Page 38 of Brutal for It
In the elevator, I see a couple who look like we used to on Sundays. Her hand in his back pocket. His head bent to hear a joke no one else gets. I take the stairs. All six-flights worth of shame and air.
I pay the hotel. I buy enough to not think. I lock the door and push the chair under the handle because rituals help even when they don’t.
On the bed, I press the back of my wrist to my mouth and breathe like I’m going under and I know how to hold my breath for a very long time.
Somewhere in the days, I lose count. It’s dangerous, that blur. It means I could blink and lose a month. It means there’s no anchor left.
I write one sentence on the hotel notepad because I need to see the truth outside my head:
I am not trash. I am a person who relapsed and I can choose differently right now.
Eleven
Tommy Boy
The text comes through: sermon.
I don’t question it. I grab my cut off the chair, sling it over my shoulders, and head out. The bike growls under me, steady and familiar, but my gut screams something is off. Something in the air feels heavy.
Sermon on a whim on a weeknight usually means trouble. Somebody stepped out of line, somebody needs to be straightened out, or some business went sideways.
But when I walk in and see who standing at the head of the table, my world tilts.
It isn’t Tripp. Although Talon “Tripp” Crews is in his seat but off to the side just a bit from the dead center. It isn’t my dad. Frank “Tank” Oleander sits to the right of Tripp his eyes watching me and hiding something. It isn’t even my grandfather, Danza as one of the Hellions original’s.
It’s Crunch. Rhett “Crunch” Oleander, my best friend, my big brother, and the look on his face has me shaken to my core. What has he done.
My blood brother. My fuck-up, recovering addict, prospect who just got his full cut back, brother. He’s never once called sermon like this, not where I didn’t see it coming. Hell, half the time he’s still mentally taking notes instead of voting on something. Crunch is always calculating things, especially when he’s clean and sober.
The room is buzzing, the brothers murmuring low, curious as hell about why Crunch has the floor. He stands tall, though, shoulders squared, eyes harder than I’ve seen them in years. He is prepared for whatever is coming next.
I don’t like this at all.
Tripp sits back, arms crossed, giving him the space. That alone tells me this is serious. Tripp has that personality, the one that takes charge and commands a room.
I drop into my chair, trying to shake the unease.
“What’s this about?” I ask, leaning forward, eyes narrowing as everyone seems to be watching me.
Crunch doesn’t look at me first. He looks at the room. “Brothers, I called for sermon tonight because there’s something we need to talk about. Something that’s gonna require all of us.”
Murmurs ripple. Red sits up straighter. Boomer’s jaw works, his teeth grinding. BW is wide-eyed and alert. The way Crunch has his eyes scanning each man, reading them, makes me more on edge.
My pulse spikes. “Spit it out.”
Finally, Crunch turns to me. His eyes lock to mine, and the weight there knocks the breath right out of me.
“It’s Jami.”
The world stops.
“What about her?” My voice is sharp, already dangerous.
“She’s bad off, Tommy.” His words are slow, deliberate, like he knows everyone in this room is a potential landmine ready to set me to blow. “She’s using again. And worse.”
“No.” I shake my head hard, like I can knock the words away. “No, she—she wouldn’t.”
Crunch swallows. His throat bobs. “She is. I’ve got it from a source who wouldn’t lie. She’s not just using. She’s working the streets to pay for it.”
