19. Bay
NINETEEN
bay
HOT ROD: Levi wants to see you.
I glance up from my phone, immediately clashing with Hot Rod’s hazel eyes, sitting in my family room and watching ESPN highlights of whatever the fuck.
My cheeks flush, guilty, because I wonder if he knows.
If he was around and heard what Levi and I did.
I was barely able to say shit else to Levi after we fucked. He kissed my forehead, told me to behave, and left.
However, the man currently wasting space in my living room lied to me.
He said Levi was dead.
He watched me break down, almost commit an assassination, and did nothing to give me hope.
BAY: Go fuck yourself, traitor.
Hot Rod smirks over his phone with a quirked eyebrow.
HOT ROD: You know why I did it.
To protect Levi at all costs.
Even from me.
However, it still does nothing to patch us up. I’m always working with half a story.
BAY: You don’t trust me.
HOT ROD: I trust you just fine. I just don’t trust you when you really want something and you can’t have it.
BAY: That still means you don’t trust me.
HOT ROD: Bitch at me later, patch the psycho up, and be done with this shit.
I send multiple middle finger emojis in the most mature fashion imaginable, of course, and look up to find Ozzy sitting impatiently on one of the stools at the kitchen island.
Normally, he’s calm, quiet, and nonchalant in his own way, but tonight, he’s on edge. I’ve been playing with the idea of how to ask him what’s up, but I fall flat every time our blue eyes clash.
Then I lose out on the opportunity.
Grabbing the cotton balls and other various first aid items I’ve gathered from the bathroom, I soak them in alcohol to clean Ozzy’s wound, but he’s only rolled up his sleeve.
I see the graze on his bicep, but I have no clue how many times he’s been shot.
Getting in front of him, I stare into his chest when I say, “Take your shirt off.”
Nothing.
I’m forced to glance up, as if this isn’t a big fucking deal, but it is.
Ozzy doesn’t flaunt. And he sure as fuck can barely tolerate me touching him, let alone possibly seeing him shirtless.
Not entirely sure if the odds will ever present themselves again, and I can’t say I’m entirely displeased by it minus the gunshot wound, of course.
Meanwhile, Ozzy just vacantly stares at me. Which does nothing for my running mind. I want to talk to Hot Rod about everything, but I can’t. I just fucked my best friend, and we barely said shit-all to each other.
And I still “buried” him.
How fucked up is that? What the fuck happened? And why was I told he was dead?
“Was it just your arm?” I solicit with a raised brow through my thoughts and receive nothing back from Ozzy in return. “Well, I need to check. And that requires a lack of material covering your body.”
Nothing.
“ Ozzy ,” I lightly reprimand. “I’m tired. Do I need to take mine off, too, so you feel more comfortable or…?”
He grunts at that, and then, I swear to God, he actually rolls his fucking eyes at me.
His fingers clasp around the hem of his black tee, still soaked and stained in his blood, before he slowly begins to remove his shirt with one hand and struggles a bit.
I step closer. “Here, let me help you, okay?”
Hesitating, I wait for a sign he doesn’t want the assistance, but it never comes. So I don’t wait for it to barrel out of his mouth and carefully begin to hoist the cotton material up his body.
“Don’t move your right arm,” I order. “I can get it off.”
Black ink comes into view against hard, smooth skin, covering some of his torso, and then his chest, as I try to focus on my task.
However, I can’t help but fucking stare at his lean muscles the higher I work his shirt. He’s more tatted than Levi. Except the skin around his heart is free of any pigment.
Ozzy slowly pulls his left arm out of his shirt, giving me another landscape of ink over the pieces of flesh I’ve never seen before.
Swallowing, I carefully pull the rest of the material over his head and then, as gently as I can, pull at the sleeve to keep the fabric from brushing up against the contusion that comes on full display.
It appears like a flesh wound on his shoulder as well, but it’s red around the edges, appearing slightly infected and irritated.
This is going to hurt.
Discarding his shirt to the floor, I take one necessary step between his spread thighs and practically choke on an inhale.
My skin promptly heats at our proximity, and I try my absolute best to study only his wound and not his naked chest in front of me.
“Maybe I should give you some aspirin first,” I surmise evenly, taking a small step back. I obviously need to gather my damn self before I can do this, and it’s oddly and severely pathetic that I’m struggling. “This isn’t going to feel very?—”
“Do it,” he orders gruffly, sending a violent shiver down my arms and it brings me right back to that night.
Our first night.
The one when we met, and he was staring down a double-barrel shotgun.
“I think you need to find different words,” I retort to give myself something to say and center on. I attempt to study his abrasion, but it’s blurring because I’m highly aware of Ozzy staring at me.
“Why?”
“You don’t remember?—”
“I remember,” he cuts in, prompting me to lift my gaze again and fall right back into those ocean-blue eyes.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I mutter before he jerks his head to his injured shoulder, urging me to get what I want to done. It reminds me that he didn’t want to do this in the first place, and he’s doing it to appease me.
However, I can’t help but feel uneasy. Ozzy isn’t black and white but hues of gray. One minute, I gather he wants to say things. Other times, I assume he thinks I’m a dumbass.
The latter may be— is —true.
Regardless, fixing him up has to be done or his wound will never heal properly. And the last thing he needs is to get some sort of infection in his bloodstream.
I’m here to prevent that and any more problems.
Lifting my arm, I gently press the cotton balls into his gash and see the goosebumps pebble and protrude around his skin.
I’m careful with the pressure, trying my best to be as quick and precise as I can. When I’m done, I withdraw a bit to get to the hydrogen peroxide sitting on the kitchen island, but Ozzy’s palm suddenly cups the back of my left thigh, eliciting a soft gasp to immediately leave my lips.
At the contact, I’m shell-shocked he hasn’t removed it as quickly as it came.
It’s still there.
There’s nothing I can do but study his face and search for what he wants. The thing is, I didn’t want to lean over and brush up against him to grab it even though I could’ve easily done so.
I just didn’t want to make him uncomfortable by forcing my weight.
“I’ll be right back,” I convey as casually as I can. “I’m just going to grab?—”
“It’s right there.” He moves his head toward it again, hinting he already knows where it is behind him.
However, I’m not entirely sure he’s giving the bandwidth of my arm much credit.
“I don’t want to crush you?—”
Ozzy quirks a knowing brow, cutting right into the excuse meant more for him than me.
My first concern, always, is making sure he’s free from stress. He’s not like the guys, obviously. I know there’s trauma and a lack of trust. I’m not Vivian Muncy by a long shot, but I’m still a woman.
Without a rebuttal, I call Ozzy out on his sudden confidence in the inevitable and bend forward, making quick work of plucking the brown bottle of peroxide off the table and straightening my spine.
And now I need more cotton balls.
Shit.
With a silent exhale of anxiety, I bow toward the bag and extract those, too. However, I don’t miss the shudder racking through Ozzy’s body and reverberating into mine the moment our bodies come into contact again.
I’ve never had a vibe like this before with anyone in my fucking life, and it’s as nerve-wracking as it is confusing.
“How are we doing?” I ask absentmindedly, earning a prompt and small nod from Ozzy. “We’ll add this and bandage you up. Then you’re all set. We’ll clean it tomorrow, okay?”
Another nod of silence.
I make quick work of cleaning the rest of his injury, go another round of leaning over him to grab the bandages and finish in record time.
It’s not perfect.
But touching Ozzy is a whole other level of forbidden in my head.
“All done,” I confirm, still feeling his palm resting behind my thigh. “You need some painkillers.”
“No…thank you.”
Well, one thing we have in common is stubbornness.
“You’re not going to win a blue ribbon for your pain tolerance,” I retort softly. “Who cares?”
“I care.”
I suppress a scoff, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say his male ego was ten times the size of Torin’s, but he doesn’t flaunt it. It just settles in his chest and comes out when it’s being challenged or questioned.
“Fine,” I concede, lifting my shoulders. “But I’m cleaning it tomorrow. No fucking ands or buts about it, got it?”
He bows his head in acknowledgment.
“You hungry?”
Ozzy rocks his head back and forth, influencing one of my palms to land on my hip.
“I have this feeling you’re trying to get out of here and do something.”
His blue eyes sparkle a bit, and I’m starting to get better at reading them.
“How about a break tonight? Let yourself heal up.”
I get a pair of unamused eyes, and the look of dumbass sent over to me.
“Use words if you’re trying to get out of this,” I reply. “I may not be privy to your every move, but I know that you’ve been shifting around in this stool since you sat down, and you’re itching to get at something.”
His attention clenches on me, clearly not a fan of the whole calling-out situation.
“Well?”
Ozzy’s phone pings, and a small smile graces my face.
“Busted.”
“Stop it,” he growls, his fingers at the back of my thigh gripping a bit at my skin.
“I don’t want you out tonight.”
He glowers at me.
“What’s it going to take?”
“Nothing,” he answers immediately.
“I don’t like that answer.”
He lifts his shoulders dismissively and releases his hold, leaning back against the kitchen island’s edge, and I could see it anywhere—he begins to shut down.
“Fine,” I deadpan, stepping away from his space and striding over to the trash to throw the cotton balls away. “Do your thing.”
I’m not into begging for him to remain here while he goes on a manhunt because I know that’s what he’s about to go do.
Or find Reeve.
My stomach clenches a bit from worry, but I lift my chin because I won’t accept anything but that he’s high, fine, and hiding away from his feelings.
It’s better than here.
And while I don’t have to face Levi’s death anymore, my sisters still do. I still have an ex who’s running around like he’s about to do something, and the last thing I need is Ozzy to become a hostage or the next one to be targeted.
He already got shot saving me because he’s with me. Regardless of how you want to look at it, Ozzy is linked and legally married to my ass.
I can’t say Matteo would be a fan of that for too much longer.
“Bay…”
Ozzy’s voice filters through my impending thoughts, and I rest my palms along the edge of the countertop, thinking of tomorrow, what I’m going to feed the girls, and how hard it is for them to have to go back to school with the loss of Levi.
I don’t acknowledge him right away, steeling myself for whatever he wants to say before turning around and facing him again.
He’s within feet, already crept up on me, and stands there, appearing defeated and torn.
I’m keeping him away from what he wants to do and what, I’m told, he’s good at. Obviously, he is, because I didn’t know he existed until he came out of the shadows and revealed himself of his own free will. I might be his wife, but I’m not his keeper, nor am I his boss.
“Yeah?” I emit through his silence, giving him his opportunity to speak, and that I acknowledge him.
“Don’t be mad.”
“I’m not. I just want you safe .”
He stares at me as if not comprehending what that would mean or maybe why I would care.
I do.
A lot.
If I have to deal with one more assassination attempt, I’m going to throw myself down a full flight of stairs.
Can’t.
You’re pregnant.
My nostrils flare at the reminder and the complicated fact the man in front of me—my fucking husband—doesn’t know yet.
You’re so fucked up, it’s stupid.
Ozzy’s eyebrows clip together a bit, alluding to the fact he’s noticed and will want an explanation. But he doesn’t push. He doesn’t pry. He allows me to either keep it from him or flat-out say something.
An accommodation I’m not used to because the men around me would nag me to death to get those answers.
“I’m pregnant.”
The words leave my lips on a strangled exhale. Dread immediately courses through my veins because this wasn’t what he expected. It’s not what he signed up for.
Truthfully, I’m going to bet he’s going to want out of this shitty marriage ASAP after this. I’m nothing but a problem, a wreck of a girl who can’t get shit together. I’m failing in every aspect of my life, and I’ve screwed up more relationships in the course of a week than I have my entire life.
I told them to stay away from me and that I was no good.
I warned them.
Yet it doesn’t make me feel less shitty about it.
Ozzy continues to gape at me, but it’s empty. Nothing in his features gives away what he’s thinking, and it begins to creep up my skin like a mosquito bite. It itches, the need for him to say something, anything. It gnaws at me because I’m another issue this man didn’t sign up for.
“This is your out,” I force past my lips. “I don’t expect you to want to stick around or?—”
Ozzy turns on his heels then and marches toward the front door, leaving the last bit of my out for him behind.
I don’t know if he’s pissed off, upset, shocked, or annoyed, but the soft click of the door behind him doesn’t explain much.
Nothing at all.
And I feel like a dick.