Page 12 of Razor’s Redemption

At nine-thirty, I head to the garage where the club keeps the vehicles. Three cars and a van for when the bikes aren't practical. I could take my bike again, but I remember how tense she was on the ride home, how rigid her hands were on my shoulders.

She didn't enjoy it. Was terrified, probably, even if she was too polite to say so.

So, I grab the keys to the black sedan. Nothing fancy, just a reliable four-door that Phoenix bought six months ago for runs that need to look less conspicuous than a fleet of motorcycles. I sign it out in the log Judge keeps, scrawl *pickup, back by midnight* in the notes section, and pull out of the garage.

The drive to downtown Millhaven takes twenty minutes. I park half a block down from the Caldwell Building at ten forty-five, kill the engine, and wait.

The building is one of those old brick structures that's been converted into office space: insurance companies, law firms, a dentist on the second floor. At night it's mostly empty except for the cleaning crews that come through. I can see lights on the third floor, movement behind the windows.

Her.

I lean back in the seat and watch the building, trying not to think about how many times I've done this exact thing—waited, watched, followed at a distance like some kind of obsessed stalker who can't leave well enough alone.

Except tonight she knows I'm here. Tonight I'm not hiding half a block back in the shadows. Tonight she asked me to come.

That must count for something.

At 10:58, the front door opens and she steps out.

She's wearing the same coat from last night, purse over her shoulder, hair still in that ponytail. She looks around, searching, and I flash the headlights once so she can find me.

She sees the car and hesitates. Probably expected the bike. But then she walks toward me, and I get out to meet her halfway.

"Hey," I say.

"Hi." She's smiling, small but real. "You came."

"Said I would."

"I know, but—" She shrugs. "I don't know. I thought maybe you'd change your mind."

"Why would I change my mind?"

"Because it's a lot? Picking up a stranger just because she got mugged?" She's nervous, I realize. Rambling slightly. "And I know you probably have better things to do than chauffeur waitresses around town, and—"

"Daisy."

She stops, looks at me.

"I wanted to be here," I say. "And you're not a stranger."

"We met last night."

"Doesn't make you a stranger."

She stares at my face like she's trying to figure out if I'm serious or just being polite. Whatever she sees must satisfy her, because she nods.

"Thank you," she says. "For coming. For this." She gestures at the car. "You didn't have to get a car. The bike was fine."

"You were terrified on the bike."

"I wasn't—" She stops, laughs softly. "Okay, yeah. I was terrified. I've never been on a motorcycle before, and it was dark, and I was pretty sure I was going to fall off and die."

"You weren't going to fall off."

"My brain didn't believe that."

I open the passenger door for her. She blinks, surprised by the gesture, then slides in. I close the door and walk around to the driver's side, get in, start the engine.