Page 57 of Jazz

“At the care home?”

Baz stared at him like he was thick, and then, thinking better of voicing that opinion, continued.

“Aye. Four of them on bikes. Patches. All of that.”

“What did they want?”

“Dunno. I drove straight back home.”

“You didn’t ask them?”

Baz’s brow furrowed. “No. Why would they be there tonight unless they were looking for you?”

“So, you came straight back to warn me?” Chase asked.

“Yeah, I need you two gone. If they find you here with me. With us….”

“I get it, Baz. Did they follow you?”

Baz shrugged.

“Fuck.” Chase scrubbed a hand over his jaw, casting a glance nervously over his shoulder to where I sat. “Thanks, Baz.”

“I don’t know how long you’ve got, Chase. They could be here any minute.”

I watched Chase bob his head, nodding, saying nothing and then pushing the door back into the frame.

“Get dressed. We need to go.”

“Heard that. Slight problem of clothes though.”

The light hanging from the frilly light shade in the centre of the room flipped on. That dull orange glow from an exhausted light bulb returned.

“Stand up,” Chase ordered, his voice rough, filled with command.

Something inside told me not to argue. Not just now, and I swung my legs from under the covers, a shiver chasing down my spine at the first hint of the cold. Chase’s gaze swept over my body, his eyes darting left and right. And then he nodded, reaching into the wardrobe on one side of the room.

“Put these on,” he instructed, handing me a pair of Levi jeans and a black hooded jumper.

“Bit big, don’t you think?” I stared into the waistband at the label with the number thirty-two written on it.

“It’s those or you ride naked. At least you’ll have a patch on your back.”

“Fuck you,” I spat, the anger rising from almost nowhere.

A shadow cast across his face, deep, dangerous, and his hand shot out, too quick for me to move back. It caught in my hair, yanking my head backwards so that my eyes met his.

“You have, Jazz,” his voice was all rumble and control. “Now if you want any chance of getting home to your Kings, I need you to put some fucking clothes on.”

Fuck this Stockholm Syndrome. Every growl, every rumble, every heavy tone of his voice, it dragged heat up my neck and clouded my judgement. Each syllable rolled from his throat like smoke and gravel, dark and deliberate, and my body reacted before my brain had the chance to catch up. And that reaction was to comply, like some sort of fucked up little dog at its master’s feet.

His eyes raked down my body one last time, slowing at my tits, like he might just take a bite out of me, and then tearing away, his hand loosening in my hair.

“Get those clothes on.”

*****

The cold seeped through the fabric of the sweater. The only place warm was under my helmet, and that felt like I was being slowly suffocated by Chase’s scent. Even when I opened the visor, it was still as strong, spice and wood. Expensive. Rich. And now it felt like I was drowning in it. The roar of the engine, the vibration between my legs, the smell of him, and the deep throbbing frustration that it wasn’t me taking those corners or controlling that speed.