Page 14 of Corrupt

He lifted an eyebrow. “I realise it’s summer and we’re in a heatwave, but walking home shirtless still might attract some attention. Especially in an establishment such as yours.”

“Don’t doubt it.”

“My blazer is still on my chair.”

“Right.”

I scanned the cupboard. There wasn’t anything useful. It was filled with the usual industrial bleach, paper rolls, cleaning shit. Couldn’t exactly wrap him in kitchen towels. There were branded T-shirts in the club supply cupboard, but getting there meant walking through at least a dozen cameras and twice that many eyes.

Another reminder of how stupid I’d been tonight.

So I slipped off my leather jacket, draped it over a bucket, undid my shirt, and shrugged out of it.

“Here.” I handed it over. “Wear that.”

He took it but didn’t put it on right away. Because he stared. At me. My chest, my shoulders, the muscle I kept hard out of necessity, not vanity, drinking me in. I wasn’t a street thug anymore, but I had to look as though I could break someone twice my size if I needed to. Gym, boxing, running, the occasional chase, whatever it took to keep the edge. And yeah, I knew he liked the tattoos. The heart on my chest. Thorns and blade through it. The one he knew exactly what it meant. And that serpent coiling along my ribs reminding him what I’d always be: poisonous.

But they weren’t where his gaze settled.

It fixed on the scar.

The long, jagged line cutting across my side, still a little raised, a little angry. The one he’d helped stitch up. The one that had almost killed me. And he stepped closer, carefully running his fingertips over it.

Soft touch.

Soft boy.

Soft thing I didn’t deserve.

He’d saved my life twice. Once with his hands, and once with information he never should’ve given me, pulling me and my crew out of the fire before it swallowed us. And feeling his touch on that scar then, it felt as though he was doing it a third time.

Couldn’t handle that.

Him like that.

So I grabbed his wrist, brought his fingers to my mouth, and kissed them. Quick, rough-edged. The closest I’d ever get to saying thank you, and the last thing he wanted to hear as it would remind him how far deep into the dark side he’d gone for someone he didn’t know and had no business trusting.

“Put the shirt on.” I stepped back before I did something even dumber.

Tristan slipped his arms into my black shirt. It was too big for him by miles. Swallowed him whole. But he buttoned it up, tucked it into his expensive trousers, and somehow, typical bloody Tristan, still looked half decent. Enough to walk out without a hundred eyes turning.

“What about you?” He gestured at my bare torso.

I pulled on the leather jacket, letting it hang open, tattoos and skin still marked with the heat of him. “Can’t pass for decent, no?”

He bit his bottom lip. “Quite the opposite actually.”

I snorted, then fastened the jacket, sealing myself back behind layers of leather and restraint.

“Right.” I met his gaze. “We’ve got one way to do this. And I really fucking hope I don’t have to spell it out for you that if this goes tits up, it won’t be your shirt getting ripped off. It’ll be your pretty fucking head torn off your neck. Literally. Not figuratively or metaphorically or whatever you educated gits mean.”

“You kind of did spell that out. But thanks. I get it.”

I cocked my head. “Smartypants.”

Tristan laughed under his breath. Christ, I could’ve kissed him.

“I’ll take you back to the toilets. You walk straight out, go to your table, grab your blazer, and leave. Do not look back.” I wrapped my fist around the doorknob.