Page 13 of Stray

I snort before walking away. She’s fine, that’s all I needed to see. With my conscience clear, I walk down the hall and into my room to get a much-needed shower while there’s no longer a lightning storm outside.

“Hey!” I groan, hearing Ozzy jogging to catch up to me. Resting my head on my doorframe, I let out a breath.

“Tink, I’m tired, hurt, and want to shower.”

“You can’t get those stitches wet for forty-eight hours. Hang on, I’ll grab you a waterproof bandage.” She leaves before I can protest, and I let out a frustrated groan while walking into my room.

Without knocking, I slip off my pants just as she walks back into my room. I hold out my hand, waiting for her to hand me the bandage. She doesn’t. Instead, she drops to her knees and removes the other bandage.

“I’m capable of–”

“Just shut up.” Did she just growl at me? I try to ignore the sensation of her rubbing my leg to smooth out the bandage before she stands back up, wincing as she does.

“You alright?” I ask as she rubs her shoulder.

“Yeah, the hail beat me up a little,” she laughs softly while heading to the door.

“Hey, Ozzy,” I inhale sharply as she looks back over her shoulder at me, and I don’t remember what I wanted to say. “Thanks,” I settle on finally. “For everything.”

She gives me a small, genuine smile. The first one I’ve seen. “Of course. Good night, Jackson.” I go to say it back, but she shakes her head and quickly closes my door before the words leave my mouth. What was that? She looked almost annoyed that she smiled.

I shake my head on my way to the bathroom. I’m tired; today has been hell, and I’m ready to go to bed.

* * *

“I’m tired!” Carter whines from his place on the roof. We’ve spent the last week trying to get the ranch back in shape. The barns, pens, and house have all been damaged. And apparently, “Gretchen,” Ozzy’s old ass car, also took a beating. To which she wailed as if her best friend had died. Odd, considering the busted-up thing didn’t look that different post-storm, but what do I know? But she did a lot during the storm and with the cleanup, so I’m popping out dents in her car. And maybe changing her oil, and I might have one of the boys that works on the ranch on his way into town right now to get her new tires considering these fuckers are as smooth as a bowling ball.

“Do I look like I give a shit?” I call from under the hood of the car. When was the last time she had an oil change? Never?

“You know,” I roll my eyes at Carter’s voice. He can’t just shut his mouth and work. I glance up to see him lying on the roof, shirtless. “If you’re trying to fuck Hellraiser, there are easier ways to do so… cheaper too.”

I turn around and straighten up, anger beginning to run through me, “What the fuck did you call her?”

Carter grins brightly as he rolls onto his stomach, kicking his legs behind him like a fucking moron. “Good one, right? Because she is one, and it’s an Ozzy–”

“I know the song, don’t call her that. Also, I ain’t trying to fuck her. I am just helping her out. Thank her for what she did during the storm.” Carter scoffs and smacks Jensen on the arm.

“You hearing this shit? He’s trying to say he wouldn’t fuck Hellraiser.”

“I said stop calling her that!” I bark out before turning back to the car. “And I wouldn’t fuck her! She ain’t my type.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Carter calls. “You ain’t into tits and ass now? What? You hit forty, and your dick shut off?” Growling, I whip back around.

“Listen, I don’t find Ozzy attractive, why is that so hard to–” Fuck. I see Ozzy standing on the porch. She has on black jeans that are so tight they look painted, and they are full of rips, showing over her tattooed legs and fishnets. Her shirt is cropped above her belly button and looks like it was washed in bleach. Her black-painted lips purse together as she stands with her hands on her hips.

“What are you doing to Gretchen?” Had she not heard me?

“Uhhh… well, she needed an oil change and tires.” I pull my hair back and place a rubber band around it. She walks over, brows furrowed.

“I didn’t ask you to do this.” I lean against the front bumper and cross my arms over my chest, letting out a dry laugh.

“Yeah, apparently you’ve never asked anyone by the looks of your fluids and your bald ass tire.” Her eyes narrow as she looks under the hood and runs her tattooed hand over the cylinder head cover before looking at her palm and wrinkling her nose.

“I guess she is a little dirty.” She mutters. Is she serious?

“Tink,” I laugh; this has to be a joke. “When was the last time you changed the oil?” She raises a brow.

“You mean the gas? I filled it up–”

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