Page 69 of Brash for It
I open it and she steps in with the morning wrapped around her: his mom.Savannah “Sass” Perchton-Oleandar.The woman who grew up in this life and lived her life for her man, Tank and her boys.She’s got a tin container balanced on her palm and a canvas tote slung over one shoulder.Her eyes do a quick sweep—my boots by the mat, the helmets, the map, the neat little chaos we’ve made—and soften into a smile that feels like a quilt.
“Morning, sweetie,” she says, handing me the tin.“Sugar cookies.You’ll want something sweet when you stop at the overlook.”
“Thank you,” I reply, and mean more than cookies.Sass is always looking out for her family.
She sets the canvas tote on the table and takes me in.“You look ready.”
“I am.”My voice wobbles then steadies.“He acts like we haven’t been riding together from the beginning.”
She laughs, that low easy mama-sound that lets you be both grown and held close like a child.“He still will.He wants you to enjoy this.”
“Oh, I will,” I agree, grinning.
She reaches into the tote and pulls out a small bundle of knit—soft gray, edges finished, practical.“I made you this,” she says, almost shy.“Neck warmer.Fits under your jacket without bunching.”She slips it into my hands, then adds, “There’s a pair of thin mitten style liners for under your gloves.Mountain air bites different this time of year.”
I press the yarn piece to my cheek.It smells like her house—linen, a little vanilla, family.“It’s perfect.”
She pulls a chair out and pats the seat beside her.“Come sit with me a minute.Let him fuss with that bike.He’s a man.He’ll find a bolt to talk to.Plus his dad likes to check things over with his boys before this ride especially.”
I set the cookies and the cozy fabric piece on the table, then sit.She watches the window for a second, where Kellum is bent over the rear tire, forearm flexed, concentration written in his body language and his dad standing over him pointing at something.When she looks back, her eyes are glossy.Not wet.Just full.
“I had four boys,” she shares, words easy, practiced, true.“Four.Noise and fighting and shoes the size of boats.I used to stand in my kitchen and pray for earplugs and angels and—” She smiles.“—daughters.I didn’t get daughters the way some folks do.Mine came later, on bikes and through doors and with eyes that looked at my sons like they were the sun, moon, and stars.”
She reaches across the table and finds my hand.Her palm is warm and comforting.“I’m thankful for the women they’ve fallen in love with.Thankful down to the bone.It’s not a small thing, what y’all do.You make the noise stop for men who don’t know how to turn the engine off by themselves.”
The laugh that slips out of me is more like a breath.“He says that.That I gave him a place to put the quiet.”
“You did,” she says.“And he gave you one back.”Her thumb strokes along my knuckles, a mother’s comfort even if I didn’t grow up in her house.“I want to tell you something before you go on this ride.”Her voice gentles, but it doesn’t soften the truth.“It isn’t easy to love a Hellion.It’s simple, but it isn’t easy.There are late calls and long runs and rules you didn’t write but have to live under.There’ll be folks who love to say the word outlaw like it’s a stain.Let them.We know what it means.We know the cost and the promise.”
I nod, throat thick.
“You’re family,” she says, the word wrapped in iron and blessing.“Do you hear me?Not on loan, not on trial.Family.And that isn’t about Pretty Boy, it’s about Kellum, the man bringing you in the fold and we accept you fully.If you need soup, I bring soup.If you need a spare key, I have one.If the world gets loud, you come sit in my living room and I’ll make it quiet with a blanket and the worst daytime TV I can find.”
I laugh, then don’t, because I’m suddenly crying and didn’t know it was coming.She doesn’t flinch.She stands, circles the table, and tucks me under her arm like I’ve always belonged there.
“You aren’t alone anymore, Kristen,” she whispers into my hair.“Not for a second.”
I breathe it like medicine.“I know,” I whisper.“Thank you.”
The back door taps again and a whip of perfume and sarcasm slides in ahead Dia.She’s in boots and a denim jacket, hair a storm of blonde curls, smile already sharp.
“Well, look at you,” she says, giving me a head-to-toe like a runway judge who also carries a knife.“Braids tight, boots right, eyes soft.That road ain’t ready.”
I sniff-laugh, wiping my face.“I didn’t plan on crying.”
“You think you can love a man like a Hellion and not leak sometimes?”she snorts, dropping a kiss on my cheek anyway.She points at the tote.“Did Mama Sass give you the neck thing?”I nod.“Good.She made me one when I finally got to take this ride with Toon and I still wear it when the mountain decides to be rude and forget we are from the coast and like warmth.”
Sass leans back against the counter, crossing her ankles, arms folding in what I’ve learned is herI’m about to say a lot without blinkingstance.“It’s not easy,” she begins where she left off before Dia joined us.“It’s worth it.But it’s work.People will ask you to explain the difference between a man who lives by a code and a man who runs from one.Don’t waste your breath.Show them your life.Show them your peace by living in it.Trust your man to give you that.”She tips her chin toward the window where Kellum straightens and checks on nothing specific, smiling to himself.“He’s your peace, and you’re his.That’s the only thing that matters and fuck anyone who doesn’t understand it.”
Sass reaches into her jacket and pulls out a tiny zippered pouch.“Also,” she says, “because I’m practical, here.”She drops it in my palm.Inside: a few bandages, packets of electrolyte powder, two safety pins, a spare hair tie, and a folded twenty.“Mini kit.I call it the bitch’s bag.Keep it in your inner pocket.”
I laugh, real and grateful.“You’re a feisty one for sure.”
Dia laughs, “yeah, when she’s with my mom they are hell on wheels even as they keep aging.Pure menaces.”
“I’m a resource,” she corrects, then softens her eyes in a way her son’s react to.“Listen.There’s a reason the women stand together at runs and parties.Not because we can’t stand alone.Because we don’t have to.”She points between herself and Dia.“You need anything, you call.If he’s out and your head gets loud, you come sit with us and we’ll make fun of him for tying his boots too tight.”
“He does tie them too tight,” I admit, and all three of us crack up because love is sometimes a man you can joke about.
