Page 2 of Crave

I arched a brow at her and raked my fingers through my sandy-blond hair, making sure the effortless look still looked as though I hadn’t tried too hard. I checked the cab window. Still holding together. The hair, that was.

Me? Not so much.

Zara laughed. “Darling, you look absurdly good. As always. He’ll take one look at you and remember exactly what he’s throwing away by being such a…” She waved a hand. “…wally.”

“Mm.” I turned my gaze to the window, to the gentrified stretch of East London where my boyfriend’s location pulsed on my phone and couldn’t quite manage to believe her.

Because it didn’t matter how I looked.

I, Tristan Hale-Fitzroy, had leverage. Money in my pocket, and a trust fund worth a hefty five million waiting for me in eight years’ time. That was the unspoken security that came with my surname. If that wasn’t enough to keep Ollie tethered to me, then my cheekbones and charm certainly wouldn’t be.

I caught Henry’s gaze, and it was obvious. He knew. He always knew more than me, and I suspected he was half the reason we were here at all. Henry had never liked Ollie. Said he was rude. Uncouth. Brash. And yes, he could be. But that was theatre. Ollie’s favourite trick. Pretending he hadn’t been born with a silver spoon welded to his tongue.

I’d found it charming once. That little play at grit.

But when Ollie came, it was still to the rhythm of God Save the King. No matter how much he postured, he was a posh patriot at the core. And for a while, that contradiction had appealed to me. It was rebellion dressed up safe. Rebellion without ever having to risk anything real. The kind I didn’t have the balls to chase on my own. And for two years, I’d taken him along to all my family dinners, the Mayfair parties, networking events where he glad handed his way to wherever he wanted, with my father eventually forgiving my rebellion at shelving pupillage for a year to play at being a student again, because Ollie had fitted right in.

Better if he was female, of course.

But even the Hale-Fitzroys knew money couldn’t buy everything.

The cab rolled to a halt, and I leant forward, peering out of the window. It wasn’t West End’s velvet ropes and glass facades awaiting our mischief. No, it was a club squatted in the shell of an old warehouse, all corrugated iron and graffiti tags. A queue curled along the wall, bodies pressed tight, shivering in micro-dresses and polo shirts, vapour rising like incense. Bass thudded through the brickwork, rattling windows painted black to keep the world out, and the door was a slab of steel guarded by men in bomber jackets, checking IDs with bored menace. No chandeliers, no champagne buckets waiting on ice, no VIP entrance.

This was sweat, smoke, and the promise of debauchery.

And Ollie was in there somewhere, choosing this over me.

“Off we go, fellows!” Benji shoved the door open as if he owned the street, which wasn’t far from the realm of possibility, then promptly fell out onto the pavement. But he got up, brushed himself off, and pointed. “Into the club!”

Zara laughed, tottering after him, and Henry, ever the weary parent, tugged her skirt back into place and followed. I gave the driver a nod, already charged to the account, naturally, then stepped out into the cold, breath fogging in the glow of streetlights. Benji lurched up to the first bouncer, slurred a greeting, and slid a wad of notes into the man’s pocket. The door swung open. East London still took cash as currency, then.

West London ran solely on names.

Our names.

And as such, we spilt into the club in a mess of perfume and bravado. Zara hooked her arm through mine, dragging me through the array of bodies. It was a furnace. Sweat, smoke machines, strobe lights pulsing to grime tracks rattling the walls. Shots slammed onto the bar before I could blink, Benji shouting for tequila, Zara squealing, Henry protesting but downing one, anyway.

I drank because it was easier. Letting the liquor scorch my throat, blur the edges until the panic climbing my ribs dulled into something I could stand. Tequila, vodka, whisky. I didn’t care what burnt, only that it did. Zara kept pressing glasses into my hand, and Benji squared up to a group of lads, loud and reckless, auditioning for the next role in his endless charade of a life. But Henry stood rigid at my side, as he always had since we’d first bunked together at Harrow, one hand buried in his trouser pocket, the other clamped around his glass as though the place itself might stain him.

“I don’t see the appeal.” Henry leant closer, not bothering to raise his voice above the din. He was far too well-bred for that.

I followed his line of sight. The dance floor was a mess of bodies, mostly men grinding against each other, sweat slick, shirts half-unbuttoned. A few women too, flashing bright nails and louder laughter, making space for themselves in the press. Not a full gay bar. Not like the places I’d sometimes sought on my own pre-Ollie, but rainbow enough to set Henry’s jaw tight. Straight-laced Henry, still unsure why his best mate from Harrow hadn’t treated bumming as the rite of passage it was for most of our set but had carried it into adulthood.

Enjoyed it, even.

“You didn’t have to come.” I glanced down at my phone, Ollie’s dot pulsing steadily on the map. Right here. Like a second heartbeat.

“Of course I did. If there’s a chance to witness the downfall of Oliver Montgomery, I want front-row seats.” Henry’s nose wrinkled at the sight of men tangled together, mouths and hands everywhere. “Though perhaps they’ve a VIP section? Somewhere less… sticky?”

“I wouldn’t recommend the back room.” I scanned the crowd. Lights strobed across strangers’ bodies, smoke and spilt spirits thickening the air until it clung to my skin. The bass rattled through me, hard enough to make my teeth ache.

“Why?” Henry asked, all ignorance and naivety. “Do they water the drinks down back there?”

I snorted. “Not exactly.”

“It can’t be any worse than this.” Henry lifted his glass, took a sip, and hissed. “Haig. Christ. We’ve descended straight into slum city.”

And in that instant, I couldn’t have agreed more as my usually polished floor dropped right out from under me.