Page 30 of Crash’s Secret

“I’m fine.”

“A truck slammed into your car, and you were zip-tied to a chair. Doc first.”

She slides off the bike with my help. She winces as soon as she touches the ground.

“Doc first,” she agrees.

Doc shines a penlight in her eyes, makes her track his finger, presses along her ribs until she hisses, checks the cut at her temple, and decides it doesn’t need stitches.

“Seatbelt bruising, banged-up ribs, a knot on her head the size of a walnut,” he says to me because I’m standing in the doorway and haven’t moved in twenty minutes. “Nothing broken. No concussion. Nothing permanent. She’ll be sore for a couple of weeks.”

“I’m right here,” Cassidy says.

“You are.” The doctor finally looks at her but doesn’t apologize. “Take the ibuprofen, kid. Don’t be a hero.”

She takes the ibuprofen. Over Doc’s shoulder, her eyes find mine, and the corner of her mouth comes up, and I’d burn that compound down a second time for that half a smile.

Behind me, the clubhouse fills back up. The Old Ladies and kids are home from the safehouse. Shelby and Saber are talking in whispers and kissing in between words. Violet holds Duke’s face in both hands, looking him over for damage, while their son, Leo, sits next to them with a toy motorcycle. Eden is checking Viper for any injuries, and the big man stands still and lets her.

I don't know how long I stand there watching all of it. Long enough for the noise to thin out, for brothers to drift toward showers and beds, for Saber to untangle himself from Shelby and disappear down the hall with Razor.

“Crash.” Joker leans into the infirmary, tablet under his arm. “Church. Saber wants the rundown before anybody sleeps.”

I look at Cassidy.

“Go,” she says. “I’ll be upstairs.”

Church is full and loud until Saber takes his seat, and then it’s neither.

Joker walks us through what we took from the Warriors’ compound. Two laptops, a box of documents, and three phones.

National is sending riders to handle the cleanup, the surrendered Warriors, and any heat from the law. And that’s fine by me.

“Here’s the one you all want.” Joker spins the tablet to face the table. A photo of a logbook page. “They knew about us sending away our Old Ladies and kids. They had a spotter. Some civilian they paid cash. He watched the caravan roll out and called it in. That’s also how they knew the day National left.”

Nobody around the table hides their anger.

“The spotter is gone,” Joker says. “National has his name and his plate number. He’s their problem now.”

Church runs another hour. Wounded accounted for, Bear awake and bruised, the buyer rescheduled, the books square. All the loose ends are tied up.

Then Saber says, “We’re done. Get some sleep.” And as chairs scrape back. “Crash stays.”

Nobody looks at me on the way out. Everybody wants to.

The door shuts. The padlock hangs open against the frame. Saber sits at the head of the table, turning his lighter over in his fingers, and I take the chair I’ve sat in for years and wait for whatever is coming.

“I saw how you two look at each other,” he says. “Yesterday. Tonight. All of it.”

I wait. He’s not done.

“She told me she loves you, and I didn’t believe you felt the same.” He leans forward, forearms on the table. “Then I watched you walk into that compound for her without blinking. I was wrong. I don’t say that often, so enjoy it.”

I keep my mouth shut.

“Here’s how it is.” He pauses. “You treat her right. If she cries because of you, we have a different conversation. I won’t give a fuck about our history.” He shifts in his seat. “No more sweetbutts. No waitresses, no barflies, no women whose names you can’t remember. That life is over the day you claim her, or you don’t claim her.”

“It’s already over. Been over since she walked through that door.”