Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
I hold my breath, trying not to laugh. Ozzy looks about the same. Like he’s trying to hold back the laughter as well. He shakes his head.
I can’t help myself. “Super sized, and yes, please.” The words roll off my tongue easily, and I can’t hold back the laughter as Ozzy rolls the SUV forward.
The neon sign reflects in the glass, painting Ozzy’s face pink for a second. It does something unfair to him. Because he’s already gorgeous in that “dangerous man who makes bad decisions look hot” kind of way. And then there’s the mohawk, the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the way his eyes keep tracking me like he’s making sure I’m still here.
The cashier hands over the bag, then pauses like she’s clocking us for the first time. Her gaze slides to me, then to Ozzy. Then she smiles—small, knowing.
“Stay safe,” she says, and there’s no judgment in it. Just… human.
Ozzy nods once. “We will.”
He passes her cash and takes the bag. As we pull away, the scent hits me through the paper—grease, syrup, bacon, warmth.
My stomach makes another noise. It’s loud and angry. I know it’s not ladylike, but I feel like I could rip through this bag right now. I’ve never been this hungry in my life. I can feel my blood sugar dropping with every minute that passes.
Ozzy snorts. “Your body is very honest.”
“My body is a traitor,” I mutter.
He turns onto the road again and hands me the bag like it’s precious. I peel it open with trembling fingers. The first bite of the egg sandwich nearly makes me cry. It’s hot. Salty. Real. I close my eyes, chewing slowly like if I savor it enough, it’ll anchor me back into my life.
Ozzy watches me out of the corner of his eye. “Good?”
I nod, swallowing hard. “It’s… perfect.” And then, because I can’t help myself, I say, “I didn’t know you were the kind of guy who takes a girl to a fast-food sex shop on a first date.”
Ozzy’s head snaps toward me. “This is not a date.”
“Mm,” I hum, taking another bite. “Sure.”
His grip tightens slightly on the wheel. “Salem.” It’s a warning. Also… my name in his mouth again makes my skin prickle.
I chew, swallow, and glance out at the neon glow fading behind us.
We always satisfy your cravings. The slogan lingers in my head. So does the fact that the building sells adult toys next to breakfast platters like that’s a normal, wholesome combo. And I—because I’m apparently allergic to peace—start thinking about the sex-store part of it.
About Ozzy.
About how he moved through that building like a predator with purpose. About how he shielded me without making me feel small. About how his voice dropped when he told me he’d hurt them. And then my mind does something wildly inappropriate: It imagines what it would feel like if his hands weren’t just guiding me out of danger. If they were on me because he wanted them there. If he kissed me.
If he— I take a long drink of syrupy soda and try to drown the thought. It only makes it fizz louder.
Ozzy glances over again, noticing the way I’ve gone quiet. “What?” he asks. “You okay?”
I swallow. “I’m… thinking.”
“That’s dangerous.”
I narrow my eyes. “Excuse you?”
He smiles like he’s proud he got a rise out of me. “You get this look. Like you’re planning to start a fire.”
I take another bite, chewing slowly, watching him from the corner of my eye.
He’s focused on the road. But I can feel his awareness of me like a hand hovering just above my skin.
I’m tired. And for some reason, that makes the question in my chest rise like it’s been waiting for permission. The neon sign flashes in my mind again. We always satisfy your cravings. I glance at Ozzy’s profile—strong jaw, sharp mouth, that ridiculous hair that I hate how much I like. Then I make a choice. I wipe syrup from my thumb and say, as casually as I can manage: “So… since we’re apparently doing the full Moonlight Munchies experience…”
Ozzy’s eyebrows lift slightly. “Uh-oh.”
I turn toward him, pulse skipping. “Are you a… toys guy?” I ask.
The SUV goes very quiet. Ozzy’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. His eyes flick to me. “Salem,” he says slowly, voice roughening, “are you asking me what I think you’re asking me?”
I hold his gaze, heart hammering. “Yes,” I say, because I refuse to be embarrassed by my own curiosity. And because if I’m going to rebuild myself, I’m going to do it honestly.
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.”