Page 5 of Crusher's Illusion

Draft looks up at the flat screen above the liquor shelf. “Shit. Turn that up.”

I glance over. Local news. Nothing special until it is.

A familiar logo appears on-screen:Mt. Pleasant Youth Restoration Fund.My gut tightens.

The anchor reports on a new wave of anonymous donations from a “group of silent philanthropists.” An anonymous benefactor with big numbers. A feel-good story our city needs.

I already know the check cleared. I signed off on it last Tuesday.

And then there’s her.

Nevaeh. Fucking. Humphreys.

I saw her once, at a donor’s dinner a few weeks back. She wasn’t supposed to be there. Just someone’s plus one. She was quiet, charming, and observant in a way that made my skin itch. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. The way she watched people, not food. The way she listened more than she smiled.

I didn’t realize she was a reporter. She moved through that room like a scalpel. Sharp, pretty, and dangerously polite. We didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. She looked at me like she already knew too much.

She’s not from Channel Nine, which means this isn't routine. It’s invasive. Now she’s sitting in a plush chair, a slow, deliberate smile stretched across her face. Long, dark braids extend down her back. Mic in hand like a weapon, with footage to accompany her voiceover: “While most donors to the Mt. Pleasant Youth Restoration Fund remain behind the scenes, their impact is anything but silent…”

Steel glances at me.

I don’t flinch, but my gut twists. “She wasn’t supposed to be in town yet,” I mutter. “The editor must’ve sent her early.”

The teaser flashes across the screen:The Silent Philanthropists of the Midwest. Exclusive. By Nevaeh Dawn Humphreys.

Fuck me. Apparently, she got her hands on donation records the city claimed were private. That’s why she was hell-bent on coaxing a story out of me.

“Great,” Draft mutters. “She’s hot, and now she’s dangerous. My favorite combo.”

“She’s not dangerous,” City says. “She’s a writer.”

“She’s a liability,” I say flatly, already pulling out my phone.

I open the Saints’ burner Instagram account. It’s full of ride shots and charity flyers, with no faces, no tags. I built the protocols myself. If someone’s name gets out, it’s because they slipped, not me. Control the message, or someone else will.

That’s the thing about social media. It’s a tool. You just have to know how to control the story. Nevaeh just wrote a new message, and I don’t know how deep she went.

“You handle it,” Steel says. No argument. Just delegation.

I nod once. He trusts me to clean the mess. He always has.

I head for my office, but not before catching whispers trailing me from the prospects.

“Wasn’t she at the fundraiser?”

“She smiled at Crusher.”

“You think she knows?”

I shut the office door and sit hard. My desk still smells of cedar and old ink. I open the club’s secure drive. Nothing new. No breach. That means if she has anything, she got it from outside. Maybe public records. Maybe chatter.

Or maybe…

Maybe she was watching more than I thought that night.

My chest tightens. Other clubs don’t like the Saints playing hero. Especially not with the press attached. Not with headlines. Not with names.

Nevaeh just painted a target on our backs. One I spent years trying to stay clear of.