Page 44 of Jazz

“Howay, man, Jonno,” the club tattooist complained from the crumpled heap in front of me.

Fucking Jonno had done me a favour. I drove my toe into the tattooist’s stomach, putting all my weight behind it. Ignoring the crackling complaint of my kneecap, and going again and again, until I felt the pop of something under my toe.

“Fucking stay down, Shade.” I added another boot into that bottom rib.

Jonno was on his feet, circling me. The smoke had cleared now, only a thin film left in the air. And now things had turned, the overhead lights glinting on the blade of the knife he’d pulled. He took a step towards me, and I backed up, keeping the same distance between us.

“Jonno,” I warned. “You really don’t want to fucking go there.”

His eyes darted to me, then over my left shoulder. Three left.

And then he charged, knife outstretched. I’d predicted the move, as he swiped his hand then pulled it back, no real intention to stab me. Just drive me backwards into the brother waiting behind. It was too obvious, his eyes glancing to my left again. I saw the shape too, in my peripheral vision. I was already grabbing for him as he ran at my shoulder. The lapel of his jacket was easy to catch, momentum doing the rest of the work, and he flew over my shoulder into Jonno.

“Fuck!” Jonno cried out. “Fuck!”

The younger man I’d just thrown glanced down, his hands clasping something in his stomach. Any noise in that room was sucked out like a vacuum. Everyone staring.

“Ah, fuck!” Jonno’s voice wobbled as he put his hands on his head, turning around.

“You.” I pointed at the prospect standing watching, a mask of horror on a pale face.

“Get him to a fucking hospital.”

“The…the girl.” He stammered.

“She’s fucking mine. Now get the fuck out of here before I stick one in your gut too.”

I pulled my knife from my pocket, hitting the button and flicking the blade out. The prospect went from pale to grey.

“Go on. Off you fuck.”

I sliced through the rope on her ankles.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Jonno whispered in the corner.

And now there was one. And he was no threat.

Chapter Twenty Four

The air changed first. The thick chemical sting of ink and blood split open by something new. Sharp. Familiar.

Someone shouted. Then another. Voices overlapping, panicked, colliding with each other. The weight on my back shifted. One of them let go. For half a second, I thought maybe it was over, that they’d finished scraping that rat into my skin. But then the pressure returned harder, a hand pressing down on my shoulder, pinning me into the filthy mattress. I tasted rust and dust; the stink of sweat soaked into the foam. My armsached where the ropes bit into them, the rough burn of it cutting deeper every time I twisted or tensed. Pain everywhere. In my wrists, in my ankles, my limbs like lumps of lead. But worse in my back. The skin was scratched raw. There’d been no care taken, no rest, just the punishment of the tattoo gun over and over like it was flaying the skin right off my back.

The hiss grew louder. Closer. A shout. Skinny.

“Knew you were a fucking traitor….”

A grunt and a yell. Then a thud. My stomach twisted, the sound of boots moving fast, hitting walls, furniture. The vibration ran through the bedframe into my ribs. I could hear my own breath, short and sharp, the blindfold glued to my face, wet with sweat and tears.

And then, that smell again. Mint. Clean. A trace of warm spice cutting through the rot. My heart tripped. Chase. I knew it before my brain caught up, before logic could try to tell me I was wrong. I could feel the ghost of his scent against the back of my throat. He was here. Somewhere in the chaos.

Someone fell. Close enough that the bed bounced under me. Another crash, metal against bone. And another shout. My heart hammered so hard it hurt, every beat vibrating through my ribs, through the ropes. The air was full of dust and smoke now, thick enough to taste and my heavy breaths sucked too much of it in. I coughed, trying to twist my head away from the mattress.

I couldn’t see. I couldn’t move. Just listen. And imagine.

I pictured it all in flashes. Shapes of bodies moving through fog, fists connecting, blood spattering. Maybe Chase was winning. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe this was him dying. Or maybe he’d walked in, seen me, and decided I wasn’t worth the trouble. Or the Kings? Had they finally found me? I wanted toshout out. Scream for my brother, but another lungful putrid air had me gagging into the dirty mattress.

A sick sound cut through the noise. A crunch. Something breaking. Then another shout. I tried to count how many voices were left, but they blurred together. The air was thick with fear, sharp and sour. My fear.