Page 27 of Brutal for It
I wake to sunlight stabbing my eyes. Everything is wrong. The sheets aren’t mine. The room isn’t mine. My head is heavy, body sore.
I shift, and the reality slams into me — I’m naked.
There’s a man beside me, snoring softly. The man from the bar.
Panic claws up my throat. I scramble out of bed, grab my clothes from the floor, heart racing so hard I might faint. My skin burns, crawling with the memory of hands I don’t remember.
What did I do?
Shame floods me, hot and choking. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. All I know is I need to get out.
I dress fast, not looking at him, not looking at myself. My keys are on the nightstand, and my hands shake so bad I nearly drop them. The motel isn’t one I remember. How far away am I? How did I get here? So many questions run through my head. Is my car close by?
I slip out the door and into the morning air, lungs heaving. Looking around, the bar is across the street. Relief rushes through me. My car’s still in the lot. I climb in, slam the door, and sit there shaking.
Tears blur my vision. I grip the steering wheel, nails digging into the leather.
I can’t tell anyone. Not Tommy. Not Jenni. No one.
If I say it out loud, it’ll be real. And if it’s real, then everything I’ve built — the sobriety, the love, the home — will crumble.
So I swallow the sob, start the car, and drive.
The voice in my head whispers, Trash stays trash.
I press the gas harder, desperate to outrun it. At home, I find relief that he hasn’t returned. He doesn’t know what I’ve done. I rush to the shower and try to wash away the night. There might not be any physical evidence of what happened but the invisible is playing in my head over and over.
The sound of engines hits me before I see them.
I’m in the kitchen, pretending to clean the counter I’ve already wiped twice, when the rumble grows louder. My chest tightens. The Hellions are back. Tommy is back.
I should be happy. I should be running to the door, smiling, ready to throw my arms around him. That’s what I used to do — every time.
But today my stomach knots so hard I can barely breathe.
The door swings open, and there he is. Boots heavy on the wood, cut hanging on his body like a second skin, hair a mess from the ride. My man. My home.
“Tiny,” he says, voice warm, and in three strides he’s in front of me. His hand cups the back of my neck as he leans in and kisses me, deep and hungry like he’s been gone a month instead of a week.
And I want to puke.
Not because of him. Never because of him. But because of me. Because of what I let happen. Because of the stranger’s breath still clawing at the back of my memory.
I force myself not to flinch. Force my lips to move against his. Force my arms to wrap around him like nothing’s wrong.
When he pulls back, he studies me with those storm-gray eyes. “Missed me?”
“Always,” I whisper, but my voice shakes.
He frowns, thumb brushing my cheek. “You look pale. You okay?”
I swallow hard, the lie burning before it even leaves my mouth. “I don’t feel well. Must’ve caught something.”
His hand drops to my waist, steadying me like I might fall. “Should’ve called me. I’d have come straight home. You want me to make you some soup?”
“No,” I say too fast. “You had club business. I’m fine. Just tired.”
He searches my face like he can read the truth written under my skin. My heart slams against my ribs, terrified he’ll see it — see the guilt, the shame, the filth I can’t scrub off.
