4. Spotlight
FOUR
SPOTLIGHT
CRUSHER
The second I step into the Mt. Pleasant Civic Banquet Hall for a donor’s celebration, I want to turn around and walk right back out.
Chandeliers hang overhead, dripping with old money and egos. Polished floors squeak beneath my dress shoes, and the scent of overpriced bourbon lingers heavy in the air, thick as sweat in a boardroom. Expensive perfume, cologne, and self-importance blend into a scent that makes me want to gag.
I adjust my blazer, the one suit I own that doesn’t scream “I fix bikes for a living.” My cut’s locked up safe at the clubhouse, dress code rules, apparently.
The leather still feels like it’s there, stitched into my damn bones.
People turn as I pass. Whispers follow. Not the usual kind, either. These people recognize my face now.
Front-page kind of recognition.
At one table, a board member from the Civic Fund raises his glass to me, barely hiding his discomfort. His wife stares at the tattoos peeking from my cuffs as if she expects me to rob the wine table.
They think they know what outlaw means. They don’t know shit.
Behind them, a couple from the Devil’s Crown MC give me that slow, assessing nod. Not enemies, not friends. Neutral for now. Their VP, Gage, smiles like he wants to test my weight in a fight, and I file that away for later.
A donor whispers something to his wife. “What’s a biker doing at a charity event like this?”
Same thing you are, I think, throwing money at a problem and hoping it makes you feel clean.
But none of them matter. Not really.
Because in the middle of all this false gold and glittering bullshit stands Nevaeh fucking Humphreys.
She’s draped in a crimson dress that clings to her body like it was poured over her in molten silk.
Her long braids are down tonight, soft around her shoulders.
She’s laughing at something the mayor says, tilting her head back as if she didn’t just toss gasoline across my world and light the fuse with her smile.
Steel would have my ass if I bailed, so I pull my jacket tighter and step deeper into the lion’s den.
I move through the crowd, nodding to the donors I recognize. Most of them offer tight, polite smiles until I see Duke Travers, leader of the Iron Cross Syndicate. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t nod. He just stares.
I don’t break eye contact until he mutters something to his VP and walks out. One down. More will come.
“Crusher.” Nevaeh’s voice behind me slices through my spine like a razor blade.
I slowly turn, my eyes sweeping her from head to heel before meeting hers. She’s close now. Too close.
“Nevaeh,” I say her name like it’s bitter in my mouth.
“You made it,” she says, sweet and sharp, like this is some casual run-in at a coffee shop. Like she didn’t just hang a bullseye on my crew with her byline.
“You made me,” I grit, voice low enough to cut without drawing eyes. “Into a fucking headline.”
Her smile tightens, eyes narrowing just a bit. “It was a good headline.”
“You put the club on the radar,” I growl. “Do you even realize what you’ve done?”
She crosses her arms, which only pushes her chest higher. My eyes dip on instinct, and because I’m weak and a man, and I remember how soft her body felt against mine. A mistake. Doesn’t help the war inside my skull.
“My story was about people doing good,” she says, chin high. “Your club saves lives. People should know that.”
“People don’t care about the good,” I bite out. “They see ‘outlaw,’ they smell blood. And now they know where to look for it.”
She flinches and tries to hide it, but I catch it. And some ugly part of me wants her to feel the same gut-punch I felt seeing our names side by side. But another part? A buried, dangerous one, wants to press her against a wall and see if her mouth tastes as reckless as her words.
“You’re a writer,” I growl. “You make stories. This one just happened to be mine.
“Dance with me,” she responds, suddenly throwing me off for a moment.
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“The donors are watching,” she murmurs, already reaching for my hand. “Come on. Let them see you’re not a monster.”
I let her drag me to the floor. I don’t know why. Maybe I’m an idiot. Maybe I’m a fool. Maybe I’m addicted to chaos. But I follow her into the spotlight, where violins swell, and white wine flows like lies.
Her hand slides into mine. Warm and too damn familiar. I should pull away. I should remember how it felt to kneel in Jordan’s blood, his breath rattling, my hands soaked and helpless, and the screaming in my head when I realized good intentions get people killed.
I swore no one else would bleed so close to me again. Yet here I am, holding a memory in one hand and a warning in the other.
“Why’d you really write the story?” I ask as we move. One-two step. Pivot. Tension is tighter than a garrote between us.
She looks up at me, lips parted, like she might lie, but then she doesn’t. “Because someone saved my sister when no one else would. No badge. No name. Just disappeared, and no one ever thanked them.”
My grip falters for a second.
The music swells as I tighten my hand on her waist. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t step back. I don’t say what I’m thinking. I get it. I still wish you hadn’t.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out as we step off the floor.
One message from Rock: Iron Cross. Threat confirmed. Name dropped you. Lock it down.
I glance up at Nevaeh. She sees it in my face before I say a word. Trouble’s coming. And she’s standing right in the middle of it.
Duke Travers’ VP, Slim, all tattoos and rotten teeth, brushes past me on his way to the bar. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t make a scene. Just mutters low enough for only me to hear, “Nice article. Pity if it brings smoke down on more than just your clubhouse.”
I turn to follow him with my eyes, but a Civic Fund board member stops me to shake my hand, too loud, too fake. Behind them, someone whispers that Duke didn’t leave. He’s outside. Taking a call. Watching.
Watching who I dance with. Wondering where to dig the knife first.
I pocket the phone.
Nevaeh’s still watching me like I’ve got answers.
I don’t. Only instincts. And every one of them screams the same thing.
She’s not safe here. And neither am I.