Page 69 of Jazz

“Not happening, V. Not at fucking gunpoint.”

Chase’s head snapped towards me. Shock making his hazel eyes swirl.

“You know him?”

I glanced back at the man holding the gun, his long blond hair pulled into a ponytail, a body of tattoos covered by the all black leather racing suit.

“The Viking.”

“He’s a King?”

“Not anymore,” I continued. “The club exiled him years ago.”

“Then why’s he here?”

“I still do some odd jobs for the club,” the Viking smiled as he spoke. “I’m good at odd jobs.”

“What happens if I come with you, V?”

“You go home, kiddo. Simple as.”

“And Chase?”

The Viking smiled but said nothing.

“Not coming then. Tell Fury you’ve seen me and I’m safe now.”

“Nah. Not gonna happen, kiddo. You’re both coming with me.”

“The fuck we are.” Chase growled, pushing up from the bed.

V’s gun moved to him, his eyes narrowing, black leather moving closer.

“Don’t fucking move, fella, or I will put a bullet in you. It’s my favourite fucking thing to do. Ask her.”

He cocked his head towards me. Chase turned his head, his eyes never leaving the Viking, and the gun trained on his face.

“He’s a hitman.” I sighed.

Chase said nothing, just stared.

“Look. V there’s two of us. And I’m guessing your orders from Indie weren’t to kill, either of us. So, we’ve got a fucking situation here, ‘cos I’m not coming with you.”

“You know me, Jazz. Always prepared.”

He moved, reaching for something strapped to his thigh. Another gun, but this one looked different. Bulkier through the barrel, longer at the nose. Not sleek like the handgun still aimed at Chase’s face, but heavier, almost clumsy looking. The metal wasn’t black, but a dull graphite grey, with a small glass vial slotted beneath the chamber, something viscous glinting inside it. My stomach dropped. It wasn’t a bullet gun at all.

*****

Consciousness came back in fragments. Sound first, muffled and far away. Music. Was that what I could hear? Or a hoover? Then light, too bright and stabbing through my skull. My body felt wrong, like I was the wrong way round. My arms wouldn’t move, too heavy. My tongue was a lump of rubber. The side of my neck burned. And then I remembered.

My pulse stuttered; my body did not keep up. The more I tried to move, the heavier I got. Panic clawed at me, dragging me awake inch by inch until the world finally sharpened, and I wished it hadn’t, bile threatening at the back of my throat.

The room was lit with soft light, casting gentle shadows around the room. A room I had decorated. Cool white walls and one block of deep, dark green on the side where the old iron fireplace stood. Fake candles flickered in the grate. My room. It had been Fury’s when he’d lived at home, but now it was mine.

I lay looking at the ceiling. The bed was soft. Comfy. Familiar. Mine. But it was empty, and my stomach tensed, an overpowering sense of dread exploding in my body. Chase. Fuck, Chase.

I flung my feet out of bed, and for a second everything was ok, but then the room tilted violently, and I fell back against the thick, plump pillows. And now it spun. Round and round and round, like I’d had too much to drink. Closing my eyes, I tried to black out the feeling, concentrate on something else. The Viking. The gun in his hand. Fuck. Fuck. I had to find where they’d taken Chase. I had to get there before it was too late.