Page 23 of Corrupt

“His fucking sister’s got a new gaff down the Wick,” Lennon fired back. “His mum too. Brand new flat. Bought outright. They only get that if he’s doing alright, or he’s deeper in than before. And you’re here getting kids off possession charges—”

“I’m not getting kids off possession charges,” I cut in, heat rising under my collar. “I’m here to make sure they’re heard. That they’re not exploited. That a magistrate doesn’t stamp a criminal record on a thirteen-year-old just to make an example.”

“Yeah?” Lennon stepped closer, lowering his voice. “And what about Rich? You get him off his charges?”

“I—” Whatever my protest might have been died on my tongue as a familiar cloud of smoke set my pulse racing.

I turned towards the bottom of the steps, my heart kicking hard. Because there he was. The man in question. The guilty party. Phone at his ear, other hand clutching a cigarette. In a charcoal-grey suit, sharp enough to slice a man open. No tie, but he didn’t need one, because his rough edges were polished enough to blend into this world, but not enough to hide what lived under his skin. He looked devastating.

And absolutely, unequivocally stunning.

“Yeah, I’m sortin’ it. Now,” Razor barked into the phone, then he glanced up and his eyes moved from me to Lennon, back to me. Silent: What the fuck.

“Well, well, well.” Lennon squared his shoulders. “Bit early for the dead, eh?”

And at that, the space among the three of us tightened like a fist.

Chapter five

Razor

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Yeah. Not the greatest opener after months of silence, but my brain had short-circuited the second I saw them. Lennon. Here. At the magistrates. The bloke I’d been dodging for months because he couldn’t look at me without seeing every mistake I’d ever made. And Tristan. Standing beside him in a suit and tie like the slickest temptation on earth.

My mind scrambled, trying to sort the order of the world, and failing.

“Which one you talking to?” Lennon jutted his chin, and, fuck me, he had that face on. The one he used to give me when he’d caught me looking at his brother too long. That quiet, sharp-edged I know what you’re hiding look. Amused. Accusing. Waiting.

I hadn’t said anything back then.

Sure as shit weren’t saying anything now.

I swallowed, gaze darting where it shouldn’t. To Tristan. Hot as sin in a suit hugging him as if stitched to his body. Hair neat and perfect. Pretty little thing I’d had bent over twelve hours ago, breathing my name like prayer and profanity all tangled up, now here at the place I was about to step in and threaten.

My stomach dropped.

He looked different in daylight. Worse. Better. Dangerous.

Lennon cleared his throat, waiting for my answer.

Right, which one was I talking to?

I pocketed my phone to wave at Lennon, then threw my fag to the ground and stamped it out. “You. Obviously.”

Because he didn’t know, did he? Couldn’t know Tristan and I knew each other. Wouldn’t know about last night. Or any of the nights before that. Far as Lennon was concerned, Tristan was just some rando bloke.

Except he fucking wasn’t, was he?

He was the bloke who’d got under my skin so deep I’d forgotten how to breathe properly. The one who could knock my pulse sideways by blinking at me. The one who, apparently, did law in a fucking suit as if this wasn’t some sick joke from the universe.

Lennon laughed, and I could’ve punched the sound out of his throat if he weren’t still my blood. My family. Even if he didn’t want me near him anymore. Even if we were hanging by a thread we didn’t talk about. So I stood there, waiting for something that made sense. Some explanation. From either of them.

“Billy Amos got lifted,” Lennon said once he got himself under control. “Bag in his pocket.”

“Shit.” I scrubbed a hand over my jaw. “Told him to stay off the fucking street.”

“Yeah?” Lennon’s glare sharpened. “Told him yourself, did you?”