Page 25 of Brutal for It
“You’re my home, Jami. Always have been, always will be. And I don’t ever want another mile of road without you on the back of my bike in the forever kind of ride. So what do you say?” I flip the box open, heart in my throat. “Marry me?”
For a second, the world holds its breath.
Then she lets out a sob and nods, hard, tears spilling. “Yes, Tommy. Yes.”
Relief slams into me so hard I almost laugh. I slide the ring on her shaking finger, stand, and she launches into my arms. I hold her close, inhaling this new beginning of me and her riding through all of life.
When I kiss her, it’s like sealing a promise I’ve been carrying for years.
She pulls back, grinning through tears. “You really surprised me.”
“Good,” I murmur against her lips. “I want to keep surprising you forever.”
She leans against me, sighing. “I can’t believe this is real.”
“Better believe it,” I whisper, kissing her shoulder and then her neck. “You’re stuck with me now.”
She laughs, soft and sweet. “Best thing that ever happened to me.”
And for once, I don’t question the how or the why or wonder when she will leave. This right here is it.
Because she’s the best thing that ever happened to me too.
Eight
Jami
One Month Later
The house is too quiet without him.
Tommy’s boots aren’t by the door. His jacket isn’t on the hook. The kitchen doesn’t smell like coffee at odd hours because he can’t sit still.
He’s gone on a week-long run with the club, and I keep telling myself I can handle it. Four years sober, steady job, steady love — I can handle a week alone.
But the voice in my head doesn’t believe me.
It whispers when I’m folding towels, when I’m driving to the site, when I’m scrubbing drywall dust. You don’t deserve this. You’re still her. You’ll always be her.
By Friday evening, I can’t stand the walls pressing in anymore. After work I drive straight past the house, past the compound, past everything familiar, and head for the beach.
The tide’s out. The sand is wet and dark, cool under my bare feet. I walk close to the waterline, letting the waves lick at my toes, hoping the sound will drown out the whispers.
For a while, it works. The horizon is wide and endless, and for a moment I let myself breathe.
Then I hear her.
“Well, if it isn’t Jameson Rivera.”
I stop, pulse spiking. A woman stands a few feet away, arms crossed. Blonde, sharp-featured, lips twisted into a sneer I know too well — the kind of look people give when they think they know your worth and it isn’t much.
“Do I know you?” My voice is steady, but my stomach knots.
She smirks. “Don’t need to. Everybody knows you. Trash stays trash. You can play house with that biker all you want, but people don’t forget.”
The words slice. She doesn’t know the details, but she knows enough to aim for the scars.
I swallow hard, fight the tears burning behind my eyes. I want to scream. I want to run. Instead, I stand tall and square my shoulders.
