Page 17 of Brash for It
“It’s fine,” I say, reflex and also true.
She paints a mask on with a brush that whispers against my skin.Cool, then tingling.“We’ll leave this ten minutes,” she says.“You rest.”
Rest.I stare at the dark behind my eyelids and catalog my losses like a miser.Car.Phone line.The man who said I could leave any time and meant it like he was handing me freedom and not throwing me off a ship.My head wants to sprint to logistics—share ride with what?Call who?Walk where?Will someone even be home to let me in?—and then it catches on the rough rasp of Kellum’s voice telling meI’ll be back to pick you up in an hourlike it was set in stone.
I don’t know him.That’s the bare fact.I don’t know him and I shouldn’t trust the way his hands steadied me.But I know what a lie feels like against my ear.I’ve been living under one long enough to recognize the temperature.Whatever Kellum is, he wasn’t lying.
The timer in Mina’s head is accurate.She returns like a tide, warm towel in hand, lifting the mask away, leaving a new surface I didn’t know I had.“Better,” she says quietly, more observation than question.
I swallow.“A little.”
“Sometimes we clean,” she says, patting in serum that smells like citrus and sleep.“And sometimes we just make room.”
I don’t ask for what.The ceiling could answer and I still wouldn’t know.My brain is all over the place and thinking much less processing a riddle of sorts isn’t something I can do right now.
When she’s done, I step back into the bright lobby.The clock near the hostess desk says fifty-eight minutes have passed since I ran barefoot into the sun.Trina sees me and her face does a small, proud thing that makes my throat ache.
“Massage?”she asks.“He said an hour.”
“He said an hour,” I echo.
As if conjured by the repetition, a new sound gains attention over the music.Heads lift, not because anyone is afraid, but because people always look when a storm arrives and chooses to wait outside.
Trina tips her chin toward the door.“Looks like your ride share’s on time.”
What kind of ride am I about to embark on?
Five
Pretty Boy
I rollup outside the spa on my bike right at the damn hour I said I would.Punctuality’s not about politeness—it’s about reputation and expectation.You tell someone you’ll be somewhere, you’re there.People stop counting on you otherwise.
And if a Hellion stops being counted on, he stops living up to the patch.
The lot’s half empty now.Afternoon heat bakes the asphalt, makes it shimmer.I kill the engine, swing a leg, and lean the bike steady.Heads turn through the glass, like they always do when leather and chrome show up where they don’t belong.
Then she’s there.The five feet tall, dark hair, brown eyed damsel that is a stunner.She comes out slow this time, not running barefoot like before.Her hands are clenched around the strap of her bag, knuckles white, face careful.She looks different than earlier—her nails gleam, her skin’s glowing from whatever the hell they do back there.But under it, she looks hollow.
I jerk my chin.“Ready?”
She swallows, nods.“Yeah.”
I hold out a spare helmet.She hesitates like it’s a snake, then takes it.
“Not gonna break you,” I state.“Name is Kellum, gonna take you home.I’m just a ride, darlin’ not a snake waiting to strike.”
She tries for a laugh.It dies halfway.“That’s what I’m afraid of being broken.”She catches her breath like she shouldn’t have said that.“I’m Kristen, nice to meet you.”
I smirk, but I don’t push.I swing onto the bike, wait until she climbs on behind me.Her hands flutter like she doesn’t know where to put them.Finally, with some guidance from me she settles against my cut, fingers gripping the leather just enough to hold on while she mutters her address in Indian Beach.
“Good girl,” I mutter, more to the bike than her, and kick us into gear.
The ride’s short.I follow her directions, weaving through town, out toward the beach houses with gates taller than fences and lawns trimmed by people who don’t live in the house they’re trimming.It smells like money out here, like chlorine from pools that don’t get used because the beach is right there and flowers that only bloom in catalogs.
“Here,” she says, tapping my shoulder, pointing at a gated drive.
I pull up, cut the engine.She slides off, fumbles with the call box.Punches in a code.Red light.Wrong.She tries again, slower this time.Same result.
