Page 58 of Jazz
In front of me, between my legs, he sat. The hood of Baz’s jumper was pulled up over his head, and he leaned down low over the tank, concentration fixed on the road. We’d already driven out to the nearest countryside and then back into town, and I’d seen nothing in his mirrors, only the double spot of car headlights behind us.
Now, I was lost. Every street seemed the same, the only variance the size of the houses, road names passing by in a streak, too quickly to read. But there was no mistaking the town centre. The town crept up on us like a hangover, grey, grim, andunrelenting. Terraces huddled tight together, bricks blackened by decades of soot and indifference. Windows boarded, curtains yellowed, doorframes swollen from damp and neglect. Graffiti marked the walls like bruises, the scrawled tags of kids who’d already given up on being anything else. We flew past them, the Yamaha’s growl echoing through streets that had forgotten what silence sounded like.
Groups lingered on corners. Lads in puffer jackets with glassy eyes, bottles of cider in one hand and cans of Monster in the other, the glow of a cheap vape lighting their faces in sickly blue. A woman in a parka pushed a buggy with one wheel missing, her eyes fixed on the pavement, not daring to meet anyone else’s, hurrying through the night. The air held the smell of chip fat and garlic, and mixing with exhaust fumes, it coated the back of my throat, an unwelcome aftertaste. Chase leaned forward, and the bike tilted with him, cutting through the lights and noise like we didn’t belong to it.
The streets thickened the closer we got to the centre. The terraces thinned out, giving way to tall, narrow buildings, three, maybe four storeys high, their shopfronts grimy beneath peeling signage. Off-licences, pawn shops, vape stores, and takeaways with flickering neon lights advertising promises no one believed anymore. Behind the steamed-up glass of a kebab shop, a man in a hairnet stared blankly at a TV in the corner, the glow washing over his face like a cheap halo.
Above the shops, the windows of the flats were cracked open, curtains fluttering weakly in the exhaust fumes. The Yamaha’s engine echoed off the brickwork, bouncing between the narrow rows of storefronts, louder and more alive than anything else on the street. We passed shuttered pubs with broken letters on the signs, betting shops with their doorsstill open, and a pharmacy with a handwritten “CLOSED” sign curling in the window. Middlesbrough’s heart, if it still had one, was running on fumes.
And then the bike slowed, Chase’s head tilted to the right, scanning each shop front like he was looking for something. He braked suddenly; the bike responded instantly, and my weight fell against his back. But he didn’t flinch, only stared off to the right at a closed-up shop, with a gold light glowing in the little square window of the door next to it.
Guiding the bike to the other side of the street, Chase half-walked it into place, kicking out the stand and turning off the engine. He pushed his hood down and watched the door, like he was expecting someone to come out. But no one came.
“Where are we?” I asked, my voice muffled behind the padding of Chase’s helmet.
“Wondering whether an old friend can help me out.”
Chase sat still, and I waited with him, but I wasn’t sure what we were waiting for. Seconds passed. The door didn’t open, and Chase didn’t move. The cold drew in around us, soaking through the jumper, not just seeping. The shiver caught me by surprise, and I shuddered.
“You know…you could just knock?”
“Not sure I’m ready to face her.”
“Her, huh?” A pang of something sharp hit my chest, swelling and expanding uncontrollably. “Well, I’m ready to get off this street.”
Cars passed at the end, a steady stream of traffic on the main road. And we weren’t exactly discreet. One with a helmet, another without. I swung my leg over the back of the bike,moving quickly. Chase grabbed for me as I passed him, fingers slipping off my arm where I shrugged him free. The knock roared in the sleepy street, and I didn’t bother to look around to see who was now behind their curtains, staring down at us.
Nothing happened for a few minutes. No hint of footsteps, no change in lighting. But then I heard the rattle of a door chain, the scrape of a bolt, and then another bolt at the bottom of the door and finally the turn of a lock. The place sounded like it was trussed up heavier than fucking Fort Knox.
But when she stepped forward, her eyes searching me quizzically, that swelling in my chest exploded. She wore a red silk dressing gown, and her long dark hair fell in natural curves. She was heavily made up, false eyelashes, bright eyeshadow, the most groomed eyebrows I’d ever seen. And utterly stunning.
This was her. Whoever she was. I turned to look at Chase. He wore a lop-sided grin, like a mischievous boy, his eyes aflame but a hint of pink on his cheeks, an unusual bashfulness.
“Charlie?”
Not Chase. Charlie. I stared at him. His real name? I’d never thought to ask it.
He grinned now, bright and full. I’d never seen him do that either. There was always a smirk, a hint. A crinkle of the eyes but never a smile like that. It lit up his face, his skin pulling across his cheekbones, and now he was even more handsome than I had ever seen. The pressure in my chest built. I knew what it was. Knew what I was feeling. Jealous of the way my kidnapper was looking at another woman. Captivity had me fucked.
Chapter Thirty One
When she stood in that doorway, she looked barely any different from when I first set eyes on her. Cloaked in red, the heavy makeup. Her eyes were dark and rich, just like Jazz. Her hair almost the same, long and luscious. Tonight, it fell over her shoulders in waves. She was an older version. Nineteen years my senior.
Her mouth widened into that smile, lips stained dark red, teeth overly white and unnaturally straight. That was new. Her teeth used to be crooked, and her canines protruded just a little.The bulge of her chest was new too. She’d had smaller tits when I knew her last. Business must be good these days.
“Charlie?” she asked, but she knew who I was the moment she opened the door. The question wasn’t ‘is that you?’ It was ‘why are you here?’
“Gina. Been a while.”
She didn’t look twice at Jazz as she rushed over the threshold in bare feet, wrapping her arms around me, her tits pressed against me like two over-inflated kids’ balls.
“Did not expect this tonight,” she spoke into my ear, not letting go of my neck.
Someone coughed in the doorway.
“What are you doing here, Charlie?” she asked, pulling away, her eyes washing over my face, like she was remembering every bit of me.
“Need a place to lie low for a few days.”