Page 3 of Brutal for It
People say I wear rose-colored blinders when it comes to Rhett “Crunch” Oleander. Outsiders, especially. I don’t give a fuck about their judgements. I know he’s far from perfect. I’m not stupid.
I know drugs are bad, the worst thing to get tied up in. I know my brother got in too deep and couldn’t see his way out. I know he has lied, stolen, broken promises, and burned bridges.
But Crunch is more than my older brother. He’s my best friend. My shield. My sword. To me, it doesn’t matter what kind of chaos his addiction dragged and covered us all in. He’s still the same brother who had my back when we were kids, the one who kept my secrets when no one else could.
Crunch is four years older than me. Red is the oldest, then Crunch, then Pretty Boy, and I’m the youngest. Momma had her hands full raising four boys and being married to the Vice President of the National Hellions Motorcycle Club and the Haywood’s Landing charter.
For us boys, that meant we learned early how to stick together. If one of us got in trouble, we all did. I’m sure our mom wanted a girl every time she had to figure out which one of us did something because we all came together to take the heat. I think the older we got the more she learned just to give us all the same punishment because trying to get to the root of it was a lost cause.
I can still remember being in kindergarten, maybe first grade, crying into my pillow late at night because I couldn’t read like the other kids. The letters twisted up and danced around. Teacher called on me, and I stuttered through words while the class laughed. Crunch heard me that night. Snuck into my room, sat down on the edge of my bed.
“What’s wrong with you, Tommy?” he asked, like he wasn’t going to let me off the hook.
I tried to shrug him off, but he pressed. Finally, I told him. Told him how the words wouldn’t stay still. How I felt like an idiot.
And Crunch? He didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease me. He stayed up, night after night, doing my homework with me, whispering words until I could sound them out. He made sure I didn’t fail, even when he had his own stuff going on.
Years later, Momma caught on, got me tested, found out I’m dyslexic. But I’ll swear until the day I die, the only reason I can read at all is because of Crunch.
That’s my brother. The real Rhett Oleander.
And that’s why watching him fall has gutted me.
Now he’s back, scrubbing toilets like a green prospect. Some days I still struggle with the stripping of his cut, even if I do understand it.
“Rhett,” I call, leaning in the doorway. He twists up from scrubbing the clubhouse toilet, sweat plastering his shirt to his back.
“Yeah,” he mutters, standing.
Prospecting again after giving up his cut has to be a special kind of hell. Doing humiliating jobs, bitch work, cleaning shit stains, fetching beers—earning back what to me he already has. I hate it. But I’m not in charge. There’s not a damn thing I can do but watch him crawl his way back to the light.
“Swear you’re the best fuckin’ prospect this club has ever seen,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood, because just saying second time’s the charm would make me an asshole. We aren’t the kind of men to sit around and talk about our feelings.
“Fuck you, Tommy Boy!” His face flushes red, and I want to smack him upside the head for being so damn sensitive.
I point to the toilet brush in his hand. “No one gave you that order. You’re doing the shit jobs because you want what? A gold star sticker? Big brother, we outgrew Mom’s chore chart a long fuckin’ time ago.”
Before he can fire back, Red comes around the corner, sees us, and immediately bursts into laughter.
“Damn, Prospect,” Red says, shaking his head. “I gotta say, no one chooses to scrub toilets. Impressive.”
Crunch scowls, but I can see the fight drain out of him a little.
I leave them alone. They do better when it’s just the two of them. Crunch will find me later. He always does. Always has a direct line to me.
I wander to the common area of the clubhouse, crack open a beer, settle on a stool. My head’s buzzing. Not just from the sermon, not just from watching Crunch claw his way back.
It’s her.
Jami.
Jameson Rivera.
I can still taste her on my lips. Why can’t I shake her from my system?
It is stupid. I knew better. I shouldn’t have let things spiral out of control between us. It’s right after she got out of rehab. Nobody thought she’d make it through the program. Hell, if you’d asked me back then, I’d have bet money she’d end up just like her old man—drunk, mean, drowning in her own poison. Some generational curses are hard to break. And hers is one of the worst.
But she came back different from rehab. So did my brother, but with her, it clicked differently. This was her life line, the last bit of hope she had and she didn’t try to hide it.
