Page 11 of Jazz
“Fuck, Chase. Where’s the girl?” The Scottish accent was unmistakable, and I knew my bike club presidents to know who that was.
“On the toilet.”
“You took her down?”
“She needed to piss. She wasn’t pissing on my floor.”
There it was again, that tone of possession. This was his place. Not the Rat’s.
There was a pause before the President answered, but the fact that he didn’t go all in at the man was interesting. Which could only mean this man wasn’t just Teesside Rats foot soldier. He was an officer. He held some power.
“Fine. Just get her back up there. The Hand are here. They want to see what we caught.”
My heart jolted, missing a beat and then jackhammering in my chest, the sudden pounding sending stretched muscles tensing. The rhythm masked the footsteps, and suddenly I could smell him in front of me, clean and spicy.
“Better get those pants up, Tiger. Piss break is over.”
His words were muffled again. He’d turned once more but hadn’t moved away.
“Toilet roll?”
“Drip-dry, babe.”
“Arse.”
A noise came from him. Not something angry. The start of a laugh nipped off before he allowed it to fully form.
I eased my leather trousers up, fingers less numb now the flow of blood had properly returned but filled with pins and needles.
“Done,” I called, my voice fainter, any chance I had to escape had just disappeared.
And now the Bloody Hand were out there waiting for me. And fuck knew what they would do.
Chapter Eight
“You want help with those pants?” I called, my back turned to the open toilet door.
She needed to hurry the fuck up. The lads would be piling in, trying to rub shoulders with the international MC that had been going through the north of England like a dose of salts. Everyone trying to shine and survive in equal measure.
“You can undo my wrists? That would speed things up.”
“Nah. Not gonna happen.”
“Then shut the fuck up. Have you tried pulling up leather fucking trousers and buttoning back up with your fucking hands tied together?” She spat, and I stifled another laugh.
“If you don’t hurry up, the whole club will be in here getting a fucking good look at you.”
“And that’s not what’s gonna happen to me out there?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t really know, not for sure. I’d never roughed up a woman before. Only men. Men who’d wronged the club. Men who’d fucked with me. Men who tried to fuck us over, nicking products and cash. I’d taught them lessons in how this club worked. Some of them were out there after learning from me. Others didn’t learn, and they were also out there, scattered across Teesside, decaying.
“You done?” I asked again, shaking her out of my head.
“Yes,” she hissed.
Turning to face her, I hadn’t expected her to have moved towards me. The legs I’d cut free so she could use the toilet, carried her as she walked in long, definite strides. Her hands came at me quicker than I expected, swinging towards my head like she was taking a shot on a golf course. She was a stride too far away, her eyes still covered by the tight blindfold, but I stepped back half a step anyway, because I wouldn’t live it down if the club found out she’d cracked me one. Skinny was still whining via text to the entire club that she’d fucked his knee. And the entire club had ribbed him about it for hours.
Her arms swung the other way, her legs moving her forwards. If I’d had more time, I’d have played with her. I would have seen if she would give up or keep going. And watched as the leather tightened further over her slim body. But I didn’t have time. The Hand were in my unit. Waiting. Waiting forher. I didn’t have time to play. She shifted her weight, her jaw clenching, and then the swing of her arms came at me. I was inside that half stride now, ducking under the swing, dipping my shoulder, and launching her body over the top of mine.