Page 17 of Crave

But the clock?

That had started.

“They in there tonight?” I jammed the charger into the burner, lit a smoke, blew it out the crack in the window.

“The Yard? Yeah, most likely. You want me to scope it?”

“No.” I pulled hard on the cigarette, letting the burn drag me steady. “I’ll do it.”

Tyler let out that half-laugh he used whenever he thought he knew better. “Razor, mate… you know what kinda place The Yard is, yeah? Boy bar. Shirt lifters. Fellas on fellas. Proper filthy shit.”

“Course I know,” I snapped. Didn’t need him spelling it out.

The Yard wasn’t far from where I’d been last night, anyway. Down an alley, with that blond’s eyes flashing in my head no matter how hard I tried to grind them out. That was where I picked most of the ones I paid. Quick, clean, outta sight. But going through the door of The Yard, though? That was different. That wasn’t a transaction in the dark. That was stepping inside a world I only let myself have in shadows. But that’s where I was going if I was gonna put this to bed.

“Did you find out about the piece on Darren?”

“Still working on that. None of the runners know shit. Man himself, more like. You might find out more from his dealers in the Yard.”

“Keep digging and I’ll find out from here.”

“Sure. Laters.”

He hung up.

I glanced down at myself. Hoodie, jeans, trainers. Road gear. The line lieutenant’s uniform. Not clubbing clothes. I’d get in, sure. The doormen knew me like half of Hackney did. But walking in like this was asking to be clocked before I even hit the floor. So I climbed out of the car, popped the boot, and made the switch. Hoodie off. Black tee from the stack I kept folded for meetings. Battered trainers swapped for a pair of box-fresh Chelsea boots I’d been saving. Nothing flashy, but enough to slip under the lights without looking as if I’d wreck the place.

Then I noted the leather folded at the back. The coat. Full-length jacket some bloke had left behind after a quick job in the car months back. Never saw him again. I’d shoved it deep, so no one noticed it. Too easy to take the piss, call me Neo, some wannabe from The Matrix. But I pulled it out then. Slid it on. It fitted better than I expected. Felt better, too. Heavy. Different. Never figured myself for leather.

Strange how sometimes you put something on and it feels as if it’s been waiting for you all along.

The last drag of my fag burnt my fingers before I crushed it under my heel, and I ran a hand over my buzz cut, top left a little longer and caught myself in the blacked-out glass of the Audi. Normally I wouldn’t give a toss what stared back. Menacing was the brand; hard was the name. But there it was, that twist in my gut, butterflies where they had no right to be.

This wasn’t about Tripper or Ghost’s dirty product. This was The Yard. A place I’d only ever circled from the outside. A place tugging on the same dark corners of me I paid to keep quiet. And maybe, though I didn’t want to admit it, it was the same place that pretty boy from the alley might have come from. Where he probably rounded up his clients.

So yeah, I was walking onto enemy ground.

But I was also walking into my own shadows.

And I didn’t know which would be harder to face.

Fuck it. I didn’t give myself room to think, and locked the Audi, shoving my hands in my pockets, and cut through the queue outside The Yard.

Bass rattled the glass, neon spilling out over the pavement, groups laughing, shirts already clinging with sweat. The bouncer registered me, eyes narrowing. We knew each other. He’d shifted gear off me before. Surprise flickered, but he didn’t question it. He knew what I was and refusing me meant no customers.

“Razor.” He tipped his chin once.

I fist bumped him and slid inside.

Heat swallowed me whole. So did the wall of bodies. Sweat, perfume, poppers in the air, men pressed tight under strobing light. My gut twisted, but I kept moving. Kept my head low, pretended I belonged. At the bar, I ordered vodka. Neat. No ice. Went down sharp, clean, the way I needed it. Then I ordered two more. Drank them quickly to dull the edges of panic bleeding and carried one to the far corner, slid into a booth tucked back in the shadows where I could see the whole floor.

I had to remember this wasn’t about me. This wasn’t my time to embrace my cravings. To walk into what should be mine. It was about Tripper. I was here to find his runners, see who was moving, who was paying. So I sat back in the shadows, let the vodka burn its way down, the glass sweating between my fingers, and kept my eyes on the floor as the night thickened.

After a while, the crowd shifted, parting to give me a straight line of sight right to the bar and along with it, a reason I didn’t fucking want.

Fuck.

Not now.