Page 40 of Magic or Madness

I sigh, knowing that I’m hurting them, but I have to make the choices that are right for me, and this is one of those times.

Ozzy waits for me in his truck, his dark hair tossed in a messy bun like mine, and when he sees me coming, his smile lights up this whole neighborhood.

God, the way he looks at me makes me feel like the only woman on this planet.

“There’smy beautiful girl, did they catch you?” He smirks, helping me into the passenger seat.

“I only endured a mini-lecture, it wasn’t too bad. I promised them I’d be home this weekend while you’re working to offset their rage,” I say, tucking under his arm while we drive back to the dealership.

I take a moment to look in the rearview mirror, and Rae was right. My neck is littered with purple marks, bites, and what might even be fingerprints. My chest is no better, a clear path of teeth marks trailing down my breasts and ending somewhere underneath my tank top.

Ozzy takes pride in marking me as his, but I realize that I might need to set that boundary to places only visible to him.

“What’s the matter, Bambi?” He asks, glancing at me under the glow of the streetlights.

“It looks like you beat me up.” I laugh, touching the tender spots to make my point.

He tilts my chin upward, examining his work, and sucking in a hard breath.

“Oh, Bambi. Does it hurt when I do this?” He asks, fear flooding his dark eyes.

“I like being yours,” I whisper, touching his cheek gently.

“These marks don’t make you mine. This one does.” He takes my hand, placing it on his chest where my B indents his skin.

“Maybe just in places they can’t be seen? I know how much you like to claim me,” I tease, biting my bottom lip.

He kisses me tenderly as if he’s afraid to hurt me, and I can feel the tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Look at me, baby. What is it?” I pull away from him, taking his face in my hands, his bloodshot eyes meeting mine as his shoulders shake, the tension in his body so tight.

“I’m not … I would never, Fallon,” he whispers, wiping his cheeks frantically, but I’m stuck in disbelief.

“Ozzy, you haven’t hurt me. We got caught up in the moment, that’s all,” I tell him, holding his hands in mine.

There’s something beneath the surface that’s bringing this emotional side out of him, and I’m terrified of what it could be. Rather than pushing, I lead us inside while he carries my bags, and get us situated in bed.

“I’m sorry, Bambi. I didn’t mean to break down.”

I look over at him sprawled across the mattress, and that vulnerability is still written on his face, inviting me in like an open book.

“What is it, Ozzy? You can talk to me.”

Whatever is bothering him is buried deep, like he’s unearthing a time capsule, it taking everything inside him to open it and reveal the contents.

Normally, Ozzy is all over me, laughing and quizzing me on various facts that I know, but right now, he’s a shell of himself, a hollowness casting a shadow over the soft, dark eyes that usually sparkle when he looks at me.

He takes a breath and rests his head on my lap while I take his hair down, running my fingers through his curls. It’s our special form of intimacy, and I’ve opened our safe space to him, giving him the freedom to speak when he’s ready. I’d wait a lifetime to hear whatever is weighing him down so heavily.

“I’ve seen abusive men before. I lived with them time after time, watching them hurt my mother, taking everything and leaving her with nothing. I’m not like that,” he confesses, and I can hear the pain in his voice.

We’ve shared things about our mothers before, and I know his died from her addiction, too, but he sounded so detached when he spoke of her that I thought the wound had closed. Clearly, it’s still open and cuts closer to the bone than I knew.

“Those weren’t men. Just like my stepfather, always taking from those with less power. You’re nowhere close to that,” I say quietly, giving him space to process this heavy conversation.

He climbs off me, kisses my cheek, and proceeds to dig around in his dresser for something. I’m baffled by his ability to just end a conversation, but when he pulls a bottle of vodka out from seemingly nowhere, I understand this is going to take a turn.

He sips from the glass top and passes it to me, pacing around the room like a caged animal.

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