Page 62 of Crave

“Couldn’t care less.”

Razor nodded. “Yeah, I’ll bet. Thing is, I need to know. Now. So where is he?”

If I’d had to guess, he’d have been sofa-hopping. One of his uni mates would have let him crash until the money cleared for a new place. He wouldn’t have gone home. Far too much explaining to do. And as his parents lived in Chelsea, and he hated the tube on the best of days, getting to university from there would have been a headfuck. Plus, he’d have to deal with his mother constantly asking if she still had access to my mother’s spa days. But I also knew his schedule better than I cared to admit.

“It’s Monday. He’ll be at rowing practice. Then the pub after.”

“Rowing?” Razor raised a brow, miming the motion with both arms. “Like… rowing rowing?”

The image caught me off guard; I bit back a laugh and hissed as my split lip reopened. “Yeah.” I reached for a tissue from the box on my desk to dab it, but before I could, Razor was suddenly there.

All bulk. All presence. The room seemed to shrink around him. He cupped my chin in one big, calloused hand and tilted it up, the rough of him softened by a surprising gentleness. He took the tissue from me and dabbed the cut himself. My breath caught, suspended between fear and something feeling dangerously close to want. For a man who scared the life out of me, he was far too good at touching me softly. And if I let myself think about it, about the careful set of his jaw, the way his brow tightened when the tissue came away red, I’d almost call it guilt.

But it couldn’t be.

This man wouldn’t have a conscience.

According to my father and all the data sitting on my desk.

He balled the tissue in his fist, turned, and straightened to his full height. “Come on, then.”

“Come on where?”

“Let’s go have a chat with Oliver.”

I don’t know why I stood. But I did. Slapped my laptop shut, grabbed my jacket, and slid my feet into my shoes, the sick part of me hungry to see Ollie squirm. I wasn’t worried. He’d pay, of course he would. But it’d be nice to watch him a little rattled for once.

Razor stood by the window, as if that were the natural way out.

I nodded towards the hallway. “We can use the door.”

He glanced at me, then the door, then back again. “I’ll meet you out front. Black Audi.”

Then he went, stepping clean through the window and disappearing into the night.

Maybe he just preferred the back way.

I took the long way, though. Through the house and down the steps, spotting the Audi parked opposite. Window down, cigarette smoke curling lazily into the cold air. I crossed the road, heart thudding a little too fast, and slid into the passenger seat. It smelt of him. Smoke, leather, something darker clinging to the air and making my pulse tick faster. It wasn’t just scent; it was atmosphere. Rebellion, distilled. And I inhaled it to let it poison my veins.

Razor flicked the last of his cigarette out the window. “Where to?”

“If he’s with his rowing team, he’ll be at The Champion’s Arms. Just off Piccadilly. Might be better to go by tube?”

Razor laughed as if the very thought was absurd, then turned the engine on. He typed the place into his satnav and off we went, driving through central London on a weeknight. He cut across town from Bloomsbury, heading south past Holborn and down Kingsway, weaving through red lights and bus lanes as if the rules were for someone else, cliché grime tracks blasting out from his speakers. The further west we went, the cleaner the streets got, the shopfronts glossier, the faces behind the glass a little less real, and his playlist seemed to change with the view by seeping out R&B, low and liquid, a sensual rhythm slowing everything down. By the time we hit Piccadilly, the pavements were glowing, and he was miming the lyrics to Lana Del Ray.

Razor was a complex character, and I was captivated beyond reason.

He slowed, darting his gaze between the buildings until I pointed out the pub that was all polished brass, frosted windows, and men in tailored coats spilling out with their pints and laughter. He then drove a bit, found one of those hidden one-way streets behind all the buildings only used for rubbish collecting and drop off bays, pulled over and cut the engine, headlights dying to shroud us in darkness. He then unclipped his seatbelt and dragged his top over his head, tossing it into the back. The air shifted with him, and for a second, I forgot how to breathe.

Because that body underneath…? Fuck.

It was hard to believe I’d come three times with this man and somehow hadn’t seen the full architecture of him. Up close, he was all unforgiving edges and lived-in muscle. Not the sculpted, self-conscious kind Ollie had preened over in the mirror. Razor’s strength was earned, not curated, built from labour, from fights, from surviving things no university syllabus could dissect.

He was mesmerising.

A pale scar slashed across his shoulder, disappearing beneath a tattoo inked over his left chest. A crowned heart wrapped in thorns, a dagger buried clean through it. Blackwork, stark and unapologetic. Not a tattoo you got because it looked aesthetic. This was a story carved into skin. A vow. A wound. Proof he’d lived something sharp enough to demand a permanent mark.

It suited him painfully well.