Page 26 of Brash for It (Hellions Ride On #11)

Twelve

Kristen

It’s a slow morning at the spa. The kind of morning where the phone only rings once an hour and the clock on the wall insists on dragging its hands like it’s wading through mud. I’ve already rescheduled two pedicures, made fresh coffee that no one’s touched, and wiped down the counter twice.

Trina pokes her head out from the massage rooms, gives me a thumbs up, and vanishes again. I stretch, roll my shoulders, glance at the notebook where I scribble little lists to keep myself sane.

Then I hear it.

The sound of tires I know too well. Too expensive, too polished. A purr that always carried smugness under its hood. My stomach drops, then knots.

Through the glass front, I see it. My car. My Porsche. Pulled up neat as if it’s just been valeted. The same car Brian had ripped away from me months ago like he was punishing a child. At first it hurt. I thought I would miss the stuff.

I don’t.

And that tells me just how far off the mark I traveled in being with him.

The fancy clothes, the trips, the cars, none of it filled anything inside me.

I want to laugh at the car. The gift that he used as a show of power if I really dissect it.

The car was given to me at a party in front of his friends.

People who never spoke to me outside of functions I attended with him. It was always a display with him.

The door opens. And there he is. Crisp shirt, designer sunglasses, the walk that’s always two steps ahead of everyone else because the world is supposed to fall into rhythm with him.

I freeze behind the desk, throat tightening. He doesn’t even look at me properly. Just strolls up, sets the keys down on the counter with a metallic jingle that echoes too loud in the quiet lobby, and lays a white envelope beside them.

“Kristen,” he says, not warm, not cold. Just superior and slightly authoritative. Then he turns and walks out. No scene. No fight. Just that casual cruelty of someone who knows he’s gotten under my skin.

The bell over the door jingles once as he leaves.

I stare at the envelope. My pulse pounds in my ears. The white Porsche gleams outside, smug as he is.

I can’t breathe. I can’t sit here with this letter burning a hole in the desk. So I do the only thing that feels safe. I grab my phone and call Kellum.

He answers on the second ring, his voice that deep rumble that always grounds me. “Yeah?”

My voice shakes. “He was just here.”

Silence for half a beat. “What’d he do?”

“He—he dropped off the car. The keys. An envelope.” I stare at it like it might explode. “And then he left. Didn’t even say anything else. Just,” My throat tightens again. “Just walked away like I was supposed to open this and crumble.”

I hear Kellum exhale through his nose, steady and controlled. “Do you want me to come there and you read it? Or do you want it all to disappear?”

I blink. “What?”

“This is your boat, Kristen. You’re the captain. I’m just the first mate. You tell me what you need me to do.” His voice is so steady, so damn certain. The calm I need. “You want it gone, I’ll burn it. You want to read it, I’ll stand next to you while you do. Your call.”

Tears prick hot behind my eyes, not from sadness this time but from the sheer relief of having someone give me the choice. “Stay on the phone with me. Please. I’ll open it.”

“On the line,” he replies, firm. “Go ahead.”

My hands shake as I pick up the envelope. The paper’s thick, expensive. Of course it is. I slide my finger under the flap and tear it open. The sound is too loud. My pulse is louder.

Inside, a single sheet of paper with his letterhead. His handwriting, sharp and arrogant.

Kristen,

The car is yours to use as you need. I decided you’d only wreck your life worse without it. When you’re done being trash, you can come home. The code is the same as before. Your phone is in console of the car. You can call any time. I’ll forgive you for leaving.

Yours,

Brian

That’s it. That’s the whole note.

I stand there, letter crumpling in my fist, heat crawling up my throat. “He said… he said when I’m done being trash, I can come home. And he’ll forgive me.”

Kellum’s silence on the other end isn’t empty. It’s loaded. I can practically feel him clenching his jaw.

“Kristen,” he speaks finally. “That’s not a man. That’s a coward throwing stones from a house he didn’t build.”

The rage surges through me before the tears can. My skin feels hot, my chest tight. “Trash? He calls me trash after everything he did? After taking my phone, my car, my—my whole life? He thinks he gets to dangle forgiveness like it’s a gift? I don’t need his forgiveness.”

I’m pacing now, behind the desk, the letter a mangled wad in my hand. “No. No. He doesn’t get to define me anymore. He doesn’t get to call me anything. He doesn’t get to—” My voice breaks with fury. “God, I hate him.”

“You should,” Kellum remarks, calm like steel. “Hate’s honest.”

I laugh, bitter. “I don’t want to waste energy on him anymore.”

“Then don’t,” he states like it’s easy. “Use it to live better than he thinks you can.”

My pacing slows. My chest heaves. The car sits outside, glinting in the sunlight like a snake coiled and waiting.

Sensing I’m about to crash out, he tells me, “Stay put, I’m coming.”

“No, you don’t have to?—”

“Not a debate, Kristen. You did the hard part. Let me do the cleanup.”

My shoulders sag. I clutch the phone tighter. “Okay.”

The rest of the morning is a blur. Customers come and go, Trina checks in with her little arched eyebrow that says she’s clocked everything, but all I can think about is that envelope and the Porsche parked smug and silent out front.

Every time I glance through the glass, I see my reflection layered over it, like the car is daring me to forget who parked it there.

I don’t touch the keys. I don’t touch the crumpled letter still balled in the wastebasket beside me. I sip water, answer phones, paste on polite smiles, but inside I’m pacing even when my body is still.

When the low rumble of a motorcycle threads through the spa’s soft flute music, I swear my bones feel it first. My whole body exhales.

Kellum.

I step outside before he even parks. The sun is bright, bouncing off chrome and leather, and he looks like something the day conjured just to remind me I’m not alone.

He swings his leg over after he sets the kickstand, and pulls his helmet off in one smooth motion.

His eyes land on me immediately, sharp gray, reading me faster than I can explain.

“Show me,” he gestures while looking at the car because he knows what it looks like.

While the beach area is full of people with money, this part of North Carolina is very blended with the elite and the middle class.

The likelihood of another Porshe in the parking lot is not high but it’s not something that couldn’t happen.

Wordless, I point at the car. The Porsche gleams like it’s been detailed, polished within an inch of its life, like Brian wanted me to see it and remember what I lost.

Kellum’s mouth goes flat. He doesn’t move closer, doesn’t touch the car. He looks back at me instead. “You okay?”

“I’m furious.” My voice shakes, but it’s not weak—it’s tight with anger. “He thinks he can call me trash and then pretend he’s generous for giving this back? Like it’s some prize I should thank him for? I don’t want the damn car! I want nothing from him.”

Kellum nods once, slow. He doesn’t feed the fire with his words; he lets me burn clean.

I cross my arms, pacing the sidewalk. “I don’t want it. I don’t want anything from him. I don’t want his keys, his car, his forgiveness. He can keep it all.”

That gets the ghost of a smile out of Kellum, not because he finds it funny, but because I think he likes hearing me say it.

The sound of another engine rolls in then a truck this time pulls up. Big, grumbling, familiar. My head snaps toward it just as a flatbed tow pulls into the lot. The driver leans out the window, gives Kellum a two-finger salute.

Behind him the tow truck that introduced us rolls up to the Porshe and I want to laugh at this full circle moment.

“What—what’s happening?” I ask, heart climbing into my throat.

Kellum’s eyes stay on me, not the car. “We’re returning it to the owner.”

The tow truck driver hops down, starts hooking up the Porsche like it’s just another job on a Tuesday, because to him, it is.

I blink, stunned. Then I laugh. “You’re gonna tow it?”

“I made a call before I left,” Kellum says, calm as ever.

“Jasper helped me when Brian called us to snag it that first day. He’s happy to help return the car to it’s owner yet again.

Figured you’d already told me what you wanted when you said you don’t want anything from him.

So, the car goes back. Not yours. Not ours.

His. Let him pay for the tow storage. Pami will do the paperwork, contact him.

This doesn’t fall on you. He parked in a short term parking spot.

” Kellum points to the sign, “it says all violators will be towed by us at their expense.”

The anger that’s been boiling inside me twists, changes shape. It’s still fire, but now it’s clean, burning through shame and leaving something else in its place: relief.

“He’s going to hate that,” I whisper, a little breathless.

“Good.” Kellum finally steps closer, brushing his knuckles against mine, a touch so small and steady it feels like a vow. “Come on. You need to clear your head. Your lunch break is now. Let’s ride.”

I look back once more as Jasper ratchets down the Porsche, its glossy shite paint flashing in the sun. Brian thought he was dangling a collar with a leash. Kellum cut it before it could ever tighten around my throat.

I let out a shaky laugh, half fury, half freedom. “Yeah,” I say, looking at the only man in the lot who feels solid. “Yeah, I need to ride.” Running inside, I clock out, letting them know I’m taking my break, and grab my bag with a quick wave to Trina.