Page 57 of Corrupt

And all I could think about, staring at those screens, was Tricky.

Because he was in my inbox.

Asking me to fuck him.

My pulse kicked. I scrubbed a hand down my face, staring at the text as if it could burn straight through me. Then typed back, reluctant as hell: Current window is work.

Sent it.

Then I threw the phone onto the desk and sighed.

Maybe after this was all done, I’d go round to his. Climb that balcony. Slide into his bed like he’d wanted me to on Sunday. And me, stupid me, had left. Cause I’d been in danger of saying too much, feeling too much if I’d stayed with him.

“Finch says it’s kicking off down there. Crowd’s wild.” Tyler pressed a finger to his earpiece, then looked at me, eyes sharp with suggestion. “This’d be a good night to run with it. They’re mad for it, this lot.”

Tyler watched me, waiting for the go-ahead.

I shook my head. “Not tonight.”

“Bruv, this is the crowd. Half of ’em are already buzzing off their tits. They’d lap PP up.”

“Exactly why I’m not doing it.”

Tyler frowned. “But we’ve got the green light. Sami says it’s clean—”

“Sami said it’s pure. And pure’s worse. One wrong cunt cutting it, someone doubles a dose, someone mixes it with G or booze—boom. Problem on my floor. Problem on my name.”

Tyler stood straighter, chewing the inside of his cheek. He understood. Levi hadn’t been his mate, but he’d seen the aftermath. He’d dragged me out of the street that night.

I leant forward, elbows on my knees. “We’re doing this the right way. Not rushed. Not sloppy. Only to the top-ticket lads. No freebies. No bathroom deals. No undercutters. No runners. My hands only.”

Tyler nodded, but slowly. “Cormac won’t like you dragging your feet.”

“Cormac can wait. This one’s different. You felt it too.”

He didn’t deny it.

I pushed back in my chair, picking up the paperwork again. Client lists, security rotations, invoices I’d forged into something respectable. The shit keeping the club looking legit. My Monday through Thursday had been a blur of this, keeping the operation airtight while pretending Pretty Poison wasn’t sitting in a duffel bag in my Wick penthouse. So I tried focusing on the screen in front of me. Checking the bar rota, the bathroom heat map, and the VIP arrivals list. Anything to stop thinking about Tricky’s message.

Tyler refilled the float, chatting into his earpiece. “Copy that, Finch… No, keep eyes on the cash points… Yeah, tell Yuri to double-check the VIP door, someone’s trying to blag—” He broke off with a low whistle. “Oi, check out Blondie on two.” He tapped the top monitor, grinning. “Man’s getting proper attention tonight. Look at ’em! Dragged him straight into the middle. Dirty bastards.”

I didn’t look.

Didn’t need some horny club kid taking up brain space.

Tyler chuckled under his breath. “Shit, he’s barely standing and they’re all over him. Bet he’s loving—” He stopped mid-sentence. “Actually… might be a bit saucy even for us.” He folded his arms. “Bloke’s out of it. Doesn’t look the usual club type either. He’s in a suit. And look at the way he’s leaning… Hang on.” Tyler leant into the screen. “He looks familiar.”

A cold prickle cut down my spine before I even turned.

I snapped my gaze to the monitor.

Tyler kept talking. “Reckon I should send someone to break up the orgy, or let the lads have their fun?” He glanced back and caught my face. The colour drained out of his. “…Bruv?”

Heat and anger and something far uglier knotted in my chest as I stared at the screen. That wasn’t some random club-going twink. It was Tristan. My Tricky. Pinned between three men. One sliding his hand up Tristan’s stomach, another grinding against him from behind, another gripping the back of his neck as if he owned it. Tristan wasn’t dancing. He was swaying. Trying to look around. Slow. Delayed. Drunk. Or worse. Or both.

Fuck.

I shot to my feet.