15. Skin in the Game
FIFTEEN
SKIN IN THE GAME
CRUSHER
The road bleeds black beneath my tires, wet with fresh rain and rage. Nevaeh holds tight behind me, silent but steady, her arms wrapped around my ribs like a second skin. The wind bites through my cut, but my pulse is running hot.
The burner buzzes again in my pocket. It’s not City. This one vibrates differently, emergency line. I let the engine idle low and pull into the turnout by the old grain mill, kill the engine, and check the screen.
Throttle: Ambush on the bypass. It's Draft, Hurricane, and the kid. We’re pinned the fuck down. Get here fast.
No time for questions. I throw the phone in my pocket and turn to Nevaeh. “Change of plan.”
She doesn’t flinch. “What’s wrong?”
“Iron Cross hit one of our supply runs. Draft and Hurricane are under fire with a prospect. They're outnumbered.”
Her jaw tightens. “Then what the hell are we waiting for?”
I smirk. Grit and steel. No hesitation. I hit the throttle and take off, tires screaming against the slick pavement as I push the bike toward the bypass.
Nevaeh holds tighter around my waist. The road curves hard, and I take it faster than I should, tires screaming against the blacktop. My cut flaps violently in the wind, but my mind is already on the scene, on Killian, young and eager, not ready to bleed out in some backroad ambush.
By the time we reach the location, it’s chaos.
Draft’s van is half on its side, smoking. The tailgate is open, and crates of medical supplies and bottled water spilled like a busted artery.
Killian lies near the ditch, one hand weakly clutching his side, crimson pouring between his fingers. Throttle and Rock are using their shirts to try and staunch the bleeding.
Gunfire must’ve stopped minutes ago, but the ghosts of it linger in the air, smoke, hot metal, the acrid taste of adrenaline.
I slide to a stop, boots hitting gravel before the engine cuts. Nevaeh jumps off right after me, eyes wide, taking in the wreckage.
“Shit,” I mutter, storming toward them. “Where are they?”
Rock stands up, fury in his eyes. “Gone. They hit fast and clean. Knew where we’d be. How we’d be armed. They clipped our tail, took us out, and opened fire when we tried to escape. Killian caught a round to the gut.”
I crouch beside the kid. His lips are blue. Sweat clings to his hairline.
“You stay with me, Prospect,” I order, gripping his shoulder. “You hear me?”
“Y-Yeah… yeah, boss,” he stammers. His voice is weak, but he’s conscious. Flashbacks of Jordan in the same situation play on repeat in my head. He’s not dying. Not tonight.
Honor pulls up in another van seconds later with Rampage and City riding flank on their bikes.
City climbs off his bike fast. “They knew the route. There’s no way they didn’t have a heads-up.”
“That’s twice in one week they’ve beaten us to our own moves,” Rock says darkly. “We got a rat.”
No one argues. The cold, angry silence is louder than any confirmation.
City, Rampage, Hurricane, and I get Killian loaded up in the van.
“I’ll ride with him. Keep him stable.” Neveah climbs in the back without argument, and Honor takes the driver’s seat. Rock starts pacing while glaring at her, but he doesn’t say a word.
I grip her cheek, blood staining my hands. “I’ll see you at the Clubhouse.”
Neveah nods her head but doesn’t say a word. The fear in her gaze cuts me to the core. I slam the door shut before I do something stupid like tell her it’ll be ok or kiss her like I want to.
Once the van is out of sight, I kneel in the gravel beside the blood-soaked patch of grass where Killian had fallen. My gloves are wet from blood, rain, and mud. Hurricane paces, gun still in his hand like he wants a second round.
“Load what’s salvageable,” I bark. “Burn the rest.”
Draft hesitates. “What about the shell casings?”
“Leave ‘em. Let Iron Cross know we left our teeth.”
I pull into the Clubhouse moments behind the van with Rock and City following close. Hurricane and Rampage stayed behind to clean up. We move Killian to the back office off the kitchen for triage. The table’s stained from other nights like this, different blood, same brotherhood.
Killian screams as Doc Emerson presses gauze into the wound. She’s one of ours, ex-Army, steel backbone, nerves like chilled iron.
“You want to pass out, go ahead,” she tells him calmly. “But I’m keeping you alive, kid. Don’t bite me while I do it.”
Nevaeh’s hands are steady with the gauze, but her lip quivers when Killian screams. She bites down on it hard, making blood well. She doesn’t flinch. Just keeps working.
Throttle leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching every move.
Rock’s pacing again, while Nevaeah throws a towel soaked in antiseptic into the trash and stands by the counter.
Her eyes flicking between the bloody table and the shadows on everyone’s faces.
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t run. Just stays in the room like she belongs here. She stepped up when Doc needed her to.
I stand near the door, arms folded, watching everyone and everything.
Killian whimpers as the Doc begins stitching.
“Clean exit,” Doc Emerson mutters. “He’s lucky. Another inch to the left, and he’d be zipped up in a black bag.”
“He’s not lucky,” Rock growls. “He’s breathing because Crusher got there in time.”
Nevaeh catches my eye. I don’t know what she sees, relief or gratitude, but she nods once. Solid. Like she understands what it costs to make these calls and carry the weight. I pull her into my arms, letting her warmth settle into my bones.
Rock’s eyes flick toward us, just once, but it’s enough to register that this isn’t just protection anymore. It’s something else.
High heels pound against the wooden floors. Too fast, too loud.
Peach, one of the club Honeys, comes barreling into the hallway. She’s always been too interested in the patch and lately, too interested in me.
She pushes past Honor in the hallway, her eyes locked on me until they shift to Nevaeh by my side with her arm around my waist and my arm over her shoulder.
“Fuck,” I murmur. Nevaeh stiffens beside me, but I don’t let her go.
Peach stops, arms crossed under her ample chest. Her blue eyes narrow to Nevaeh in my hoodie. Rage replaces hurt, her tone syrupy and venomous. “Didn’t know we were letting reporters play nurse now.”
Nevaeh doesn’t even blink. “Didn’t know we were holding auditions for Real Housewives of Lockdown.”
“Funny thing about reporters, they write what they want. Just hope she’s not writing your obituary.” Peach spits at me.
I step in. “Enough.”
Peach pouts, but the claws stay out. “Just saying. Might be nice if the girls who actually take care of the Club didn’t get replaced by outsiders with no skin in the game.”
Nevaeh’s voice cuts clean through the tension. “Skin in the game? I’ve got death threats in my inbox, blood on my boots, and I watched a kid nearly die tonight. You want skin in the game? I’ve already bled.”
Peach opens her mouth, but Steel steps into the hall behind her. “Take the hint, Peach. Walk away.”
Peach glares, then tosses her hair and stalks off.
Honor mutters, “Better watch your back. Peach may be sugar, but she poisons slowly.”
Nevaeh exhales. “Let her try.” She glances back toward the room where Killian lies sedated. The chaos fades, but the adrenaline doesn’t.
Doc Emerson wipes her hands on a blood-stained towel and tosses it into the bucket beside her boots. She looks up at Nevaeh, really looks at her. And something passes between them.
Recognition. Respect. The kind that’s earned in blood and pressure. Doc gives me a look, telling me not to screw this up.
“You held the gauze when he started to convulse,” Doc says, nodding toward the back room. “Kept your shit together better than half the guys I’ve trained.”
Nevaeh blinks. “I didn’t even think. I just… I’ve seen what happens when no one steps in.”
Doc grabs two bottles of water from the cooler and tosses one to her. “That’s the point. You didn’t flinch.”
Most women who come through this Club either worship the patch or fear it. Doc Emerson is neither of those. She’s part of the machine. Practical. Calculated. But she’s not warm unless you’ve earned it.
And right now, she’s offering warmth to Nevaeh.
Doc tilts her head. “You got trauma in your eyes. I’ve seen that look before.”
Nevaeh shrugs. “I got trauma everywhere.”
Doc huffs something like a laugh and takes a long drink. “Same.”
There’s a moment between them I can’t name. Like two battle-worn soldiers sharing a foxhole.
Nevaeh sets the water down and leans against the counter. “I didn’t come here trying to be involved in all this. I didn’t ask for it.”
“No one does,” Doc says. “But here’s the truth. When the world turns to shit, the ones who show up anyway? That’s the real measure.”
I feel something ease in my chest. She’s earning her place, not with words, but with blood, grit, and staying power, but not everyone sees it that way.
I leave the two women in their peace and find Rock in the garage, chain-smoking like it’s keeping his temper in check. He flicks his cigarette into a puddle and rounds on me the second I step in. “She shouldn’t be here, Crusher.”
I knew it was coming. Been waiting for it. “She’s not a problem,” I say. “She helped Doc save Killian. She’s solid.”
“She’s a goddamn reporter,” Rock snaps. “We don’t let outsiders into the inner circle unless they wear a patch or bleed for one.”
I step closer, voice low but sharp. “She has bled. She’s got death threats in her phone. Someone used her article to paint a damn target on our supply line.”
“That’s the part I don’t like,” Rock growls. “Someone used her intel. Her writing. Her connections. And now we’ve got bodies dropping.”
I stare at him. “You think she’s the mole?”
Rock exhales through his nose. “No. But I think she’s a liability. And we’re already running thin on trust. She’s got guts. I’ll give her that. But guts don’t make her family.”
“She’s not trying to be family,” I snap. “She’s trying to survive.”
“Yeah? Well, so is Killian.”
There’s a long beat between us. “She’s in this, Rock. Whether we like it or not. And if we keep treating her like an enemy, she’s going to start acting like one.”
“You think I don’t see it? The way you look at her? That's the danger. You’re not thinking straight, Crusher. She’s not patched. Not protected. That makes her a target, and us weaker.” He turns and starts pacing again. “I’m watching her,” he mutters. “You should, too.”
I leave Rock to his pacing and stewing and find Nevaeh outside the infirmary, sitting on the bench with her knees pulled up slightly, still in my hoodie.
She looks up when I approach, and for a moment, I see exhaustion creeping past her armor. She stares at the dried blood stains on her hands before blinking and looking at me.
“Doc says he’ll pull through.”
“Thanks to you.” I nudge her with my shoulder.
Nevaeh shakes her head. “Thanks to her.”
Nevaeh plucks a splinter from the bench and rolls it between her fingers. “Have you ever wished you were just a mechanic?”
I smirk. “Only every other Tuesday.”
She snorts, then catches herself. “Sorry. That wasn’t funny.”
“No, it was,” I say. “I just forgot I could laugh.”
“Rock doesn’t trust me,” she says. It’s not a question.
“He doesn’t trust anyone new. Especially not right now.”
Nevaeh nods slowly. “I get it. But I’m not trying to be a problem.”
“You’re not,” I say. “You’re just a mirror. And most of us don’t like what we see in one.”
She leans her head back against the wall. “If I’m going to stay, I need to know this won’t be a witch hunt.”
“You’re not under fire.”
“Maybe not from you.”
I don’t have a lie to give her. So I give her the only truth that matters. “You’ve got me.”
Her breath hitches, just a little. Then she nods. “That’s enough. For now.”