Page 18 of Crusher's Illusion

Once I’m secured inside, I dial Crusher’s number again. No answer. I pace my apartment like a woman waiting for the door to be kicked in.

I didn’t use the club’s full name, I remind myself. Didn’t name individual donors. But anyone with half a brain and access to a wire transfer report can connect the dots. And ifIcould do it, others will too.

I remember the way Crusher looked at me. Not just angry.Wounded. Like I’d ripped open something raw. Something sacred. He’ll never believe this wasn’t me.

Desperately, I dial the garage. The line rings and rings, then cuts out. I call again. This time, a rough voice answers. Not Crusher.

“Saints Outlaws. The shop’s closed for the day.”

“I need to speak to Erik Morrison. It’s urgent.”

Silence. “Who’s asking?”

“Nevaeh. Just… tell him I need five minutes.”

A beat.

Thenclick.They hang up.

I lean against the counter, gripping the edge until my knuckles whiten. Cold sweat slicks down my spine. There’s no way to fix this. I feel sick. Not just scared, but soul-deep wrong. I didn’t just write a story, I weaponized the truth, and I don’t know how to take it back.

Deep down, I don’t know if Iwantto undo it. Not all of it, because the world deserves to know the truth. Even if the truth burns the bridge I wanted to walk across. Even if it costs me the man I just started to see clearly.

Even if it costs me everything.

NINE

TARGET ACQUIRED

CRUSHER

Rock called me back to the Clubhouse in the middle of the night. I didn’t want to leave Nevaeh, but when the club calls, you better fucking go. Loyalty to the patch and the brothers means more than any civilian will ever understand. I’m watching the sun rise from the picnic table outside. The pink and purple hues splashing across the clouds remind me of the power Nevaeh has over things she writes.

I haven’t been to sleep since I stepped foot back here, and my eyes are gritty. I take a drag of a cigarette and swallow a mouthful of hot coffee, waking myself back up. A deep, troubling feeling settles in the pit of my stomach.

Suddenly, Steel’s voice cracks through the clubhouse walls like a gunshot, causing birds to take flight and the crickets to stop chirping.

“WHO LET THIS HAPPEN!?”

My boots hit the floor before I even register the rest of what Steel shouts. I knew it the second my phone buzzed nonstop. The group chat blew up. Mentions of the club are in bold. Myname, right there in the byline next to the Mt. Pleasant Youth Restoration Fund.

The article is live, and she published it. No warning, no compromise. Just a digital hit job, dressed up in feel-good quotes and noble intentions.

“She said she wouldn’t publish it,” I growl under my breath to no one in particular, shoving through the hallway, past Caine and Nova, who go stone still as I pass.

“You trust the press now, Crusher?” Draft questions. His voice blurs under a low buzz boiling in my skull.

I shove the doors to Church open. Every patch member is here. Steel’s standing, arms braced on the table, head down like he’s trying to keep from leveling the whole damn place. Rock and Rampage are flanking him. Everyone looks at me when I step in.

“Sit,” he growls. “Now.”

I take the chair at the edge of the table, the one I usually avoid because it backs the door. But right now, eyes are burning into me from every direction, and I need to face them. No flinching. No running.

“You wanna explain why a reporter has the name of our club, our donation trail, and your fucking face attached to it?”

“I didn’t give her anything,” I calmly say, my voice steady. “I don’t know how the hell she found out.”

City throws his phone down onto the table, the screen cracking against the wood. “She found out because she was digging. Into you.”