Free Trust by PJ Adams

this primitive indoor arena, the atmosphere pumped with adrenaline and testosterone. I had no doubts that most of the men around me featured prominently in the city’s underworld subculture. And here I was, holding hands with Dean – a man I barely knew – like a soppy teenager.
    I wasn’t the kind of girl who held hands, or went for any other kind of public display of affection, even if I was with someone for whom I actually felt, you know, affection .
    I tried to pull my hand away, but he held it tight.
    So instead, I held my head high and walked like I owned it. Like I owned him, like I owned this entire place.
    Outside, the air had a cold bite to it. After the hubbub inside the warehouse, there was a sudden stillness, even though there were shady figures milling about among the cars.
    We took a few more steps, then I felt Dean slump. He turned to me, still holding my hand, drawing me in, his bloody cheek close to mine again so that I felt a smear of wet heat, a scrape of stubble. I must look a picture, I realized.
    For long seconds, he wouldn’t let go.
    “How’s Lee?” I murmured, and that broke the moment.
    Dean gave one last hug, then stepped back, finally releasing my hand.
    “He’s okay, I reckon,” he said. “Dr Malik’s a good ’un. He’ll sort him.”
    “Who were they?” I asked now. “I recognized Putin and his friend, but those guys at the end...?”
    “They used to be on our side,” said Dean. “Reuben and his crew organize events like this, provide a bit of security here and there, give a bit of protection to us when it’s needed. Us Baileys have always been in with them.”
    “But clearly not now.”
    He shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s not easy.”
    “They were just...” I tensed, remembering the sight of that fist poised to strike. “All this.” I waved a hand to indicate the warehouse, the cars. “If the police got wind of this they’d be all over it like flies.”
    Dean looked at me oddly.
    “The police?” he said. He nodded towards the warehouse. “Reuben and his crew – they are the fucking police, darling.”
    §
    It took me a short time to believe he meant that literally.
    We made our way back to the car Dean’s cousin had provided. The driver was standing outside, thumb-tapping the screen of his phone. Dean exchanged a few words with him, and then he held the door as I climbed into the back seat.
    As the engine purred into life, Dean turned to me.
    “You mean the actual police?” I said.
    He nodded, an insane grin suddenly pulling at his features. “Mad, isn’t it?” he said. “But this world... it just can’t operate without a bit of cooperation, some greasing of the wheels, you know what I mean? That’s always been the way. I’m not sure if we’re in their pocket or they’re in ours, but either way, it’s how the world works.”
    I shook my head.
    When I turned back to him, he was holding a handkerchief out. “Sorry,” he said. “I made a bit of a mess of you, darling. You might want to...”
    I took the square of white linen, and dabbed at my face. The cloth came away red. I could feel the blood was drying already.
    “You could do with some fixing up, too,” I said. He scrubbed at his face with the back of a hand, winced, and then suddenly we were giggling like schoolkids, an abrupt release of pent-up... I don’t know what: energy, tension, adrenaline?
    I tipped back in my seat, my chest hurting from laughter.
    I turned to him and he was looking at me, something in his eyes.
    He put a hand to my cheek, and for a moment I thought he was going to try to clean any remaining blood away, but then...
    His touch. It was gentle, almost imperceptible. Fingertips on my cheek.
    His hand moved to cup my jaw, forefinger against the lobe of my ear, a sudden, electrifying touch as his fingertip tugged on my earrings. My response surprised me, my sensitivity unnaturally heightened.
    The adrenaline thing, I realized. Was this the fight or flight phenomenon Dean