2. Behind the Cut
TWO
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 are locked 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.
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.
Jordan’s face flashes behind my eyes. Mouth full of blood. Fingers slipping from mine. His lifeless eyes stared up at me. He trusted me, too, and look where that got him. This isn’t about headlines, it’s about body bags.
Nevaeh didn’t just write a story. She opened a door I can’t close. Now I’ve got to find a way to shut it before someone else bleeds.
Every rule I made for myself shatters.
It took nine years to build a wall between the man I was and the man I am now. Nevaeh Humphreys just kicked a hole in it, and I can already feel the bullets coming through.