Chapter Fourteen
NITRO
The Next Day
I’m grinning like an idiot as I walk through the clubhouse, and I don’t even care who notices.
Last night was perfect.
Watching Marley with my brothers, seeing her laugh with Victoria and Ro, the way she fit into this world as if she’d always belonged here, it changed something fundamental in my chest.
“Someone’s in a good mood,” Sin observes from his spot at the bar, that damn poker chip flipping between his fingers. “The brothers liked her.”
“They did.”
“You know what that means, right? Once the club accepts your woman, there’s no going back. She’s one of us now.”
My woman.
The words settle over me like a leather cut—familiar, right, and so fucking terrifying all at once.
“We’re taking it slow. She just got out of a long-term relationship—”
Sin snorts at whatever expression crosses my face when he cuts in. “Sure, you’re taking it slow, brother. Keep telling yourself that.”
I flip him off, but still smile as I grab my phone.
There’s already a text waiting from Marley.
Marley: Thank you for last night. Your family is amazing.
My family.
I save the text like the lovesick bastard I’ve become and head out to see Queenie.
Three hours later, on my way back to the club, my phone buzzes again on my dash, and then I hit the button to let the text play through my speakers.
Text from Marley: I hate my job. I hate Derek. I hate having to see his smug face every single day. Sorry for the rant, I just need to let off some steam!”
“Hey, Siri…
Text to Marley: Rant all you want, Small Town. You look pretty when you’re angry. Send.”
Beep. Beep.
“Sending… Text to Marley: Ant all you want, smell toenail. You look sweaty when you’re horny.”
I nearly drive off the goddamn highway, my eyes widening as my heart rate spikes. “The fuck, Siri!”
Beep. Beep.
“I am trying my best.”
The Honda’s speakers belt out her reply as if God himself wants to shame me.
Text from Marley: Are. You. Having. A. Stroke?
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, gripping the wheel. Tighter. “Siri, you just cockblocked me in surround sound!”
Beep. Beep.
“I’m sorry, I do not understand your request.”
Letting out the mother of all frustrated groans, I try to speak very clearly.
“Hey, Siri…
Text to Marley: Sorry, I’m driving, talking into phone, it’s being a bitch, but keep talking, I’m here. Let it all out
… Send.”
Beep. Beep.
“Sending… Text to Marley: Sorry, I’m writhing, talking into phone, it’s being a witch, but keep talking, I’m here. Let it fall out.”
Shaking my head, I roll my eyes. At least that one was almost right.
Text from Marley: This is kind of fun trying to decipher these texts.
It’s making me smile, unlike Derek… he’s being passive-aggressive about everything.
Asked me to redo an entire campaign because my creative vision doesn’t align with the company’s standards.
It’s the same campaign he approved last week. Fucking dick!”
Curling my lip, I pull up at a stoplight, wishing I could go and give this asshole a piece of my mind.
“Hey, Siri…
Text to Marley: Want me to come beat his ass?
… Send.”
Beep. Beep.
“Sending… Want me to come beat his ass?”
I let out a laugh. “Oh, that one you understand! Violence is your kink, hey, Siri?”
Beep. Beep.
“I do not understand this request.”
Shaking my head, I take off as the light turns green. “Of course you don’t, you asshole.”
Text from Marley: Tempting, but I need this job. At least until I find something else.”
“Hey, Siri…
Text to Marley: Never apologize for talking to me, Small Town. I’m here whenever you need me.
… Send.”
Beep. Beep.
“Sending… Never apologize for stalking me, Small Clown. I’m here whenever you need meat.”
“What? Do not send that!” I yell at my cell.
Beep. Beep.
“Message sent.”
I groan frustratingly into my steering wheel. “Fucking alien robot bastard!”
I reach for my fucking cell, yank it from the dashboard holder, and start typing out a message myself.
Me: Sorry, my phone is a fucking cunt. I’m gonna drop by the apartment, come cheer you up.
Her reply text comes quickly.
Marley: Damn, I liked your crazy cryptic texts, they were making me laugh… guess I will have to settle for your lame Dad jokes when you get here in person then… see you soon City Boy. xo
I hurl my cell onto the passenger seat, wanting to keep the piece of shit out of my sight for now, and I turn the corner heading for the apartment. By the time I finish driving, I’ve made a decision.
I head up the elevator to apartment twenty-seventeen and open the door to find Marley on a ladder, paintbrush in hand, adding stenciled designs to the kitchen wall. She’s wearing old jeans and one of my T-shirts, and there is paint smudged on her cheek.
“So how was work, really?” I ask, closing the door behind me.
Her face falls. “Do we have to talk about that? Can’t we talk about your relationship with Siri?”
Scowling, I step up to her beneath the ladder. “Come down from there.” My hands slide up, gripping her waist as she steps down, and I guide her to the sofa. “Talk to me, Marley.”
She curls into the corner, pulling her knees to her chest. “Derek’s getting worse.
More cruel. Today, he commented that I should probably stick to administrative work since my ‘creative contributions’ aren’t measuring up…
in front of the whole damn team.” My jaw clenches.
“And the worst part?” Her eyes shine with unshed tears.
“I let him get to me. I went to the bathroom and cried because I started believing him.”
“Stop.” I pull her into my lap, and she comes willingly. “Don’t let that bastard in your head. You’re brilliant, Small Town. Creative and talented and so fucking smart it terrifies me.”
“You have to say that.”
“I don’t have to say shit.” I cup her face, tilting it up. “Derek is a small, insecure man who’s threatened by your talent. But you’re better than him, Marley. Better than that whole toxic environment you call a workplace.”
“I wish I could just leave,” she whispers.
And there it is.
My opening.
“What if you could?” I ask carefully.
“What?”
“A buddy of mine mentioned his company is hiring. Creative director position at an entertainment company.”
Her eyes widen. “Creative director?”
“Yeah. Big company, good benefits, better pay.” All true. Every word. “Want me to get you the details?”
“Nitro, that’s… yes. Yes, of course!”
“I’ll text him tonight, set up an interview.” I brush a strand of red hair behind her ear. “You deserve to work somewhere that appreciates you.”
She throws her arms around my neck. “Thank you. God, thank you. Even if nothing comes of it, just having hope…”
“Something will come of it. Trust me.”
“I do trust you. Is that ridiculous? We haven’t known each other that long, but I trust you more than I’ve trusted anyone in years.”
The words burrow deep into my chest.
She trusts me.
Even though I’m lying to her about who I really am.
The guilt tries to surface, but I shove it down… deep down. This is about giving Marley a chance she deserves.
We order Thai food and spend the evening on her floor that she is halfway through staining, talking about everything and nothing. Around ten, her phone buzzes with a text from Sage. She groans, looking over the text.
“Uh, Sage is having an existential crisis… I should probably go make sure she is okay,” Marley says reluctantly.
“I’ll drive you.”
We quickly tidy up and then hop in the car, and I take her to Sage’s apartment. When we pull up, she doesn’t immediately get out. “Thank you,” she says softly. “For listening. For the job lead. For just… being you.” She kisses my cheek, her lips warm against my beard. “Goodnight, Nitro.”
“Goodnight, Marley.”
I wait until she’s inside before driving back to my office, the one I use while I am Damon Blackwell.
The space is sterile, empty, lifeless. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the Vegas strip, but the view feels hollow after spending the evening in Marley’s warmth.
I pour myself a whiskey and sit at my desk.
I need to call my assistant. Set up the interview.
But first, I need to sit with who I am when I’m here.
Damon Blackwell.
CEO of Blackwell Entertainment Group.
Billionaire.
The man I resent being.
I down the whiskey in one burning gulp.
My parents built this empire from nothing. Blackwell Entertainment Group, casinos, hotels, restaurants, and production studios. They poured their lives into it, worked themselves to exhaustion making the Blackwell name mean something.
And then they died.
A construction accident at one of their hotel properties. Structural failure during an inspection. They were touring the site, checking safety protocols, because they were hands-on like that, always involved, when part of the building collapsed.
Killed instantly.
I was only eighteen.
One day, I was an everyday kid, and the next, I was a billionaire orphan inheriting an empire I never asked for. The money felt like blood money. Every dollar, every property deed, every stock option, all of it represented their deaths.
Their absence.
A consolation prize for losing the two people who actually mattered.
Queenie helped me through it. She held me while I raged, cried, and tried to drink myself to death. ‘They’d want you to keep their legacy alive… the business, the Blackwell name… it meant everything to them,’ she told me.
So I did.
I learned to run the company.
Hired the best people.
Made sure every property met the highest safety standards because I’d be damned if anyone else died on my watch.
I kept the Blackwell name strong and made my parents proud, even though they aren’t here to see it.
But I despise every second.
I hate the board meetings and corporate dinners, and the way people look at me as if I am special just because I have money. I hate that my worth is tied to my bank account rather than to who I actually am.
And then Queenie got sick.
Breast cancer. Stage three.
I would have given every cent to save her. I would have burned the entire empire if it meant she’d be okay.
The medical bills were astronomical. Chemotherapy, radiation, experimental treatments, I threw money at the problem like it could fix things.
She beat it.
Barely.
Thank-fucking-Christ.
But watching her fight, seeing her suffer, it drove home what I already knew.
Money was a curse.
It hadn’t saved my parents.
It hadn’t prevented Queenie’s cancer.
It was just this massive weight I carried, this fortune I never wanted, this identity I resented.
When Queenie was in recovery, I joined the Las Vegas Defiance MC. The club became my salvation. My escape from being Damon Blackwell, billionaire CEO.
With my brothers, I was just Nitro.
No money, no expectations, no legacy weighing me down.
I started driving Uber for the same reason—to feel normal.
Every fare, every conversation, it grounded me. Reminded me that beneath the fortune, I was a man. A man who wanted to be loved for who he was, not what he had.
That’s why I haven’t told Marley the truth.
With her, I’m just Nitro—a biker who drives Uber and cares about his grandmother.
She doesn’t see dollar signs.
She sees me.
The real me.
The version that feels true.
But I know I can’t keep this secret forever. Eventually, I’ll have to tell Marley about Damon Blackwell. About the billions and the business empire.
I’ll have to show her the side of myself I resent most.
The side that only exists because my parents died.
I feel as if I spend hours staring out into the Vegas night, drinking whiskey, dwelling on the lies I tell myself, and the lies I’m telling Marley—or more to the fact, the truth I’m not telling her.
Suddenly, my phone buzzes.
Marley: Made it back home to bed. Sage is fine… she just had a manicure disaster and needed to vent… still can’t believe you might have found a way out of Derek hell for me. You’re kind of amazing, you know that?
A smile tugs at my lips despite the heaviness in my chest.
Me: Just taking care of my girl.
Marley: Your girl, huh?
Me: Got a problem with that, Small Town?
Marley: Not even a little bit. Night, City Boy.
Me: Night, baby.
I stare at the phone long after the screen goes dark.
My girl.
Yeah. She is.
Which means I need to tell her the truth.
Eventually.
Soon.
Just…
Not yet.
Not when things are so perfect. Not when she looks at me like I’m this incredible man who can do no wrong.
Not when she trusts me completely.
I’ll tell her.
After the interview.
After she gets the job and settles in.
After I know she’s with me for me, not for what I can give her.
I’ll open up those wounds, the most painful ones, the ones that bleed Blackwell money, parental loss, and inherited curses.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I turn on my computer, open my email app, and email my assistant.
Subject: Creative Director Position
Sophia,
I have a candidate for the creative director role. Marley Wren. Brilliant, creative mind, years of experience in advertising, exactly what we need.
Set up an interview for this week.
—D.B.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself.
This is the right thing.
Giving Marley the opportunity she deserves and getting her away from Derek’s toxicity.
The fact that I’m doing it behind her back, manipulating circumstances, using my power? That’s a problem for future me. Present me is trying to take care of his girl.
Even though she doesn’t know it yet.
I’ll tell her everything when the time is right. When I’m ready to face the part of myself I’ve spent years trying to hide.
The billionaire.
The businessman.
Damon Blackwell.
He’s all a front, nothing real about him.
My phone buzzes one more time.
Marley: Sweet dreams, old man.
I smile in the darkness.
Me: Sweet dreams, Small Town.
And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I actually believe they might be.