Page 46 of Brutal for It
We wait. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. The night stretches out long and mean. Every sound feels like a countdown — the hum of the streetlight, the shuffle of a car turning into the lot, the dull pulse of my own heartbeat echoing in my ears.
Then headlights flash across the far side of the lot. A black sedan rolls to a stop outside room 112, and two women step out. The driver doesn’t even kill the engine. He just waves a hand toward the rooms and pulls away.
“Now or never,” Pretty Boy mutters.
I’m already moving.
We split again. Crunch hangs back to watch the lot while I take the room closest to me. The keypad blinks green. I push the door open, and the smell hits me first — sickly sweet, sharp, the mix of chemicals and mustiness that clings to every room like this.
She’s there.
My knees almost give out.
Jami.
She’s sprawled across the bed, skin pale under the flickering lamplight. There’s a faint tremor in her arm, a shallow rise and fall in her chest. Her hair’s tangled, her face thin — too thin — but it’s her. My girl. My whole damn heart.
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper, crossing the room in three long strides. I drop to my knees beside the bed, shaking so hard I can barely reach out.
Her eyelids flutter when I touch her. She opens her eyes just enough for a sliver of hazel to show, unfocused but searching. “Tommy?” she breathes, her voice a rasp.
“Yeah, Tiny,” I whisper, my throat tight. “It’s me. I got you. You’re safe now.”
She tries to smile, but it falters halfway. “Didn’t think you’d find me. Is this a dream?”
“Always,” I say, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Always going to find you.”
Her lips part like she wants to say something else, but the words die before they can leave her. Her body goes slack, the fight gone out of her.
I can’t tell if she’s passed out or worse, and the fear that hits me is like a knife under the ribs.
“Crunch!” I bellow. “Got her!”
He’s through the door in seconds, eyes wide. “She alive?”
“Yeah,” I choke out. “Barely.”
He moves to the door, signaling to the van outside. Within seconds, Tripp and Red are running across the lot. Pretty Boy follows, scanning the area. Everything feels like it’s happening underwater — slow and loud all at once.
I scoop her into my arms, cradling her head against my chest. She’s light. Too light. Her skin’s cold, and I can feel her heartbeat against my wrist — faint, fluttery, like a trapped bird.
“Hold on, baby,” I whisper against her hair. “Just hold on.”
The hallway blurs as I carry her out, every step echoing in my skull. I can hear Karma shouting orders in the lot, brothers spreading out to cover our exit. No sirens. No alarms. Just the roar of my pulse and the sound of my boots on asphalt.
The van door’s open when I reach it. Tripp helps me lift her inside, laying her on the narrow bench in the back. Someone covers her with a blanket. I climb in beside her, refusing to let go.
Her fingers twitch once against mine. I grip them tighter.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “You’re okay. I got you.”
Her lips move — no sound, just a breath. But I know what she’s trying to say. She wants to apologize.
“Don’t you dare,” I whisper fiercely. “You don’t ever apologize for surviving.”
Tripp slides into the driver’s seat, slamming the door. “Hang on,” he calls. The engine growls, the van lurches forward, and we’re gone with tires squealing out of that cursed parking lot and into the night.
I look down at her again. She’s so small against the gray of the bench, her face turned toward me, her chest rising and falling slow but steady now.
