Page 30 of Razor’s Redemption

I look at all of them, these men who've become my brothers over the past few months, who've accepted me despite everything, who believe I can be more than my worst moments.

"Thanks," I manage.

"Don't fuck it up," Brick calls from the couch where he's sitting with Rosie.

"Brick," Rosie elbows him. "Be nice."

"What? I'm being encouraging."

I shake my head and grab my keys. Walk out to the parking lot where my bike is waiting. The air is cold, and I can see my breath, but I barely feel it. Just swing my leg over the bike and start the engine.

The ride to Daisy's house takes fifteen minutes. I've made this trip dozens of times now, picking her up after shifts, dropping her off, sometimes just sitting outside for a few minutes before riding back to the clubhouse because I'm not ready to leave yet.

But I've never gone inside during daylight. Never met Luna. Never crossed that threshold from being Daisy's boyfriend to being part of her actual life.

I park at the curb in front of the blue house with the white porch. Kill the engine and just sit there for a moment, trying to calm my racing heart.

This is it.

This is where I prove I'm the kind of man Terry thought I could be. The kind who protects instead of hurts. The kind who stays instead of runs.

I swing off the bike and walk up the porch steps. Take a deep breath. Rub my hands on my jeans because they're sweating despite the cold. Straighten my cut. I'm wearing it today because Daisy said Luna should see me as I really am, and this is part of who I am now.

I knock on the door.

Footsteps inside. The door opens, and it's Patricia, Daisy's mom. She's seen me a few times, usually late at night when I'm leaving after bringing Daisy home. We've exchanged polite greetings but never really talked.

She looks me up and down, taking in the cut, the tattoos, probably noticing every reason I shouldn't be here.

Then she smiles.

"Desmond. Come in."

"Thank you, ma'am."

I step inside, and the house smells like vanilla and something baking. The living room is warm and lived-in: photos on the walls, a worn couch with colorful pillows, toys scattered near the bookshelf. Evidence of the life Daisy's built here, the home she's made for her daughter.

"They're in the kitchen," Patricia says. "Daisy's making cookies. Well, Luna's making cookies. Daisy's supervising."

I can hear them. Daisy's voice and a smaller, higher one. Laughter.

"You nervous?" Patricia asks.

"Terrified."

"Good. You should be. Luna's the most important person in Daisy's life. If you hurt either of them…"

"I won't. I swear to God, I won't."

"I believe you. And for what it's worth, I haven't seen Daisy this happy in years. Maybe ever. You're good for her."

"She's good for me too. Better than I deserve."

"Maybe. But she seems to think you deserve her, and my daughter's a smart woman. So don't prove her wrong." She gestures toward the kitchen. "Go on. They're waiting."

I walk through the living room toward the kitchen. My heart is racing so hard I can hear it in my ears. I round the corner and stop.

Daisy is at the counter wearing an apron covered in flour, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. And next to her, standing on a step stool, is a little girl with brown curls and Daisy's exact smile.