Page 33 of Jazz

And now I felt guilty. Guilty for upsetting the only person who might be my ally, even though he was as much responsible for the position I was in as any of them.

I tried to push the thought away, to concentrate on the anger I should feel for him. To find that anger from somewhere. But every time I smelt him, it diffused the heat in my head, redirecting it to my chest.

So now I had Stockholm syndrome. Fucking brilliant.

Fingers slid over my wrists. Gentle and rough all at once. The contradiction as confusing as it was something else. The angry tempo of my heart stuttered, another rhythm taking its place, the same pace but totally different. Behind the blindfold, I squeezed my eyes shut, concentrated on my breathing. Not that touch.

“Jazz, what have you done? These are a mess,” his voice was a low purr. It should have been soothing. It wasn’t. It was all kinds of something else.

I was going mad. The fear, the pain, exhaustion. All of it was making me hallucinate. Making me think this was something it wasn’t. This was captivity. By a club that wanted to see the Kings burn, and I was their effigy for it.

I winced now as he pulled the rope a little. A burning, chafing pain infecting a nerve and travelling down my arm. Concentrate on that. Not on the feel of his fingers, or that woody, spicy scent of the man who always smelt clean.

“This is going to need another clean.”

“No,” I breathed. “I’m fine; leave it.”

My voice was sharp. I didn’t have to see him to know he’d recoiled slightly. There was a sudden stillness around us.

“Jazz,” he started after a breath.

“Fuck off. Don’t come at me with that fucking fake concern. Leave it to fester. Why does it matter to you anyway?”

“Because it does.”

“Guilt?”

He paused, just for a second.

“Yes.”

“Then get me the fuck out of here, Chase. Then you’ll not feel guilty anymore.”

The touch on my forehead made me jump, and I hissed, moving the rope at my raw wrists, pulling against my bruised, battered shoulders. But his fingers didn’t stop, pushing the hair off my forehead.

Swallowing, I tried something else.

“I need the toilet, Chase. And a drink. Can you at least help me with that?”

The bed shifted, like he’d just got up off the side. For a heartbeat there was nothing but the sound of my breathing, shallow and fast. Then came the click. Sharp, metallic, unmistakable. Flick knife. Every muscle in me locked, every nerve ending poised.

I’d misjudged him. Misjudged this. All this time, the contradicting gentleness, the steady hands, the scent I’d learnedas his. Had I pushed too far? My stomach rolled. The air around me shrank, heavy with the smell of metal, a thick iron smell and something cleaner, more surgical. And now, his aftershave spiked. Sharper, like pepper and smoke. Leaning over me.

“Chase?” The words slipped out, my voice small.

I tried to listen past the hammering of my heart. But all I could hear was the knife’s joint settling into place, that small mechanical finality. The blindfold turned the darkness into something alive, pressing close.

Somewhere inside me, a small voice still whispered that he wasn’t like the others. That the knife might not be for me. But that voice was drowning under the roar of fear. I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms, bracing myself for a pain I couldn’t see coming, hating myself for having believed, just for a second, that he might be different.

The sound wasn’t what I expected. A deep, fibrous pop. Like a taut muscle tearing, but it wasn’t my muscle. No pain. Only relief. The rope gave all at once, the strands splitting with a muted crackle that vibrated up my arms. Then my wrists sprang forward, no longer pinned to cold metal.

Pins and needles roared through my hands, blood surging, pumping fiery hot liquid fire through my veins. The sudden weightlessness made me dizzy, like I was falling off the hook all over again. And that stupid, pitiful gasp slipped out again.

I followed the slight thud of his steps, moving from my head to my feet. Then the same deep pop. The same sudden weightlessness. My feet sprang free.

Arms scooped under me. Careful. Strong. Guiding me upright.

“Chase?” I asked again.