Pike: The Pawn Duet, Book One

by Frazier, T. M.

  Thorne removes the tea set from the backdrop, carefully wrapping each one in newspaper before delicately placing it back in a box with clothe dividers for each piece. “Can you grab me that violin?”

  I slide off the stool and spot a violin case on a nearby table. I click unlatch it and carefully pull it from the blue velvet lining. She places the box with the tea set on the shelf above her desk and holds out her hand for the violin. I hand it over and she again begins to meticulously arrange it in front of the bright green backdrop. “Don’t be too hard on yourself for judging him. Gutter belongs in the box. In fact, he put himself in that box.” She looks up from the camera. “No, scratch that. He built the fucking box.”

  Thorne laughs and takes another photo. She looks at the screen on the camera then turns to me. “He’s not a technical genius by any stretch of the imagination, but he does have a superhuman ability. He even had a contract with the military as a torture specialist because of it.”

  Torture specialist?

  I’m now wondering if the sensory torture wasn’t entirely Pike’s idea.

  I watch Thorne work, fascinated by how careful she is with each piece as if it was something handed down to her by a beloved relative and near and dear to her heart.

  “What exactly is this ability that makes him a good candidate as a specialist in torture?” I ask, puzzled.

  Thorne snaps away, contorting her body into several different positions until she’s finally satisfied with the shot. “Gutter was known in his day as the human lie detector.”

  “I told him everything,” I say. “Well, almost everything.”

  “I know. He told Pike that you’re telling the truth as you see it, which isn’t the same as the truth. But also that you’re hiding something. A secret that might not be yours to tell.”

  “He’s not wrong,” I say, wrapping my arms over my mid-section.

  Thorne points to the new accessory on my ankle. “For right now? For you?” She smiles. “It means you’ve leveled up.”

  I tilt my head. “Thorne, it’s a bomb.” I raise my foot and slap my heel down on the table. “On. My. Body.” I pull it down. “What, exactly, have I leveled up to?”

  She holds up two fingers. “Captive. Level two.”

  PIKE

  Mickey looks around the pawn shop like she’s taking a mental inventory. “Trying to figure out what else you can steal?” I ask. It’s meant to be a tease but comes out harsher than I wanted. So far, this gaining her trust thing is going swell.

  Her back jumps. I grin, taking great pleasure in being able to startle her so easily.

  She runs her hands down the spine of a cello propped up on a stand at the end of one of the aisles. “No, I’m still trying figuring out something else. ”

  “And what, exactly, would that be?” I step down the aisle and meet her at the end.

  “Who you really are. Sure, I picked up on some things in your apartment, but you’re right, those were the obvious things. Stuff you don’t try to hide.” She plucks at one of the cello strings. “I’ve realized that I don’t want to be quick to judge someone because people are a lot more complicated than they appear. Even you.”

  “Uh, thanks?” For a moment, I feel like I’m going to choke. “You don’t have to try and analyze me. I’ll tell you right now who I am. Someone you don’t fuck with. That’s all you need to know.” I take a calming breath and try again. This time with less rage in my voice. “You already know enough,” I say, sincerely.

  She crosses her arms over her chest. The movement pushes up her tits and makes them jiggle, calling my attention to the perfectly round mounds peeking out from the neckline of her shirt. I’m beginning to recognize when the timid side of her shifts to the confident side. I enjoy that almost as much as startling her.

  The tits thing ain’t so bad either.

  “I call bullshit,” she replies.

  I walk past her, brushing her shoulder. “Call it whatever you want. You know enough.” I make a big fuss out of straightening the already straight cello as if she’s knocked it to the ground. I glance at her over my shoulder. “You can try all you want, Mic.” I stand again, looming over her. She doesn’t waiver or back down. I rake my gaze over her mouth-watering tits and back up to her big grey eyes. She blushes and I lick my lips, liking how I can turn her face from pale white to pink with a simple look. “I’m not an experiment or a hypothesis that can be answered or solved. Don’t go looking for shit that’s not there, or shit you don’t want to find.”

  My words are meant to be honest, but Mickey takes it as a challenge, straightening her even more and jutting out her chin.

  I suck in my bottom lip to prevent myself from doing something stupid. What the fuck is with this girl that makes me want to kiss her? I felt it that night, and I’m feeling it now. And I’m not just talking about the low vibration I fell humming on my lips, compelling me to press them against hers. I’m also talking about the pulsing of my cock straining to break free of my jeans at the mere thought of kissing her. I reach up and hold her face in my hand, rubbing my thumb over her jaw. Her lips part. Her pupils dilate. I know she feels this too. We’re so close I can practically taste her. I slide my hand around to her neck.

  Mickey bends at the knees and ducks under my arm, turning around to face me in the center aisle. She clears her throat. “I understand why you have the pawn shop now.”

  I huff in annoyance, more at myself than at her. I should be grateful she pulled away when she did, but I’m not. Trying to fuck her is not trust gaining.

  Call the Baker twins tonight. You need to fuck this chick from your thoughts. I remind myself. “You know why I have the pawn shop?” I ask. “Because I bought it from an old lady. It was an antique store. I sling dope out the back door. But you already knew that before you came storming in here to steal my shit.” I grimace. “I mean, before you came in here the first time. That’s not understanding me, Mic. That’s doing your homework.”

  “I don’t mean to sell…to run your side business. That wasn’t what I was trying to say,” she corrects herself, dropping her arms. Her blush turns crimson on her cheeks. She’s embarrassed.

  “I get a sick joy out of watching your face redden,” I tell her, without thinking first.

  Mickey looks from one wall to the other than motions to them with her hands. “All of this tells me something more. It’s your unspoken story. The one I didn’t know.”

  “This ought to be good. I’ll bite. Enlighten me, Mic. Who the fuck am I now? You know, besides a kid with a learning disorder and a single guy with an ugly kitchen.”

  She walks down an aisle running her fingertips over various lamps and crystal bowls. She picks up a silver music box and opens it. A ballerina pops out, and the music box plays a simple lullaby.

  “You lived your entire life without having much of anything.”

  I roll my eyes. “Telling a drug dealer they grew up without shit is like telling a stripper they have daddy issues. Come on, Mic. Impress me with that big brain of yours,” I egg her on. Challenging her.

  “All of these things here are pieces of lives other people have lived.” She waves her hand over to the jewelry case and then the back wall. “Wedding rings. Instruments. Weapons. Rocking chairs. Paintings and portraits of families.” She holds up the music box. “This probably played in a child’s room at some point. Maybe, a gift from her parents or grandparents? Maybe, a reminder of a song a loved one sang to her at night.” She glances from the box to me . “You had nothing growing up. No one.” She slams the lid shut. “And now you have everything. Not just stuff, but pieces of a life you never got a chance to live.”

  Well, fuck me.

  I point to her. “Let’s get one thing straight. You don’t fucking know me, and you never will.” I run my hand through my hair. “What the fuck is it about you that makes me want to fuck you and fight you but won’t fucking let me not be a fucking asshole to you.”

  “I don’t know,” she replies, softly.
She places the ballerina back on the shelf. “I’m not pretending I know you, Pike. I’m just pointing out what you’re silently telling the rest of the world, people who either aren’t smart enough to notice, or more likely, just haven’t taken the time to look.” Mickey raises up on her tip-toes. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  I don’t know what’s angering me more. The smell of the cucumber girly shampoo wafting from her hair or the heat rising from her perfect little tits as her nipples graze my chest. My cock jumps to attention, and if the wall wasn’t littered with expensive instruments, I’d fucking punch a hole through it.

  I lower my lips to her ear and whisper, “Fuck you.”

  Mickey

  “What the fuck are you looking at, lady?” A boy asks, jutting out his chin and chest as if he weren’t the skinniest and frailest-looking creature I’ve ever laid eyes on. A kitten who barks.

  I open my mouth to reply, but I don’t have the chance because Pike walks in. “Jo Jo! What’s up, kid?”

  Jo Jo drops the posturing and extends his hand out to Pike, and they do that one-shoulder half-hug that I’ve only seen men do.

  I’m surprised that the man who tied me up in the dark with every intention of killing me gives the boy a half-hearted tap on his hat, lowering the brim over his eyes.

  Jo Jo adjusts his hat and smiles at Pike like he’s having a chance encounter with a celebrity. The admiration dancing in his otherwise very sad eyes.

  “What brings you in, kid?”

  Jo Jo shrugs. “Betty has people over tonight and told me to make myself scarce.”

  Pike doesn’t say anything about Betty’s bad parenting but instead points to the back door. “You can always hang here until the smoke settles. There’s sandwich shit in the fridge upstairs if you’re hungry. You know the code.”

  Jo Jo pats his stomach. “I’m always hungry.” He starts to jog to the backdoor leading to the stairs when he pauses, once again noticing my presence. He pauses and hitches a thumb in my direction. “Pike, who’s the chick with resting bitch face?”

  Pike looks up at me like he, too, is just noticing that I’m here. “Right now, she’s my prisoner.”

  “And later?” the boy asks.

  Pike stares at me and blows out a breath, brushing the hair back from his forehead. “Who the fuck knows, kid.”

  I clench my fists. “You don’t need to talk about me like I’m a dog, napping in the corner. I’m here, and I can speak for myself.”

  Jo Jo ignores me and scrunches up his nose. “She hanging with us tonight?”

  Pike grins and leans against the glass counter, crossing his feet at the ankles. “Let’s just say she ain’t going anywhere.”

  Jo Jo shrugs as if he’s accepted my less than wanted presence and again heads to the back room when his movements knocks the hat from his head. He picks it up, and when he stands, he reveals what I never thought was hidden underneath. Thick, long, wavy blonde hair.

  He sets the cap backward and continues up the stairs. I look to Pike who saw the same thing I did but doesn’t look the least bit surprised. When I hear the door shut, I swing my head toward Pike. “That rude little thing is a girl?” I ask, realizing how it sounds.

  “What? You think only boys can be assholes? That’s sexist. This is twenty-twenty. People don’t think like that anymore.”

  “Did you just tell a joke?” I ask, cocking my head to get a better look at the abstract of a man before me, but nothing becomes clearer except that he might have undiagnosed multiple personality disorder.

  “Does that offend you as well or just girls that dress like boys?” he asks, padding over to the stool.

  I growl in frustration. “No, you ignorant ass. I’m not offended, but I am surprised that she was hiding that beautiful hair under that beat-up ball cap. Or do I call her a he? How do they identify?”

  Pike frowns. “Whose identifying as what? What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “So much for knowing things in twenty-twenty,” I mutter, then clarify. “I’m asking if the kid prefers to be addressed as he, she, or they.”

  Pike nods in understanding. “She, but that changes every so often.”

  Now, I’m the one confused. “Shit, maybe, I’m not with the times. I didn’t know it can change like that.”

  Pike chuckles, and I grow annoyed at the enjoyment he’s taking in my confusion. And even more annoyed that I wanted him to kiss me again earlier by the cello. I didn’t get much sleep and couldn’t even toss and turn because every time I did a part of me would come into contact with a warm muscles part of him and start the whole restless sleep all over again.

  “No, Jo Jo is Josephine. She’s a girl. She identifies as a girl. She likes boys, but also likes to beat them up. But she dresses as a boy or girl depending what foster home she’s in and which gender will keep the creeps at bay and cause her less problems. One of the older boys likes to pick on the little boys? Then, she’s a girl. If the foster dad looks at the other little girls a little too long to be parental? She’s a boy. She feels out the situation within a few minutes. She’s pretty talented like that, and it’s kept her out of a heap of fucking trouble.”

  “Smart,” I acknowledge. Although, I feel sad that she even has to do something as drastic as hide her gender to keep her safe.

  “It is,” he agrees. “She’s a survivor. Just like I was. And if she ever gets into trouble she can’t manage, she comes here.” He takes out his phone, and that vein in his neck begins to throb. “Which reminds me.” He presses a few buttons. “Hey Badger. Pay Betty a call tonight.” Pause. “No, don’t tell her you’re coming. Make it a surprise. She’s having people over, and I know how much you love to crash a party.” Pause. “No, just a small reminder of her responsibilities will work.” He hangs up.

  “A small reminder of what?” I ask.

  “That I’m not to be fucked with.” His mood is darker now. He leans over me and tilts my chin up to meet his gaze. His touch heats my skin. “Something I keep trying to teach you.”

  “I guess I’m not as quick of a learner as I thought,” I reply.

  “No,” he shakes his head slowly, rubbing his thumb over my lip. “There’s something that sounds a lot like pride in his voice, mixed with confusion and…lust. “No, you are not.”

  He removes his hand and follows Jo Jo. “Come on, Mic” he calls out, disappearing up the stairs. “Maybe, Jo Jo and I can teach you a thing or two about Monopoly.”

  I slide off the stool and follow. I love Monopoly and am damn good at it. I’ve been my family’s reigning champion since I was six. There’s nothing he can teach me about the board game that I don’t already know.

  But there is one thing I’ve learned today: the device on my ankle isn’t a bomb. Although, that’s another thing I won’t be telling Pike.

  Chapter Twenty

  Pike

  I’ve learned a few things about Mickey over the past few days.

  She’s a perfectionist. My entire apartment has been organized and cleaned. She even managed to get the old linoleum floor to shine when I thought it wasn’t possible. She’s also empathetic as all get out. Where I feel nothing, she cries at every commercial and tears up at every sighting of a stray cat. Odd for a thief and soldier of an unknown army, which is why I grow more and more intrigued about the enigma that is Mickey with each passing day.

  She’s also competitive as fuck, taking Jo Jo and myself all the way to the bank in Monopoly and rubbing it in our faces with a victory dance that again had my eyes fixated on what her shirt was covering.

  After a long day of meetings that have me tired and irritated, I find Mickey in the alley behind the shop. She’s crouched near a wall, setting out paper plates of food and Tupperware bowls of milk.

  My eyes land on where the material of her pink pants stretches across her perfect heart-shaped ass. Who is torturing who here? “And what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” My words again come out harsher than I intended. It has nothing to do with the cat
s, but old habits die hard, and lashing out is all I can manage to do these days. Gutter said to be nice to her. To gain her trust.

  I’m fucking failing at both. Eye-fucking? Now, that I’m acing.

  “Feeding the cats,” she replies without looking up.

  Adds empathetic to the list of things I’ve learned about Mickey.

  I glance around the empty alley. “What cats?” No sooner do the words leave my lips than a half dozen of the little dirty fuckers saunter over to the bowls. Each one pausing to rub themselves against Mickey’s legs before hissing claim over the food at one another.

  She runs her hand across the back of a cat that I think might be white under all the grey dirt and grime. “These cats,” she says with a tight-lipped smile as if she’s trying not to laugh.

  I raise an eyebrow and lean against the wall. “So what? You’re the neighborhood cat lady now?”

  She picks the smallest one of the group, cradling it in her arms and scratching behind its ears. It’s beige with black ears and feet. “How would you feel if you were hungry and no one fed you?”

  She’s probably referring to herself during her first days here but a mental image of one of my many foster homes comes to mind. “They’ll get over it and learn to fend for themselves. That’s what I did.”

  Mickey’s mouth opens, and her eyes fill with sympathy I wasn’t looking for. “You’ve been hungry before?”

  Her empathy apparently doesn’t just apply to cats, it also extends to me. The man holding her against her will. I’m the last person she should feel sorry for, and yet I can feel the sorrow radiating off her skin like warmth from a buzzing fluorescent light.

  I shrug and light a smoke. “Not a big deal. I wasn’t the first kid, and I won’t be the last.”

  She sets down the cat gently, parting some of the larger ones to give it access to the bowls. “Is that why you take care of Jo Jo? So that she doesn’t have to go through what you went through?”

  After the day I had, I’m not in the mood for her analysis, mostly because I don’t need to hear my past repeated back to me. For years, I pretended it didn’t exist, but Mickey has the uncanny ability to bring shit up I’ve been shoving down like she was there with me.