Page 47 of Brutal for It
My thumb strokes over the back of her hand. “You’re safe,” I whisper. “You hear me? You’re safe.”
No answer. Just the faintest sigh, like the beginning of sleep.
I press my forehead to hers, closing my eyes.
“I got you, Tiny,” I murmur. “You just hold on.”
Outside, the road unspools into darkness, the club’s bikes flanking us on either side like guardians. Every mile we put between us and that motel feels like a breath pulled from drowning.
I don’t know what waits on the other side of this night — rehab, hell, redemption. But she’s breathing. She’s here. And I’ll burn every damn thing between us and tomorrow to make sure she gets to the light of a new day.
Fourteen
Jami
The first thing I know is sound.
A low hum, steady, like the ceiling is breathing for me. There’s a beep somewhere, not urgent, just counting time like a clock. Voices drift in and out — one warm and careful, one rough like river rock, one I’d recognize if the world fell apart and I had to pick home out of the rubble.
Tommy.
The second thing I know is the ache.
It’s everywhere and nowhere. My bones feel full made of sand. My skin is two sizes too small and I can’t quite fit inside it. Thirst bites the back of my throat, a dry, mean little animal. My stomach is a fist I can’t open. The ache is honest; it doesn’t lie about what it is. It says: you lived through the night. Now pay attention.
“Jami?” The warm voice leans close. “Can you open your eyes for me, sweetheart?”
I try. My eyelids feel glued. I peel them anyway.
Light. Not the cold white of a hospital, not the dim blink of a motel lamp. Softer. Lamps with shades. A fan whirring. The smell of clean cotton and lemon, not bleach. The ceiling is plain, no stains that look like moths. A framed photo on the far wall of a coastline at dusk. The air moves like it knows me.
I turn my head and nearly cry because it’s him. Tommy is there, sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees like he’s been there a while. He looks like he’s been in a fight with purpled knuckles, a healing split on his lip, a hollowness under the eyes I put there — but his gaze is steady and so full of me I have to look away.
I can’t. But then I look back.
“Hey, Tiny,” he says with a soft smile.
My mouth opens. No sound. He reaches for a cup with a straw and slips a hand behind my shoulder like I’m made of glass, lifting me an inch. “Small sips,” he murmurs, guiding the straw to my lip. Water hits my tongue and I almost sob. It tastes like pure heaven. I swallow and the little animal in my throat quiets enough to let me breathe.
“Where—?” My voice croaks like a door hinge. “Where am I?”
“Duplex on the compound,” he explains. “You slept through the ride back. We spent the last night at a crash pad. Doc said you were good to move, we came back to Haywood’s Landing. You’re safe.”
I try to nod, but the room tilts, then rights itself. The warm voice belongs to a woman with dark hair that has purple highlights at her temples and the kind of eyes that make you tell the truth even when you didn’t mean to. Doc Kelly, I remember her from before, when Ezra shot me.
“Hi,” I whisper. My tongue feels thick.
She checks my pulse, my pupils, the line of my arms. The tug in my elbow crook tells me there’s an IV — fluids, maybe vitamins. I don’t look too closely. I can’t, not yet. “You’re dehydrated,” she explains. “Undernourished. Just giving you fluids and minerals. You have to detox. Your vitals are holding steady. You’re going to feel like hell for a while, and that’s normal. I’m going to keep you as comfortable as I can without giving your system anything it doesn’t need.”
No narcotics. The truth lands like a soft stone: heavy, not cruel. I meet her gaze and she nods like she heard the thought announce itself in my head. “I know,” she replies. “You asked for no opioids the last time I treated you. I remember. I honor that. We’ll use adjuncts where we can. Fluids. Meds for nausea. Magnesium. B vitamins. Comfort measures. It’s not going to be pretty. But you’ve got family.”
Family. The word is too big and too warm and I don’t think I deserve it. My eyes well and I blink hard because if I start crying I’m not sure I’ll stop.
“How long?” I ask, barely more than a breath.
“You’ve been here nine hours,” Doc says. “In and out the last thirty-two hours while we made sure you were stable and then transport here. We started fluids. We’re monitoring you. You’re in a safe place. The next seventy-two hours are going to be a climb. Little by little. We’ll help you put footholds where the rock feels slick.”
I nod and it feels like I’m nodding with my whole body. The climb is a picture I can hold. It’s better than a fall.
