Page 13 of On the Line

He’s hot and cold, and it leaves me slightly unnerved. But come to think of it, most of the back-of-house acts similarly to Ozzy. As if service is to be taken seriously and with the utmost respect.

Maybe it’s a kitchen thing.

After applying a fresh coat of peach-flavored lip gloss, I leave the staff room and cross the dark kitchen heading toward the backdoor.

“Careful there, new girl, you might slip.” Ozzy’s cocky voice seems to come out of nowhere.

I nearly jump out of my skin, letting out a small yelp.

“Jesus, Ozzy you scared me,” I say breathlessly, hand over my racing heart.

He grins, a dimple appearing while he leans his hip on a counter, still in his chef jacket, brown curly hair looking disheveled. “The floors have just been mopped,” he drawls, gesturing to the white tiles with a lazy sweep of the hand. “Wanted to warn you.”

He takes a bite from a chocolate bar, drawing my eyes to his mouth. They catch on a small scar on his bottom lip, my gaze lingering a few seconds too long before my eyes lift back up.

I find him staring, ocean eyes sparkling and my stomach somersaults. Clearing my throat, I laugh to break the tension and point behind me. “I think the yellowwet floorsign was warning enough,” I say teasingly.

He huffs out a small chuckle. “Fair enough.” While pushing himself off the counter, he asks, “Heading home, Jimbo?”

I cross my arms, followed by an exaggerated eye roll. “Can youpleasestop calling me that?”

He scoffs. “Stop? When I know it annoys you this much?” Another chuckle bounces off his lips as he flashes me a side grin. “Not a chance, sweetheart.”

I drop my smile. The pet name feels too intimate, and guilt hits me like a freight train.

Zachary would lose his shit if he heard Ozzy calling me that.

“Hey, you okay?” Ozzy says, taking a step closer. He lifts a hand as if to touch me but then drops it. Instead, his head dips down and sideways as if trying to catch my gaze.

My eyes snap back to his face, realizing I must have been staring into space. I force a smile and a laugh. “Sorry,” I say quickly, shaking my head slightly. “Not sure where I went there.”

“You looked like you saw a ghost,” he says, his eyes narrowing as if studying me while tossing the candy wrapper in the trash.

“Yeah, maybe,” I answer uselessly. “Anyway …” I need to leave this conversation as fast as possible. I point my thumb behind me. “I’ve got to go, Michelle is waiting for me outside.”

He nods, his expression still looking slightly quizzical, sending me off with a lazy salute. “See you around, Jimbo.”

The nickname feels a little less grating this time around, as if he deliberately used it as a way to lighten the mood. I give him a genuine smile over my shoulder before heading out.

I find Michelle smoking near the dumpster. When she sees me, she throws the half-smoked cigarette on the ground nearby and grinds it into the pavement. “Don’t tell my ballet teacher,” she says with a giggle, linking arms with mewhile we leave the parking lot. “My body is a temple and all that.”

I answer with my own snicker, pleased to be making a new friend. “My lips are sealed.”

Stanley’s is exactlyas I expected. A dark and smoky bar, that smells like stale beer, with a broken jukebox and a few pool tables off to the side.

I’m on my second gin and tonic when I see the door of the bar open, a few of the kitchen staff walking in, Ozzy included. My stomach does a small flip as if excited to see him. It’s immediately followed by the same guilt I experienced earlier. I can never seem to evade it. Like an unwarranted fear of getting caught—somehow a baseline daily emotion when being Zachary’s girlfriend. I never know what will set him off, so I constantly walk on eggshells. Even when he’s not around.

I shift in my bar seat, feeling uncomfortable. Or maybe it’s just the deep-seated paranoia taking too much space around me. Michelle and Quinn are talking to my right, but I’m distracted watching Ozzy lazily stroll toward the bar, greeting everyone he passes.

It’s the first time I’ve seen him out of his kitchen clothes, and I’m left a little dazed.

The black Johnny Thunders t-shirt he’s wearing is cut off short at the waist, leaving a sliver of skin uncovered just above his faded blue jeans. A chain clipped to a front loop disappears into his back pocket. His arms and hands are peppered with patchwork tattoos, most of them looking like he got them for free in his friend’s basement. But somehow they suit him perfectly. He looks skinnier without the bulkof a chef jacket, like he hasn’t had a hearty meal in months. Which is ironic all things considered.

When his blue-green gaze finds mine, my stomach shoots into my throat. Quickly, I dip my chin down, breaking eye contact, trying to focus back on the conversation happening beside me. Seeing Ozzy in street clothes rattles me and I don’t know why.

It takes me longer than expected to shake the feeling.

Half an hour later, I excuse myself, dipping into the bathroom to take the opportunity to freshen up. I ignore the shameful twinge the quick dab of blush on my cheeks creates. It’s as if I’m trying to convince my guilty conscience that the touch-up is for no one but myself—and not because I need to walk past Ozzy to get back to my seat.

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