Page 14 of Brash for It
I roll to my side, put my back to it.The empty space behind me answers with its own soft nothing.I fall asleep pretending I don’t feel it.
Four
Kristen
The eucalyptus steammakes everything hazy, dreamlike.My skin feels loose, weightless, like I left the sharp edges of myself in the parking lot.Thursdays are my spa days—non-negotiable.Manicure, pedicure, facial, and massage.The routine keeps me steady, like if I maintain the outside, the inside can’t possibly fall apart.
I’m stretched back in the plush chair, fingers soaking in a warm bowl, pink polish grown out from two weeks ago.The nail tech, Trina, hums softly under her breath while she files the hand already soaked, the sound is soothing, almost hypnotic.The air smells faintly of lavender and acetone, the steady click of tools, murmurs of women trading gossip like candy.
For ninety minutes, I get to pretend everything is normal.Pretend my boyfriend didn’t snap at me for asking him about the messages in his phone.Pretend his phone isn’t glued to him, screen turned just out of my sight.Pretend I don’t feel the cold seep into the corners of that big, beautiful beach house at night when I’m alone in the bed he bought because he hasn’t come home.
I close my eyes, breathing slow, letting the illusion wrap me up.
Then someone says my name.“Hey, Kristen—girl, your car is getting towed.”
The words slice through the calm like scissors through silk.My eyes snap open.The room tilts.
“What?”I jerk upright, water from the bowl sloshing over my wrist.My heart stumbles against my ribs.“What did you just say?”
The voice comes from the waiting area, another woman craning her neck toward the window.“Your Porsche.Those guys have it hooked already.”
No.No, no, no.
My chest squeezes tight.I shove out of the chair, nearly tripping over the nail tech’s stool.Trina startles, calling after me, but I’m already half-running across the tile in flimsy spa sandals.The glass doors swing wide and I burst into the sunlight, heat slapping me hard after the cool spa air.
And there it is.
My Porsche—well, Brian’s Porsche, technically—angled awkwardly in the lot, back wheels already lifted on the tow truck.Two men stand beside it.Big.Rough.Leather cuts, jeans, boots that look like they’ve stomped through more than one fight.One grips the chain, tightening it with sure hands, while the other leans against the truck cab, cigarette glowing bright in the late morning sun.
“No!”The word rips out of me.My feet slap asphalt as I rush forward.“You can’t!That’s my car!”
Both men turn.The one with the cigarette squints through the smoke, slow grin tugging his mouth.The other—darker hair, harder lines—just studies me, eyes unreadable.
“You the owner?”the dark-haired one asks.
“Yes!”The lie bursts out before the truth can stop it.Then I stumble.“I mean—no.My boyfriend is.But I drive it.It’s mine.He bought it for me.”
The cigarette man snorts, low and amused.The dark one doesn’t smile.He jerks his chin at the car.“Well, sweetheart, your boyfriend called.Said he wanted it towed.We don’t make the rules.He does.”
Ice flushes through my veins.“He… what?”
“Can’t help you since you don’t own it.”He wipes a hand on a rag, all business.“We got our orders.”
My throat goes dry.I fumble in my purse, yank out my phone, thumb trembling as I hit Brian’s name.The call blinks once, twice, then nothing.I try again.I look and see I have no service.
I freeze.The words don’t compute.I hit it again.Same result.My lifeline—gone, just like that.
The world tilts.My vision prickles at the edges.All the air feels wrong, too thick and too thin at once.“No,” I whisper.“No, no, no…”
The asphalt tilts with me.My knees weaken, a sick swirl pulling me under.I’m falling before I can catch myself.
But I don’t hit the ground.
Arms, solid and unyielding, catch me.The scent of leather and smoke and something altogether manly floods my nose.I blink hard, vision clearing enough to see the man who grabbed me—the one standing to the side, lighter hair, not brown, not blond, up in a man bun.His eyes are steel-gray, sharp even in the sun.He steadies me against his chest like I weigh nothing.
“Breathe, darlin’,” he rumbles, voice low and rough, like gravel under tires.
I suck in air, shaky and uneven.My hands clutch at his chest, fingers brushing the stitched emblem on the leather vest.Hellions.I’ve heard of them.Everyone in this town has.
