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 straighten my posture and try to push away all the attraction I have for this man. Because that would be dangerous, right? My life isn’t all sparkles and sunshine. Girls like me don’t deserve love. We don't really deserve any of this. “So, this bucket list…”
“It’s a mini one,” he corrects. “Not, like, ‘skydiving’ unless you want to.”
“I do not want to skydive,” I say immediately. “I’m already done with falling.”
Ozzy’s expression changes, the humor dimming. He nods slowly. “Okay.” He says it like he hears the weight behind it. Like he knows that wasn’t a joke.
The silence stretches.
I clear my throat. “Also, I’m not some tragic charity project.”
Ozzy leans back against the counter, pen still in hand. “I know.”
“I mean it,” I press, because something in me panics when people are kind. Like kindness is always a prelude to being owed. “I’m not—”
“Salem,” he interrupts gently, and my name in his mouth is grounding. “I’m not doing this because I feel sorry for you.”
I stare at him, suspicious.
He holds my gaze. “I’m doing it because you deserve a life that isn’t just survival.”
My throat tightens again. Damn it. I swallow hard. “Okay.”
Ozzy nods once like that’s settled. Then he gestures toward the notebook. “What’s something you’ve never done?”
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. Because the list is… long. And saying it out loud feels like admitting my childhood was emptier than I let myself believe.
Ozzy watches me. He’s so patient. Not pushing.
So I grab a stool and sit, wrapping my hands around a mug of hot tea he must’ve made earlier. The warmth seeps into my fingers. “I grew up poor,” I say finally, voice flat like I’m describing the weather.
Ozzy’s eyes soften. “I know.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Not the cute kind of poor where you have ‘character’ and ‘grit.’ The kind where you learn how to sleep through hunger because it hurts less than being awake.”
His jaw tightens. Anger flashes across his face. It’s quick and controlled, but it’s there. Like he can’t hide it. He’s angry. At the world? I don’t know. Maybe.
I keep going, because now that I’ve started, it’s like a dam cracking. “My mom… she wasn’t mean,” I say carefully. “Not always. She just… didn’t have anything to give. Not attention. Not affection. Not stability. She had men. Always men. A revolving door of men.”
Ozzy’s knuckles whiten around the pen.
“And when she picked a man,” I continue, “the rest of us had to fit around him. If I didn’t fit, that was my fault.” My chest aches with old resentment. Then I push it down. Because it’s easier to love someone when you don’t look too closely at the ways they failed you.
Ozzy nods once, slowly. “And Carl?”
My stomach twists at the name. “Carl,” I confirm, voice turning harder. “He’s… a creep.”
Ozzy’s gaze sharpens. “Tell me.”
I hesitate, then shake my head. “It’s not… a specific thing. It’s the way he looks at me. The way his eyes linger. Like he’s thinking about… ownership.”
Ozzy’s face goes very still. He doesn’t speak for a long moment. Then he says quietly, “I’m having Dean run his background.”
My head snaps up. “Ozzy—”
“I’m not saying he did anything,” Ozzy cuts in, calm but firm. “I’m saying we don’t ignore any possibility.”
I swallow. My stomach sinks. “You think he could’ve…” I can’t even finish it.
Ozzy’s eyes hold mine. “Trafficking is money. And money makes men do disgusting things.”
A cold wave moves through me. My first instinct is to defend my mom. To defend the world I came from. To insist it couldn’t be that. But my second instinct is to remember that I disappeared, and nobody came looking for me. Nobody even seemed to notice until Maddox Security got involved.
How long did it take for anyone to report me missing? I don’t know. And that’s… terrifying.
Ozzy’s voice softens. “We’ll check. That’s all. Information doesn’t hurt you. It helps you.”
I nod slowly, throat tight. “Okay.”
He writes something on the notebook:
Background check: Carl (and any ties)
Seeing it on paper makes it real. It makes my stomach clench.
Ozzy taps the pen again. “Okay. Back to the list. Something lighter.”
I swallow. “I’ve never… traveled. Like, real travel. I’ve never been on a vacation.”
Ozzy’s eyebrows lift. “Not even a beach?”
I laugh bitterly. “My beach was the curb outside my apartment. I’d sit on it and pretend it was sand.”
Ozzy’s eyes darken with something fierce.
I rush to add, “But it’s fine. I’m fine.”
He doesn’t look like he believes the word “fine” exists.
He writes:
Vacation someday (actual sand)
My chest does something weird at the word someday. Like it might be possible.
Ozzy looks up again. “What about fun? What do you like?”
I hesitate, then say the truth. “The skatepark.”
His eyes brighten slightly. “What do you love most about skating?”
“Well.” My mouth tilts, pride flickering. “It’s the only time my brain shuts up.”