22. Exposure Therapy
TWENTY-TWO
EXPOSURE THERAPY
CRUSHER
The roar of my bike echoes off the brick as we pull into the Clubhouse lot.
Nevaeh’s behind me, arms wrapped around my waist, but she’s not holding on like she did before.
She's less desperate, more determined. Last night in that motel room lit a fire under both of us. The Syndicate thinks they can run her to ground? They’re about to learn what happens when you push me too far.
The gravel crunches under my boots as I swing my leg off the bike, the sound loud in the early evening quiet.
Behind me, Nevaeh climbs off slowly, fingers lingering on the helmet strap like it’s the last piece of armor she’s allowed to keep.
Her gaze sweeps the lot lined with patched bikes gleaming under the dim yellow wash of the floodlights, and I can see the way her shoulders stiffen.
“This isn’t gonna be a warm welcome,” I warn, tugging off my gloves.
She smirks, but it’s tight, her lips trembling just enough for me to catch it. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
The front door is heavy, scarred from years of boots and fists, and I push it open with my shoulder.
The scent hits first, oil, leather, smoke, and the lingering bite of whiskey soaked into the wood.
Music thrums low from the jukebox, blending with the clack of pool balls and the rise and fall of rough laughter.
We step inside, and it’s like a switch flips. Heads turn. Conversations falter mid-sentence. A couple of brothers straighten from their pool shots, cues hanging in midair.
Rampage is the first to speak, leaning back in his chair with a slow grin. “Well, shit. Look what the cat dragged in.”
City, perched at the bar with a beer in hand, tips his chin toward us. “More like what Crusher dragged in.” His tone’s casual, but his eyes are sharp, flicking between me and Nevaeh like he’s waiting to see who’s gonna crack first.
Rock’s standing off to the side, arms crossed over his chest. His stare is steady, heavy, pinning Nevaeh in place like she’s a suspect in an interrogation.
But it’s not laced with the same hostility as before.
No edge of accusation, just a careful, measured watch.
The kind you keep on someone you don’t know if you can trust yet, but maybe want to.
Nevaeh doesn’t shrink from it. She lifts her chin, meets Rock’s gaze head-on, and for the briefest second, something shifts in the room, like she just earned herself a sliver of respect for not flinching.
I catch the change. So does City, because his brow lifts, but he keeps his mouth shut.
The air is still thick, the kind that says the next words out of somebody’s mouth could decide whether this night ends in a drink or a fight.
And I’m not in the mood for a fight. Not with her standing beside me.
Peach, with her red lips so glossy they shine under the overhead lights, teetering on high heels that have never seen gravel, peels herself away from the bar. She’s all curves, perfume, and that fake smile that could cut glass.
She struts right up to Nevaeh, swaying her hips just enough to make sure every set of eyes in the room is on her.
“Well, well,” she purrs, tilting her head. “Back so soon? Didn’t get enough last time?” The words are sugar-sweet, but the venom’s right there under the surface, sharp enough to burn if you breathe it in.
Nevaeh doesn’t bite. She doesn’t even look away, but her jaw ticks. A tiny tell I’ve learned means she’s one second from saying something that’ll start a fight.
I step in before that happens, my voice dropping low and sharp. “Peach. Don’t start.”
She arches a brow, pretending innocence, but her eyes are already sliding over Nevaeh like she’s a piece of furniture someone dragged in off the curb.
“I’m just saying…” She makes a lazy gesture, up and down Nevaeh’s frame, like she’s measuring her worth and finding it lacking. “Some people don’t belong in a clubhouse. They… don’t fit.”
My boots scrape against the worn wood as I take one step forward, just enough to make her tilt her chin back to keep eye contact.
“That space by my side?” I nod toward Nevaeh without breaking Peach’s stare. “She’s earned it. You got a problem with that, you bring it to me. Not her.”
The smirk falters. It’s not much, but I see the flicker of calculation in her eyes before she flicks her hair over her shoulder and turns on her heel.
The other Honeys are waiting at the bar, watching like it’s a reality show.
Peach mutters something as she sinks back onto her stool, but it’s swallowed by the low hum of conversation starting up again.
City pushes off the bar, takes a slow sip of his beer, and sidles close enough to speak without anyone else catching it.
“Bout damn time you quit letting her twist the knife,” he says, eyes still fixed ahead. “Good to see you plant your flag.”
I grunt. “Wasn’t about me.”
He gives me a sideways glance. “That’s why it landed.” Then he’s gone, strolling toward the back hallway like he didn’t just say something that’ll stick with me longer than it should.
Rock brushes past next, pool cue in hand. He doesn’t slow, just murmurs under his breath as he passes, “You back her, she’s under our wing. You know that.”
“I know,” I reply.
He tips his chin once, solid, unshakable, before he lines up his next shot.
Nevaeh’s still watching me from the corner of her eye, like she can feel something shifting but can’t quite name it yet. Her lips pressed into a thin line. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yeah,” I say, eyes still on the bar where Peach is pretending to laugh at something. “I did.”
“Crusher!” Steel’s voice cuts through the noise like a whip. Low, lethal, the kind of tone that has every prospect and hang-around pretend they didn’t hear it. “In my office. Now.”
I jerk my chin at Nevaeh. “Stay with Rampage. He bites, but only if you deserve it.”
“Only if she asks nicely,” Rampage mutters from the bar, earning himself a look from me.
I lean in and capture Nevaeh’s lips with my own before turning her toward Rampage. My voice is just for her. “Behave.”
Nevaeh swallows hard, tamping down the lust shining in her eyes. “I’ll try.”
The clubhouse hum fades the second I shut Steel’s office door behind me. He’s pacing behind his desk, shoulders rolled forward, cut hanging heavy like a mantle he’s ready to throw at the wall.
“You’ve got a death wish?” His tone is sharp enough to slice through bone.
“Not lately,” I reply, shoving my hands in my pockets just to keep from balling them into fists.
“Then why the hell are you bringing her back here after everything? After she…”
“I told you on the phone.” My voice comes out harder than I intend, but I don’t dial it back. “She didn’t leak the article. Her editor, Bria, sold her out to the Syndicate. You’d know that if you’d been paying attention.”
Steel’s jaw ticks. “Watch your mouth.”
I take a step closer to his desk, closing the gap between VP and Prez like I’ve got every right because I do.
As the VP, I need to keep my Prez in check.
I need to keep him in his place when he gets out of line.
We’re more than club members, we’re brothers.
Which is why his pain is my pain, and the only way for him to deal with it is head-on.
But he’s too stubborn to go after the one woman who broke his heart and his soul.
“No, brother. Watch yours.” I plant both hands on the edge of his desk and lean in, eye to eye, making sure he feels every word.
“You want to sit here, drowning in your own shit for the last five years, fine. But don’t come at me for fighting for something worth keeping.
You want to talk about wasting time? Go find Aria before you’ve got nothing left but regret. ”
The silence after that is a living thing, thick enough to choke on. The only sound is the slow grind of Steel’s teeth. His stare could strip paint, but it doesn’t move me. I’ve taken harder hits from men I didn’t call brother.
For a beat, I think he’s gonna unload on me. Instead, his eyes flick away, just for a second, but enough to tell me I found the crack in his armor.
“Get out,” Steel says finally. Not loud. Not furious. Just tired. That’s worse.
I push off his desk, straightening my cut. “You know where she is, Steel. It’s not the roadblock that’s killing you. It’s you.”
His gaze cuts back to mine, unreadable. Then I’m out the door, back in the noise and light of the clubhouse, leaving him with whatever ghosts I just stirred up.
When I get back to the bar, Nevaeh’s posted up between Rampage and City like she’s been holding court. Rampage’s mouth is curled in something dangerously close to an actual grin, which is about as rare as him buying a round.
“…and that’s why you don’t ever trust a GPS in Detroit,” she’s saying, hands moving like she’s reliving the story. “It’ll drop you right in the middle of a block party you weren’t invited to.”
Rampage barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “Shit, she’s not wrong. Happened to me once. Except it was a dogfight, not a block party.”
City’s leaning on the counter, smirking. “Only you would wander into that and come out with a new pet, Ramp.”
Even Rock’s nearby, arms folded, his usual scowl softened enough to count as listening. He’s not jumping in, but he’s not shutting it down either. For Rock, that’s basically a handshake.
I slide in next to her, my hand brushing the small of her back. Just a touch, but enough to remind everyone in earshot where she stands. “Making friends?”
She tilts her head at me with that little half-smile, the one that says she’s holding more cards than she lets on. “Trying.”
Rampage tips his beer toward her. “She’s got more backbone than most people who walk in here. I can respect that.”
City nods, eyes narrowing like he’s weighing her. “Long as she doesn’t screw us, I’m good.”
“Noted,” she says, meeting his look without flinching.