Page 16 of Jazz

I nodded in silent agreement, something heavy in my stomach again, the creeping feeling of some sort of misplaced emotion back.

The keys jangled in the silence as I played with them between my fingers, listening for the door to close behind me.

I didn’t know what drew me back out onto the floor. What the pull of the captured woman was, but I stepped out into the cold of the empty warehouse. She whimpered only slightly, dangling helplessly from the hook. I stepped quietly, moving closer, watching the tension in her body. My steps were soft, almost like I was walking on air, non-existent. Yet her head snapped up, her nostrils flaring.

“Chase?” Her voice was almost a whisper, cracking around the edges.

“Aye,” I answered flatly, ignoring the stab in my chest at the sound of my name.

She said nothing else for a while, her breathing irregular, just a tiny waver, but enough to take the smoothness out of the wispy sounds.

“This really hurts.”

I wanted to say ‘good’. That she deserved it. But I said nothing, leaving the silence hanging in the air between us.

“Can you just let me down a bit? Just like before.”

I stared at her, saying nothing, the chain in the ceiling creaking under her weight, a light groan from her lips, a third exhaustion, two-thirds pain. I could hear it in her breathing too, an unnatural rhythm. Grim’s orders had been to leave her there.

“Please, Chase.”

There it was again. My name on her tongue, raw and uneven. She wasn’t begging. Not just yet. And all I needed to do was lower the winch. An inch of mercy. That was all she asked for. Grim. Dougal. They were what mattered. Not a woman on a winch. Not a King. I turned, the noise grating under my foot, grit dragging across uneven concrete.

“Fucking arsehole,” she growled now at my back.

Her voice was stronger, harder. Full of red-hot hatred. I could almost feel the heat of her eyes under that blindfold. I smiled, reaching sideways for the lever and pulling on it hard.

The chain in the ceiling heaved and clanked, a thundery tone filling the space. Her legs crumpled underneath her, and she yelped a little, her body jarring, exhausted limbs unable to keep her steady. I pulled the lever a little more, straightening her up, just enough for her to stand flat on her feet with her arms stretched above her head.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

I paused for a moment. Just briefly, fighting the urge to turn back to look at her. And then, shaking my head, I walked away, through the office doors. Not turning round. Not looking back.

*****

My phone rang on my desk, rattling like it was having a seizure. It could keep vibrating. For now.

“Do you need to get that?” the man in the expensive jeans asked.

“It can wait. So, what do you think?” I directed his attention back to the shiny red Yamaha in the showroom.

“Hmmm. I dunno. I wanted something different. Really different.” He looked at me pointedly.

“I do racing bikes. Some custom builds, mate. Not sure what you’re looking for?”

“A custom. Or something different. Rare. Look,” he took a breath, almost tentatively, like he was slightly worried to ask the question. “I want something else. Something different. Something no one else has. I hear you’re the man for it. But all I can see here are off the shelf racing bikes.”

I raised my eyebrows at him.

“I mean, they’re fucking great,” he stammered, “but I want something special. And I don’t see that here.”

I studied him more closely this time. His jeans were the most expensive thing he wore; the black coat over the top was mid-range. I couldn’t tell whether he was a genuine punter or a cop.

“Special costs more. Costs trust, too. You got either?”

He met my stare without blinking. “Both. If you’ve got the bike.”

Ballsy. I circled him slowly, like I had all the time in the world and not like my club president had just tried to get me twice on my mobile.