Page 31 of Corrupt

Razor cocked his head with a look that said Are you really that daft?

A strangled laugh escaped me as I looked away, heat crawling up my neck.

Then leather creaked, and I could smell smoke and aftershave, sweat and desire as Razor leant in, curling his fist around my tie to drag me to him with a quiet, irresistible pull. I didn’t fight it. Our lips met. Not hot and frantic. Slow and heavy. A kiss sinking straight down my spine to curl my toes. No tongue either. Then he pressed his forehead to mine, breath warm, eyes closed as if holding the world together by a thread.

“I came back,” he whispered against my lips, breath warming my skin, “maybe cause I weren’t ready for it to be over either.”

My pulse stumbled. “Come back to mine then. Now. You and me.”

Razor breathed out a quiet, helpless smile. “Wish I could, Tricky. But Friday and Saturday nights? That’s when half the city wants my shit. I’ll be called back in—”

His phone rang.

“—looks like right now.” He sighed, pulled away, and answered without looking at the screen. “Yeah. Stuck in traffic, Ty. Handle it till I get there.”

He hung up, shoved the phone away, and the regret in his eyes hit me harder than the kiss. So I fished inside my blazer pocket, took out one of my business cards, and handed it to him.

Razor flipped it over, reading my title out loud with a dry laugh. “Tristan Hale-Fitzroy. Pupil barrister.” He lifted his eyebrow. “This in case I need more legal advice?”

“It’s in case you fancy using a door one day.” I opened the passenger door and stepped out.

“Oi—wait.”

I crouched to look at him.

Razor looked almost… shy. Uncertain. “Billy Amos.”

“What about him?”

“I know him. Grew up round my block. And he’s… small. Scrawny. Too bloody eager to say yes to people who shouldn’t be askin’. And that will land him somewhere he wouldn’t cope with.” He swallowed, looked away, then back. “Can you… fuck…can you ask someone to put somethin’ on him?” He hesitated, as if saying it hurt. “A tag. Curfew. Somethin’ that keeps him off the fuckin’ street so no older lads can use him again.”

It hit me then. The enormous difference between what Razor said about protecting “his world”… and this.

“His dad’s already inside.” Razor looked away. “His mum’d break down if he got done. Like my mum did.”

Jesus. Christ.

“I can’t request orders.” I regretted that instantly. “That’s not how it works. I’m counsel, not YOT or probation. But,” I sighed, “I can… recommend things. Quietly. On file. I can tell YOT he’s vulnerable. Push for support instead of punishment. Curfew, mentoring programmes that keep him indoors.”

“That’ll be good. Thanks.”

I smiled, then reached into the car and ran a hand along his jaw, and he leant into it as if he didn’t even realise he was doing it.

“Don’t let him end up like me, Tricky.”

My throat tightened. “You’re not so bad.”

“I’m poison.” He started the engine and glanced at me one last time. “Might be best you remember that.”

I closed the door for him. Stepped back onto the pavement.

Then I watched him pull away, taillights disappearing into traffic, leaving the echo of his words in my chest long after the sound of the engine was gone.

Chapter seven

Razor

Getting back to the club took its sweet arse time.