Page 44 of Brutal for It
I hold the promise in my mouth like a stone. If I can make it through tonight, I’ll turn things around tomorrow.
And with those last thoughts the night takes me in her sweet embrace.
Thirteen
Tommy Boy
There’s a rhythm to waiting for a storm. You don’t hear it at first — you feel it in your ribs, that tight vibration like a train coming down the tracks before it rounds the bend. That’s what it’s like right now, in the clubhouse, everyone moving but not saying much.
Pretty Boy sits at the bar, elbows on the counter, phone in hand, his voice smooth and careless like he’s setting up a bachelor party instead of what we all know this really is, a hunt for the woman who owns my damn soul.
Crunch leans against the wall near the door, eyes fixed but far away. Karma’s at the end of the table with a laptop, scanning intel feeds, maps, the motel’s layout, the routes in and out of the county. Every single one of us is here under the guise of business, but the truth hangs thick in the air — this is family. This is for her.
And family means we don’t leave anyone behind.
“She’s with a handler who runs girls out of a string of motels,” Crunch shares. “No permanent address. He moves around depending on where the demand is.”
“Fayetteville to Wilmington, then back through New Bern and Pamlico,” Karma adds. “He uses a chain franchise. Same owner, different names. If Pretty Boy’s call works, we’ll have one shot to grab her and go.”
I can’t sit still. My foot taps against the floor. My thumb keeps rubbing the small band of leather I keep looped around my wrist — the one Jami tied there before our first anniversary. It’s frayed now, the edges worn smooth from the years. She used to tease me about never taking it off. Said it was my second cut. I told her it was a piece of her I could carry when we weren’t together.
Now it feels like a noose.
“Tommy,” Tripp says from across the room, his voice low, steady. “You ready for what this means?”
“I’ve been ready since the day she walked out that door,” I growl.
He nods. He doesn’t argue. Tripp never does when it comes to family.
Pretty Boy hangs up his phone, turning toward us with a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “He bought it,” he explains. “Hook, line, and sinker. Said he could ‘set me up nice’ with a few of his girls, quote unquote, high quality, clean, discreet.”
I want to punch something, the word clean echoing in my ears like an insult. Clean? That son of a bitch doesn’t know what clean is. He doesn’t know what it means to wash away pain that’s tattooed into your bones. She will never truly feel clean no matter how much I try to love her through it. The devil marked her soul many years ago.
“How many?” Red asks.
“Four,” Pretty Boy says. “I told him I wanted them separate, one per room, my guys don’t mind taking turns but we don’t share and cross dicks. Told him the club’s riding through, that I wanted options for my brothers and didn’t want them stepping on each other’s toes. He said he’ll send me the door codes and room numbers an hour before we show.”
Crunch crosses his arms, eyes flicking between us. “This could go south fast. If he catches wind of who we’re really there for.”
“He won’t,” I cut in. “You’ve done your job. Now let me do mine.”
The room quiets. Everyone’s watching me like they’re waiting for me to break, but I’ve already broken. That happened the moment I found out she was gone, the moment I realized the world was going to keep turning without her in it.
“She’s alive,” I state, forcing my voice steady. “She’s alive, and I’m bringing her home. Whatever it takes.”
Pretty Boy’s eyes soften just a little, enough to remind me we’re more than brothers in this club, we’re blood. “I know, man. That’s why we’re doing it this way. You’d have gone in there with guns blazing, and she’d be caught in the crossfire. We do it clean. We get her out.”
“Then let’s move,” I say, already reaching for my cut. “The longer we wait, the more she slips away.”
We’re parked in a line just off the main drag, three black vans idling behind a row of sedans and bikes. It’s after dark, the kind of night that swallows you whole. Clouds sit heavy over the moon, and the motel sign buzzes red and blue like a warning.
I can see the place from where I sit in the passenger seat — faded paint, cracked asphalt, a half-lit “VACANCY” sign flickering like a heartbeat.
Pretty Boy’s on his phone again, nodding to the rhythm of a conversation only he can hear. When he hangs up, he turns to me, his face unreadable. “We’re on. He sent the info. Rooms 102, 106, 110, and 114. Door codes are each room number typed twice.”
“So 102102, 106106, and so on?” Crunch clarifies.
“Yeah,” Pretty Boy states. “He thinks I’ll pay cash once I pick my girl. Says the others are already inside, waiting.”
