Page 51 of Corrupt

Then I went back to my apartment and stared at the duffel where Pretty Poison sat in its pristine little packets like a fucking threat. I tried not to touch it. Not to think about it. Or picture what it might do to the wrong person. Or the right one.

That night, my phone buzzed.

Sami.

I stepped out onto my balcony, lit a cigarette, and answered. “Yeah?”

“It’s… done.” Sami sounded nervous. Always was around me. It’s why I usually sent Tyler to do this, but I needed this one for myself.

“And?”

A rustle. Papers. “It’s MDMA, but not street grade.” He cleared his throat. “It’s engineered. Crystals are uniform. Purity’s higher than anything I’ve ever tested. Whoever produced this had proper equipment—like, proper.” A pause. “It’s clean. No adulterants. No PMA. No fentanyl. No cheap cuts… Pure.”

My jaw clenched. “Safe?”

“Yes. But…”

I waited.

“It’s potent. Too potent for casual use. One packet is… a lot. You’d need to dose it carefully. Really carefully. Otherwise, it’ll flatten someone.”

Flatten. Another ghost of Levi pressed at the back of my skull.

I exhaled. “Good work, kid.”

“Razor?”

“Yeah.”

“Be careful with it, yeah? It feels… different.”

“I know.”

I hung up before he could get soft on me and went to bed.

Then Tuesday bled into Wednesday. Wednesday into Thursday. By Friday, I’d cycled through every emotion I wasn’t supposed to have: caution, fear, anger, relief, temptation, longing.

And all week, I’d caught myself wishing, or wondering, maybe imagining, something that had no place in my world. Some alternate universe where Richie, not Razor, could spend a lazy weekend in bed. Enjoy this scorching summer we were unexpectedly having, getting hot and sweaty. Not alone. Nor with random men either. But with someone who’d give a fuck if I had nightmares. Someone who’d stay. Who’d kiss me through them. Hold me until the panic eased. Someone who looked at me the way Tristan did. As if there was something left in me worth wanting.

The second the thought formed, I shut it down hard. Gave myself a stern talking-to about being an utter prick. About dreaming above my station. Thinking I got to have anything good. Then I shoved the Pretty Poison bag closed, locked it, grabbed my keys, and went to work. Razor Slade didn’t get softness. Or quiet mornings. And he didn’t get alternate universes.

He got the Velvet Lounge.

Cormac.

Danger.

And fire.

But sometimes, when my guard slipped, I wondered if I’d been built for something else.

Someone else.

And that thought scared me more than any drug in my pocket.

Chapter eleven

Tristan