Chapter Fifteen #2
“That girl is special,” she says, her voice soft but firm. “Don’t let fear keep you from happiness, honey.”
“There’s a fourteen-year age gap,” I say, voicing the concern that’s been eating at me. “She’s twenty-nine. I’m forty-three. She’s barely been broken up with her ex for a few weeks, and I’m already falling for her like some kind of—”
“Age is just a number, Damon,” Queenie cuts me off with a dismissive wave.
“You know what matters? The way you light up when you talk about her. The way you check your phone, hoping it’s her.
The way you say her name like it’s something precious.
” She squeezes my hand. “That’s what matters. Not the years between you.”
“But—”
“But nothing.” Her voice takes on that tone, the one that brokered no arguments when I was a kid and certainly doesn’t now. “Do you care about her?”
The question hangs in the air between us, heavy, impossible, and terrifyingly simple.
Do I care about her?
More than I should?
I think about Marley’s laugh, the way it sounds like summer, sunshine, and everything good I thought I’d never deserve.
I think about her quirky glasses, her vintage band T-shirts, and the way she sees beauty in things other people overlook.
I think about how she fits against my side when we walk, how her hand feels in mine, how kissing her felt like coming home after years of being lost.
“Yeah,” I say quietly, the admission feeling like jumping off a cliff. “Yeah, everything inside me wants to protect her, to comfort her, to show her what she’s worth.”
Queenie’s smile could light up the whole damn state.
“Then stop thinking and start doing something about it, you big idiot. Tomorrow at that gala, you tell her. You tell her everything… about who you really are, about how you feel, about how you want this to be real. And if she runs, then she wasn’t the right one.
But something tells me she won’t run, my sweet boy. ”
“You think?” The question comes out more vulnerable than I intended, but this is Queenie, and I can be vulnerable with her.
“I know.” She pats my cheek as if I’m still eight years old and scraped my knee. “Now, I want to meet this girl soon. Bring her by for Sunday dinner. I want to look her in the eye and make sure she’s good enough for my grandson.”
A laugh bubbles up from my chest, genuine and relieved. “You’re on.”
“Good. Now play your flute and stop moping. You’re making the other residents nervous with all that brooding.”
I stand, pressing another kiss to her forehead. “Love you, Queenie.”
“Love you, too, honey. Now go on, get. Go make some music.”
The common room has filled up while I was talking to Queenie.
Every chair and wheelchair are occupied, residents settling in for the show as if they were at Carnegie Hall instead of a retirement village.
The brothers have taken their positions.
Ghost is helping Mr. Morrison with his laptop in the corner, Bear is setting up an easel for Mrs. Applebaum, Koa is demonstrating something with his hands to a small crowd of interested residents.
And Sin? He’s standing off to the side with his arms crossed, watching everything with that presidential assessment he carries off so well. But when he catches my eye, he gives me a single nod. It’s subtle, but I know what it means.
I’ve got your back, brother. Whatever you need.
Ro is already setting up her amp, grinning at the residents as though she’s about to rock their world. Which, to be fair, she is. Older people here have learned to love our monthly performances, classical music with rock flair, the kind of unexpected fusion that shouldn’t work but somehow does.
I pull out my flute case, the weight familiar in my hands.
This instrument has been with me since I was eight years old.
Through Queenie’s cancer diagnosis, through losing my parents, through joining the club and building an empire, and trying to figure out who the hell I am when I’m living three different identities.
But today, as I fit the pieces together and bring the flute to my lips, I’m not thinking about any of that.
I’m thinking about Marley.
“Ready?” Ro asks, her fingers positioned on the guitar strings.
“Yeah,” I say, and I mean it.
We start with Bach, “Sonata in E Minor,” because these folks appreciate the classics.
But Ro adds her rock edge, electric guitar weaving through the melody in a way that makes something centuries old feel brand new.
My flute sings, notes pure and clear, and I pour everything I’m feeling into the music—every fear, every hope, every bit of anxiety about tomorrow night and what it might mean.
The first piece ends to thunderous applause and enthusiastic whoops from Queenie, who’s never been subtle about anything in her life.
“That was lovely, dears,” Mrs. Henderson calls out. “Could you play that Vivaldi piece? The one with the seasons?”
“ “Spring?” ” I ask, and she nods eagerly.
We launch into “Spring” from “The Four Seasons,” and I watch the room transform. Mrs. Applebaum has tears streaming down her face. Mr. Morrison is swaying in his chair, eyes closed. Harold is tapping his foot, conducting an invisible orchestra with his hands.
This is why we come here.
Not for publicity, not for appearances, but for this, bringing joy to people who’ve been forgotten by almost everyone else.
We play for twenty minutes straight, taking requests and switching between classical and slightly more contemporary pieces.
Ro makes inappropriate jokes between songs that have the residents cackling.
Ghost’s dry commentary from the corner adds to the ambiance.
Bear’s low chuckle rumbles through the room when Ethel makes another pass at Deek.
And then something happens. I’m in the middle of Pachelbel’s “Canon in D,” a piece I’ve played a thousand times, but today it feels different. The notes come from somewhere deeper, somewhere that’s been locked away for too long. I’m not playing for the residents, not really.
I’m playing for her.
For Marley, who makes me want to be brave enough to be whole instead of fragmented. Who looks at parts of me, the biker, the musician, and doesn’t flinch. Who fits into my world like she was always meant to be there.
When I finish, there’s a beat of silence before the applause starts.
But Ethel, sweet, observant Ethel, is watching me with knowing eyes. She’s been around long enough to recognize what she’s seeing.
“You’re playing for someone, aren’t you, dear?” she asks, her voice carrying across the room despite its softness.
Everyone goes quiet. Even Deek stops his usual antics. All eyes are on me, and I feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with standing at the front of the room.
“Yeah,” I admit, because there’s no point in lying. Not here. Not to these people who have known me for years. “Yeah, I am.”
Queenie’s smile is so bright it could rival the sun. She knows. Of course, she knows, I just told her everything.
“Well, she’s a lucky woman,” Mrs. Henderson says decisively. “Any girl who inspires music like that.”
“Or he’s the lucky one,” Mrs. Applebaum adds. “Takes a special woman to reach a man’s heart like that.”
“I’m going with both,” Ro interjects, setting her guitar aside. “They’re both lucky. Now, who wants to dance?”
She doesn’t have to ask twice. Bear moves to the old radio in the corner, fiddling with the dials until swing music fills the room. Glenn Miller, if I’m not mistaken. The big band sound is precisely right for this crowd, and suddenly the brothers are in motion.
Ghost, toothpick mysteriously absent, extends his hand to a woman who has to be ninety if she’s a day.
She takes it with the grace of someone who remembers when dancing like this was the height of sophistication, and they move across the floor in a waltz that’s surprisingly elegant considering Ghost’s usual stoic demeanor.
Deek, of course, is teaching a group of ladies some kind of line dance. They’re laughing so hard they can barely keep up, but that’s the point. He’s not trying to be perfect but trying to give them joy.
Koa is deep in conversation with several male residents, probably about motorcycles, Hawaii, or both. His hands move animatedly as he explains something, and the men are hanging on every word.
Bear asks Mrs. Applebaum to dance, his massive frame moving with surprising gentleness as he guides her through the steps. She barely comes up to his chest, but she’s beaming as if she’s at the ball of the century.
Ro grabs the eldest gentleman in the room, Mr. Patterson, who’s got to be pushing ninety-five, and dances with him in a way that’s probably giving his pacemaker a workout. But he’s grinning ear to ear, so no one’s stopping her.
And then Sin appears, offering his hand to Queenie with a small bow.
My grandmother preens like a teenager, accepting his hand and letting him lead her onto the makeshift dance floor.
Queenie loves her monthly dance with Sin.
Watching them dance together is like watching two different versions of the same story.
He’s the president, stoic and controlled, carrying the weight of every decision on his shoulders.
But right now, with my grandmother in his arms, moving carefully to accommodate her age and fragility, he’s just a good man doing something kind.
That’s what we are beneath the leather and the reputation.
Good men trying to do right by the people who matter.
I stand at the edge of the room, watching my family, both blood and chosen, bring happiness to people the world has largely forgotten. My flute rests against my leg, still warm from playing, and I can’t remember the last time I felt this settled.
Like all the pieces of who I am finally fit together.
Damon Blackwell, who inherited billions and runs a business empire.
Nitro, VP of Las Vegas Defiance MC, who protects his brothers and moves gold through the desert.
And… just me.
The guy who plays flute for older people and falls for redheads with quirky glasses and a laugh like sunshine.
Maybe Queenie is right.
Maybe I don’t have to choose between versions of myself.
Maybe I have to find someone who loves all of them.
And maybe I already have.
The music swells, and I watch my brothers dance, laugh, and care for these people who need caring for. Tomorrow night is the gala. Tomorrow night, I’ll stand beside Marley in front of her entire office and pretend to be her doting boyfriend.
But maybe it’s time to stop pretending.
Maybe it’s time to tell her the truth about who I am and how absolutely gone I am for her.
The thought terrifies me, but as I watch Sin spins Queenie in a careful circle while she laughs like a young girl, I realize something important.
Love is worth the fear.
Marley is worth the fear.
I need to push through it and be fearless.
And tomorrow night, I’m going to tell Marley exactly that.
Even if it scares me more than anything I’ve faced in my forty-three years of living, I’m going to jump off that cliff and pray she catches me.
Because some things, some people, are worth being fearless for.