Chapter Thirteen Tristan #2
“Shall I tell you what I manged to do in twenty-four hours?” He nodded to my phone. “And it weren’t swiping right on torsos with cocks or wasting time researching why poor kids get into crime. Cause I don’t need spreadsheets to tell me that, I can look on my estate.”
“For torsos and cocks?”
“I am losing patience fast.” His chest rose with his inhalation. “You might be pretty, but unlike you, I appreciate more than looks. And brains don’t impress me either.”
I bit my lip. “What does?”
“Obedience.” He narrowed his eyes at me and that small, warning squint felt like heat sliding under my skin. It was ridiculous, the way a look could make my pulse stumble.
So I recalibrated quickly. “Ollie doesn’t have any of your stuff anymore. He said he flushed it.”
“Oh dear. That’s very unfortunate.” Razor leant back on his hands. “Course, he could be a liar with good cheekbones.”
“I have better cheekbones.”
Razor held my gaze, and it was as if he was undressing me with those eyes. Or at least thoroughly examining whether he agreed with my bold statement.
I think he did.
I cleared my throat. “He’s a liar, absolutely. But not about this. There’d be no reason to lie to me about it now. He said it wasn’t that good and what he didn’t sell, he threw. Direct quote, ‘he’s done with it all’.”
“Really.” Razor widened his eyes, mock surprise painted across his face. “So I should just let that go, yeah? He’s got no gear, I’ve got no payment. Would that business studies degree tell me to chalk it up to unexpected losses?”
I had a strong feeling that was rhetorical.
Razor dragged a hand down his face. “Lucky, I didn’t go to college, ain’t it? I don’t need to follow those ethics rules or whatever shit you lot talk about around tables. All I need to know is that my interest stacks. And my bosses? They expect a full return.”
“Benji’ll be back in a few weeks.” The words came out before I could stop them.
A neat little betrayal wrapped in reason.
I was throwing my housemate under a bus.
Or maybe straight at Razor. Certainly not under him.
That was where I wanted to be. And I was done sharing my things with Benji Rothwell.
Not that Razor was my thing. Not mine at all.
Nor could I ever assume he would be. “You could get the money from him.”
He gave a dry laugh. “That’s not how this works.”
“How does it work then?”
“If he’s not here, and I can’t squeeze him for what he owes then debt rolls down. Next of kin pays.” He raised his brows. “That you?”
I stared back at him. Was he asking if I’d pay what Benji and Ollie owed him? Because I could. I had access to enough to make this whole mess vanish. But why the fuck should I bail out my cheating ex and my idiot housemate? Wasn’t that exactly what I was trying to prove in my thesis?
So I shook my head.
Razor slapped his palms against his knees and stood. “Right then. Off we go.”
I blinked. “Sorry?”
“I’m guessing you know where this Oliver lives?”
“Well, he used to live here. Until three days ago.”
“So where is he now?”
“Couldn’t care less.”
Razor nodded. “Yeah, I’ll bet. Thing is, I need to know. Now. So where is he?”
If I’d had to guess, he’d have been sofa-hopping.
One of his uni mates would have let him crash until the money cleared for a new place.
He wouldn’t have gone home. Far too much explaining to do.
And as his parents lived in Chelsea, and he hated the tube on the best of days, getting to university from there would have been a headfuck.
Plus, he’d have to deal with his mother constantly asking if she still had access to my mother’s spa days.
But I also knew his schedule better than I cared to admit.
“It’s Monday. He’ll be at rowing practice. Then the pub after.”
“Rowing?” Razor raised a brow, miming the motion with both arms. “Like… rowing rowing?”
The image caught me off guard; I bit back a laugh and hissed as my split lip reopened. “Yeah.” I reached for a tissue from the box on my desk to dab it, but before I could, Razor was suddenly there.
All bulk. All presence. The room seemed to shrink around him.
He cupped my chin in one big, calloused hand and tilted it up, the rough of him softened by a surprising gentleness.
He took the tissue from me and dabbed the cut himself.
My breath caught, suspended between fear and something feeling dangerously close to want.
For a man who scared the life out of me, he was far too good at touching me softly.
And if I let myself think about it, about the careful set of his jaw, the way his brow tightened when the tissue came away red, I’d almost call it guilt.
But it couldn’t be.
This man wouldn’t have a conscience.
According to my father and all the data sitting on my desk.
He balled the tissue in his fist, turned, and straightened to his full height. “Come on, then.”
“Come on where?”
“Let’s go have a chat with Oliver.”
I don’t know why I stood. But I did. Slapped my laptop shut, grabbed my jacket, and slid my feet into my shoes, the sick part of me hungry to see Ollie squirm. I wasn’t worried. He’d pay, of course he would. But it’d be nice to watch him a little rattled for once.
Razor stood by the window, as if that were the natural way out.
I nodded towards the hallway. “We can use the door.”
He glanced at me, then the door, then back again. “I’ll meet you out front. Black Audi.”
Then he went, stepping clean through the window and disappearing into the night.
Maybe he just preferred the back way.
I took the long way, though. Through the house and down the steps, spotting the Audi parked opposite.
Window down, cigarette smoke curling lazily into the cold air.
I crossed the road, heart thudding a little too fast, and slid into the passenger seat.
It smelt of him. Smoke, leather, something darker clinging to the air and making my pulse tick faster.
It wasn’t just scent; it was atmosphere.
Rebellion, distilled. And I inhaled it to let it poison my veins.
Razor flicked the last of his cigarette out the window. “Where to?”
“If he’s with his rowing team, he’ll be at The Champion’s Arms. Just off Piccadilly. Might be better to go by tube?”
Razor laughed as if the very thought was absurd, then turned the engine on.
He typed the place into his satnav and off we went, driving through central London on a weeknight.
He cut across town from Bloomsbury, heading south past Holborn and down Kingsway, weaving through red lights and bus lanes as if the rules were for someone else, cliché grime tracks blasting out from his speakers.
The further west we went, the cleaner the streets got, the shopfronts glossier, the faces behind the glass a little less real, and his playlist seemed to change with the view by seeping out R&B, low and liquid, a sensual rhythm slowing everything down.
By the time we hit Piccadilly, the pavements were glowing, and he was miming the lyrics to Lana Del Ray.
Razor was a complex character, and I was captivated beyond reason.
He slowed, darting his gaze between the buildings until I pointed out the pub that was all polished brass, frosted windows, and men in tailored coats spilling out with their pints and laughter.
He then drove a bit, found one of those hidden one-way streets behind all the buildings only used for rubbish collecting and drop off bays, pulled over and cut the engine, headlights dying to shroud us in darkness.
He then unclipped his seatbelt and dragged his top over his head, tossing it into the back.
The air shifted with him, and for a second, I forgot how to breathe.
Because that body underneath…? Fuck.
It was hard to believe I’d come three times with this man and somehow hadn’t seen the full architecture of him.
Up close, he was all unforgiving edges and lived-in muscle.
Not the sculpted, self-conscious kind Ollie had preened over in the mirror.
Razor’s strength was earned, not curated, built from labour, from fights, from surviving things no university syllabus could dissect.
He was mesmerising.
A pale scar slashed across his shoulder, disappearing beneath a tattoo inked over his left chest. A crowned heart wrapped in thorns, a dagger buried clean through it.
Blackwork, stark and unapologetic. Not a tattoo you got because it looked aesthetic.
This was a story carved into skin. A vow.
A wound. Proof he’d lived something sharp enough to demand a permanent mark.
It suited him painfully well.
And lower — God — curving along his abdomen, a snake coiled near his hip, jaws open mid-strike.
Not stylised. Not symbolic. This one looked alive.
Muscle, fangs, intention. Heat pooled low in my stomach.
Because the placement was intimate. Bold.
Chosen by a man who didn’t mind being looked at or knew exactly what happened when someone did.
And I imagined following those lines with my tongue just to see if it moved.
He then twisted towards me, reaching behind to the back seat, and the car seemed to shrink around us.
Smoke and leather closed in. His arm brushed mine.
Hot skin, coarse hair, the scrape of callus running straight through me.
He stilled, long enough to know I’d felt it.
Then he turned, eyes catching mine like a hook sinking into flesh.
In that heartbeat, I almost thanked him for deleting my Grindr app.
Because there wasn’t a man on this planet — no torso, no profile, no blurry club mistake — who could ever come close to him.
I could swipe until my fingers bled and never find anything half as real.