Page 41 of Jazz
Dougal smiled into his drink.
The fucking tattoo. Fuck. It had been my idea. They were going to tattoo the Rats’ emblem onto her back.
“Better go see if they need a hand then.” I tried to keep my voice steady. “She’s a fucking wild bitch, that one. Don’t need any more injured Rats.”
Dougal turned, his eyes meeting mine. Could he see right through me? Could he tell what was going through my mind? The pause seemed to stretch for minutes. Sweat prickled on the palms of my hands.
“Aye. I don’t want any of those morons killing her if the shit hits the fan. Grim will have a fucking coronary. Make sure the only thing they stick in her is ink.”
Dougal turned around, lifting the pint to his lips again.
Chapter Twenty Two
I heard the voices before the footsteps. Loud. Boisterous. Obviously not Chase. I knew he wasn’t with them. It wasn’t just the pitch of the noise; it was the way it carried. His voice always moved like a blade. Low. Measured. Cutting through the air like it was slicing out a space just for itself. This was different. Messier. Full of swagger and dangerous excitement. Hurried steps. Lots of them. A stampede up the corridor outside. Echoing.
A clunk. A metallic rattle. Even the sound of the key in the lock was different. Not Chase’s smooth, deliberate turn, but a clumsy jab, bouncing off the plate, metal scraping against metal until it found its slot. The teeth grated, grinding in the lock, loud in the silence. I held my breath, counting the seconds between the first twist and the final heavy clunk of the bolt shifting.
“Fuck,” someone spat. “Key doesn’t work.”
“Fucking kick it then, fuckwit.”
The door rattled with the first blast of a foot, stuttering but holding. Shit. Another bang, but the door held. And now I held my breath, tension grabbing me around the throat. Another bang. A splinter of wood. With each blow, it yielded. And then it clattered, wood screaming, someone falling forwards.
And now they spilled in. I tried to count the feet, but there were too many. Too many confusing footsteps. The room was filled with scents. Beer. Cheap deodorant. Fading aftershave. Nothing familiar. Not like Chase’s. And then sweat, warm and clinging on someone, like it had been trapped under leather for too many hours.
My stomach turned with the memory of Chase. He’d brought me food this morning, sliding it under my blindfolded world like he was doing me a favour. Bread, cheese, a bottle of water. His voice low, telling me to eat. Then walking out again, leaving me still tied, still blindfolded.
And now the world exploded. Voices, all at once. Rough, loud, half-laughing, half-arguing. The kind of drunk noise that didn’t care how far it carried, rolling over me in waves. The shift was a shock to the system after hours of nothing but the sound of my own breathing, my own thoughts gnawing away at me. It was chaotic, a battering ram against my skull, every word blurringinto the next. I couldn’t sort through the voices. Couldn’t pick out an ounce of familiarity, my senses overloaded.
The footsteps scuffed the floor as if they owned it. Heavy boots on not quite compliant legs. One of them laughed, a short, barking noise that set my teeth on edge. Another shouted something I couldn’t quite catch, and the words tumbled over each other, blurring into a drunken slur. They were hyped, like lads on a night out, like hyenas sniffing blood.
I shifted against the ropes automatically, my wrists sending sharp warnings through my nerves. The cords were rougher now, or maybe my skin was just raw enough to feel every thread. My shoulders burned, the joints stiff and swollen from too long bound at angles my body wasn’t built for. I clenched my hands into fists, trying to will some strength back into them, but they only trembled weakly.
The voices moved closer.
“Where we doing this then, Skinny?”
Fuck. Skinny. And no Chase to protect me from him.
“Just on the bed. We’ll just turn her over.”
Those words. The threat. My stomach tumbled right down to my ankles, my whole body stiffening.
I forced myself to count the inhales. One. Two. Three. Hold it. Four. Don’t let fear win. If it did, it would pin me down worse than the ropes. Worse than these men.
Something clinked. Bottles knocking against each other maybe, or a belt buckle hitting metal. Panic was rising in my chest. Boots shuffled, the sound spreading out as if they were circling. My heartbeat turned erratic, beating against my ribs in a frantic staccato.
I thought of Chase again, the way he’d stood too close this morning, the heat rolling off his body, his hand brushing mine as he gave me the food. Not a rescue. Just a reprieve. For what? For them? For this? My mouth went dry. My stomach rumbled, half hunger, half nausea.
Hands closed around my ankles, fingers digging into my skin. I kicked out, but my legs just bobbled, not enough slack in the ropes to get much movement. Chuckles. They would fucking laugh now that there was no way I could land a kick. They wouldn’t have been fucking laughing if these legs were free. Fingers gripped my forearms now as well. Something cut the rope with a dull pop.
“Get the fuck off me,” I growled, throwing my weight around as chaotically as I could.
“Flip her over, lads, before she clobbers someone.” Skinny’s voice. How I hated the fucking sound of it.
I fought harder, my whole-body writhing under their hands. Fighting with everything I had left. Because whatever they were going to do to me, I was going to fight my way out of it. But suddenly I was flattened, face down on the bed, inhaling lungfuls of dirty, rotting mattress as my face was shoved hard into it. They yanked at my arms, securing them back to the headboard. Anchoring my feet once more.
The click of the knife was familiar. Almost the same as Chase’s, but it wasn’t his; the tone wasn’t as deep. Pressure tugged at my neck, and I tried to shift underneath it, squirming as much as this new position of restraint would allow.