Page 49 of Crusher's Illusion

“I know,” I reply.

He tips his chin once, solid, unshakable, before he lines up his next shot.

Nevaeh’s still watching me from the corner of her eye, like she can feel something shifting but can’t quite name it yet. Her lips pressed into a thin line. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah,” I say, eyes still on the bar where Peach is pretending to laugh at something. “I did.”

“Crusher!” Steel’s voice cuts through the noise like a whip. Low, lethal, the kind of tone that has every prospect and hang-around pretend they didn’t hear it. “In my office. Now.”

I jerk my chin at Nevaeh. “Stay with Rampage. He bites, but only if you deserve it.”

“Only if she asks nicely,” Rampage mutters from the bar, earning himself a look from me.

I lean in and capture Nevaeh’s lips with my own before turning her toward Rampage. My voice is just for her. “Behave.”

Nevaeh swallows hard, tamping down the lust shining in her eyes. “I’ll try.”

The clubhouse hum fades the second I shut Steel’s office door behind me. He’s pacing behind his desk, shoulders rolledforward, cut hanging heavy like a mantle he’s ready to throw at the wall.

“You’ve got a death wish?” His tone is sharp enough to slice through bone.

“Not lately,” I reply, shoving my hands in my pockets just to keep from balling them into fists.

“Then why the hell are you bringing her back here after everything? After she…”

“I told you on the phone.” My voice comes out harder than I intend, but I don’t dial it back. “She didn’t leak the article. Her editor, Bria, sold her out to the Syndicate. You’d know that if you’d been paying attention.”

Steel’s jaw ticks. “Watch your mouth.”

I take a step closer to his desk, closing the gap between VP and Prez like I’ve got every right because I do. As the VP, I need to keep my Prez in check. I need to keep him in his place when he gets out of line. We’re more than club members, we’re brothers. Which is why his pain is my pain, and the only way for him to deal with it is head-on. But he’s too stubborn to go after the one woman who broke his heart and his soul.

“No, brother. Watch yours.” I plant both hands on the edge of his desk and lean in, eye to eye, making sure he feels every word. “You want to sit here, drowning in your own shit for the last five years, fine. But don’t come at me for fighting for something worth keeping. You want to talk about wasting time? Go find Aria before you’ve got nothing left but regret.”

The silence after that is a living thing, thick enough to choke on. The only sound is the slow grind of Steel’s teeth. His stare could strip paint, but it doesn’t move me. I’ve taken harder hits from men I didn’t call brother.

For a beat, I think he’s gonna unload on me. Instead, his eyes flick away, just for a second, but enough to tell me I found the crack in his armor.

“Get out,” Steel says finally. Not loud. Not furious. Just tired. That’s worse.

I push off his desk, straightening my cut. “You know where she is, Steel. It’s not the roadblock that’s killing you. It’s you.”

His gaze cuts back to mine, unreadable. Then I’m out the door, back in the noise and light of the clubhouse, leaving him with whatever ghosts I just stirred up.

When I get back to the bar, Nevaeh’s posted up between Rampage and City like she’s been holding court. Rampage’s mouth is curled in something dangerously close to an actual grin, which is about as rare as him buying a round.

“…and that’s why you don’t ever trust a GPS in Detroit,” she’s saying, hands moving like she’s reliving the story. “It’ll drop you right in the middle of a block party you weren’t invited to.”

Rampage barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “Shit, she’s not wrong. Happened to me once. Except it was a dogfight, not a block party.”

City’s leaning on the counter, smirking. “Only you would wander into that and come out with a new pet, Ramp.”

Even Rock’s nearby, arms folded, his usual scowl softened enough to count as listening. He’s not jumping in, but he’s not shutting it down either. For Rock, that’s basically a handshake.

I slide in next to her, my hand brushing the small of her back. Just a touch, but enough to remind everyone in earshot where she stands. “Making friends?”

She tilts her head at me with that little half-smile, the one that says she’s holding more cards than she lets on. “Trying.”

Rampage tips his beer toward her. “She’s got more backbone than most people who walk in here. I can respect that.”