Page 18 of Jazz

And now I could smell him. Cigarette smoke. Fresher than last time. He’d just smoked one. But behind the bitter, burnt paper and tar smell, there was a hint of staleness. He must smoke constantly, because no matter the strength of that just-smoked cigarette smell, it wasn’t enough to dull the clinging, stale, impossible to ignore and growing stronger.

His uneven footsteps grew louder. The limp was clearer now, and something else. A dull single thud, just slightly offset from the footsteps. A crutch maybe? I remembered his shriek. The cry of pain. I’d struck him hard, but not centrally. Maybe I’d broken something? The smile pulled at my lips.

“You think this is funny, bitch?” His voice rang through the silence, the hint of North Yorkshire smothered by a northern harshness, key notes of Middlesbrough I’d never really noticed before.

I said nothing. I couldn’t hear anyone else. There was no other smell here. I was alone with a man I’d walloped. Alone. Strung up like a piece of meat. My only protection was my ability to lash out with my feet, which were at least now untied. I could connect with his face this time, and now he’d spoken I had a fair idea of where to aim. The reprieve Chase had given me by lowering me so I could stand on flat feet was merciful, letting some of the discomfort in my arms and shoulders subside. Just a tiny bit. I could still feel the burn, feel my muscles tearing fibre by tiny fibre.

The cigarette smell was strong now, filling my nostrils as if I was buried in it. And I could taste it. Bitter. Acrid. He didn’t speak again, but I thought I could feel a tingle of warmth right in front of my face. Listening, I strained hard, trying to work out what he would do next. Was he just looking? Just watching? It wouldn’t end there. I was sure of it.

He was moving now. My ears tracked the sound of his steps. Uneven and jagged. Limping around me. I could feel his eyes roaming across me, my skin crawling under my bike suit. The smell cleared a little, just a hint now. He was behind me. And so was his voice.

“I’m gonna make you pay for my knee, bitch. Dougal might think he’s keeping you pristine for whatever he’s got planned. But he doesn’t need to know.”

I cocked my head, following his words. He was talking to himself, as if justifying whatever he had in his mind.

Fingers trailed down over my arse, waiting for a response. When none came, he gripped tightly, burning through the tough fabric, digging his fingers into my leather-clad flesh as hard as he could. The suit gave me some protection from his stinking hands, some protection from him. But not enough.

“You’ve got a tight fucking arse. I’ll give you that. Tighter than your fucking cunt, I’d bet. Bet you’ve been ridden more than the local fucking club girl. Fucking Kings whore, that’s all you are.”

I stared straight ahead into my blindfold, focusing on something else, the soft unevenness of his steps, the scent drifting in front of my face. I was alone here with him, defenceless. And if my temper broke, and I lashed out, I had no means of defending the consequences. Yet, being helpless wasn’t me, and compliant even less.

So, I focused. On the limp. The uneven drag of his steps. One heavy. One weak. A flaw. A reminder that he wasn’t untouchable. The blindfold helped. Hid him. But I could still smell him; smoke, sweat, the sour edge of frustration. It crawled into my throat, catching at the back like I would gag on it. I made myself breathe. Slow. Steady. Quiet.

I could feel him reaching; a sudden tingle of heat, the smell of slightly salty flesh and unwashed hands. The zip on my suit tugged against me, as defiant as me, but then it gave in, the suit opening, his hands moving inside, over the top of me.

My rage bubbled. Boiling point. I swung my head forward, connecting with something heavy, pain radiating through my skull. He grunted, hot breath hitting my face, hands pulling from inside my suit. Footsteps clumped as if he were staggering backwards. Two quick steps. Not far. But enough. I sucked in a breath, filling my lungs, ignoring the scream of the muscles in my shoulders, pulling my bodyweight onto the bounds at my wrists. My shoulder blades shrieked, the scapulae feeling like they would be ripped from my body. I tucked my knees inwards and then kicked them out, focusing on where the heavy grunt and scratch of feet against concrete had come from.

My heels connected first, a sharp signal to my brain that my aim was true, and then I pushed my hips forward, forcing all my weight behind the kick. The man gasped, a surprised cry filling the cold space, and then a thump. Silence. Silence reigned for a moment. No one breathed. No one made a sound. Suspension clung to the cold air. And then he groaned. Long and low, with the tiniest high note of pain. Good. I hope it fucking hurt.

“Fucking see what happens the next time you put your fucking hands on me, cunt,” I yelled, my voice bouncing back at me.

The echo masked his movement, the shuffle of urgent steps catching me by surprise, pain erupting in my jaw, heat filling my face. The cry this time was mine. Involuntary and uncontrolled. I gasped; the movement of my mouth opening sent searing hot agony through my face.

“Fucking bitch!” he spat the words, hitting my face in warm, wet spray.

I felt a whoosh of air before the connection. But there was no time to brace for the impact. My lip stung, turning wet.The force ripped open the scabbed-over split. Hot liquid flowed down my chin. The crack rang loud in my skull, sharp, blooming pain through my jaw, joining with the other side.

My lip throbbed, pulsing in time with my heartbeat, each beat pushing more warmth down my face. Copper filled my mouth, thick and bitter, like I was chewing coins. My teeth ached from the jolt, my jaw screaming, but I locked it tight, squeezing out more blood. He’d drawn blood; that was all. He hadn’t broken me.

But the next blow was to my stomach. A deep, heavy punch, pushing upwards, forcing my diaphragm into my lungs, pushing all the air out in a half gasp, half yelp. I sank against my arms, my shoulders screaming for mercy, my head wheeling, nausea and bile fighting for dominance as I swallowed more blood that invaded my throat.

“Fucking bitch!” He shouted again.

Something struck my left thigh, hitting so hard that it swiped my legs from under me, all my weight now on my wrists, and it felt like my shoulder blades were being torn from my back. Someone groaned, a girl’s voice. Mine. Uncontrolled. The strike came again, chopping at the same leg. Pain. But then something else. Numbness. Dull thudding numbness.

“You like it fucking rough, don’t you, bitch?” His hand grabbed my face, breath hot against me.

My brain swirled, confused, like I was spinning on a Waltzer at the Hoppings in the middle of Newcastle’s Town Moor. I could almost see the neon flashing lights.

“Answer me, bitch.”

He slapped my face again. It wasn’t hard, but over already bruised and split skin it sent another wave of fiery pain through my jaw, jolting in my stomach, anger reigniting.

“Fuck off, cunt!” I spat towards him, knowing that I sprayed him with red splatter.

He let go, just for a moment. A pause. A rustle of clothes and I suspected he wiped his ugly fucking face.

“Fucking bitch,” he muttered, his voice slightly muffled. “You think you’re so fucking clever.” He forced the words out through his gritted teeth. I’d knock them fucking out if I got half a chance.