Brutal for It (Hellions Ride On #12)

Chapter 1

Sermon is over.

The brothers are still talking in the cave. It’s the kind of low rumble that comes after a hard conversation has been had and everybody’s chewing on it. Before everyone files into the clubhouse, I want to check on my brother first.

Never would I have ever seen this shit coming, not in a million years. Then again, there are so many things in the last year I never imagined I’d watch unfold. This is just another moment where I have to watch my older brother pay penance for the mistakes he’s made.

And he’s made a shit-ton of them. I don’t deny that.

People say I wear rose-colored blinders when it comes to Rhett “Crunch” Oleander. Outsiders, especially. I don’t give a fuck about their judgements. I know he’s far from perfect. I’m not stupid.

I know drugs are bad, the worst thing to get tied up in. I know my brother got in too deep and couldn’t see his way out. I know he has lied, stolen, broken promises, and burned bridges.

But Crunch is more than my older brother. He’s my best friend. My shield. My sword. To me, it doesn’t matter what kind of chaos his addiction dragged and covered us all in. He’s still the same brother who had my back when we were kids, the one who kept my secrets when no one else could.

Crunch is four years older than me. Red is the oldest, then Crunch, then Pretty Boy, and I’m the youngest. Momma had her hands full raising four boys and being married to the Vice President of the National Hellions Motorcycle Club and the Haywood’s Landing charter.

For us boys, that meant we learned early how to stick together.

If one of us got in trouble, we all did.

I’m sure our mom wanted a girl every time she had to figure out which one of us did something because we all came together to take the heat.

I think the older we got the more she learned just to give us all the same punishment because trying to get to the root of it was a lost cause.

I can still remember being in kindergarten, maybe first grade, crying into my pillow late at night because I couldn’t read like the other kids.

The letters twisted up and danced around.

Teacher called on me, and I stuttered through words while the class laughed.

Crunch heard me that night. Snuck into my room, sat down on the edge of my bed.

“What’s wrong with you, Tommy?” he asked, like he wasn’t going to let me off the hook.

I tried to shrug him off, but he pressed. Finally, I told him. Told him how the words wouldn’t stay still. How I felt like an idiot.

And Crunch? He didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease me. He stayed up, night after night, doing my homework with me, whispering words until I could sound them out. He made sure I didn’t fail, even when he had his own stuff going on.

Years later, Momma caught on, got me tested, found out I’m dyslexic. But I’ll swear until the day I die, the only reason I can read at all is because of Crunch.

That’s my brother. The real Rhett Oleander.

And that’s why watching him fall has gutted me.

Now he’s back, scrubbing toilets like a green prospect. Some days I still struggle with the stripping of his cut, even if I do understand it.

“Rhett,” I call, leaning in the doorway. He twists up from scrubbing the clubhouse toilet, sweat plastering his shirt to his back.

“Yeah,” he mutters, standing.

Prospecting again after giving up his cut has to be a special kind of hell.

Doing humiliating jobs, bitch work, cleaning shit stains, fetching beers—earning back what to me he already has.

I hate it. But I’m not in charge. There’s not a damn thing I can do but watch him crawl his way back to the light.

“Swear you’re the best fuckin’ prospect this club has ever seen,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood, because just saying second time’s the charm would make me an asshole. We aren’t the kind of men to sit around and talk about our feelings.

“Fuck you, Tommy Boy!” His face flushes red, and I want to smack him upside the head for being so damn sensitive.

I point to the toilet brush in his hand. “No one gave you that order. You’re doing the shit jobs because you want what? A gold star sticker? Big brother, we outgrew Mom’s chore chart a long fuckin’ time ago.”

Before he can fire back, Red comes around the corner, sees us, and immediately bursts into laughter.

“Damn, Prospect,” Red says, shaking his head. “I gotta say, no one chooses to scrub toilets. Impressive.”

Crunch scowls, but I can see the fight drain out of him a little.

I leave them alone. They do better when it’s just the two of them. Crunch will find me later. He always does. Always has a direct line to me.

I wander to the common area of the clubhouse, crack open a beer, settle on a stool. My head’s buzzing. Not just from the sermon, not just from watching Crunch claw his way back.

It’s her.

Jami.

Jameson Rivera.

I can still taste her on my lips. Why can’t I shake her from my system?

It is stupid. I knew better. I shouldn’t have let things spiral out of control between us.

It’s right after she got out of rehab. Nobody thought she’d make it through the program.

Hell, if you’d asked me back then, I’d have bet money she’d end up just like her old man—drunk, mean, drowning in her own poison.

Some generational curses are hard to break. And hers is one of the worst.

But she came back different from rehab. So did my brother, but with her, it clicked differently. This was her life line, the last bit of hope she had and she didn’t try to hide it.

When Jennessey and Crunch started working on their shit, she was around more often. And I’ll be damn if I can deny this pull between us. First time at a barbecue with the club I had this urge to keep an eye on her, shelter her, protect her.

The memories invade. Back then, her frame was still too thin, her skin pale like the sun hadn’t touched her in months.

But her eyes—God, her eyes—were clear for the first time I could ever remember and we go way back because her sister and my brother have that once in a lifetime love.

Jameson came back from rehab changed and it was written in her eyes.

No more glaze, no bloodshot haze, just green circles staring out at the world like she wasn’t scared anymore.

I tried to play it cool. Leaned against the porch rail, beer in hand, pretending not to watch her every move.

But I did watch.

I couldn’t stop myself.

She laughed with Jenni, hugged my mom, and embraced everyone she came in contact with like she knew she was safe here. Then she drifted over to me.

“Hey, Tommy,” she whispered. Her voice was soft, almost uncertain.

“Hey, Jami.” I swallowed hard, because hearing her say my name like that messes me up even now.

We made small talk—about the rehab center, about the weather, about stupid shit like how the fireflies came out earlier that year. But underneath every word was this tension, like both of us were standing too close to a cliff.

And then it happened.

She stepped closer, close enough that I could smell her shampoo, fresh and clean, not the cloud of whiskey she used to carry. Her fingers brushed my arm, barely there, but it was enough to make me shiver.

Before I could stop myself, I looked at her lips.

And she noticed.

The next second, she kissed me. Rolled right up on her tip-toes and pressed her mouth to mine.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t neat. But it was real.

Her lips were soft, trembling against mine, and I swear I could taste everything she’d been through—pain, loss, regret, but also hope.

Sweet and bitter, like she was trying to remind herself she was still alive.

Immediately, I dropped my free hand to the back of her neck, pulling her closer.

Her mouth opened and I invaded. I drank her in like she was the only water to be found in the desert.

I felt her hands slide up and grip my cut pulling at me like she had to hold on or drown in our kiss.

When she pulled back, she didn’t smile. She didn’t laugh. She just looked me dead in the eyes, and whispered, “I don’t ever want to forget the taste of you.”

Then she walked away, back into the crowd, leaving me stunned.

I stood there, beer warm in my hand that ached to be the one that touched her, heart pounding so hard I thought it might crack my ribs.

And I’ve been haunted by that kiss ever since.

Mind back to this moment in the clubhouse, I take another pull from my beer, but it doesn’t wash the memory away. Nothing ever has. It’s been weeks and I can’t shake the need to taste her once again.

That kiss branded me.

My dad calls out for me to take off with Crunch. We own a campground not far from the clubhouse and there is a problem needing attention. Since my brother is the business brain for our family with real estate investments, he knows all of the ins and outs at the campground.

We finish up with the environmental people who were testing soil samples to ensure there were no sewage leaks on the property when everything changes.

The text hits my phone and my world shifts. In an instant I know what I have to do and it isn’t just for Jami. My brother is going to lose his ever-loving-mind to know where Jenni is headed.

His eyes lock to mine, immediately catching the worry and the fury radiating off me. “Jami and Jenni are going to see their dad,” I share with Crunch.

He knows what that means.

Ezra Rivera isn’t just an asshole. He’s a mean drunk with a history of beating his wife bloody and picking fights with anyone who looks at him sideways. He’s poison, through and through.

Crunch meets my eyes. “Fuck.”

Immediately we get on our bikes. We ride. I follow Crunch and can’t help but get curious as to why we stop before heading on to Ezra’s. We pull into the clubhouse. Crunch barrels inside, looking for Red.

“Jenni and Jami might be in trouble,” he blurts out as soon as he gets within range of our brother.

Red frowns. “Might?”

“They’re goin’ to see their dad,” Crunch repeats.

Red doesn’t hesitate. “Fuck, there’s no might to that. They are in trouble.” The whole town knows how bad their dad is and our big brother understands what the women are walking into.

My dad and Tripp approach. Immediately Crunch speaks up. “Don’t ask for shit, but know if I go in there on my own, I’m gonna do something stupid. I don’t wanna do anything to jeopardize the club. So, I’m askin’ as a prospect for the club to take my back.”

Red nods, agreeing. “We’re family. We do this shit together.” While my two older brothers haven’t always seen eye to eye, now that Crunch is sober, the dynamic between them is improving every day.

“Whoa, boys,” my dad interjects. “Rhett, I’m not trying to be a dick.

But I gotta remind you two. We got rules.

You wanted to earn your rockers again, I respect the fuck outta that, but you are not a brother.

Your business, we can’t just jump in. We move out as a unit, I stand behind it, but that call has to come from Tripp or the club voting to pass. ”

As the VP, our dad has a duty and responsibility to put the club first, even above his sons. Still, it burns deep to see him deny our brother immediate assistance.

Red moves to stand in front of Crunch. Anger radiates off him.

“I’m his sponsor. On my word, we’re takin’ his back.

My brother is solid. Been spending weeks doin’ shit jobs when we all know he’s earned his cut a long fuckin’ time ago.

He fucked up, yes, but fuck, we all do. He doesn’t get a life sentence.

Now, he’s got a care for a girl, and if he’s gotta claim her for us to roll in, then so fuckin’ be it, but as a fully patched brother, and the fuckin’ Treasurer, I’m saying we ride the fuck out and deal with the details later. ”

Watching my dad and Tripp exchange looks but not giving in pisses me off.

I step up beside Red. “Fuck this shit, Dad. Get what you’re sayin’, but just sayin’, that’s some bullshit.

Since you wanna get all technical, fine.

I got my rockers, Jami’s mine. There. Now you got your technicalities.

I don’t give a fuck, but Rhett cares about Jenni and Jami, and they need us.

So are we don’t with bitchin’ like a bunch of women?

Because frankly, if I had been the lead, Rhett and I wouldn’t have pulled in here, but we would have stopped at the Rivera house puttin’ a cap in Ezra Rivera to end all the worries for good.

I wouldn’t have even bothered the fuckin’ club.

My brother made the right fuckin’ call, now we take his fuckin’ back.

Jami is mine, what is the argument now?”

Crunch is trying to do the right thing, for once. And they’re blocking him with technicalities.

The words rip out of me before I can stop them.

And for the first time in months, I can breathe.

Jameson Rivera is mine.

She just doesn’t know it yet.