Chapter Twelve Razor
CHapter twelve
Razor
I tipped my phone up from the desk to see the screen light.
Not too proud to admit my stomach did a thing.
Couldn’t show it though. Not here. Not in the Velvet Lounge office with Tyler beside me, counting through a stack of twenties like rosary beads, his earpiece buzzing as he liaised with floor security, bathroom spotters, and the sellers dotted through the club.
I checked to see if he clocked anything.
He didn’t. Good lad. He was focused. Eyes on the money, attention on the comms.
Tonight, I was setting lists. Vetting names.
Organising the top end of the clientele for Pretty Poison.
If this went out, it went to the right men.
Rich men. Known men. Men who wouldn’t drop dead and leave me with another Levi bleeding under my eyelids.
Cause this wasn’t the usual pay-and-play shit.
This was high-stakes, high-risk, high-price gear.
And I’d be the one they traced it back to if it went wrong.
I leant back, drifting my gaze to the wall of monitors.
The Velvet Lounge was in full swing tonight.
Lights pulsing, bodies grinding, sweat and vodka and heat mixing into a cloud rising from the dance floor.
The DJ we’d brought in was a regular at G-A-Y, and he’d dragged half that crowd here with him.
Should’ve been the perfect night to float PP into circulation.
But it made me uneasy. Too many bodies. Too many hands.
Too many men who loved to touch anyone. Anything.
And all I could think about, staring at those screens, was Tricky.
Because he was in my inbox.
Asking me to fuck him.
My pulse kicked. I scrubbed a hand down my face, staring at the text as if it could burn straight through me. Then typed back, reluctant as hell: Current window is work.
Sent it.
Then I threw the phone onto the desk and sighed.
Maybe after this was all done, I’d go round to his. Climb that balcony. Slide into his bed like he’d wanted me to on Sunday. And me, stupid me, had left. Cause I’d been in danger of saying too much, feeling too much if I’d stayed with him.
“Finch says it’s kicking off down there. Crowd’s wild.” Tyler pressed a finger to his earpiece, then looked at me, eyes sharp with suggestion. “This’d be a good night to run with it. They’re mad for it, this lot.”
Tyler watched me, waiting for the go-ahead.
I shook my head. “Not tonight.”
“Bruv, this is the crowd. Half of ’em are already buzzing off their tits. They’d lap PP up.”
“Exactly why I’m not doing it.”
Tyler frowned. “But we’ve got the green light. Sami says it’s clean—”
“Sami said it’s pure. And pure’s worse. One wrong cunt cutting it, someone doubles a dose, someone mixes it with G or booze—boom. Problem on my floor. Problem on my name.”
Tyler stood straighter, chewing the inside of his cheek. He understood. Levi hadn’t been his mate, but he’d seen the aftermath. He’d dragged me out of the street that night.
I leant forward, elbows on my knees. “We’re doing this the right way. Not rushed. Not sloppy. Only to the top-ticket lads. No freebies. No bathroom deals. No undercutters. No runners. My hands only.”
Tyler nodded, but slowly. “Cormac won’t like you dragging your feet.”
“Cormac can wait. This one’s different. You felt it too.”
He didn’t deny it.
I pushed back in my chair, picking up the paperwork again.
Client lists, security rotations, invoices I’d forged into something respectable.
The shit keeping the club looking legit.
My Monday through Thursday had been a blur of this, keeping the operation airtight while pretending Pretty Poison wasn’t sitting in a duffel bag in my Wick penthouse.
So I tried focusing on the screen in front of me.
Checking the bar rota, the bathroom heat map, and the VIP arrivals list. Anything to stop thinking about Tricky’s message.
Tyler refilled the float, chatting into his earpiece.
“Copy that, Finch… No, keep eyes on the cash points… Yeah, tell Yuri to double-check the VIP door, someone’s trying to blag—” He broke off with a low whistle.
“Oi, check out Blondie on two.” He tapped the top monitor, grinning.
“Man’s getting proper attention tonight.
Look at ’em! Dragged him straight into the middle. Dirty bastards.”
I didn’t look.
Didn’t need some horny club kid taking up brain space.
Tyler chuckled under his breath. “Shit, he’s barely standing and they’re all over him.
Bet he’s loving—” He stopped mid-sentence.
“Actually… might be a bit saucy even for us.” He folded his arms. “Bloke’s out of it.
Doesn’t look the usual club type either.
He’s in a suit. And look at the way he’s leaning…
Hang on.” Tyler leant into the screen. “He looks familiar.”
A cold prickle cut down my spine before I even turned.
I snapped my gaze to the monitor.
Tyler kept talking. “Reckon I should send someone to break up the orgy, or let the lads have their fun?” He glanced back and caught my face. The colour drained out of his. “…Bruv?”
Heat and anger and something far uglier knotted in my chest as I stared at the screen.
That wasn’t some random club-going twink.
It was Tristan. My Tricky. Pinned between three men.
One sliding his hand up Tristan’s stomach, another grinding against him from behind, another gripping the back of his neck as if he owned it.
Tristan wasn’t dancing. He was swaying. Trying to look around.
Slow. Delayed. Drunk. Or worse. Or both.
Fuck.
I shot to my feet.
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.
Every touch.
Every fucking crack in my armour.
No.
Fuck that.
I grabbed Tristan’s wrist, pried him off me, and hauled him towards the back exit. He stumbled, feet dragging, but he didn’t fight. Didn’t even ask where we were going. He just let me take him. I slammed the push bar, and the door flew open into the cool night air behind the club.
I hauled him the last few metres to my car parked in the alley and opened the passenger door. I practically poured him inside, and he slumped against the seat, head tipped back, throat exposed.
Beautiful. Vulnerable. Mine.
I shut the door and leant on it for a second, breathing hard, trying to steady the pulse roaring in my ears. Because every instinct I had was screaming the same thing: Get him home. Get him safe. Don’t let him out of your fucking sight.
I walked around, got behind the wheel, and gunned the engine.