Page 22 of Crave

I shook so hard I thought they might hear it.

But the worst part?

It wasn’t the thought of getting knifed on some godforsaken Hackney backstreet because Benji couldn’t cough up fifty quid for his latest thrill. It was picturing my father’s face. That quiet, annihilating disappointment.

This wasn’t how the Mayfair elite got offed.

Certainly not by two boys who couldn’t be older than eighteen.

Still, it fucking scared the shit out of me. Knives did that. Whoever held them.

“Not my fault you don’t take black Amex.” Benji had the audacity to laugh. A thin, performative sound, not quite brave enough to convince anyone.

“Wrong.” The man behind him slid a hand into Benji’s pocket and produced the card anyway. Black. Immaculate. Untouched by anything as vulgar as legitimate expenditure. It caught the streetlight and gleamed like a bad punchline. He turned it over, smirked. “Pretty.”

It was. Titanium. Weighty. Designed to be felt rather than used. Came with an obscene list of benefits too—concierge, access, discretion. All the invisible things money bought when it didn’t want to be seen buying them.

But here? Worthless.

The card was probably dead anyway. Benji’s parents would have frozen it the moment he stopped behaving. Let him keep the object, strip the power. A lesson disguised as mercy. Something to flash. To cut lines with, not pay for them. I had one too, of course. In our world it wasn’t a payment method so much as an accessory. A signal. Status without liquidity. More useful for the services it unlocked than the spending it implied.

And I very deliberately did not stand between them when it occurred to them that Benji could lock it with a single, shaking swipe of an app.

“We’ll take this too.” The taller one snatched Benji’s phone straight from his hand.

So, that fucked that idea.

Benji didn’t fight it. Didn’t even blink. He knew the score. That bit of plastic would be replaced by morning, new number, same contacts. And whatever was on that phone was locked up tighter than his dad’s bank vault.

The shorter one gave a small laugh, teeth flashing in the dark. “Bet Daddy’ll sort you out, yeah? Maybe send the chauffeur with the cash next time?”

Benji stayed quiet. He’d gone pale, maybe the drink and drugs wearing off or maybe he knew exactly how this ended if he opened his mouth.

I fucking hoped so.

The taller one shoved him back into the wall, leant in close enough for the threat to sit hot between them. “We want cash. Or we use this.” He showed the knife again.

“Wait!” I shot my hand in the air before my brain caught up. Then I reached into my pocket, pulled out the crumpled notes my so-called liaison had shoved in there earlier and held them out. “Here. Is that enough?”

The second man snatched the wad, flipped through it fast, damp fingers smearing the paper. “A ton.” He glanced at his mate with a wide-eyed grin. As if they’d hit the jackpot.

A ton? A hundred quid. Leather had bought my double-handjob for twice what he thought my blowjob was worth. Wasn’t sure whether to feel elated or insulted.

But at least it kept me alive.

“We’ll call it even.” Man pocketed the cash. “For now.” He then pointed at Benji. “But you owe interest. And we want what your mate took!”

They melted into the dark, laughter trailing behind them. Benji lifted a shaky middle finger, which I yanked down as a black Uber rolled up beside us.

The window slid down. “Rothwell?”

“Tis I.” Benji bowed like an idiot before tumbling into the back seat. “Stupid bastards. As if I’d come back here. Wouldn’t be caught dead in their scummy little shithole.”

“You keep going how you are, and you will be caught dead here. Bleeding out in the gutter.”

He blew me a kiss. “Don’t be dramatic, darling. You’ve had your little slum safari. Let’s go back to where we can get into some real mischief, eh?”

He slammed the car door, muffling his laughter.