Page 47 of Jazz

The tattooist. The man forcing the Rat’s patch into my skin. Digging that fucking tattoo gun in far deeper than it was supposed to go. He’d wanted to hear me scream. To beg him to stop. I gave him neither.

Any choice I thought I had was gone in a second. I rammed the helmet onto my head, grabbing at the hand that Chase held out for me. We were racing forwards before my arse even hit the seat, bits of loose gravel kicking out behind us as we sped away.

I closed my eyes. The first hit of air was a shock. Cold and sharp, a slap that tore through the thin fabric at my throat. Then came the rhythm. The steady, pulsing growl of the engine beneath us. The vibrations travelled up through my legs, through my chest, until my heartbeat began to fall into sync with it. My hands clutched at Chase. The smell of smoke and oil and wind pulling me somewhere I’d forgotten I could go.

The Yamaha roared into the night, a blur of black and noise slicing through the silence like freedom itself. Every gear shift pushed me back against him, and I felt alive in a way thathurt. My body was still raw, my skin still burning from where they’d held me down, but the road didn’t care. Out here, it was just the hum of the engine and the rush of wind screaming past my ears. No walls. No ropes. No darkness. Just the endless stretch of tarmac swallowing the miles beneath us.

For a moment, I was weightless. Floating somewhere between terror and peace. The cold air bit at my cheeks, but it was real, and that was enough. This was what freedom felt like. The kind that didn’t need words, didn’t need promises. Just movement. Just speed. I could breathe again.

But freedom was a lie, wasn’t it? My stomach dropped as the lights of Middlesbrough glimmered in the distance. Because I knew the truth. The road didn’t end with safety. Not for me. Not yet. The Kings were the only thing that could keep the Rats from finishing what they’d started, and the Kings were the very thing I’d been running from. The thought twisted sharp in my chest.

I leaned closer to Chase, the cold tearing at my tears before they could fall. The Yamaha surged faster, chasing the horizon. My happy place. My prison. My escape. All at once.

Chapter Twenty Five

The Yamaha screamed beneath us, feral and desperate to outrun the world. I twisted the throttle harder, the roar deepening until it felt like the engine was dragging fire straight through my veins. I didn’t know where I was going. Didn’t matter. All I knew was that I couldn’t stop. Couldn’t let them catch us.

Sporadic headlights blurred past in streaks of white and gold. My mind was a blur too, all jagged edges and noise. I’d just signed my own death warrant back there. Every rule broken,every brother I’d turned my back on. They’d never forgive that. Not for her. Especially not for her.

If they caught me, I wouldn’t even make it off the bike before they put me down. I knew how that went. You didn’t get second chances in the Rats. Loyalty was everything, and I’d just spat in their faces.

I leaned into a turn too hard, tyres skidding for a fraction of a second before biting back into the tarmac. My heart was thundering, not just from the speed but from the clarity that came with it. This was the point of no return. There was no crawling back to the clubhouse, no talking my way out. My patch was as good as burnt.

Didn’t matter. Not now. Not with her pressed against my back, her arms locked around me like I was the last solid thing in her world. The thought made something in my chest twist and settle all at once.

Getting her safe. That was all that mattered.

The road stretched on ahead, empty, open. Streetlights gave way to the black sprawl of countryside. Fields, hedgerows, the odd glint of a farmhouse light miles off. I couldn’t go home. Couldn’t risk the shop and my apartment. They’d check there first, and the Kings would too once word got out. Every set of eyes in Middlesbrough would be looking for us before sunrise.

She shifted slightly behind me, the weight of her small movements grounding me more than the road ever could. I could feel the tremor in her arms, the cold biting through both of us. She was running on nothing. No food, no rest, just survival. And I’d dragged her back into the night.

But it was better than the alternative. Better than what those bastards had planned. My brothers.

I dropped my gaze for a second, just long enough to see her hands knotted in the folds of my t-shirt, and then looked back up at the road. The wind tore the air from my lungs. I could taste the exhaust, the cold metal tang of it biting at the back of my throat. And the freezing air clinging to my skin.

I didn’t have a plan. I needed one, fast. The Kings’ compound was too obvious. Every biker on the north side would know the route there. The Rats would expect me to take her straight home to her brother. Fuck, if I were in their boots, I’d block the A-roads in an instant. Muster patrols. Cut off as many routes north as I could.

No. I couldn’t go there. Not yet.

The lights of Middlesbrough flickered again on the horizon, dull orange glow against the night. We couldn’t stay in the open, not for long. I slowed the Yamaha slightly, mind spinning through options. Safe houses, garages, old contacts. New fucking contacts.

Baz fucking Winspear.

The sort of bloke that kept his blinds closed and his head down. The man too scared to say no to us. And more importantly, the sort the Rats never gave a shit about unless he owed them.

They wouldn’t look twice at his place. They’d be too busy looking for the traitor who took out four of their brothers.

The thought solidified in my head like concrete. I’d stashed the bloke’s address in my memory without even meaning to, always thinking it might come in handy one day. Tonight, it was going to save our skins at least for a day or two. It would give me time to think. To plan properly. And fuck did I need to stop acting on fucking impulse.

I took the next junction sharply, the back wheel kicking out before catching again. Jazz’s arms tightened around me instantly, her helmet knocking gently against the back of my shoulder.

“It’s alright,” I muttered, not sure if she could even hear me over the engine. “I’ve got you.”

The words came out rough, gravelly. Not a promise, but close enough to one that it made my throat tighten.

Every time I slowed, the weight of what I’d done pressed harder on my chest. Skinny’s face, the blood, the noise. It all replayed in my head. I clenched the throttle tighter. Couldn’t think about that now. Couldn’t think about the cost.

The town blurred past in fragments; countryside gone now that I’d turned back. Closed pubs. Empty streets. Neon signs flickering like dying fireflies. The Yamaha’s headlight carved a thin line of silver across the cracked tarmac. Hemlington had been something once. A place where pay checks bought driveways and front lawns, not pawned rings and boarded windows. The ghosts of better days lingered in the peeling paint and half-collapsed fences, a suburb that had outlived its promise.