Chapter 9
Nine
Tommy Boy
Something’s off.
Hell, it’s been off for a week now.
Ever since I got back from that run, the woman I love has been slipping through my fingers like smoke.
At first, I told myself she was sick. She said it, after all. Pale, tired, not feeling good. But it’s been seven days, and my Jami doesn’t stay sick this long. Not without seeing Doc Kelly, not without letting me fuss over her until she throws a pillow at my head to shut me up.
This is different.
She doesn’t kiss me. Not on the lips, not even a quick peck on the cheek. She turns her head so it lands on her hair or her temple.
She doesn’t touch me in bed. No tangling her legs with mine, no curling against my chest, no hands roaming lazy over my skin while we drift. She lies stiff, like she’s trying to take up as little space as possible.
And the sex? Gone. It’s been two weeks since I’ve had her, since I’ve felt her body under mine, since I’ve heard my name in that broken whisper that makes me believe in every damn thing. I’m crawling out of my skin, not from the lack of release, but from the lack of being one with her.
Every night I ask, and every night she shuts me out.
“What’s wrong, Tiny?”
“Nothing, Tommy. I’m just tired.”
Bullshit.
I know her. I know every breath, every twitch, every shadow that crosses her face. She’s hurting. She’s drowning. And she won’t let me in.
It’s eating me alive.
Tonight, I come home from a site job with dust in my hair and sweat down my back. I’m already half-rehearsing the speech I’m gonna give her — gentle but firm, the one where I tell her I love her too much to keep circling each other like this.
But when I walk in the door, the air goes still.
The house smells like lemon cleaner, but underneath it, there’s that sharp tang of panic.
Her bags are by the door.
The green duffel. The black roller. Her purse sitting on top like a damn cherry on a sundae.
My heart drops to my boots.
“Jami?” My voice cracks.
She steps out of the bedroom, eyes red, cheeks wet. Her hands shake, clutching the little jewelry box I gave her the night she said yes.
And before I can move, before I can think, she holds it out to me.
“Tommy,” she whispers, voice breaking. “I can’t do this.”
The words slam into me harder than any punch I’ve ever taken.
“What?” I choke out. “Tiny, what are you saying?”
Her tears spill faster as she pushes the box into my hand. “I can’t marry you. I can’t… be with you.”
My chest hollows out. The ring inside feels like it weighs a hundred pounds. “Where the fuck is this coming from? You love me.”
“I do,” she sobs. “God, I do. And that is why this doesn’t work. I can love you, but I can’t be with you. Please don’t make me explain.”
I grab her hands, desperate. “Then don’t explain. Just stay. We’ll figure it out. Whatever it is, we’ll fight it together. That’s what we do.”
She yanks away, shaking her head hard, hair sticking to her wet cheeks. “No. Not this time. I can’t fight it. I can’t drag you into it. I have to go.”
“Like hell.” My voice is sharp, breaking at the edges. “You’re not walking out that door. You’re mine, Jami. We promised to ride life together.”
That’s when she snaps.
Her eyes blaze, her voice cracks like thunder. “I never asked you for this life, Tommy! Even if it’s beautiful, even if it’s good. I never asked. I’ve never asked you for anything.”
I flinch like she hit me.
She takes a breath, shuddering. “But I’m asking you now. Let me walk out that door. Don’t follow me. Don’t call me. Don’t try to bring me back. I need to live life for myself, or I’ll never be free.”
The silence after feels like the world ending.
My throat burns. My chest aches so bad I press a hand to it like I can hold the pieces together. “Tiny, Jami, baby…” I whisper, but my voice breaks.
She shakes her head, tears dripping. “Please, Tommy. If you love me, I need you to let me go.”
I want to scream. I want to punch the wall until my hands break. I want to throw her over my shoulder and lock the damn door until she remembers that she’s mine, that she said yes, that we were supposed to be forever.
But she’s looking at me with those eyes, pleading, broken, desperate. And I can’t be the man who cages her when all she’s ever wanted was freedom.
I open the box holding the ring. I look at the shining diamond, glistening and unmarred like our love had been. My hand shakes as I close the box around the ring. It clicks shut like a coffin. I put it on the counter because I can’t bear to hold it.
And then I stand there as the love of my life picks up her bags.
“Don’t do this,” I beg, one last shot, voice raw. “Don’t leave me.”
She steps close, presses her trembling lips to my cheek — not my mouth, not where I need her — and whispers, “I’m sorry.”
Then she opens the door and walks out.
I don’t follow.
I can’t.
Because I promised her I’d give her whatever she asked for.
And this time, she asked for the one thing I don’t know how to survive.
The door closes.
The house is silent.
And for the first time in my life, I’m gutted in a way no fight, no bullet, no blade has ever managed.
Because losing her isn’t just pain.
It’s losing myself.
The house doesn’t sound right without her.
It’s too quiet.
Too clean.
Too dirty.
Too empty.
Her toothbrush is gone. Her pillow’s cold. The faint scent of her shampoo clings to the bathroom, mocking me every time I walk past.
And the damn ring box sits on the counter, staring at me like an open wound.
I keep opening it, like maybe the stone will have an answer written in it. Like maybe if I stare long enough, I’ll understand how she went from yes to goodbye in what feels like the blink of an eye.
It doesn’t talk back. It just glints at me, cruel and silent.
Unable to find solace in my silence, I do the only thing that comes naturally. I drink instead.
The first night, I down half a bottle of Jack and punch the wall until my knuckles split.
When I don’t make it to the job site and neither does Jami, my foreman calls Crunch.
He shows up the next morning because I wouldn’t answer any calls, curses under his breath when he sees the hole, and hauls me to the sink like we’re kids again.
He cleans me up while muttering about how love makes idiots of us all.
“Where’s Jami?” he asks finally.
“Gone,” I reply flatly.
“Gone where?”
“Don’t know.” I slam the cabinet shut harder than I mean to. “Don’t wanna know.”
His eyes soften, and that pisses me off more than if he’d yelled. “You need to talk about it, Tommy.”
“I need a drink.”
“You need to dry out and come to work. I don’t know what is going on. I’ll get Jenni to get up with Jami. Whatever it is, we will sort this shit. But can’t do that with you drunk as fuck.”
“She asked me to let her go. So leave her to it.” The words roll off my tongue leaving only bitterness in their wake.
“Dammit, brother, how long have you been drinking?”
“Two days and I plan to make it three.” So I pour one, right in front of him, and dare him to stop me. I toss back the drink and pour another.
“You want me at work. I’ll be there tomorrow. Today, you need to leave me alone, Rhett. I need you to leave me alone.”
Rhett studies me.
“Never asked you for shit. Put up with every binge you ever had. Now, brother to brother, I’m asking you to get the fuck out of my house and trust I’ll be at work tomorrow.”
I wait thinking he’s going to give me some speech from his treatments and his sobriety. He doesn’t. He just leaves, shaking his head.
The days blur. I keep my word though, I show up to work.
Worksite. Drink. Clubhouse. Drink. Sleep. Drink.
I pick fights everywhere I can. With Crunch, with prospects, with anyone dumb enough to step in my path. Nothing serious, just enough to bleed off the fire boiling inside me.
Tank corners me one night after I mouth off at Tripp. “You think this is the way to fix it?” he growls, eyes hard.
“Wasn’t asking for a fix, Pops.” I snap back reminding him that while he may be my Hellions VP, he is also my damn dad. “Just trying to fucking feel something besides empty.”
He sighs, heavy. “She’s in your blood, son. But drowning yourself in whiskey ain’t gonna flush her outta your fuckin’ system.”
I slam my glass down. “What the hell do you know about it? You and mom, the great Tank and Sass. Ain’t neither of you ever walked away from each other once you claimed her.”
“Boy, you need to dry out. There is so much I put your mother through before she was mine. And the fact that she even granted me the second chance to even kiss her once again is something I’ll never take for granted again.
You’ll see. Jami will come back and you’ll hold on tight, but dammit son, give her a good man to come back to not this fucking mess you are right now. ”
“Fuck you,” I spit out wanting to challenge him.
He doesn’t answer. He just walks away. And that hurts worse than if he’d punched me.
At night, the bed is the worst.
I lie there staring at the ceiling, remembering the way she curled against me, the way she’d hook her cold toes under my calf to warm them, the way she sighed in her sleep like she finally trusted the world to leave her alone.
Now there’s nothing. Just sheets that smell faintly of lemon and sorrow.
Sometimes I imagine she’s still here. I roll over, reach for her, only to find empty air. That’s when I drink until I black out, because it’s the only way to make the ghost of her stop teasing me.
A week turns into two. Not a word from her.
I worry. Is she sleeping? Is she eating?
Is she somewhere safe? I know she has money saved because I paid her well and never let her spend money on the house or groceries or anything but herself.
I had Karma hack into her bank account and I know she’s spent some at a pay by the week extended stay place an hour from here.
But I can’t get a grip on what she’s actually doing.
How is she surviving? I even consider hiring a private investigator or sending a prospect to follow her just so I can ease the ache of not knowing.
The brothers ride out on a short run, and I go, but my head’s not in it. Every turn feels wrong. The road, which used to feel like freedom, feels like punishment. The roar of the engine is just another reminder she’s not at the back, arms around me, cheek pressed to my shoulder.
I stop eating. I stop caring.
One night, Crunch drags me outside after I pick a fight with a guy twice my size. My lip’s bleeding, my knuckles are raw again, and I’m half-laughing because the pain feels better than the ache in my chest.
“You’re gonna kill yourself like this,” he states, voice sharp.
“Maybe that’s the point,” I spit back.
His eyes flash. “Don’t you dare, Tommy. Don’t you dare let her leaving take you under. You’re stronger than this.”
I shove him. “You don’t get it.”
“I get it more than you think,” he snaps. “I lost Jenni once too. Damn near lost myself. But drinking yourself to death and throwing punches won’t bring her back.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. Because deep down, I know he’s right. But knowing doesn’t stop me.
Everywhere I look, she’s there.
The couch where she curled up reading.
The kitchen where she danced barefoot while cooking.
The porch where she leaned into me on summer nights.
She’s gone, but she’s everywhere.
And it’s killing me slow.
One night, I sit at the bar long after everyone’s left. The place smells like smoke and spilled beer, and I nurse my fifth glass of Jack.
Tripp slides onto the stool next to me. He doesn’t say anything at first, just sits there, the silence heavy.
Finally, he says, “You gonna let her ghost run you outta your life, outta this club, or you gonna get your shit together?”
I glare at him. “She’s not a ghost.”
“She might as well be,” he says evenly. “You let her walk out without a fight, and now you’re letting her keep walking away on repeat every day you don’t get up and act like yourself.”
That hits harder than any punch.
I slam my glass down and storm out before he can see my face crack.
At home, I open the ring box again.
The diamond catches the light, and for the first time, I don’t see her smile. No, I see her tears. I see her hand pushing it back into mine. I hear her voice: Let me walk out that door.
My chest caves in. I sink to the floor, clutching the box like it’s a lifeline, and I finally let the sobs rip out of me.
Raw, ugly, broken.
I cry until my throat’s raw, until my body aches, until I pass out right there on the kitchen tile with the ring pressed to my heart.
The spiral doesn’t stop.
But now it’s not just anger. It’s grief. Pure, relentless grief.
And no amount of whiskey can drown it. No fight can bleed it out. No ride can shake it loose.
I don’t know how to live without her.
And I don’t know if I want to learn.