Page 111 of Dash

“Not sure I’d let my woman work in a place like that,” Grub adds. “Never know what might happen.”

I freeze. Was that a threat or a throwaway comment?

My stomach twists, and I brace, not sure what the fuck is happening.

Nic puts his hands on the table, leaning in. “This is beginning to look like coordinated attacks. Are you really gonna sit there and say this isn’t a campaign to undermine us?”

Crank takes a sip of his beer, everything about his demeanour infuriating. “Four attacks, four different styles. You seriously think that’s all connected? Maybe stop looking for conspiracy where none exist.”

I clench my jaw so tight it aches. If this prick quotes one more fucking proverb instead of protecting his brothers, I’m going to snap his neck.

Nic slams a hand on the table. “Four attacks ain’t coincidence, Crank. Get off your fuckin’ arse and do something. You’re supposed to be president.”

The air changes. Suffocating and thick. Crank stands, slow and measured. It feels like the room holds a breath.

My fingers hover over my knife sheathed at my side. I sidle closer to Nic, my gaze sharp, probing.

Fuck, I’m not dying in this room.

Crank steps up to Nic, his mouth tight, his eyes like glaciers.

“Careful, Phoenix.” He full-names Nic, a move that is meant to unsettle. Nicky fucking hates that name. “Remember who you’re talking to.”

The snarl is fierce. “Titles are earned. And I haven’t forgotten shit.”

Crank smirks like he’s not standing in the grip of a fucking predator. Nic would tear his throat out with his teeth before Crank blinked.

“Your legacy only gets you so far.”

“It’s because of legacy that I’ll always stand tall for this club and for the patch. I bleed loyalty. Can you say the same?”

Fuck…

I wrap my fingers around the handle of my knife, ready to draw it, but Crank slow claps.

Like he’s not a breath from dying.

Like his club isn’t on the edge of implosion.

“And you’re doing such a good job of that.” The sarcasm drips from every syllable. “Multiple attacks. No one safe. Maybe you should be looking in the mirror when you say I should get off my arse and…do something.”

He walks off, and Nic looks like he’s swallowed glass.

Blade lifts the ice off his nose. “I agree with you. We’re being targeted. This is a systematic attack on our club, our territory.”

I blink. Blade’s always been so far up Crank’s arse, he could floss his teeth with his bootlaces.

This change of tune? It stinks.

Is it fear or strategy?

Is this part of a game, or is Blade really a fucking victim?

I don’t know what to believe, but what I do know is that words are cheap. Words mean nothing when bullets are flying, when buildings are burning, and when brothers are bleeding.

By the time I get out to my bike, I’m vibrating with tension, fury, and the need to destroy.

But all I want to do is get home to my woman, wrap her in fucking bubble wrap, and lock the world out.

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