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 keep my phone angled away from her, thumb moving fast across the secure channel.
OZZY: Need a favor.
ARROW: You finally confessing you can’t cook?
OZZY: I can cook. This is… recreational.
JUNO: That’s the most suspicious thing you’ve ever typed.
OZZY: Two skateboards. One orange if possible. And roller skates.
ARROW: …
JUNO: I KNEW IT. Safehouse playdate.
OZZY: Don’t call it that.
JUNO: It’s a playdate.
ARROW: Size on skates?
OZZY: Women’s 8. My size… whatever doesn’t kill me.
JUNO: You’re going to break a hip. I can’t wait.
ARROW: I’ll route it through normal delivery. No trace. Give it 48-72.
OZZY: Thanks.
JUNO: If she smiles, you owe me a full recap.
OZZY: You’ll get nothing.
JUNO: You’ll give me everything.
I lock my phone and exhale.
From the kitchen, Salem glances over. “You look like you’re committing crimes.”
I tilt my head. “I am committing crimes.”
Her brows lift. “For once, that’s comforting.”
I smirk. “Good. Because I just ordered you happiness.”
Salem freezes mid-rinse. “You did what?”
I step into the kitchen and lean against the counter, playing it casual even though my pulse is stupidly fast. “I asked Arrow and Juno to send two boards and roller skates.”
Her eyes widen. “Ozzy—”
“Before you say no,” I cut in, holding up a hand, “I’m not doing a ‘here’s a gift, now owe me your soul’ thing.”
Salem’s mouth twitches. “I wasn’t going to say that.”
“You were,” I accuse.
She crosses her arms, still holding the colander. “Okay, I was.”
I point at her. “I’m doing it because you asked for the creek and your face changed. I’m doing it because you deserve things that aren’t survival. And I’m doing it because you said you’d teach me.”
Salem’s gaze flicks away, like she’s trying not to let the emotion show.
“Also,” I add, because humor helps, “I want to watch you laugh at me when I eat pavement.”
Her eyes snap back. “You’re going to die.”
“That’s what you said last time.”
“Because it’s true.”
“Then you’ll have to keep me alive,” I say lightly.
Salem stares at me. And something quiet passes between us—warm, complicated. Then she mutters, “Fine. But if you break your neck, I’m not doing mouth-to-mouth.”
I grin. “Noted.”
The delivery shows up two days later. Rainmaker’s security protocol flags it, I confirm the route is clean, then I bring the box inside like it’s contraband.
Salem stands in the living room with her hands on her hips, eyes locked on the package like it might vanish if she blinks. “You’re ridiculous,” she says, but her voice is soft. She almost appears excited.
“I’m efficient,” I correct. “Open it.”
She hesitates. Not because she doesn’t want it. Because wanting things still scares her.
So I step closer and quietly say, “You’re allowed.”
Her throat bobs. Then she slices the tape with a kitchen knife and folds back the cardboard. The top board is orange. Beat-up aesthetic on purpose, sticker pack included. Juno probably did that. Because Juno is insane in the best way.
Salem’s hand hovers over it like she’s afraid it’ll burn. Then her fingers touch the deck. She exhales, slow and shaky. “Orange,” she whispers.
“Orange,” I confirm.
She lifts it out, and the way she holds it is reverent—like it’s more than wood and wheels. Like it’s her. Then she digs deeper and pulls out the second board—plain black, wider, sturdier, clearly chosen for a beginner who values not dying.
She lifts her eyes to me. “This one’s yours.”
I nod. “Teach me.”
Her smile appears like sunrise. It’s so fucking pretty. It hits me straight in the chest.
“Okay,” she says, voice lighter. “But you have to promise you won’t be dramatic.”
“I’m never dramatic.”
Salem snorts. “You’re dramatic right now.”
“That’s not drama,” I argue. “That’s confidence.”
We take the boards out back to the paved strip behind the safehouse—a service path that cuts along the property edge. It isn’t a skatepark, but it’s smooth enough to roll, with a few gentle dips, a low curb, and a small stretch that Salem immediately claims as her “training zone.”
She drops her orange board on the pavement with easy familiarity and steps on like she was born with wheels under her feet. Then she looks at me standing beside my board like it’s a suspicious animal. “Okay,” she says, switching into instructor mode. “First lesson: stop standing like you’re about to fight the skateboard.”
“I don’t trust it,” I say.
“The skateboard can sense fear,” she replies with absolute seriousness.
I glare. “Are you messing with me?”
Salem’s grin goes wicked. “Yes.”
I step onto the board anyway. It rolls a half-inch. I stiffen.
Salem laughs, and the sound makes me forget how to breathe for a second. “Bend your knees,” she orders.
“I am bending.”
“No, you’re… aggressively hovering.”
“Hovering is safe.”
“Hovering is how you fall,” she says, then steps close and taps my thighs lightly. “Bend. Here.”
Her fingers are barely there, but my whole body lights up.
I clear my throat. “Okay.”
Salem circles me like I’m prey, adjusting my stance. “Feet shoulder-width. Front foot angled. Back foot ready to push.”