‘Theo, I didn’t know this call would… You really don’t have to?—’
‘Shut up. Your call landed here. That means I’m the one who shows up, and that’s that.’
He exhales. ‘Okay. Thank you.’
I hang up, grab my bag, rush into the kitchen, reach above the microwave where I keep the emergency shortbread tin, and shove it in the bag.
A girl can’t pick up her man from the cells without biscuits.
* * *
The waiting room of St Leonard’s police station reeks of bleach. My keys dig into my palm as I perch on a plastic chair. My brain is a pinball machine of worst-case scenarios. He’s been arrested. His career is over. Our deal is over. He’s hurt. He’s…
A harsh buzz slices through the quiet, followed by the heavy clank of a magnetic lock releasing. A door at the end of the corridor swings open.
Finn comes in like he’s braced for impact.
There’s a sudden vacuum where my breath should be. He looks fucking miserable. A raised, angry-red bump swells beneath a fresh scrape. His eyes are bloodshot, and the first hints of a bruise are starting to bloom above his brow. He moves with a weariness that has nothing to do with the hour, holding a sealed pouch in his right hand. I assume that’s his personal belongings.
Every ounce of my composure evaporates. My feet move, and I don’t stop until I collide with his chest, my arms wrapping around his torso, pulling him into a hug that’s more about not falling apart than an embrace. He’s warm and solid and stiffens for a second, then melts into me, his arms coming around my back to hold me just as tightly.
That’s all I needed. That right here.
I almost cry.
‘You stupid bampot,’ I mumble into his shirt. ‘What have you done?’
He rests his chin on the crown of my head, a deep sigh shuddering through his frame. ‘It’s okay, darlin’. I’ll tell you outside. But you’re not gonna like it.’
I pull back, my hands still gripping his arms, and search his face. As I take in the damage, a fresh wave of fury and fear washes over me. ‘Has anyone ever been elated to pick someone up from a holding cell?’
Then I grab his big, strong hand, and wrap my fingers through his without thinking.
I give a sharp tug and pull him toward the exit. ‘Come. You can explain yourself in the car, Mister.’
* * *
For three minutes, the only sounds are the rhythmic swish of the windscreen wipers and the clicks of the indicator as I navigate the sleeping city. Edinburgh’s streetlights smear across the wet tarmac in long, orange streaks.
I will not speak first. I will not.
Every red light bathes us in crimson, turning his bruised face into something from a horror film. He lets out another gusty, world-weary sigh that could deflate a bouncy castle and rattles the last of my patience.
‘Will you stop moaning and explain what happened?’ The words burst out of me. ‘Or shall I drive around in circles until morning?’
He rubs one large hand along his jaw, a nervous habit I’ve catalogued alongside his twenty others. ‘It’s complicated.’
‘Ah, complicated. You’ve been detained by police at a members-only sex club, and complicated is the best you can offer?’
‘It’s not a sex club.’ He pauses. ‘I don’t think.’
I take a corner too sharply, the car lurching. ‘Oh, well that’s better then.’
He drops his head back. ‘I found out who leaked the tape.’
My foot slips on the accelerator. ‘What?’
‘Kit Lascelles-Finch.’ His voice hardens around the name. ‘One of the – individuals, as you phrased it in your press release – in the video contacted me. Said Kit recorded us and sold it for cash.’
