Page 48 of Crusher's Illusion

EXPOSURE THERAPY

CRUSHER

The roar of my bike echoes off the brick as we pull into the Clubhouse lot. Nevaeh’s behind me, arms wrapped around my waist, but she’s not holding on like she did before. She's less desperate, more determined. Last night in that motel room lit a fire under both of us. The Syndicate thinks they can run her to ground? They’re about to learn what happens when you push me too far.

The gravel crunches under my boots as I swing my leg off the bike, the sound loud in the early evening quiet. Behind me, Nevaeh climbs off slowly, fingers lingering on the helmet strap like it’s the last piece of armor she’s allowed to keep. Her gaze sweeps the lot lined with patched bikes gleaming under the dim yellow wash of the floodlights, and I can see the way her shoulders stiffen.

“This isn’t gonna be a warm welcome,” I warn, tugging off my gloves.

She smirks, but it’s tight, her lips trembling just enough for me to catch it. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

The front door is heavy, scarred from years of boots and fists, and I push it open with my shoulder. The scent hits first, oil, leather, smoke, and the lingering bite of whiskey soaked into the wood. Music thrums low from the jukebox, blending with the clack of pool balls and the rise and fall of rough laughter.

We step inside, and it’s like a switch flips. Heads turn. Conversations falter mid-sentence. A couple of brothers straighten from their pool shots, cues hanging in midair.

Rampage is the first to speak, leaning back in his chair with a slow grin. “Well, shit. Look what the cat dragged in.”

City, perched at the bar with a beer in hand, tips his chin toward us. “More like what Crusher dragged in.” His tone’s casual, but his eyes are sharp, flicking between me and Nevaeh like he’s waiting to see who’s gonna crack first.

Rock’s standing off to the side, arms crossed over his chest. His stare is steady, heavy, pinning Nevaeh in place like she’s a suspect in an interrogation. But it’s not laced with the same hostility as before. No edge of accusation, just a careful, measured watch. The kind you keep on someone you don’t know if you can trust yet, but maybe want to.

Nevaeh doesn’t shrink from it. She lifts her chin, meets Rock’s gaze head-on, and for the briefest second, something shifts in the room, like she just earned herself a sliver of respect for not flinching.

I catch the change. So does City, because his brow lifts, but he keeps his mouth shut.

The air is still thick, the kind that says the next words out of somebody’s mouth could decide whether this night ends in a drink or a fight.

And I’m not in the mood for a fight. Not with her standing beside me.

Peach, with her red lips so glossy they shine under the overhead lights, teetering on high heels that have never seengravel, peels herself away from the bar. She’s all curves, perfume, and that fake smile that could cut glass.

She struts right up to Nevaeh, swaying her hips just enough to make sure every set of eyes in the room is on her.

“Well, well,” she purrs, tilting her head. “Back so soon? Didn’t get enough last time?” The words are sugar-sweet, but the venom’s right there under the surface, sharp enough to burn if you breathe it in.

Nevaeh doesn’t bite. She doesn’t even look away, but her jaw ticks. A tiny tell I’ve learned means she’s one second from saying something that’ll start a fight.

I step in before that happens, my voice dropping low and sharp. “Peach. Don’t start.”

She arches a brow, pretending innocence, but her eyes are already sliding over Nevaeh like she’s a piece of furniture someone dragged in off the curb.

“I’m just saying…” She makes a lazy gesture, up and down Nevaeh’s frame, like she’s measuring her worth and finding it lacking. “Some people don’t belong in a clubhouse. They… don’t fit.”

My boots scrape against the worn wood as I take one step forward, just enough to make her tilt her chin back to keep eye contact.

“That space by my side?” I nod toward Nevaeh without breaking Peach’s stare. “She’s earned it. You got a problem with that, you bring it to me. Not her.”

The smirk falters. It’s not much, but I see the flicker of calculation in her eyes before she flicks her hair over her shoulder and turns on her heel. The other Honeys are waiting at the bar, watching like it’s a reality show. Peach mutters something as she sinks back onto her stool, but it’s swallowed by the low hum of conversation starting up again.

City pushes off the bar, takes a slow sip of his beer, and sidles close enough to speak without anyone else catching it.

“Bout damn time you quit letting her twist the knife,” he says, eyes still fixed ahead. “Good to see you plant your flag.”

I grunt. “Wasn’t about me.”

He gives me a sideways glance. “That’s why it landed.” Then he’s gone, strolling toward the back hallway like he didn’t just say something that’ll stick with me longer than it should.

Rock brushes past next, pool cue in hand. He doesn’t slow, just murmurs under his breath as he passes, “You back her, she’s under our wing. You know that.”