Page 58 of Corrupt

Tyler flinched. “Razor?”

“Tell the crew I’ll handle it.” Then I was gone. Blood roaring, vision tunnelling, gripping the railing so hard it bit into my palm as I tore down the staircase two at a time towards the pulsing lights below. The bass thumped through the soles of my boots, the floor vibrating with bodies and sweat and bad fucking decisions. And somewhere in that mess was Tristan. In my club. Being touched.

By someone who wasn’t me.

Finch, one of my security lads, caught sight of me as I hit the edge of the crowd. “Boss.” He stepped forward. “Saw him. I’ll deal with—”

“No you won’t.” I shoved past him with a snarl. “I’ll fucking handle it.”

He stepped back immediately. He knew the tone.

I cut into the crowd, pushing bodies aside, carving a path through heat and spilt drinks and hands reaching for anything they could get. Tristan wasn’t hard to spot. His blond hair caught every flash of strobe, his shirt half undone, hanging off one shoulder, his movements loose and unfocused.

Completely fucking vulnerable.

I shoved the man at his waist away, hard enough that he stumbled. The others protested. Shouts, complaints, some prick yelling “Oi—” until they saw who I was and got away. Then I grabbed Tristan around the middle and he startled, then sagged into me, his weight floppy, uncoordinated.

“Razor?” he slurred, head dropping against my chest.

“Yeah,” I whispered into his ear. “It’s me. You’re leaving.”

Some drunk twat reached for Tristan’s arm again. I swatted his hand away without looking, then hoisted Tristan over my shoulder in one brutal motion. Firefighter lift. Quick. Efficient. No room for argument. He made a half laugh, half groan as his head fell against my back. Then the crowd parted fast when they saw me carrying someone.

Nobody got in my way.

I stormed through the floor, past the bar, towards the staff corridor. Two of my security team clocked me and moved to intercept.

“Boss, we can—”

“Back the fuck off,” I barked.

They froze. Hands up. Eyes wide. Not a single word more.

The back corridor was narrow, dim, and lined with metal doors. Stockroom, bar supplies, staff lockers. The perfect place to dump someone for a minute. Cameras on the ceiling, angled down. Always watching. So I set Tristan on his feet, pinning him gently but firmly against the wall.

He blinked up at me.

“Tricky.” I snapped my fingers in front of his face. “Oi. Look at me.”

He swayed. Straight into my chest. Then his hands were on me, sliding up my stomach. Over my ribs. Curling around the back of my neck. Warm. Clutching. Pulling. And he pressed himself against me as if he’d been waiting all fucking night. His mouth brushed my throat, knocking the breath out of me.

“Fuck,” I breathed, dropping my forehead to his. “What you on?”

“Rioja.”

I huffed a laugh that wasn’t one. “Fancy pants.”

He tried to laugh too, but it broke midway, twisting into a plea. “I really fucking need you right now.”

I tried to push him back. Put distance, sanity, anything between us. But he climbed me, locking his arms behind my neck like a koala refusing to be peeled off.

“You’re in the fucking fire now, Tricky.”

He lifted his head. Met my gaze. And that look…Christ. That look could make me do something stupid. Something irreversible.

Because the CCTV would catch everything.

Every angle.