Page 1 of Brutal for It
Prologue
Before Breathe for It (Book 3)
The blonde bombshell in front of me—with a smile that knocks most men flat on their asses—is getting nowhere with me. Not today, not about this. No way, no how.
“Come on, Tommy,” she practically pouts, lips glossy, eyes flashing like she’s never been told no in her whole damn life. Well, most of the time, she isn’t denied anything so she isn’t exactly used to the word no. But this, I’m not the first to tell her no, and I won’t be the last.
“Dia, don’t, dollface.” I lift my hands in surrender, but my voice stays hard, steady. “I love you. You know I do. I’d do anything for you—hell, kill for you, babe. But if I put you on my bike for this ride, every brother will come down on me. And worse than that? It’ll be your momma who beats my ass black and blue.”
Her pout twists to fire. “This is bullshit,” she mutters, stomping off, boots smacking the pavement with all the rage she can pack into her five-feet-who-knows-the-inches frame.
Dia Crews is a firecracker and always has been. One day, she’s gonna break some poor bastard’s heart into a thousand pieces, and maybe she’ll smile while she does it. She’s beautiful clear down to her soul. A woman with a body sculpted like temptation itself and a spirit that brightens even the darkest Hellions day. Everyone loves Dia Crews.
And no one—no one—wants to see her sad. Or mad. Or anything but the sunshine she usually is, bottled up and spilling out over anyone lucky enough to get close. Dia gets what Dia wants. As she should.
Except today.
Because this ride—The Tail of the Dragon—it’s not about her. It’s not about anything but the road and the men I ride it with. This patch run is about brotherhood, patience, focus, and determination. It’s about staying the course when every damn curve is trying to throw you off. It’s about proving I’m not just some prospect, not just Tank Oleander’s son, not just another name on a roster.
Today, I get my ride.
Today, I earn my final rocker.
The Tail of the Dragon—that twisted, vicious stretch of road curling through the mountains—has claimed men better than me. It’s a rite of passage in the Hellions Motorcycle Club, a ride like no other. Three hundred and eighteen curves in eleven miles.
And today, it’s my trial by fire.
I’ve waited my whole life for this moment. I was born for this shit.
I’m Thomas “Tommy Boy” Oleander, youngest son to Frank “Tank” Oleander and Savannah “Sass” Perchton Oleander. Youngest grandson to Rhett “Danza” Perchton—Hellions Original, one of the men who built this brotherhood with his blood, sweat, and time behind bars.
Prospecting was hell. Long nights, shit work, runs where you didn’t know if you were gonna make it home. But none of that touches the ache in my chest watching Dia stomp off unhappy, arms crossed, shoulders stiff.
She doesn’t get it. She can’t.
Today isn’t for her.
This ride is for me—for the club. This is the day I carve my place in Hellions history.
And one day, when Dia’s got a man of her own it will be on him to take her on this ride, to give her the gift of this. But not today. Not when my patch, my future, my brotherhood is on the line.
The absence of my cut makes me feel naked. Vulnerable. Like I’m just some kid standing around a bunch of lions, waiting to see if they’ll tear me apart or let me walk with them.
The final patch is everything and more.
As a kid, my favorite part of the day was when my dad man came home from the shop. He’d walk in, grease under his nails, sweat on his brow, but always steady. Always strong. He’d sling his cut over the dining room chair like it was a second skin, peeling it off to breathe for the night.
I’d rush over, too small to even fit both arms around the thing, and run my fingers across the patches. Feeling the rough stitching, the weight of it. Like it had its own heartbeat.
That vest isn’t just leather. It is everything.
Danza, being an original and grandfather to four boys, drilled it into us early: every patch is earned. Nothing’s given. Not respect, not colors, not loyalty. You want it, you prove it. Bloodline doesn’t matter, names aren’t shit, but the man you are for your brothers is where it counts.
Later, he told me about the diamond patch—the one-percenters. The men who didn’t just brush the line between outlaw and law-abiding but stomped right over it. The Hellions don’t run drugs anymore, not like the old days. But the transport business? Sometimes cargo’s hot. Sometimes you know, sometimes you don’t. Some brothers wear the diamond because they made that choice and earned it. Others don’t.
The club’s not about clean hands. Never has been. It’s about family. And there ain’t a thing a Hellion won’t do to protect what’s ours.
And today, I’m about to prove I’m one of them.
