Page 17 of Razor’s Redemption

"Can I ask you something?" I say.

"Yeah."

"Last night you said you made a promise to Terry. To use everything you learned to protect people instead of hurt them. Is that why you became a prospect? For the Iron Phoenix?"

He nods. "Part of it. The other part is—" He stops, choosing his words with care. "I needed structure. Purpose. Something bigger than just surviving day to day. The MC gives me that. Brothers who have my back, who see what I could be instead of what I was. It's the first time I've ever felt like I belong somewhere."

"That must be nice."

"It is. Terrifying, too."

"Why terrifying?"

"Because I've never had something worth losing before," he says. "And now I do. Every day I wake up afraid I'm going to fuck it up somehow, do something that proves I don't deserve to be there."

Jason never talked like this. Never admitted fear, doubt or anything that made him seem less than completely confident. He used to trickle the truth out in tiny doses, only admitting things when he had no other choice. When I found out I was pregnant, he spent two weeks insisting we'd figure it out together before finally confessing he wanted me to get an abortion. Another week after that before admitting he was already looking at apartments in another city.

I never knew where I stood with him. Never knew which version of the truth I was getting.

But Razor just lays it all out—the fear, the doubt, the promise he made to a dead man. No filter. No editing to make himself look better.

I like that about him. Maybe too much.

"You won't fuck it up," I say.

"You don't know that."

"I know you showed up tonight even though you didn't have to. I know you told me the truth about prison when you could've lied. I know you're terrified of losing something you've barely started to have, which means you actually value it." I lean forward slightly. "People who fuck things up don't care enough to be scared of losing them."

"How are you this wise at twenty…?"

"Twenty-eight. Single motherhood ages you fast."

He almost smiles. "What about you? What's your big dream? The thing you wanted before Luna, before two jobs and exhaustion?"

No one's asked me that question in six years.

I take a sip of wine, stalling. "I wanted to be a teacher."

"What kind?"

"Elementary. Second or third grade. That age where kids are still excited about learning, where you can see their faces light up when something finally clicks." I trace the rim of my wine glass with one finger. "I was in college when I got pregnant. Had two years done, was planning to finish my degree and get certified. But then Luna came and money got tight, and I had to drop out to work full time."

"You ever think about going back?"

"All the time. But it's… It's complicated. School costs money I don't have. Time I don't have. And Luna needs me now, not in four years when I finally finish a degree."

"What if you could make it work somehow?"

"I don't know how I would. I'm barely keeping my head above water as it is."

"You'd figure it out. You're good at that."

"How would you know?"

"Because you've been doing it for six years already. Keeping Luna fed and safe and happy while working yourself to the bone. That takes more strength than finishing a degree."

I want to argue with him. Want to tell him it's not the same thing, that surviving isn't the same as thriving, that I've been treading water so long I've forgotten what it feels like to actually swim.