Page 4 of Crusher's Illusion

BEHIND THE CUT

CRUSHER

It’s been nine years since Jordan bled out in my arms, and I haven’t worn that hoodie since.

Now I wear leather with the Saints Outlaws MC patch stitched across the back like a vow no one needs to hear out loud. The white skull at the center glares like it knows things, like it’s seen the same hell we crawled through and came out meaner. The barbed wire halo isn’t for show. It’s a crown of pain, of choices that carved scars deeper than any blade. You don’t earn that kind of symbol without bleeding for it.

The shamrocks on either side are our roots, green and stubborn, Irish to the bone. Not the lucky kind, either. The kind that survives. The kind that grows through concrete.

It isn’t just a patch. It’s who we are.

Saints by name, Outlaws by blood.

And if you wear it, you'd better be prepared to carry the weight that comes with it.

I don’t deal in headlines anymore. I deal in logistics, silence, and structure. The kind of structure that keeps brothers alive and bodies out of ditches. I’m the Vice President of this club,which doesn’t mean glory. It means I carry the screws and gears while Steel carries the fire.

And Steel’s fire is burning hotter than usual today. “Crusher!” Steel’s voice rolls down the hallway like thunder wrapped in concrete. “Where are we on permits for the Unity Ride next month?”

“Waiting on confirmation from the township clerk,” I say, not looking up from the calendar I’m updating on my iPad. “But Rampage already mapped the route, and Draft’s got the hotel block’s down payment.”

Isaiah “Steel” King, our Prez, nods. He’s still in a white tee and worn jeans, yet somehow carries the weight of a courtroom. The man left a six-figure law career to take over when his old man got sick. He runs this club like he argues cases. Sharp, relentless, and with zero tolerance for bullshit.

“Keep it clean,” he says. “No headlines. No heat.” Steel is intelligent and caring, but he’s also the world's biggest asshole. His Samoan Christian upbringing gives him deeply rooted beliefs and traditions centered on family and community.

My jaw clenches.Yeah. About that...“Copy that.”

Around us, the common room is alive. Cigarette smoke hangs in the air, mingling with grease, coffee, and something spicy.

Throttle, the club’s Enforcer, stands in the kitchen, stirring chili in a massive pot like it personally insulted him. His tattoos catch the light every time he wipes his hands on a towel, and his glare is all the warning anyone needs not to ask what’s in the pot.

At the pool table, Rampage, our Road Captain, leans in mid-shot, talking about exhaust pipes as if they’re sacred geometry. Across from him, Honor, our Chaplain, nods along, his red curls bobbing as he laughs too loudly, one socked foot tucked under the other like he’s on a church pew instead of in an MC.

Rock, our Sergeant-at-Arms, sits at the table, sharpening his blade. Not for intimidation, he just finds it relaxing. His eyes arelocked on a prospect, Killian, and a hang around, Niko, who are arguing over a spilled box of socket wrenches in the garage bay.

“Pick ‘em up or pick a new patch to chase,” Rock growls.

Rampage leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, the pool game forgotten. “You two better figure out how to wrench without dropping shit, or I’ll make you push bikes next run.” He’s all fury and precision when it counts.

Honor stands next to Rampage, laughing like he’s watching stand-up. Kyle Jennings looks more like a Twitch streamer than a man of God, but if a brother lands in jail or ends up six feet under, he’s the one we turn to.

Throttle walks in from the kitchen, wiping his hands. Covered in tattoos, he barely says a word unless you piss him off, which is exactly what Ryder Cole was built for.

At the bar, Draft and City, Treasurer and Secretary, argue about an invoice.

“You misspelled ‘philanthropy,’” City mutters, pointing at the tablet.

“No, I didn’t.”

“You put two Ls.”

“Philanthropy should have more Ls. It's generous, ain't it?” Draft flips him off.

“Tell that to the grammar police,” I mutter. “Should’ve just watched Dead Poets Society like I planned to tonight.”

City smirks and logs the correction anyway.

Everyone plays a role that suits them. They’re all louder than I am, and that’s fine. My voice carries weight when I need it to. I’m the guy who makes sure this chaos doesn’t implode.