Ozzy exhales, the sound low and shaky, like he’s trying to regain control of his body. Then he says, very quietly— “Yeah.”
SIX
OZZY
Two hours. That’s how long I’ve known Salem Bloom, and somehow we’ve already covered: escape routes, trauma survival, breakfast pancakes, and whether or not I’m a “toy guy.”
My life has always had a certain… chaotic rhythm. But this? This is jazz played with a flamethrower.
The SUV hums under me as Rainmaker’s road climbs into the hills—winding, narrow, the kind of route that makes you feel like you’re leaving civilization on purpose. The trees thicken. The air changes. The moon hangs low and bright like it’s watching.
Beside me, Salem is quiet. She’s silent in a way that feels deliberate. Like if she stops listening, the world might get her. Her hands are wrapped around a cup of soda like it’s the only thing anchoring her. She ate like she hadn’t tasted real food in years, and I had to look away a couple times because it hit too hard—watching someone devour normalcy with shaking fingers. Now she stares out the window, jaw set, eyelashes casting shadows on her cheek.
And I can’t stop replaying it. Her voice, casual like she was asking the time.Are you a… toys guy?My brain still doesn’t know what to do with that. My body knows exactly what to do with it, which is deeply unhelpful.
I keep my eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel, while my mind runs the highlight reel on a loop like it’s determined to ruin me.
The neon sign.
Her laugh.
The syrup on her fingertips.
The way she looked at me when she asked that question—like she was daring me to be honest. Like she was testing whether I’d flinch. And the worst part? I didn’t. I answered.Yeah.One word. Quiet. Real. Now the cab is full of all the things that word implies, and we’re both pretending it isn’t. Because she’s been through hell.
Because I’m supposed to be professional.
Because I’m driving a woman to a safehouse, not to a bedroom.
And yet my mouth still tastes like the idea of her.
I glance at her, carefully. “Hey,” I say softly, breaking the silence before it turns into something heavier.
Her eyes flick to me, alert.
“You good?” I ask.
A beat. Then she lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Define good.”
“Not starving,” I say. “Not bleeding. Not back in that building.”
Her throat moves as she swallows. “Then… yeah.” She looks away again fast, like she doesn’t want to show the cracks.
I grip the wheel a little tighter. Professional. Focused. Mission. Rainmaker comes into view ten minutes later. It’s tucked into the hills like a secret somebody paid to keep. A long, low structure with dark wood siding, big windows that reflect the night instead of spilling light, and a wraparound porch that makes it look like it could be a cozy vacation rental if you didn’t know it was designed for people who need to disappear.
Dean said it’s fully stocked.
The driveway crunches under the tires. I kill the engine, and silence settles around us—just wind through trees, distant night sounds, the soft tick of cooling metal.
Salem’s gaze tracks the house, measuring it. “Is it… safe?” she asks, voice tight.
“As safe as we can make it,” I say. “Camera perimeter. Motion sensors. No close neighbors. And nobody knows you’re here except the people you saw at HQ.”
She nods, but she doesn’t look convinced. I don’t blame her.
I get out first, circling to her side. When I open the door, cold air slips inside. She steps down onto the gravel.
I grab the duffel from the trunk, then the bag of food trash Salem shoved into a corner. She reaches for it too, like she’s determined not to be a burden.