Page 76 of Jazz

“Middlesbrough.”

I slid my visor down, pushed the kickstand up and pulled the throttle.

Chapter Thirty Eight

Tape cordoned off the building. A smell lingered. Old smoke. Charred remains casting shadows in the night. The frontage of the shop had collapsed onto the ground, half melted, half destroyed.

I slid off the bike, pulling my helmet off carefully, the slow drag over split, swollen skin excruciating. Slowly, I moved, every part of me aching. My legs from the scaffolding pole, my arms and back from hanging from the rafters of the cellar. My stomach was bruised. I could feel it, deep and throbbing, andwhen I glanced across at Jazz, settling the Hayabusa on to its stand, that feeling was bottomless.

She’d never complained. Barely mentioned it, the bruises on her face still changing colour, tortured at the hands of my club. And still she saved me from the wrath of hers. Now we were both on the run. Together. My chest filled. Terror. Feelings I couldn’t describe. When I looked at her, I saw through the swelling on her face, my cock reacting instantly. But it was more than just lust. It was belonging. Belonging to her. Belonging to someone. To something.

“You ok, Chase?” her voice broke through my thoughts, soft, always sultry.

“Yeah. Just looking at the mess.”

“This was all yours then, huh?”

“My home. My business. My world outside the club. Gina taught me how to run a business. This one just involved less body parts and more bike parts.”

I hadn’t realised I’d walked forward, my feet crunching on broken glass.

“Can it be saved?”

“Possibly. In time. Took me years to build it. It’s insured, of course. But it’s not the money. It was all mine. Something I’d actually worked for. My focus after the track. After I’d stopped fucking about with Gina.”

I caught the look on Jazz’s face. I should have explained some more. But it was what it was. And as my business lay there, destroyed by the brothers I’d betrayed, I didn’t have the energy to explain my past better than that.

Jazz said nothing, quietly coming to stand beside me, and we both watched on into the debris, the sun rising from the east, a glowing terracotta red growing behind the blackened structure. Ominous. A gloved hand slipped inside mine, the leather cold on my bare palm. Her fingers didn’t move, waiting for my reaction, looking for acceptance. I didn’t deserve that gesture. Didn’t deserve her. I should be wallowing in despair right now, but instead I was standing with her by my side. The two of us having betrayed the ones we loved. I closed my fingers around her gloved hand, holding her tight. She was the last thing I had.

Almost the last. There was something else. Buried. Hopefully retrievable.

“Come on,” I said, pulling her gently.

The ground crunched beneath my boots. Glass, brick, something unrecognisable. The air was still thick with the ghost of smoke, a tang of burnt oil and plastic that clung to the back of my throat. My shop was almost unrecognisable, just a skeleton of twisted metal and charred beams, a hole ripped through the ceiling, wallpaper hanging from the exposed apartment overhead.

I stepped over what used to be the counter, eyes scanning, trying to orient myself in the wreckage. The workshop floor was buried under blackened debris, but I knew where it should be. We kept moving, carefully stepping, under the beam that had separated the showroom to my garage room.

Carcasses of motorbikes. Twisted frames and melted fairings. All but one had been in for repair, or for custom work. The last lay on its side, warped and charred. The dull light from a red sunrise caught on what was left of her, and my chest hollowed out. The Gamma. Or what used to be. The fairing hadmelted into twisted, blackened curls, dripping like wax over the frame. The tank had caved in, silver turned soot-black, and the engine block sat exposed, warped by heat. My throat tightened. She’d been a monster once. Square-four two-stroke, the kind of bastard that tried to throw you off if you didn’t show her respect. Now she was just bones and ash.

I crouched down, running a hand through the soot, the grit biting under my nails. There was a smell. Burnt oil and metal. Sharp enough to sting my eyes. Gone now, same as everything else. Almost everything.

My heart pounded, tension twisting in my chest. Five steps from the compressor, two from the rear pillar.I kicked at the rubble, hands shaking, every scrape of a boot against concrete a curse under my breath. Then I saw it. A hint of metal half-hidden under ash and melted wire. The corner of the hatch. The fucking cellar door. My chest tightened as I dropped to my knees, scraping at the soot with raw hands until the handle came free. Still solid. Still here.

I twisted the ring. One in each hand, both grinding loudly, the mechanism sprang free. I folded the doors back, exposing a deep black hole. It was cooler, a breeze rising to fight the fuzzy dying heat of a fire not long extinguished.

“What’s that?” Jazz asked, her voice from behind me.

“My last stand. Insurance if this ever happened.” And I didn’t mean the fire.

I stared down the hole, not moving, too frightened to find out if it was still there. And suddenly there was a stab of light. Moving. Illuminating.

“You’ve got a mobile?” I asked, turning to look at the phone Jazz pointed down the hole.

“Aye,” she shrugged.

“Won’t the Kings be able to track you?”

“It’s a burner, babe. Been brought up in an MC, remember? Always had a stash of these in case my brother tried to track me.” Jazz shrugged.