16. Inside the Wire
SIXTEEN
INSIDE THE WIRE
NEVAEH
The clubhouse creaks like an old body, always shifting, never quiet.
It breathes in sweat, exhaust, testosterone, and secrets.
The walls are thick with voices I don’t understand yet, glances I can’t quite read.
Laughter is a little too loud. Silence is a little too sharp.
Steel-toe boots against concrete, engines revving at dawn.
Voices that carry past closed doors. You learn to tell who’s who by the rhythm of their footsteps.
Crusher’s are always the heaviest with a measured pace.
It’s been three days since the shootout.
Three days since Killian almost bled out in my lap, and I stopped a bullet hole from becoming a casket. You’d think that would’ve earned me something, gratitude, trust, hell, maybe even a half-smile from the guys who run this place like a kingdom wrapped in leather and guns.
But no.
The looks haven’t changed. Not really. The Saints still size me up like I might be wearing a wire beneath my hoodie.
Whispers follow me when I walk through the clubhouse halls.
Even the Honeys, the women who hang around like they’re auditioning to be someone's next mistake, watch me like I’m the wrong kind of stray. And maybe I am.
I stick to the guest room I was given, unpacking the bare minimum and locking everything else in my duffel. I’ve got my new laptop hidden beneath a floorboard I loosened with a pocketknife. A habit I never outgrew.
The Saints Outlaws don’t speak to me unless they have to. Most of them keep their distance. They stop talking when I walk into a room. They don’t say why, and they don’t need to.
I know why. I’m the outsider. The reporter. The risk.
I haven’t left the Clubhouse since the ambush. Crusher says it’s safer this way, and honestly, I believe him. But that doesn’t make it easier.
Rock won’t look me in the eyes. Even Killian, patched and stitched up and grateful, flinches when I pass.
I stopped expecting trust from people with secrets a long time ago.
I keep to myself, staying in the room they gave me, across from the prospect quarters, and just down the hall from Crusher’s room.
The walls are thin. Some nights I hear him moving, pacing, and showering.
Other nights, I hear Crusher talking to someone in low tones I can’t quite make out.
Sometimes I hear my name, while I try not to listen too hard.
I pull on my boots and step into the hall, hoping for coffee or silence, either one will do. Instead, I get the full atmosphere of the Saints Outlaws MC breathing down my neck.
The whole place hums with unfinished business. Every wall, every bootstep, every stare, it’s all a reminder that this isn’t home. It’s a battleground dressed up in drywall and grit. And I’m still figuring out if I’m a guest or a target.
I do have one thing to keep me sane in a house full of bikers, but still alone.
I write.
God help me, I write.
I jot down names, timestamps, and overheard phrases. I write like a ghost reporter, like I’m not part of the story.
Except I am. And that’s what scares me.
They don’t know if I’m going to write their secrets or burn them alive with the truth. I don’t blame them. I wouldn’t trust myself either.
I wait until they’re all out, on runs, or doing whatever it is biker clubs do when they’re not getting ambushed, and I flip open my laptop. I type fast, my fingers flying over the keys like I’m outrunning guilt.
I don’t even know who I’m writing this for anymore. It’s not for the paper. Not really. It’s… evidence? Leverage? A confession?
Field Notes – SOMC
Day 9 – Inside
Lockdown remains in place. No external comms allowed without patch approval.
Leadership: Steel (President) delegates quietly. Crusher (VP) carries the fire.
The clubhouse layout is efficient. Three exits. I’ve seen two cameras. Possibly more hidden.
Power structure: Women exist in defined roles (Honeys vs Patches). More Honeys than Patches. Unspoken caste system.
Internal tensions are rising. Peach suspects me openly. Rock distrusts Crusher’s judgement re: me.
Killian: recovering. Injury is likely non-fatal, but bonding moment significant.
At the bottom of the page, typed in lowercase like it doesn’t matter:
Crusher keeps looking at me like he wants to fuck me or kill me. Maybe both. I’m not sure which would ruin me faster.
It’s close to midnight when hunger wins out. I creep downstairs barefoot, dressed in Crusher’s t-shirt and my leggings. The shirt hangs low enough to feel indecent and intimate at once.
The kitchen’s mostly dark, just the under-cabinet strip light humming low. I reach for the bread drawer, intent on making a grilled cheese with all the stealth of a raccoon in a dumpster.
Then I hear him. “You burn it, you’re cleaning the pan.”
I freeze and turn slowly. “Is that how you greet all your houseguests?”
Crusher leans against the frame, barefoot, arms crossed over a tight white undershirt and grey sweats slung low on his hips. Hair still wet from a shower. No rings, no cut. Just skin and shadow and everything I’ve been trying not to look at.
“Only the ones I find sneaking around my kitchen after hours.”
“Didn’t realize this was your turf.”
He steps forward. “Everything in this house is mine.”
My breath catches. I drop the spatula and lean back against the counter. “You planning to throw me out of it?”
“No,” he says quietly. “I’m trying to keep you in one piece.”
His eyes drop to my legs. Then they climb back up, slow and deliberate.
I don’t flinch.
“Why’d you come down?” he asks.
“I was hungry.”
“For food?”
I should say yes. I should crack a joke and slip away before I cross the line I’ve been toeing since the night I climbed on his bike. But my pulse betrays me. So does the way I look at his mouth.
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
And that’s all it takes.
He’s there before I can think. One hand lands beside my hip, the other skimming up my waist. His breath brushes mine.
“Tell me to stop.”
I don’t. I can’t.
His mouth crashes into mine. Rough, hot, claiming. He tastes like heat and sin and something dangerously close to home. I fist the front of his shirt, dragging him closer. He grunts low in his throat, one hand cupping the back of my neck, tilting my face just right.
It’s not slow. It’s not careful. It’s everything we’ve been swallowing since that night in his bed. When we break apart, I’m gasping. He tastes like everything I’ve been running from. Smoke. Heat. Home
He leans his forehead against mine. “This is a bad idea.”
“I know.”
“But I’m not sorry.”
“Me neither.”
We don’t go further. Not yet. Not tonight.
But when I climb the stairs later with swollen lips, a tight ache in my chest, and my heart thudding, I know the story’s changed.
And maybe I’m not just writing it anymore.
Maybe I’m in it. And this story doesn’t have an ending I get to write.