Page 6

Razor sits at the table, same chair Mom was just in, and I can’t help but notice him watching me as I move around the kitchen. I can feel his eyes tracking every movement: filling the pot with water, measuring grounds, hitting the button. My hands are still shaking slightly.

"You come into Frank's a lot," I say again, just to fill the silence. "The diner."

"Food's good."

"Frank undercooks the eggs."

"I know."

I turn around to face him while the coffee brews. He's watching me with those green eyes that seem to see everything, and I realize I don't actually know anything about him beyond the fact that he tips well and saved my life twenty minutes ago.

"So, what do you do?" I ask. "Besides rescue waitresses from muggers."

"I'm a prospect."

"A what?"

"For the Iron Phoenix MC. Motorcycle club. I'm prospecting, working toward getting patched in as a full member."

*Motorcycle club.*

That explains the bike. Doesn't explain much else.

"Is that like... a gang?" I ask and immediately regret how it sounds.

I’ve heard about the Iron Phoenix MC. Everyone in Millhaven has, but I tried my best not to ask too many questions… Until now. But he doesn't look offended. Just considers the question seriously.

"No," he says finally. "It's a brotherhood. They take men who've made mistakes and give them something better to build a life on. Structure. Purpose. Family."

"What kind of mistakes?"

He's quiet for a long moment. I think he's not going to answer, and I'm about to apologize for asking when he speaks again.

"I did three years for aggravated assault," he says. His voice is flat, factual, like he's reading from a police report. "Got into a fight that went further than I meant it to. Hurt someone bad enough they pressed charges. Served my time, got out eight months ago, been trying to figure out how to be something other than what I was."

I should be scared.

I should be terrified, actually, standing in my kitchen at one AM with an ex-convict who just admitted to hurting someone badly enough to go to prison for it.

But I'm not.

Maybe it's shock. Maybe it's exhaustion. Maybe it's the fact that he told me the truth when he could've lied, or the way he's sitting perfectly still like he's afraid any sudden movement might spook me, or the memory of how gentle his voice was when he asked if I was okay.

"Thank you for telling me," I say.

He blinks. "You're not scared?"

"Should I be?"

"Most people are."

"You just saved my life. If you wanted to hurt me, you've had plenty of opportunity."

The coffee maker beeps. I pour two mugs, add cream and sugar to mine, leave his black because I don't know how he takes it. I set both mugs on the table and sit across from him.

He wraps his hands around the mug but doesn't drink. Just holds it like he needs something to do with his hands.

"How long have you been prospecting?" I ask.