Page 92 of Corrupt

“I wanna be Rich.” I put my water bottle beside his and shuffled forward, desperate to slide my hands on his thighs. To drop between his legs. To rest my head on his chest. “And Rich hates Razor sometimes. Wants to escape him. Leave him out there. Pretend he don’t exist so I can do this properly.”

Tristan went still. Quiet. I could hear our hearts beating. Then, suddenly, he stood. I peered up at him, waiting for him to tell me he couldn’t do it. I braced for it.

But he said, “How long can you be Rich for?”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

He dragged a hand through his hair, looking as though he was arguing with himself. About me. Letting me stay. What that might cost him. Then he looked at me again, and the confliction on his face made my chest hurt. I’d never wanted to pull someone close and make them like me as much as I did him in that moment. Never wanted to be better than I was.

But I wasn’t a nice man to like.

“I need to shower,” he said.

I nodded. “Yeah. Sure. I can go—”

“No.” He inhaled. “I don’t want you to go. I also don’t want you to be here.”

“That’s…okay.”

“You got your car, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Full tank of petrol?”

“Always.”

“Good. Then we’re leaving.”

I blinked. “What? Where?”

“Out of London. Away from everything that makes you Razor.”

Fuck. It sounded good. Too good. To get in the car. To drive. To put Razor somewhere I didn’t have to wear him. To do what normal people did.

“Where we gonna go?”

The corner of his mouth lifted, as if he’d already solved it. “I know a place. But first…” He held out his hand to me.

I let out a breath of relief as I took it. He pulled me up and led me down the short hallway, fingers warm around mine. In the bathroom, he turned on the shower. Hot and heavy, water pounding tile like a heartbeat. He stripped, then turned to me when I didn’t move.

He stepped closer. “You’re safe being Rich with me.”

I folded at that.

It was stupid of me to have needed it. Stupid how a few words could do what a week of holding myself together hadn’t. But he got it. Knew I’d been scared. Not just of what was out there, but of what it kept me tied to. Of what it had made me become. And my body leant towards him before I’d decided to move, tension draining out as if given permission at last. Permission to stop bracing. Stop performing. Stop standing guard over myself.

To just… be.

Be me.

Tristan peeled my T-shirt over my head. Stained, wrinkled, carrying the deeds of that week, and I let it drop. Then my jeans. Shoes kicked aside. I stood there bare and uncertain, and he guided me into the spray with him, where he took a sponge, soaked it, and washed me. Every inch of me. As if learning the map of me again and reminding me I was still a body, not a weapon. The water ran dark with grime and sweat and whatever else I’d carried in with me. He rinsed me clean, as if scrubbing Razor off me and calling Rich back piece by piece.

When the soap was gone and the water ran clear, I wrapped my arms around him, pressing my forehead to his. Breathing him in. Holding on.

“For twenty-four hours, I want you to show me Richie.” Tristan brushed his lips on mine. “My Richie.”

Fuck.