Page 11 of Razor’s Redemption

"Drop them off in the morning. He's already gone home for the night." He pauses. "Everything alright?"

"Yeah. Fine."

Another pause. Judge doesn't push, never does, but he's got that look that says he knows I'm not telling him everything and he's deciding whether it matters enough to press.

"Get some sleep," he says finally. "You look like hell."

"Yes, sir."

I head to the prospect quarters, the converted storage room near the garage that's barely big enough for the twin bed, small dresser, and the bag of clothes that represents everything I own. It's not much. But it's mine. First space I've had that's actually mine since I was seventeen and sleeping in a car I stole just to have a roof over my head.

I drop the supply bags in the corner to deal with in the morning, strip down to my boxers, and collapse onto the bed. My phone sits on the small nightstand, her number saved in it under just her first name.

*Daisy.*

I should delete it. Should text her tomorrow and tell her I can't pick her up, that it's better if we just forget tonight happened and go back to being strangers who occasionally share space in a diner.

I don't delete it.

Sleep doesn't come easy. It never does. But when it finally drags me under, I dream about tired hazel eyes and a voice that said *thank you for telling me* like my past was something worth knowing instead of something to run from.

The next day crawls by with the kind of slowness that makes every hour feel like three.

I wake up at nine AM, which is late for the clubhouse but early for someone who didn't fall asleep until almost four. Deliver Diesel's parts with an apology he waves off because he's in a good mood, something about June making him breakfast this morning, which apparently involved actual pancakes instead of the cereal he usually eats standing over the sink.

Spend the afternoon helping Angel reinforce the fence line around the back courtyard. He talks the entire time: about Bree, about the flower shop, about how she smiled at him this morning when he dropped off coffee before her shift. He’s completely gone for her, and it's written all over his face.

"You ever feel like you found something you didn't know you were looking for?" he asks, hammering in a post.

"Yeah," I say before I can stop myself.

Angel looks at me, curious. "Yeah?"

"Forget it."

"Come on, man. You can't just—"

"Drop it, Angel."

He grins, that knowing smile that says he's filing this away for later, but he drops it. We work in silence for another hour until Phoenix calls us both in for more prospect duties: inventory in the storage room, which is boring as hell but necessary.

By the time eight PM rolls around, I'm wound tight enough that even Priest notices.

"You alright, brother?" he asks, looking up from the Bible he's always reading in the common room.

"Fine."

"You seem distracted."

"Just tired."

He nods slowly, doesn't push, goes back to his reading. I escape to the prospect quarters and take the longest shower the clubhouse's water heater will allow, trying to calm the nerves crawling under my skin.

This is stupid. It's just a ride. Just making sure she gets home safe after what happened last night. It doesn't mean anything.

I pull on clean jeans, a black T-shirt, my worn leather jacket. Check the mirror and see the same thing I always see—tattoos, scar, eyes that have seen too much. The kind of face that makes people cross the street.

But she didn't cross the street. She invited me in for coffee.