Page 87 of Crave

Close.

Too close.

That weren’t supposed to happen. That’s for people who get to want things. Not for blokes like me who trade it or take it rough enough to forget. But he’d looked at me as if I was worth something. And fuck, I’d let him. I’d even given him my name. Richie.

Stupid move.

Sure, it’s not my full name, but it’s still too much. Too personal. Razor’s safe. Richie’s not. Though, to be fair, I’d rather he say he was getting a piece of Rich than Razor. But I’d hope he’d know not to say either. And I had to figure out what the fuck I was doing there before Cormac or Ghost’s lot figured it out for me.

I should’ve left the moment I opened my eyes and daylight was there. He lived in a place I’d never touch. Law books. Clean kitchens. Futures with shape. If I wanted any of that, I’d have to be someone else.

I didn’t know who I could be without the Firm.

Tricky smiled at me from the next pillow, hair all mussed, eyes soft in that way that made it impossible to move, and I looked back at him, caught in the quiet. If this were a film, there’d be strings swelling under it. All we had was my stomach rumbling.

And a knock on the door.

“Tris?” A bloke’s voice, muffled.

Tristan scrubbed his face, sat up. “Uh…yeah?”

“Zara and I are heading off. You…okay?”

“Yeah…yeah. All good, mate. Thanks, Hen.”

Silence. Then footsteps away, muffled voices and a door slamming.

Tricky looked back at me. The sheet had fallen low on his waist, and my eyes followed it before I caught myself. I sat up against the headboard, pain flaring down my ribs, giving me a reminder of why things like this, men like him and places like this weren’t for me.

“I really fucking hate to say this,” I nudged my chin at the door, “but does he know who I am?”

Tristan laughed. “I don’t even know who you are.”

“You know enough.”

“I mean, I know your name. But that’s all.”

“That’s not the bad part. The worse is him going round saying Razor’s in bed with his mate.” The second the words left my mouth, pain tore through my ribs. I hissed, grabbed my side. “Ow—fuck.”

Tristan reached across me to the bedside table, grabbed the pills, whatever he’d been dosing me with for however long I’d been here, and pressed them into my palm with a bottle of water. I swallowed them down, breath shuddering out of me. And when I looked back at him, he’d sort of collapsed inward. His shoulders dropped; his lips pulled thin; the light behind his eyes dimmed. And I hated the feeling punching through me right then. That sick twist low in my gut telling me I’d made him feel small for wanting me.

He lay back down beside me, propping himself on one elbow, gaze lowered to the crumpled sheets between us. “I’ll assume,” he said quietly, “that that wasn’t about my safety. More that you’re not… out.”

I scrubbed a hand down my face “That ain’t even a thing in my world.”

“All drug dealers straight, are they?” he asked, a sharp little edge under the tease.

“If they’re not, they keep it shut. Street’s got rules and that one’s gospel.”

“Wasn’t one of the Kray twins gay?”

“Are you comparing me to the ultimate east end gangland legend of Reggie Kray?”

“I don’t know. Are you?”

“Wish I had his influence so people wouldn’t care.”

“But they do.”