He glanced down briefly, more surprised than he should’ve been that she was still awake. Most women passed out quickly whenthey were this far gone—dead weight on the back, heads lolling with every shift of the bike. But not her.
Maybe it was the cool night air cutting through the city keeping her just this side of consciousness. Or maybe she was just stubborn enough to fight it. Either way, he adjusted his grip on the bars, riding a little steadier.
A short time later, Razor turned into the alley that was used as a driveway for the upstairs apartment of Rousso’s garage. Razor eased the bike down to a crawl. The city now dulled behind them, replaced by the low rumble of the engine bounding off the brick walls as he rolled to a stop.
He backed the bike in with practiced ease, then cut the engine, leaving a ringing silence in its wake.
Dropping the kickstand, Razor patted Lottie’s hands.
“We’re here.”
Her fingers slowly unfurled from his cut, stiff from how tight she’d been holding on. He offered her his hand helping her off the bike.
Lottie swayed as she slid off the bike. Razor climbed off, his boots hitting the pavement. Wrapping an arm around her waist he led her towards the back stairs.
“C’mon.”
He led her forward as she struggled to stay steady, her steps uneven on the narrow stretch of concrete. Razor kept a firm grip on her arm, bracing her when she tipped too far to one side, guiding her up the steps one at a time.
“Keys.”
Lottie let out a soft, breathy laugh, her head tilting back. “They’re locked in my car.”
Razor stilled for half a second, jaw tightening. “Fuck.”
“I told you that back at the hotel,” she added, words slurring just enough to grate.
His grip shifted, tightening—not enough to hurt, just enough to keep her upright as she wobbled again.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Must’ve missed that part.”
“Here,” Razor said, guiding her down onto the step. “Sit while I call Vicious.”
Lottie shook her head, a loose, uneven motion. “He won’t help me.”
Razor frowned, already pulling his phone from his pocket. “Why not?”
She let out a small, humorless laugh, eyes unfocused as she leaned back against the railing. “He hates me… and so does Sway.” He watched as her fingers twisted in the fabric of her shirt. “She doesn’t really talk to me anymore. Not since Dawson.”
Razor stilled, thumb hovering over his screen as he looked down at her.
“That so?” he asked, voice quieter now—measured, like he was filing that information away for later.
Lottie nodded, her chin dipping toward her chest. “It’s all my fault.”
Razor didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t sure what to say.
He crouched in front of her instead, forearms braced on his thighs, studying her face as she swayed where she sat. The alley light caught the glassy sheen in her eyes, the way her guilt sat heavy even through the haze of alcohol.
“Everything feels like your fault when you’re drunk,” he said finally, voice low, even. Not soft—just steady. Grounding.
Her lips parted like she wanted to argue, but nothing came out.
Razor huffed a quiet breath, pushing to his feet, he hit Vicious’s number. The line barely rang before it clicked over.
“When he answered, Razor didn’t bother with pleasantries.
“Is there a hidden key for the upstairs apartment?”
