Page 62 of Jazz

“How’d you know?”

“Up there,” he pointed, and my eyes followed. “There’s a light, and a panic button. The girls get in bother; they hit the panic button from the inside. The light goes off and an alarm downstairs.”

“And you know that how?”

“Because I installed them.”

The adjacent room echoed with grunts. Deep voices. More than one. I paused at the door, my eyes scanning up to the brass number seven. The hand in the small of my back made me jolt, the gasp slipping out before I had time to stop it.

“Sorry, Jazz,” he mumbled in that low voice, the noise vibrating through me, mixing with the lust filled grunts and noises from the room I stood at the front of. All of it confusing my body. My flight senses were on edge, heightened, unsure what sort of fresh hell I’d just walked into. “Come on, Tiger. Ours is the next room; let’s get away from this lot.”

I didn’t know what I expected number eight to look like. But it wasn’t like that. Padded red velvet swallowed the walls, thick and soft-looking, like a really cosy cell. A four-poster bed sat in the centre, black wood polished to a mirror sheen, the sheets a mess of satin and silk in blood-red and shadow. Pillows everywhere. Velvet. Satin. Shiny sequins. Too many of them, like they were trying to disguise what the bed was really for.

The blackout blinds at the windows were already drawn, and I didn’t think it was because Gina had been expecting us; another set of velvet and satin roman blinds sat in the inset, pulling up to complete the seductive dark look.

Mirrors filled the corners. On the ceiling, the wardrobe, even the side of the dresser, catching the low amber light and throwing it back in fractured glints. An empty wine bucket sat next to the bed, a tray of neat provisions beside it: wipes, tissues, lube, condoms. I picked one up and inspected it.Sensitive Feel.

The air was thick with perfume and something muskier beneath it, oil or an infuser hiding the smell of sex and sweat.But the hint of it was still there, ingrained in the scatter cushions, in the soft padded walls and the thick plush carpet under my feet. The place was a contradiction of opulence and filth.

“Jazz…” Chase started.

“You’ve brought me to a brothel. A fucking brothel.”

“The Rats…”

“I don’t care about the Rats. This isn’t just any brothel. This is a brothel witha history.”

Chase tipped his head, watching me with interest.

“And everyone’s fucking. I mean…was she in the middle of it when we arrived?”

“Gina?”

“Yes, fucking Gina!”

“Probably. She still works. Has a handful of clients. Rich ones, by the look of it.”

Chase glanced around the room.

“And were you one of them? Are you still one of them?”

His face changed, his brows furrowing, a shadow creeping across his eyes.

“Why do you care, Jazz? Why are you bothered what Gina is?”

I opened my mouth to retort. To say something. To explain why I felt so angry. How she’d eyed me up. How she’d made it clear she knew Chase better than me. Because she did, didn’t she?

“Come on, Jazz. Why do you care?”

I shook my head, fighting myself over the answer. “Because…”

“Because we’ve fucked?”

“Aye, because we’ve fucked. Because you rescued me. Saved my life and ruined yours in the process. And we fucked.”

Venom boiled in my veins.

Chase ran his hands through his hair, through the thick tufts, a chunk at the front falling back over his forehead, defiantly.