Page 41 of Brash for It
At the spa, Trina raises an eyebrow.I mouth later and she nods, because women in rooms like this understand that later sometimes arrives exactly when it’s supposed to.Lana doesn’t come in today.If she does next week, I’ll look her in the eye and do my job.Her story with Kellum is hers and mine is something altogether my own.
The phone rings.“Good morning,” I say into the receiver, voice steady.“Ocean Blue Spa.This is Kristen.How can I help you today?”
A woman asks for a facial.I schedule it.The AC cuts on.The day unfolds, a series of small tasks that add up to a life, and when it’s time, the low hum of a motorcycle threads the spa music and my bones know it.I am learning to lean into everything life gives me.
Most especially the ride.
Eleven
Pretty Boy
The hissof meat hitting iron is one of my favorite sounds.I’ve got smoke curling into the night from the grill while a cold beer sweats on the railing.Kristen’s in the chair across from me, feet tucked up, glass of wine balanced delicate in her hand like she’s done it a thousand times.
She’s watching me more than the grill, like this is entertainment.And maybe it is.Fire, knives, me flipping steaks with grease popping.It’s a show of sorts.But the way she’s watching?That’s different.She’s got this softness around her mouth, this curve to her body that says she’s comfortable here.Like she belongs.
“Smells amazing,” she shares swirling her glass.
“Better taste good,” I grunt.“Or I’ll never hear the end of it.”
She laughs, light and easy, and it does something to me I don’t like naming.Not long ago, she was falling apart and lost.Now she leans back in that chair like it’s hers and she feels good about it.That transformation—seeing her breathe easier under my roof, around me—hits me harder than it should.
I flip the meat, check the sear.Out here, life’s simple.Heat, timing, the right amount of salt.Things you can control with your hands.Inside me, though?Not simple.Not when she smiles like that.Not when she makes my house sound like home with her quiet little hums and the way she lines her shoes up by the door without me asking.
I’m about to tell her dinner’s close when tires crunch on the gravel drive.Headlights sweep across the yard, crawl over the porch rail.
I stiffen, spatula hanging midair.We aren’t expecting company.Kristen’s wine glass stills halfway to her lips.
The car rolls to a stop at the foot of the porch steps.Sleek.Expensive.Flashy in a way that screams money without taste.A door slams.And there he is.Brian Rochester.
I know him without introduction.The walk, the smirk, the entitlement rolling off him in waves.The man’s never swung a hammer in his life, but he carries himself like every nail in the county owes him something.
“Well,” he states walking right up, voice coiled as if to strike.“I heard the rumors, but I had to see it myself.Kristen Mayers shacking up with a Hellion.Thought you were better than playing house with white trash, baby.”
Kristen goes still.White-knuckled around the stem of her glass.Her face pales, then flushes dark.
My jaw sets.I step off the porch and close the distance in three strides.I stop chest-to-chest with him, close enough that he’s got to tilt his chin to meet my eyes.My voice drops low, controlled.
“This is your one warning,” I state.“You speak to her with respect.You get out of line again, I’ll make sure you feel what disrespect costs.”
His smirk twitches, but he covers it with a laugh.“Cute.The guard dog’s got teeth.She’s always liked strays, didn’t you, Kristen?”He cranes his neck past me like I’m scenery.“You’ll get tired of the dirt and the noise, baby.You’ll remember who gave you a real life.My door’s open if you’ve learned your lesson.Been waiting on you to come home.”
Kristen gasps, sharp and wounded, but I don’t turn.My fists want it—God, they want contact with this motherfucker’s face—but I’ve been down that road.This ain’t my fight unless she needs wants it to be.This is hers.I hold my silence and my ground, fury boiling quiet in my blood.
And I wait to see what she does.
Brian tips his chin like he’s taller than me.He isn’t.Perfume clings to him—expensive cologne pretending it’s manhood, but he’s nothing but a pussy.His keys jingle against his palm in a rhythm that says he’s used to rooms waiting for him to speak.
“Come on, Kristen,” he has this condescending tone I want to rip his tongue out for.“You’ve had your little tantrum.You ran off instead of apologizing to get your car back.You got the biker phase out of your system.Now be reasonable.You don’t belong in… this.”His hand flicks, dismissing the porch, the grill, the whole damn zip code.“You belong to me.”
Behind me, her chair creaks.Wine glass on wood.A two-beat breath.I don’t turn.Not yet.I can feel her, though—she is marching.The months we’ve shared line up in my head, every small thing she claimed for herself: a key, a job, a damn PO box, shoes that didn’t hurt, being comfortable to speak up for herself.
“Not one more insult,” I tell him without raising my voice.“I meant what I said.”
He smirks like a man who only ever got in fights his lawyers could win.“You think you scare me?”
“I don’t think about you at all.”
That lands.A crack across his pride.He recovers fast, rattling his keys again.“Do you know how pathetic this looks?Kristen, baby, really?You’re drinking boxed wine on a porch while your boyfriend flips hamburgers?You had a future with trips and luxury.Your Porshe is at home waiting.”
