Page 23 of Brash for It (Hellions Ride On #11)

Eleven

Pretty Boy

The hiss of meat hitting iron is one of my favorite sounds. I’ve got smoke curling into the night from the grill while a cold beer sweats on the railing. Kristen’s in the chair across from me, feet tucked up, glass of wine balanced delicate in her hand like she’s done it a thousand times.

She’s watching me more than the grill, like this is entertainment.

And maybe it is. Fire, knives, me flipping steaks with grease popping.

It’s a show of sorts. But the way she’s watching?

That’s different. She’s got this softness around her mouth, this curve to her body that says she’s comfortable here. Like she belongs.

“Smells amazing,” she shares swirling her glass.

“Better taste good,” I grunt. “Or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

She laughs, light and easy, and it does something to me I don’t like naming.

Not long ago, she was falling apart and lost. Now she leans back in that chair like it’s hers and she feels good about it.

That transformation—seeing her breathe easier under my roof, around me—hits me harder than it should.

I flip the meat, check the sear. Out here, life’s simple.

Heat, timing, the right amount of salt. Things you can control with your hands.

Inside me, though? Not simple. Not when she smiles like that.

Not when she makes my house sound like home with her quiet little hums and the way she lines her shoes up by the door without me asking.

I’m about to tell her dinner’s close when tires crunch on the gravel drive. Headlights sweep across the yard, crawl over the porch rail.

I stiffen, spatula hanging midair. We aren’t expecting company. Kristen’s wine glass stills halfway to her lips.

The car rolls to a stop at the foot of the porch steps. Sleek. Expensive. Flashy in a way that screams money without taste. A door slams. And there he is. Brian Rochester.

I know him without introduction. The walk, the smirk, the entitlement rolling off him in waves. The man’s never swung a hammer in his life, but he carries himself like every nail in the county owes him something.

“Well,” he states walking right up, voice coiled as if to strike. “I heard the rumors, but I had to see it myself. Kristen Mayers shacking up with a Hellion. Thought you were better than playing house with white trash, baby.”

Kristen goes still. White-knuckled around the stem of her glass. Her face pales, then flushes dark.

My jaw sets. I step off the porch and close the distance in three strides. I stop chest-to-chest with him, close enough that he’s got to tilt his chin to meet my eyes. My voice drops low, controlled.

“This is your one warning,” I state. “You speak to her with respect. You get out of line again, I’ll make sure you feel what disrespect costs.”

His smirk twitches, but he covers it with a laugh.

“Cute. The guard dog’s got teeth. She’s always liked strays, didn’t you, Kristen?

” He cranes his neck past me like I’m scenery.

“You’ll get tired of the dirt and the noise, baby.

You’ll remember who gave you a real life.

My door’s open if you’ve learned your lesson. Been waiting on you to come home.”

Kristen gasps, sharp and wounded, but I don’t turn. My fists want it—God, they want contact with this motherfucker’s face—but I’ve been down that road. This ain’t my fight unless she needs wants it to be. This is hers. I hold my silence and my ground, fury boiling quiet in my blood.

And I wait to see what she does.

Brian tips his chin like he’s taller than me. He isn’t. Perfume clings to him—expensive cologne pretending it’s manhood, but he’s nothing but a pussy. His keys jingle against his palm in a rhythm that says he’s used to rooms waiting for him to speak.

“Come on, Kristen,” he has this condescending tone I want to rip his tongue out for.

“You’ve had your little tantrum. You ran off instead of apologizing to get your car back.

You got the biker phase out of your system.

Now be reasonable. You don’t belong in… this.

” His hand flicks, dismissing the porch, the grill, the whole damn zip code. “You belong to me.”

Behind me, her chair creaks. Wine glass on wood.

A two-beat breath. I don’t turn. Not yet.

I can feel her, though—she is marching. The months we’ve shared line up in my head, every small thing she claimed for herself: a key, a job, a damn PO box, shoes that didn’t hurt, being comfortable to speak up for herself.

“Not one more insult,” I tell him without raising my voice. “I meant what I said.”

He smirks like a man who only ever got in fights his lawyers could win. “You think you scare me?”

“I don’t think about you at all.”

That lands. A crack across his pride. He recovers fast, rattling his keys again. “Do you know how pathetic this looks? Kristen, baby, really? You’re drinking boxed wine on a porch while your boyfriend flips hamburgers? You had a future with trips and luxury. Your Porshe is at home waiting.”

The word future is a blade he thinks he can cut with. My fingers twitch. The spatula’s still in my hand from when I stepped down. Grease pops behind me like it wants to join in. The smoke sneaks around, turns his pretty shirt into something that’s going to need airing out.

“Speak to me,” Kristen spouts off, quiet and flat.

Brian’s head snaps past me. He smiles the smile that used to work on her. “There she is.”

“Keep your eyes here,” I say, soft but firm. He does, because something in my tone reaches a place he can still understand—danger written in a language he knows but doesn’t want to shy away from.

The scent of her shampoo floats up—apples and something I can’t name that’s just her.

“Brian,” she says. “Go home.”

He laughs. “We both know you’re coming with me.”

“You towed my car while I was mid-manicure,” she reminds, still quiet. “You disconnected my phone. You changed the gate code.”

His chin jerks; he wasn’t ready to have his own tricks recited back to him like a grocery list. “You were supposed to get the message. All you had to do was apologize for the accusation so I could explain about Quinn and we could all move forward.”

“I did. Oh, I got your message, sweetheart.” She moves to my side, not behind me.

Shoulder to shoulder. Fire under breath.

“The message was loud and clear.” She tilts her head a bit.

“In fact, I should probably send you a thank you card or maybe some flowers to what did you say her name was, Quinn. You did me a favor. You did what I wasn’t strong enough to do. You set me free.”

He scoffs. “Free to be poor? Free to answer phones? Free to live in a shoebox and pretend it’s charming? You’re better than this.”

“Depends on how you define better,” she states, and the line hits so clean I almost smile.

“See I’ve learned money doesn’t mean happy.

I’ve learned money doesn’t make orgasms men who pay attention do.

I’ve learned luxury doesn’t make laughter.

And now I’m better than the version of myself than I had to be to survive you. ”

He steps up like he wants a better angle on her face. I mirror him without thinking; the air between us tightens. Brian’s pupils shrink in the light; his jaw flexes. He’s not used to being kept on a leash this short.

“My door is open,” he states stepping back, getting to his planned script, pretending he didn’t hear a word. “Walk away from this experiment. Consider it a little vacation. I’ll forgive all of it.”

Kristen laughs. It’s a clean, sharp sound that doesn’t belong to the woman who cried herself asleep on my chest far too many nights because of this fucker.

“You’ll forgive me? You did me a favor, Brian.

You made it very clear where I stood—on the outside.

Now you don’t get to be shocked that I don’t want to come inside. ”

“It was a misunderstanding,” he lies.

“You’re a walking misunderstanding,” she states, sharper now, the edge showing. “Of what love looks like. Of what partnership is. Of what I’m worth.”

He flares. “You’re worth what I decide?—”

“No,” I say before I can stop myself, not loud, final. “She’s worth what she decides.”

Kristen’s hand finds my arm and squeezes once. Warning? Thanks? Both. I shut up. She tips her chin toward Brian, eyes bright, steady.

“You know what I did today?” she challenges.

“I answered phones. I scheduled people. I made coffee. I made silly conversation about cuticles and kids’ soccer.

I made the day smoother for a room full of strangers.

And then I came home. Home to a porch where someone grilled me dinner and didn’t require me to pay for it with my silence.

Home where a man served me wine and asked about my day.

I came home waiting for tonight when he’s gonna work my body until I scream his name and never once ask me to get on my knees and serve him. ”

“You think you’ll be happy with that?” His voice sneers on happy like it’s a slur. “Living paycheck to paycheck.”

She laughs in his face. “Brian, I am happy. Happier than I’ve ever been.” she says, and I feel it to the core of the man I am.

He tries another angle, the pity knife. “You’re slumming because you’re mad, baby. I know the stuff with Quinn hurt your feelings. She’s been taught her place, baby. She won’t text when I’m with you now. I’ll only see her on work trips. We can have boundaries.”

Kristen shakes her head. “I’m living free,” she states. “You should try it sometime. I am proud of the woman who stares back at me in the mirror. I can’t say that when I’m with you.”

He blinks. The porch light makes his face heavy, mean. The car behind him ticks as metal cools. His shoes are too clean to be trusted. He looks at me because the line between us is the only thing he recognizes as a boundary.