Page 11 of Brutal for It
“You don’t have to cook every day,” I tell him, even though I’ve said it a hundred times before.
“Yeah, I do,” he shoots back, same as always.
And that’s that.
He sets a plate in front of me—eggs, bacon, and toast cut just the way I like it. Diagonal. Always diagonal. He’s convinced it tastes better that way, and maybe he’s right.
By seven we’re on the site.
Tommy’s running three crews right now, which means the phone doesn’t stop buzzing in his pocket, and he doesn’t stop cursing under his breath. He’s good at it, though. People listen when Tommy Boy talks. He’s got that mix of authority and charm, like he’ll chew you out for leaving tools in the wrong spot but also buy you a beer after the shift.
Me? I work.
Cleaning construction sites isn’t glamorous. Never has been. But I love it. Dust in your nose, paint flecks on your arms, nails scattered in the dirt—it’s real work. At the end of the day, I can point at a room that was chaos in the morning and say, I did that. Like my life, I cleaned it up. There is a level of pride inside me that this job feeds.
It’s therapy, in a way. I spent years wrecking myself, tearing everything down. Now I spend my days sweeping, scrubbing, clearing out the junk so something new can stand. It’s not lost on me how poetic it is. We have to face the trash, clean up the mess, and then everyone can see the treasure underneath.
The guys on the crew know me now. At first, they just saw “the boss’s ol’ lady” and tried to baby me or avoid me. That lasted maybe two days. Then I out-swept half of them and hauled trash till my arms ached, and now they leave me be. I like it that way. I’m not here to be anyone’s princess. I’m here to work.
Sometimes I hear whispers though—wives or girlfriends of the crew talking, or people in town. Why’s Tommy’s girl cleaning sites? Doesn’t he give her enough? They don’t get it. This isn’t about money. This is about proving to myself I’m worth the oxygen I take up. I need to consume my time. Tommy understands this.
At lunch, Tommy wanders over. He always does, no matter how many crews are screaming his name. He sits on an overturned bucket beside me and hands me a sandwich he packed. Ham and cheese, diagonal cut.
“You doing okay?” he asks, like clockwork.
“I’m fine.”
“You sure? You look pale.”
“I’m fine, Tommy. Just tired.”
He nods, but he doesn’t believe me. He never does when I say I’m fine. It drives me crazy. It saves me too. It’s a reminder someone cares.
Nights are where the doubt creeps in.
We’ll be curled up on the couch, movie flickering, his hand warm on my hip, and suddenly this fear slithers up my spine.
It’s too good. Too easy. Too steady.
He pays the bills before I even see them. He keeps the fridge stocked. He fixed my car last month—new tires, new brakes, full tune-up—without me even asking. He cooks most nights. He grills on weekends. He folds laundry better than I do.
And me? I sweep job sites and bring home a paycheck that looks like pocket change compared to what he pulls in. I wake up sweating sometimes, convinced I’m still that girl sneaking cash for a fix, empty, worthless, all while pretending to be whole.
I roll over in bed and watch him sleep. He snores, just a little. His jaw slack, his arm heavy over my waist. He looks younger in sleep, like the weight of being a Hellion and a bossman for the family business finally lifts for a few hours.
I ache with how much I love him. And I ache with the fear that one day I’ll blink and he’ll realize he deserves more.
Sundays are better.
That’s when we ride. Just us. No club, no brothers, no prospects trailing behind. Out past the river areas, into the wide open highway road that smells like pine and freedom.
I settle behind him easily now, arms snug around his waist, helmet pressed to his shoulder. The world roars away under us.
Tommy says it’s therapy. I think it’s the best moments of my entire existence. Everything ceases to exist but me and him.
Sobriety is strange.
Three years clean, and I still get cravings. Not often, not sharp like before, but enough to remind me the demon’s still in the corner. A whiff of smoke, a certain bar smell, a nightmare that yanks me back—it doesn’t take much.
