Page 64 of Brash for It
“Early,” he instructs.
I glance at the sink because a dish towel exists and towels are for wiping.He catches the look and huffs a breath that’s almost a laugh.“I’m fine,” he explains.“It’s not bad.Looks worse than it is.”
“That’s the opposite caption for Brian’s whole life, looks good and it’s ugly underneath,” I mutter, and he almost smiles until he doesn’t, because the night isn’t funny and we both know it.
“Kristen,” he says after a long minute where the fridge hums and a car goes by and we pretend to be people who could climb back into easy, “you can tell me you hated that.You can tell me you hated me.You can tell me anything.”
I think of the porch.My name in his mouth.The way his eyes changed temperature.The way he dropped Brian the second he realized I was present.
“I hated some of it,” I share honestly.“And the part I didn’t hate scares me more.”
He nods, acceptance and misery in one motion.“I know my world isn’t what you’re used to.”
“I’m still here.And I’m not going anywhere.”
“I know,” it sounds like a prayer he didn’t think he knew how to say.
We eat cereal because we don’t have the energy for more We sit on the floor because chairs feel political.We don’t turn on music because noise feels like a lie.After two bowls, the adrenaline finishes wringing itself out of our bodies and leaves us heavy.He leans his head back against the cabinet and closes his eyes.I lean mine on his shoulder and leave it there.
When we finally crawl to bed, he doesn’t reach for me like a fix.He reaches like a man asking permission to rest with the person he almost lost to his worst habit.I give it because I want to be close to him.I want him to feel me, know that I’m not going anywhere.
In the dark, I listen to the AC breathe and his chest rise and fall.The phone on the nightstand glows with two new voicemails I don’t open.Tomorrow we’ll take them to a building with fluorescent lights and a clerk who’s seen everything.We’ll be people who fill out forms.We’ll make our story a line in a system that works as often as it fails and we’ll call it protection anyway because it’s the tool we have that falls in line with the law.
Loving an outlaw biker isn’t easy but I’ll do my part to keep him out of jail as best I can.Even if it means telling a stranger the harassment my ex is giving me no matter how much it embarrasses me.
Before sleep finds me, I reach up and touch the place on my neck where his mouth left proof that I am loved in a language my skin understands.My fingers drift to his cheekbone where Brian’s hand tried and failed to leave any kind of mark that matters.He shifts, murmurs, and goes still again.
He punched my past directly in the face.I’m not going to romanticize that even though I want to.I’m also not going to lie about the part of me that felt seen when he did it.I’m not going to deny the way he was out of control scared me.I will hold both truths in the same palm and call it us.Protect each other.Don’t destroy ourselves in the process.Learn the difference between fury and defense, between justice and a story we don’t want to tell about ourselves later.
When morning comes, it will smell like coffee and paper and ink.I will put on a top that doesn’t show my hickey because we don’t need to make the sheriff’s office a side show.He will wear a clean tee and tuck his temper under.We will walk in together.We will write it down.We will do the next thing.
Tonight, I sleep with my ear over his heartbeat and listen to the sounds of having something hold me that puts me first even when it hurts.
I turn my face into his shoulder and finally, finally, the best day finds its way back, not as a naïve glow, but as a stubborn ember that refuses to go out.
Sixteen
Pretty Boy
I rollin slow and let the motor idle long enough for the room to hear it and settle.Hellions look up the way wolves do when a twig snaps—every head, then the collective exhale when it’s one of ours.I kill the engine.The quiet goes as quickly as it came.
Kristen swings off the back, helmet under her arm, shoulders square.She’s dressed like herself, not like an idea of a biker girl, loose black tee, jeans, boots she’s still breaking in but already walking like she is comfortable in them.She’s got her hair up, a few strands loose at her temples because the ride never listens to anyone’s plan.She looks at the building the way she looked at the bridge the first time on my bike, like she knows it could swallow her or save her, and she’s still deciding which one she’ll let it do.
“You ready?”I ask.Doesn’t matter that the answer’s yes.I like to hear it.
“Ready,” she says, and the little curve at her mouth is brave and real.
I take her hand.Not a show.Not a claim.Something in me that steadies when her fingers are entwined with mine.We step inside and walk into the rolling chorus of “Kellum,” “Brother,” the nods that do more than words.Tripp’s behind the bar pretending he’s a professional; Boomer’s leaning on the end like he’s about to make a bad decision and wants witnesses.Two prospects pop up from a table like they are waiting for a pop quiz.
“Easy,” I say, which is me being polite for back off.
Tripp grins around a toothpick, his eyes locked to Doll.Even after thirty years together, he still can’t get enough of her.I didn’t understand it before.But having Kristen, I get it now.“Kristen,” he greets.“This is her?”he asks me for confirmation knowing that at sermon, I let the club know, she is claimed.
“That’s her,” I smirk proudly, and the room stretches around the sentence, curious and respectful, because these men know the difference between a woman on a Friday and a woman you walk through this door hand in hand with a claim.
“Welcome,” Tripp says to Kristen, and he means it.“Beer?Water?Lemonade outta a bottle that claims to be hard but tastes like a kid’s drink with too much sugar?”
She laughs, the sound clean in this place that’s heard a lot worse.“Water, please.”
