Page 93 of Corrupt

That almost broke me.

I pulled him closer, kissed him and came terrifyingly close to letting the tears go. Maybe I should have. Whether this destroyed me, whether it ruined us both, I didn’t know. But in that moment, under warm water, steady hands, and someone seeing me and choosing me anyway…

I felt saved.

Chapter nineteen

Tristan

I know, I know.

I broke my own rules.

I smashed straight through the mantra I’d been repeating all week and let him in again after swearing to myself I wouldn’t.

But how could I not?

He hadn’t come to me swaggering or demanding or pretending to be fine. He came undone. Frayed at the edges. Carrying something heavy enough it bent him in half.

And he came to me.

Who was I to shut the door in his face?

So yes, I resigned myself to the pain. And the knowledge that whatever this was going to do to me, it would make my breakup with Ollie, two years of pretending I was in love only to be betrayed in the worst way, feel like a paper cut by comparison.

This would break me when it ended.

But I still wanted to see if it was worth all that pain.

After the shower, I dressed. Threw a few things into a bag without much thought. Clothes, toiletries, phone chargers, the detritus of impulsive leaving then rushed out to the car, engine idling. I shoved my bag in the back on got in the passenger seat.

Razor tapped his dash screen to turn it to the satnav. “You gonna tell me where we’re going now?”

I reached across him, tapped the screen, and keyed in a postcode. The route bloomed across the display in a wash of blue.

“Go.” I settled back.

He glanced at the time. At the sat nav. Then at me. Curiosity flickering across his face. Then he pulled away from the kerb.

London carried on around us at first. Traffic lights. Buses sighing at stops. People spilling out of pubs in shirtsleeves, summer-heavy and loud. But gradually the streets widened, the buildings thinned, and the air changed. The windows came down, music went on, low and old and lazy. And Razor drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loose on his thigh as the motorway emptied into long, open roads.

I watched him without him noticing. The slow unclenching of his jaw. The way his shoulders sank, fraction by fraction, as if his body were finally conceding that nothing was about to jump us. His eyes stopped darting between mirrors and lanes and lifted instead to the long stretch of road ahead, to the open sky.

After a while, he said, “This is the furthest I’ve ever been outta London.”

I turned to look at him. “You’ve never left? Been on holiday or anything?”

He shrugged. “Did a few jobs out Medway. Got as far as Stevenage once.” He glanced down at his fingers tapping a rhythm on his thigh. “No holidays. That wasn’t really a thing. Didn’t have the cash.” He glanced at me sideways. “Go on. Tell me all the places you’ve been.”

I didn’t want to. Not because I was ashamed of them, but because I didn’t want to sound as if I was proving a point. Or worse, apologising for a life I hadn’t chosen.

“Holidays were… normal, I suppose. Skiing most winters. Summers in the south of France. Italy. Dubai. School trips. Further flung places with Henry and the gang. I’ve travelled, yes.”

“I’ll bet.” He tightened his grip on the wheel, and the sharp edge of comparison crossed his face. “So where are we going, then?”

“The Chilterns.” I leant back against the headrest. “My grandfather bought a handful of cottages years ago. Most were done up and sold on. A few are kept for family weekends. This one…It needs work. I’m not even sure it’s entirely habitable. But I know the keycode, and it’s been empty long enough that no one will know we’re there.”

“How out of the way are we talking?”