Page 61 of Jazz

“Fuck. How? What happened?”

I glanced across at Jazz, whose gaze had turned from murderous to interested.

“Had a fight with a twenty-six tonne truck.” Those words were still hard to say out loud, and I took a big gulp of the freezing vodka to wash it down.

“Mikey was an excellent rider. Better than you, Charlie. He didn’t just fall under a fucking truck.”

I shook my head.

“We were chasing the Kings. The Hand are involved with the Rats now. We’re supposed to be patched over, though not sure whether that’ll happen now.” I stole a look at Jazz, and Gina followed, understanding. “We were all riding fast, but we had the fuckers pinned in.”

Jazz tensed beside me, bringing the glass of amber liquid to her mouth again and taking a huge gulp. She was concentrating on the burn to stop her kicking off. I could see it.

“It was tight. Really tight. We were on the A66. It was busy. Someone darted out just as the truck was coming. The engine bars hit Mike and he wobbled. He had nowhere to go. It wasn’t an accident. The fucker waited until he was right alongside him and then smashed into the side of Mikey. The Kings killed him.”

Around me the room went cold, bodies stiffening. And no one spoke. Not for a while.

“And that’s why you took me?” Jazz asked, with the tiniest of wavers in her voice.

“You were a King. You were with them.”

“I was on a fucking Hayabusa.”

“Oh, she rides too? Now I get it.”

Both of us stared at Gina. A warning to shut the fuck up right now.

“We thought nothing of it. Thought the Kings had a change of heart over their bike policy. We’d heard they were trying to recruit as many as they could.”

“Heard?”

“Yeah. We’ve got our sources. I didn’t take you, Jazz. That wasn’t me. The front riders just followed you. It was Skinny and Shade who ran you off the road. You were easy pickings on your own. No one knew you were a woman. I didn’t know you were a woman. Not until they dragged you out that van.”

The room went quiet. No one spoke. The only movement was Gina sitting back down on her velvet throne.

“To Mikey.” She said in a low voice, holding her glass up towards the centre of the room.

“Mikey,” I repeated, my eyes sinking into the vodka and melting ice in my hand.

Chapter Thirty Two

“There’s a room at the top, Charlie. Number eight. You’ll remember where you’re going, won’t you?” the woman asked, pulling her nightgown around her as she stood up.

Her voice was fucking annoying me. All fake sultry, covering up that Smoggie accent that was hidden underneath. And the way she looked at him. And called him Charlie. I didn’t know that was his name. I’d never asked. And now I was mad I’d never fucking asked, and I had to learn from her. Madamfucking Gina. Because that’s where we were. And that was what she was.

The air smelled faintly of perfume and money. A rich, heady mix of alcohol, polished wood, and something decadent enough to make you feel out of place just breathing it in. Incense or some sort of oil burning somewhere. Probably to hide the smell of stale sex, smoke and cannabis. Not that I could smell any weed, not like in Baz’s house, but it would be here. I was sure of it.

Chase guided me out of the lounge, past the closed doors. At first there were no numbers, but as we moved further back, to where the next set of stairs led to the next floor up, I could see the little brass digits nailed into the wood. One, two. It was like a hotel, and we were staying in room eight. I really hoped the bedding was clean.

And now I knew where I was, I couldn’t not notice. The bumps and bangs. The grunts and groans. And it seemed to get louder the higher up we got. Room eight was on the third floor. Right at the back in the attic. And up here, it was noisy. Someone shouted, a man’s voice.

“Fucking bitch! Dirty. Fucking. Bitch.”

“She ok?”

Chase glanced up at the door and then back at me.

“Yeah. She’s good.”