Page 32 of Brash for It
I do.I underline it.A LIFE THAT CAN’T GET TOWED.It looks cheesy, but tough and perfect.The page feels heavier with it there.
He closes the notebook with one finger, careful like the words might try to run.“Good day.”
“Good day,” I echo.
When we go to bed, I don’t wait.I roll into him before my doubt can start its chant, my cheek finding the place where his shoulder becomes his chest, his heartbeat steady just like the man.He doesn’t comment.He simply lifts his arm to make space and drops his hand into my hair and starts the slow, absentminded strokes that unwind the tightest knots in the world.Yes, I did sleep on my side before and that shows I am capable.But right now, the way I feel in his arms, I don’t want to give this up.Call me selfish, but his touch soothes me.
“You’re going to ruin me for sleeping alone,” I mumble into his skin.
“Not a bad way to get ruined,” he mutters into the dark.
“No,” I whisper, “Not bad at all.”
He doesn’t say anything else.He doesn’t need to.The day stacks neat behind us, the next things line up ahead, and for the first time in a long time, I fall asleep not as a person being kept, but as a person making a plan—with a biker’s hand in my hair and a key to a box in town and a line in a notebook that makes my chest feel wide open to experience the world on my terms.
I sleep like the person I might become.
Nine
Pretty Boy
The shop’squiet by the time I leave, but my head isn’t.Noise follows me home.Not the good kind, not the hum of an engine you just tuned or the laughter of brothers.
The bad kind.Static.It sits under my skin, crawls through my ribs, itches for a fight or a long ride or something I can’t name.
By the time I hit the door of the house, I know I’m carrying it with me.Boots heavy, shoulders tight, jaw locked.
She’s been here a month.We have had this unique way of falling in line together.I don’t mean to come home like this, but it’s just me and I’m wound tight.
Kristen’s on the couch, legs curled under her, the notebook balanced on her lap.She looks up when the door shuts and her eyes widen just a little.Not much.Enough.She sets the pen down like it’s fragile, like maybe I walked in with blood on my hands.
The static spikes.Not at her — at the idea of her flinching because of me.
“Hey,” she greets carefully.
“Hey.”I drop my cut on the chair, take my boots off.My hands fist and flex, looking for something to hold that isn’t her fear.
She watches me, cautious.The notebook slides closed on her lap.She’s waiting to see if I come in swinging.I don’t.I never would.But she doesn’t know that deep in her bones yet, not the way I need her to.
I scrub a hand over my face and huff.“You never need to be scared of me.”
Her lips part, soft sound caught in her throat.“I’m not,” she starts but then stops herself.“You’re just intense tonight, Kellum.Well, today at work too.”
“I don’t hit women.I don’t throw shit.I don’t yell just to bleed noise.If I’m saying something, doing something, it’s with purpose.I don’t take my anger out on someone else unless they earn it.”I sink onto the edge of the coffee table across from her, elbows on my knees, head bowed.“Sometimes I just feel trapped.Like the walls are too damn close and my skin is too tight.Today is one of those days.It’s not a you thing, it’s a me thing.”
I can’t believe I even let the words come out.I’ve never shared with anyone how things build up inside me.
She’s quiet.Then her voice comes low, soft, careful.“Well, how do we make you feel free?”
My head lifts.She’s looking at me like I’m not a problem to solve but a man to steady.No pity in it.Just her offering.
The static hums, shifts, sharp edges dulling under her words.Something in my chest does a stupid, painful thing.I reach across the space between us and grab her hand.Small, warm, steady.
“Come ride with me,” I offer, gravel in my voice.
Her eyes widen.For a second, hesitation flickers.But then she nods.No overthinking, no excuses.Just yes.
Blind trust.
