, “at least I got to see my first grandchild before I go.” I freeze, the wet rag dangling from my hand. He said that already.
Not yesterday. Not last week. Five minutes ago.
Swallowing hard, I turn and toss the rag into the laundry hamper, forcing my voice into something that sounds casual. “You say that like you’re dying tomorrow.”
He doesn’t answer. Just gives me that same half-smile he’s been wearing more and more lately. The one that says he knows something I don’t, and it’s too late to argue about it.
“You’re not flinching anymore,” he observes after a long pause. His hand grazes mine—gentle, hesitant. I don’t pull away, but my shoulders stiffen just a little.
“Kind of hard for a dying man to overpower me, Morris,” I reply dryly. I try to keep my eyes on the television, but it’s pointless. There’s nothing on the screen but static anyway.
“I know,” he murmurs. “But it didn’t stop you before.” His voice is soft. Not accusing. Just… observing. It stings worse that way.
I shrug. “I wouldn’t get too excited. It could all go to shit in a heartbeat.”
“You gonna tell me what’s got your panties in a bunch this afternoon?”
Rolling my eyes, I look at him with irritation. “Yeah, you had way too many sons. Too many cocks in the henhouse.”
Morris lets out a weak, tired laugh but doesn’t argue. He just nods, slow and sad, and lets his eyes drift closed.
I stare at him for a moment, at his thin chest rising and falling. The man I met weeks ago was still sharp-tongued, still stubborn. Now he’s tired. Foggy. Repeating himself. Forgetting things that should be unforgettable.
I lean down and cover him with a blanket. His hand, resting atop the sheets, is cool when I squeeze it.
“You better wake up for dinner, old man.”
I head downstairs, my pulse ticking too fast. In the living room, Dorothy’s settled with Wyatt on her lap. Jackson and Derek sit nearby, murmuring about something I don’t catch. The second I hit the bottom step, all three of their heads turn.
“I want to move Morris down here.” The words slice the silence like a blade.
Jackson stiffens. “Now’s not a good time.”
“Then when?” My voice rises too quickly, too sharp, and I see Wyatt flinch. Dorothy immediately stands and carries him into the kitchen.
“I’m serious,” I stress, looking between the men. “He’s losing pieces of himself by the hour. If you don’t let him out of that room, he’s going to die in it, and you’ll never get those days back.”
Jackson stands, jaw clenched. “Ozzy?—”
“If you won’t do it, I will.” My hands are trembling now, but I don’t hide it.
“And if I’m the one who has to carry your father down those stairs, you’ll hate yourself for it.
When he’s gone and I’m gone too, you’ll sit in this house and realize you chose to stay away from him because you’re too fucking afraid.
” The second the words leave my mouth, I regret them. But it’s too late.
Jackson’s face darkens. “Hey,” he barks, eyes burning. “Shut the fuck up.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“You think because you hand him his meds and make his damn eggs that you know what this is like? You don’t.”
“Don’t fucking do this,” I whisper, heart hammering.
“Jackson,” Derek mutters, grabbing his brother’s shoulder.
“No.” Jackson jerks away from Derek and points his finger at me.
“You want to run your mouth like you know everything, little girl? Go ahead. But don’t act surprised when someone calls you on your shit.
” His voice is loud now, venomous. “You talk tough, but the second someone pushes back, you cower.”
“Jackson!” Derek’s voice booms as he rises and shoves his brother hard. “You’re out of line. Get outside. Now.”
Jackson doesn’t look at me. Just shakes his head and storms out the back door with Derek on his heels.
I stand in the center of the room, shaking.
He yelled at me. He looked at me like I was a stranger. Like I was nothing.
My throat burns, and I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood. I will not cry. Not here.
But god, it hurts.