Page 107 of Crave

Lennon studied me for a long moment. Not the quick, dismissive once-over people usually gave. This was slower. Measuring. As if lining things up in his head. The way I stood. The way I couldn’t quite keep still. The fact I was here at all. He didn’t need to be a genius to work the rest out. I didn’t hide it.

“He went to you,” Lennon said eventually. “After the warehouse fight.”

It wasn’t a question.

I didn’t trust my voice, so I nodded instead. Small. Careful. Enough to confirm without betraying him. Enough to say yes, he came to me, without saying what that had meant.

Lennon’s jaw tightened. Not angry as such. Nor even really surprised. More… adjusted. As if something he’d half-seen had finally come into focus. And standing there, under that quiet, knowing look, all I could think was how badly I wanted to say it out loud. That he’d been in my bed. That he’d chosen me. That for a handful of hours, in a city that chewed men like him up, Razor had come to my door as Richie.

And that somehow, impossibly, it felt as if I might have mattered.

Lennon breathed out a dejected laugh. “He could’ve told me.”

“He said you probably already knew.”

“’Course I fucking knew.” Lennon dragged a hand over his forehead, hard hat swinging from his fingers. “He ain’t half as unreadable as he thinks he is. Not to me.” He blew out a breath. “So how long were you two… a thing?”

“Not long,” I said. “Barely anything, really.”

“Long enough to count, though. For him to hand you the real bits.”

I could feel my blush. “If it helps, he was on very high dose painkillers.”

“I’d rather he’d felt every inch of his pain.”

“He did.” I held his gaze. “Probably always will.”

Lennon’s anger collapsed into something smaller. Sadder. “And long enough for you to get caught on him like this. So what was it? Those eyes? That stupid lost-dog look he does?”

“Honestly? It was everything.”

“Huh. Yeah. I’ll bet.”

“Do you know if he’s okay?” I chewed on my lip.

Lennon shook his head. “He’s not been around. That means one of two things.”

“Which are?”

“He’s moved up. Big time. No more street graft. Corner office. City views.” He flicked his hard hat in a loose circle, a humourless smile tugging at his mouth. “Metaphorically speaking.” Then his expression flattened. “Or he’s in a body bag.”

The air left my lungs. “And if you had to put money on which?”

“I don’t have the money to gamble with.”

“But if you did. If I staked it for you.”

Lennon studied me for a moment. “Forget about him.” He glanced away. “He’s trouble. A walking disaster. Only ever looks out for one person.”

“You really think that?”

“If I didn’t, I couldn’t stand hating him.”

“But you don’t hate him. Do you?”

He snorted. “Course I don’t.” His gaze dropped, then lifted again. “Same as you won’t forget him. He’s got a way of doing that. Gets under the skin of people who actually see him.”

I managed a shrug. Something close to a smile.