Page 49 of Jazz
“Good. We need a shower too.”
“Only got enough hot water for one. Unless you double up.”
The stairs groaned and creaked under our combined weight, to the point I wasn’t sure whether one of us would fall completely through or trip to our deaths on the chunks of carpet that had come loose.
Baz pushed the door open, flicking a switch on the left as he stepped into the room. It was like something from a Pulp song, woodchip wallpaper covering the entirety of the walls and the ceiling. It had been painted white at one time but was now marred with grime and water stains.
“Bathroom next door,” Baz grunted, rummaging around in a cupboard opposite the bed and pulling out some towels. “Don’t leave it running too long or it’ll use the hot water up quicker.”
He looked at us again, long and hard, as if he wanted to say something but changed his mind, shaking his head as he left us alone.
When I turned, she was sat on the bed. My hoodie swamped her like she was wearing a tent. Her face tilted up at me. I recognised the lips, plush and full, but chapped now with dehydration and cold. Her cheekbones seemed more prominent, weight dropping off her face from days of starvation. But it was the eyes that burned up at me. Rich, dark brown, partially hidden by the longest eyelashes I’d ever seen. And deep inside them, I should be seeing fear, pain, defeat. But there was none of this. Only something I couldn’t quite describe. Defiance for definite, burning as bright as the fucking moon out there. Yet there was something else. Resilience? Radiance? And just a hint of exhaustion. Like she couldn’t wait to close her eyes and go to sleep but was too scared to.
“Chase?” Her voice was soft. Pushing to her feet. “I need that shower. Desperately.”
“Oh. Right. Yeah,” I said, realising I’d been staring at her silently. Saying nothing. Just looking like a psycho. “You need a hand?”
She tilted her head inquisitively.
“Reckon I can handle it.”
I stepped away holding out one of the towels, watching her walk slowly past me with each laboured stride. If I couldn’t have seen into those beautiful eyes, seen that hint of rebelliousness, I would have felt sorry for her. She might have looked broken in that instant, as she walked away on wobbly legs, but those eyes told me the opposite. They told me there was much more fight left in her, no matter what her body thought.
In the other room I heard the shower turn on, water splattering down the walls. The sound was relaxing, the gentle rhythm threatening me with sleep. And fuck how I could sleep for a week right now. My jaw ached from where Shade had tried to choke me, his forearm clamped against my face as I fought against the choke hold. I pulled off a boot, letting it fall to the floor with a soft thud. Underneath the bedroom the TV babbled in dull tones. Not loud enough to make out, but loud enough to hear. I yanked at the other boot.
A clatter rang out around the house. A bang against the wall. My heart raced, my brain frantically scrambling to make out the noise.
Jazz.
Chapter Twenty Six
Behind me, the shower ran. It spluttered at first, coughing like a smoker who’d just woken up. Pipes full of air locks. I stared at the woman in the mirror. The woman I didn’t recognise. Bruises mottled my face. A murky purple bruise sat under my left eye, my left eyebrow split, dry blood forming an ugly bulge just off centre. My lip was swollen, making my lower one asymmetrical. Bruising crept across the right-hand side of my jaw, an undertone of yellow over a more recent blue.
I teased the hair from my plait. Grease and dirt sticking it to my head. My skin was sticky and grimy, and my leather trousers were so stuck to my legs that they were trying to become one with me. I yanked them down, balancing against the sink as I wrestled with the last leg.
Under Chase’s hoodie, I wore nothing. My leather bike jacket had been left in tatters on the bed of my cell. My bra and top with it. The mirror reflected the bruises back at me. Marbled skin, with the imprint of my ribs pale against the bruising of my side. I stroked down it with my fingers, wincing under my own touch. Then I turned, glancing over my shoulder at the monstrosity on my back.
The skin around the fresh ink was angry, raised, raw, and swollen. The lines of the tattoo were jagged where they’d gone too deep, scabbing already, the shape of the rat crude and cruelly deliberate, its eyes scarlet with anger. The same anger I could feel welling in my chest. Black ink bled into the red of broken skin, a brand rather than art, ownership carved into me by men who wanted to mark what they’d taken. My stomach twisted as I stared, bile burning at the back of my throat. I pressed my palms into the cabinet to my side to steady myself, but the sight didn’t fade. It felt like the thing was alive, crawling beneath my skin, every pulse of my heartbeat sending a sting through the tender flesh.
A fuse lit in my stomach. Anger sizzling, burning, creeping closer, the seconds slowing. Then it hit, ten pounds of TNT exploding behind my ribs, shrapnel made of everything they’d done to me.
I wanted to claw it off. To rip at the skin until it was gone, until there was nothing left of them on me. Stepping into the shower, I turned up the dial, steaming hot water hitting my skin,a new wave of pain searing through my back, sharp enough to make my knees buckle. The bastard had dug deep, pressing too far, again and again. He’d enjoyed hearing me flinch, enjoyed the sound of the machine eating into my flesh, and my body tensing under his needle. It got him off.
My fingernails scratched at my back, like the combination of hellishly hot water and my own nails would peel it away. But all it did was burn harder. Hurt harder.
Steam filled the room. Hot. Stifling. Suffocating. The shower swirled, spinning. My heart racing against my rib cage, desperate to escape. I wobbled, staggering backwards against the wall. For a minute it held me up. Just for a moment. Then I slipped down the wet tile, clattering onto the floor.
Shadows and darkness rushed at me all at once. Chaos exploded behind my eyes. I tried to push back to my feet, but the message wasn’t getting to my brain, stuck somewhere else, trying to break free from the same black cage.
Did I hear a knock? I couldn’t tell. And I couldn’t call out. The sound came again, somewhere in the distance. Faint, like me.
Then fingers. Wrapping round my arms, an arm round my waist. Pulling me onto my feet. My back touched the tile again. A hand in my stomach now, propping me up.
“Jazz, what happened?” His voice was thick. Honey poured over gravel. Sweet. Rough. Worried.
I opened my mouth. A noise came out. But if it made sense to Chase, it didn’t to me. I shook my head, desperately trying to grasp onto something.
“Shit, this is hot.”