Chapter 4 Jami
Four
Jami
Two Weeks Later
The alarm goes off at five-thirty, but the truth is, I’m already awake.
I always am. Sleep is this ghost that dances around me but never close enough for me to feel it’s embrace.
I used to think mornings would get easier the further I got away from my old life—the hangovers, the crashes, the haze.
But even now, three years clean, my body still wakes up like it’s waiting for something bad.
Like there’s a ghost alarm that buzzes in my veins no matter what.
The craving is always present simply lying in wait just under my skin.
It doesn’t matter. I roll with it. Recovery is a lifelong battle in my mind.
Besides, it’s not all bad. I wake up to the smell of coffee every day.
That’s Tommy. He’s been up since five, maybe earlier.
He’s one of those people who can go from dead asleep to working boots in sixty seconds.
He claims it’s from growing up Oleander, basically in a house where being late meant less breakfast. Having three older brothers, it was every man for himself at the table.
Really, I think it’s because he just can’t stand still.
If he isn’t working, he’s fixing something.
If he isn’t fixing something, he’s cooking.
That’s the man I share a bed with. The man who’s been my anchor and my pain in the ass since starting over in Haywood’s Landing.
I stretch, rub the sleep from my eyes, and shuffle into the kitchen. The sight in front of me is better than any high I’ve ever experienced.
He’s there, spatula in hand, strawberry blonde hair sticking up wildly like a rooster, barefoot on the tile, in some low slung shorts.
He looks up and grins, and I swear he’s been smiling at me that same way since the day he carried me into this house after I finished healing in the duplex from my gunshot wound.
Every morning he’s home, it begins with this look.
The one that says I’m the best thing he has ever seen, even when I’ve got pillow creases on my face and breath that could knock a man flat on his ass.
“Morning, Tiny,” he says, leaning in to kiss my forehead. He smells like coffee and toothpaste.
“Morning,” I mumble, taking the mug he slides across the counter toward me.
The kitchen smells like bacon, and I see the pan of eggs with toast sitting in the toaster waiting to be plopped down. My stomach growls.
“You don’t have to cook every day,” I tell him, even though I’ve said it a hundred times before.
“Yeah, I do,” he shoots back, same as always.
And that’s that.
He sets a plate in front of me—eggs, bacon, and toast cut just the way I like it. Diagonal. Always diagonal. He’s convinced it tastes better that way, and maybe he’s right.
By seven we’re on the site.
Tommy’s running three crews right now, which means the phone doesn’t stop buzzing in his pocket, and he doesn’t stop cursing under his breath.
He’s good at it, though. People listen when Tommy Boy talks.
He’s got that mix of authority and charm, like he’ll chew you out for leaving tools in the wrong spot but also buy you a beer after the shift.
Me? I work.
Cleaning construction sites isn’t glamorous.
Never has been. But I love it. Dust in your nose, paint flecks on your arms, nails scattered in the dirt—it’s real work.
At the end of the day, I can point at a room that was chaos in the morning and say, I did that.
Like my life, I cleaned it up. There is a level of pride inside me that this job feeds.
It’s therapy, in a way. I spent years wrecking myself, tearing everything down.
Now I spend my days sweeping, scrubbing, clearing out the junk so something new can stand.
It’s not lost on me how poetic it is. We have to face the trash, clean up the mess, and then everyone can see the treasure underneath.
The guys on the crew know me now. At first, they just saw “the boss’s ol’ lady” and tried to baby me or avoid me.
That lasted maybe two days. Then I out-swept half of them and hauled trash till my arms ached, and now they leave me be.
I like it that way. I’m not here to be anyone’s princess. I’m here to work.
Sometimes I hear whispers though—wives or girlfriends of the crew talking, or people in town.
Why’s Tommy’s girl cleaning sites? Doesn’t he give her enough?
They don’t get it. This isn’t about money.
This is about proving to myself I’m worth the oxygen I take up.
I need to consume my time. Tommy understands this.
At lunch, Tommy wanders over. He always does, no matter how many crews are screaming his name. He sits on an overturned bucket beside me and hands me a sandwich he packed. Ham and cheese, diagonal cut.
“You doing okay?” he asks, like clockwork.
“I’m fine.”
“You sure? You look pale.”
“I’m fine, Tommy. Just tired.”
He nods, but he doesn’t believe me. He never does when I say I’m fine. It drives me crazy. It saves me too. It’s a reminder someone cares.
Nights are where the doubt creeps in.
We’ll be curled up on the couch, movie flickering, his hand warm on my hip, and suddenly this fear slithers up my spine.
It’s too good. Too easy. Too steady.
He pays the bills before I even see them. He keeps the fridge stocked. He fixed my car last month—new tires, new brakes, full tune-up—without me even asking. He cooks most nights. He grills on weekends. He folds laundry better than I do.
And me? I sweep job sites and bring home a paycheck that looks like pocket change compared to what he pulls in. I wake up sweating sometimes, convinced I’m still that girl sneaking cash for a fix, empty, worthless, all while pretending to be whole.
I roll over in bed and watch him sleep. He snores, just a little. His jaw slack, his arm heavy over my waist. He looks younger in sleep, like the weight of being a Hellion and a bossman for the family business finally lifts for a few hours.
I ache with how much I love him. And I ache with the fear that one day I’ll blink and he’ll realize he deserves more.
Sundays are better.
That’s when we ride. Just us. No club, no brothers, no prospects trailing behind. Out past the river areas, into the wide open highway road that smells like pine and freedom.
I settle behind him easily now, arms snug around his waist, helmet pressed to his shoulder. The world roars away under us.
Tommy says it’s therapy. I think it’s the best moments of my entire existence. Everything ceases to exist but me and him.
Sobriety is strange.
Three years clean, and I still get cravings. Not often, not sharp like before, but enough to remind me the demon’s still in the corner. A whiff of smoke, a certain bar smell, a nightmare that yanks me back—it doesn’t take much.
But I’ve learned to choose. I choose him. I choose coffee in the morning, sweat on job sites, fireflies in the yard. I choose laughter when he burns dinner. I choose folding laundry badly and hearing him redo it under his breath.
I choose to keep breathing free from the chains of my past.
Tonight, I sit on the porch with a glass of sweet tea, watching fireflies blink across the yard. Tommy’s inside finishing paperwork. My hands smell of bleach and lemon cleaner from the day. My back aches from hauling drywall scraps.
The screen door creaks, and Tommy steps out with two bowls of icecream with one glass bottle of Cheerwine, his favorite soda. He sets one by me, opens the bottle and pours the cherry soda over the vanilla cream, and then settles into the chair next to mine with his bowl now in hand.
We both begin eating our nightly dessert. “You’re quiet,” he remarks.
“Just thinking.”
“Dangerous habit.” He bumps my knee with his.
I laugh, soft. “Do you ever worry this is too good? That we’re… tempting fate?”
He studies me, eyes steady. “Every damn day. But you know what I figured out?”
“What?”
“Life’s brutal and beautiful. Both. We don’t get to pick. We just hold on to the good when it comes.” He leans in, kisses me slow, steady. “And baby, we hold on tight.”
I close my eyes. For once, I let myself believe him.
After our sweet treat, we get ready for bed side by side, face washing, teeth brushing, like two old married people comfortable together.
Three years ago, I was bleeding out in my sister’s arms, thinking maybe I’d never get free. Now I’m here. Clean. Alive. Loved.
Life’s still messy. Still scary sometimes. But it’s mine. And I’m not running anymore. With those thoughts, I drift into a sleep, one that I know won’t last hours, but I’ll let this peace win for as long as I can.
It’s Friday evening when Tommy walks into the kitchen with that look.
I know that look.
It’s the same one he had the night he decided we were going to ride four hours just to eat at a barbecue joint in Greensboro. The same look he wore when he dragged me to the beach in the middle of February just because he wanted me to see the waves roll in with no one else around.
Trouble. That’s the look. Trouble because every time he makes that face, I fall more in love with the man and I worry about the day he realizes he can do better than me.
“Go shower, Tiny,” he says, leaning against the doorway with a grin that makes my heart skip like a scratched CD. “And do your hair. Paint your face if you want.”
I raise a brow. “Paint my face?”
He chuckles. “You know what I mean. Dress up. I’m taking you out.”
I cross my arms, suspicious. “Out where?”
“Not telling.” He pushes off the door and sets a big white box on the table in front of me. “But I got you covered.”
I stare at the box like it’s going to explode. “Tommy, what did you do?”
He just smirks. “Open it.”
I lift the lid, and my breath catches. Inside is a dress.
Not just any dress. A deep ruby red slip of satin that looks like it belongs on someone who knows what she’s doing.
Someone who doesn’t spend her days scrubbing paint off windows and sweeping sawdust into piles.
Someone who could walk into a fancy restaurant and not immediately wonder if she’s about to be asked to leave.
Placed neatly beside it is a pair of black heels—strappy, elegant, definitely not steel-toed boots. There’s even a little clutch bag and a box with jewelry: delicate silver hoops and a necklace so simple it’s perfect.
“Tommy…” My throat tightens. “You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to.” He steps behind me, rests his chin on my shoulder, his hands sliding over my hips.
“I take care of you every day, Jami. Bills, cars, groceries. That’s easy.
But sometimes I want to remind you I see you as more than the girl with bleach on her hands and dust in her hair. You deserve to be spoiled too.”
I swallow hard, blinking back the sting in my eyes. “I don’t even know how to wear half this stuff without looking like an idiot.”
“You’ll look like heaven,” he states simply. “Now, quit arguing and get ready. Reservation’s in an hour.”
By the time I’m dressed, I hardly recognize myself in the mirror.
The satin clings in all the right places. The heels make my legs look a mile long. My hair—usually thrown into a messy knot—is curled and loose around my shoulders. For once, I don’t look like “the girl cleaning the job site.” I look like a woman who belongs anywhere she wants to be.
Tommy whistles low when I walk into the living room. He’s in dark jeans and a crisp white button-down, sleeves rolled up, tattoos peeking. He cleaned up, but still looks like him—danger and comfort all in one.
“Damn,” he mutters, eyes running over me like a slow caress. “If I wasn’t taking you out, I’d be dragging you back to bed right now.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” he retorts, grinning as he takes my hand. “Ridiculous over you all day, every day, Tiny.”
The restaurant is nothing like I expect.
It’s not some stuffy five-star joint with linen napkins folded into swans.
It’s a rooftop place on the beach, with string lights crisscrossing above and live music playing soft in the corner.
The tables are mismatched wood, the air smells like garlic and seared steak, and the view of the water steals my breath.
“This is perfect,” I whisper as we’re led to our table.
“Told you.” Tommy pulls my chair out for me, like some old-fashioned gentleman, then settles across from me with that same proud smile.
Dinner is easy. We eat too much bread, laugh at the couple dancing awkwardly near the band, and talk about nothing specific and yet everything—his crews, my latest battle with a particularly stubborn paint spill, the ridiculous show Red got hooked on that none of us admit we watch too.
Halfway through dessert—a slice of chocolate cake big enough for four people—I set my fork down and look at him. Really look at him. The lights glow on his face, shadows catching the lines near his eyes from too much sun and too many miles. The way his freckles kiss his face perfectly.
“How do you do it?” I ask softly.
He raises a brow. “Do what?”
“Take care of everything. Me. The house. The bills. Dinner. My car. You never complain. You never… stop.” My throat tightens. “Aren’t you tired?”
He leans forward, eyes steady. “Jami. Taking care of you isn’t work. It’s the only thing that has ever made sense. You think I’m carrying you, but Tiny, you’re what keeps me steady. You’re the reason I wake up wanting to try again. That’s not heavy—that’s a damn gift.”
Tears prick my eyes, but this time I don’t fight them. I let them fall, right there in front of God and the waitress and the whole restaurant.
Tommy reaches across the table, takes my hand, squeezes. “Life’s hard, yeah. Brutal even. But it’s beautiful too. And you’re the damn proof of that I’ve ever seen.”
I laugh through the tears, shaking my head. “You and your speeches.”
He grins. “What can I say? You inspire me.”
Later, when we’re back home, heels kicked off and dress puddled on the floor, I curl against him naked in bed, still tasting chocolate and body satiated from the orgasms, still hearing the music from the rooftop play in my head.
And for once, I don’t worry if it’s too good.
For once, I let myself believe it’s exactly what I deserve.