Pawns In The Bishop's Game

by Emilia Finn

  “Ugh.” I slap Kari’s leg when she giggles. Climbing to my feet with a groan, I take my half-full glass of tea and move toward the hall. “Don’t be noisy. Don’t be weird. I’m going to my room. Call me out for dinner. Other than that, I’ll be sleeping my cold off.”

  “Jules said she and X were coming over.”

  I drop my head back and groan. “I knew that. I forgot. Call me out when they get here. Or not. Whatever. If I’m asleep, don’t wake me up.”

  “Yeah, you sure need your beauty rest.” Luc slides Kari around on his lap until she straddles him. “Go away now. Things are gonna get weird, and mom will kill me for giving you nightmares. Can you lock the front door? I don’t have time for Marc to walk in on us again.”

  I want to smack the back of my brother’s head. I want to smack Kari, too, because she’s dating my brother and doesn’t she understand how gross that is? But instead, I turn on my heel and bolt down the hall before I’m scarred for life.

  I’ve walked in on them too many times. So many, in fact, I’ve taken to working late at the office most nights instead of coming home.

  I’ll be working no matter where I am, but at least at the office, I don’t run the risk of going blind.

  That was the safer choice until this week. Now, I run the risk of running into Kane Bishop.

  I’m not sure which option I prefer.

  Stepping into my bright bedroom, I take in the pinks and purples, the tiaras from my teenage years and pompoms from my failed high school cheerleading career; the photos of my sister and I, of our whole four-girl group before Luc got it in his head to hit on one of them – everything in my room that represents a privileged childhood stands in direct contrast to Kane’s apartment; it all seems so bright and cheerful and… kinda fake.

  Locking my door twice, just to make certain, I move to my bed and sit in the middle. I ignore the antibiotic ointment under my pillow and take out the shirt that’s four times too big for me, but soft as feathers and smells just like him.

  I hate that it smells like him.

  He’s a criminal!

  He’s dangerous.

  And he had his fingers inside my body before breakfast today.

  I hate that it felt good. I hate that I hated myself for stopping him. I hate the treacherous thoughts I had of letting him finish me off before I went with the indignation act.

  It wouldn’t count as long as I didn’t get him off. It wouldn’t count as long as I continued to whisper no.

  What the hell is the matter with me? Of course it counts!

  I’ve been working and studying for most of a decade to be where I am now. I’ll be sitting the bar this year. Ever since I was fourteen and we sat around the kitchen table as a family, when we discussed what we wanted to be when we grew up, when my brother decided he wanted to save lives and my sister said she wanted to teach children, the pull inside my chest declared I would do something important, too.

  Something big.

  I’ve been doing it. I’ve been laser focused on my career.

  But the day Jules handed a file over and the dark eyes met mine, my path altered without my permission.

  Did I go out the other night to get into the club to find their secrets? Or did I go in search of the man who owned the haunted eyes?

  Am I opening the files right now to keep working the case, to add another brick to the wall that will lock Abel Hayes and Kane Bishop up for life? Or am I hugging his shirt and staring into his eyes for a different reason?

  Why, when I know it’s wrong, when I know he’s bad, am I trying to think up excuses for the life he’s led?

  And why the hell didn’t I punch him in the face when he ran his tongue along my neck?

  Because I’m a mess.

  An overworked, overtired, overstressed, under-laid, mess.

  My head says to close the file for now. To step away. To go to the hospital for a tetanus shot.

  Do they have vaccinations for AIDS?

  But my heart refuses to let me step away. Instead, I read the dossier in my lap and study everything I already know about him.

  His birthday; two years older than me, but two days after mine each year. His birthplace; not here. Not even close to here. His parents; both deceased. Siblings; one. Education; high school dropout. Starting quarterback on the varsity team before leaving six months before graduation. High school wrestling team. State champion. National champion.

  Frowning, I look closer at the news clippings from his earlier years. Somehow, he looks nothing like he used to, but the eyes… the eyes are the same.

  Was he a murderer even back then?

  Did he drop out knowing where his life was leading?

  Did he court people like Abel Hayes?

  If he did; why?

  Obviously crime doesn’t pay – for Kane, anyway. It pays for men like Hayes, the men at the top of the food chain, but the feeder fish at the bottom barely make enough to live.

  Why is the mighty and powerful Kane Bishop a feeder fish, when in my stomach, it feels like he was born to lead?

  Vibrating against my leg, I frown when my phone chirps and interrupts my work. I wasn’t done staring.

  I feel like there are answers. Somewhere really close to the surface, I feel like there’s more to this than I can see.

  Distractedly picking up my cell, I enter the passcode and start swiping on automatic. Expecting to get pictures of sex toys from the girls – but not Kari – I stop with a shot of adrenaline when a new name pops up.

  Al: Hey, Blondie. You’re thinkin’ of me, aren’t ya?

  Me: Kane? Who is Al?

  Me: And no!

  Al: You totally are. I’ve been waiting all day for pictures of your pussy. You left me hanging.

  I left him hanging?

  Me: You killed a man! You. Killed. A. Man! You’re going to prison as soon as Abel goes to trial.

  Al: I’m not going to prison ever. I’ll die first. Don’t worry so much.

  Al: Pics?

  Me: No!

  Al: Did you change your phone password yet? For a smart girl, you’re kinda dumb sometimes. Change it from your birthday before someone less morally standing than me finds your phone. I saw some important shit in there last night. Account numbers. Passwords. I could even hack your Facebook right now. How would you live if I posted pics of your butt plug under your profile?

  Me: That wasn’t my butt plug!

  Al: It sure as shit wasn’t mine. But you should be aware; I’m a man. We don’t do subtlety. You don’t have to drop hints, pass out in my arms, plant the plug in your bag, and hope I go snooping. Next time just put it in your ass and bend over. Guaranteed, not even my dumb brain will miss your message.

  I refuse to entertain his filthy request.

  Me: I never said you were dumb.

  Al: Your reports say high school dropout. I might talk slow, darlin’. I might’ve failed math. But I’m not too dumb to notice your ass in my face. You don’t need brains to satisfy a woman. You just need a cock. My cock.

  Al: Bend over for me. I’ll make you scream before your hands touch the floor.

  Al: What’s the wildest place you’ve ever been fucked?

  Without giving me a chance to breathe, he continues with his barrage of messages and worsens the pulsing heat in my underwear.

  Al: You’ve thought about it, haven’t you? I sure as fuck have. Blonde hair curtaining your face. Head down. Ass up. You want my hands on you, don’t you? Imagine it; me standing behind you. Fucking you. Slapping your ass. Since you’re partial to sex toys, I could pick up a few more. I’d trade grocery money for lube and something nice for you. Fuck your ass with my cock. Fuck your pussy with a toy. Then we could flip you over and do it the other way. I’m not a wasteful man. I’ll use both.

  Al: Ever been fisted before? It’ll hurt the first time. But you trusted me with the stitches, right? I’d take care of you.

  Al: Did you know Infernos isn’t only a dance club. They have rooms for all sorts of
shit. The music is loud, so no one will hear you. But they have glass walls and curtains, so if you want to be heard, if you want to be seen, we could do that, too.

  Al: I know I said not to come back to my side, but fuck, Blondie. All this sexting has me ready to blow.

  Al: Blondie? I see your thumb on the keyboard. You touch it, and I get the speech dots. Then you stop. I know you’re there.

  Al: Wanna fuck?

  Me: Kane…

  I don’t even know what to say. Like I am every time he purposely torments me, I’m speechless. He overwhelms me. He’s too crude. Too sexy. Too often right.

  Al: Yes, my beautiful blonde fuck toy?

  Me: You need to stop. You need to leave. Go far away from Abel before you end up dead or in prison. Get away from this town. Your days of freedom are limited.

  Al: Aww, Blondie. You care about me. Are you trying to save me?

  Yes.

  Me: The people chasing you are good at what they do. They’re smart, fast. Rich and stubborn as hell. Jules is like a dog with a bone. She does what she does because she likes to argue. Alex does what he does because criminals offend him. This isn’t your regular fat town sheriff and a pro-bono lawyer that doesn’t give a shit. They won’t stop.

  Al: You really do care. Can you feel that? That’s my heart beating for you, Blondie.

  Me: Stop joking! This isn’t funny.

  And the fact I’m warning him, the fact I do care, ruins everything. I’m compromised. I can’t be objective.

  And there’s seriously something wrong with me that I’m undoing everything I’ve worked so hard for, for a man I met two days ago.

  I’m ashamed of myself.

  I should be talking to Jules and Alex. I got a confession to murder just eight or nine hours ago. My word against his isn’t much, but Jules and Alex will believe me, and my word would strengthen their resolve to work at this.

  Al: No, Jess. It ain’t funny. I’m not laughing. I changed my mind; stay on your side of town. I was thinking with my dick when I messaged. You need to pretend I don’t exist.

  Me: I can’t pretend you don’t exist! You are my job! You! I’ve been studying you for months, Kane!

  And I’m still abusing the exclamation mark. It’s a sickness. I can’t stop.

  Al: You need to pack those files away and go study for your exams. Stay away from me. Stay away from Infernos.

  Me: You can’t tell me where to go or what to do. The most helpful thing you could do right now is admit in writing that you killed that man. That would be super duper handy for me.

  When the text dots vanish, I frown. When he doesn’t reply within a minute, since his replies have all been rapid fire, I chew on my bottom lip.

  Me: Kane?

  Me: Bishop?

  At the sound of my front door opening, then of Kari’s ass hitting the floor where my brother threw her – which has become a habit of theirs – I frantically type.

  Me: Kane! Answer me. Leave town. Run away. Don’t hurt anyone anymore. Not even other bad guys. Leave it to the law.

  Me: I’ll come to Infernos tonight if you don’t answer.

  Al: Do. Not. Come. To. Infernos. I will NOT be there to protect you.

  Me: You won’t be there because you ran away to live a long life as a grocery store bagger?

  Al: Fuck no. I’ll be working, but not in a grocery store.

  Al: I’m not joking, Blondie. No games. Don’t go to Infernos tonight. I’ll be fifty miles away. I can’t protect you tonight.

  The text bubbles die and my doorknob rattles. “Wake up, lazy bones. Let me in.”

  Al: Promise me.

  Al: Promise me, Jessica!

  Me: I promise.

  I stuff Kane’s shirt under my pillow and throw a panicked glance around my room to make sure I’ve hidden all the incriminating evidence of my night in his bed.

  The files can stay out, since they’re work.

  They can even stay on my bed. That wouldn’t be weird. But his shirt needs to go.

  Standing on my weak ankle, I grunt when I press my weight down and forget to brace. Overcorrecting and bouncing to my other foot, I tug my ribs and grunt a second time.

  Jesus, I’m a hot mess.

  “Jess! Get up.”

  “I’m coming!” I hit the lock on my door and stand in the way before my boss barrels in. “I was napping. What the hell are you doing banging on my door on a sick day? I’m pretty sure there are workplace laws about that.”

  With softening eyes, she brings a hand out to mimic Luc and Kari. Sliding her palm along my forehead, then cupping my cheek, her bright eyes hold apology. “You don’t look so good. How are you feeling?”

  “Tired.” I shrug. That’s not even a lie. “Sore. Yucky.” Turning away, I move back to my bed and sit, though I’d rather flop.

  Stupid stitches.

  “You were napping?” Stepping forward with narrowed eyes, in a sky-blue skirt suit and a low bun of blonde hair, Juliette Turner walks around with the tiniest, cutest little baby bump and makes it look seriously fashionable. Picking up the top file from my pile, she flips it open and misses the way my hands shake with need.

  Give it back.

  He’s mine.

  “Have you been working instead of napping? Sick days mean no work, Jessica.”

  “I was doing both. Working. Napping. Working when I woke. Nap some more. Then you got here. Are you gonna be here long? My eyes weigh a ton.”

  Smirking, her gaze meets mine over the top of the file. “You’re lucky I’m not sensitive. Anyone would think I was unwelcome in your bedroom. We’re here for dinner.”

  I frown. “Who’s cooking? Not me.”

  “Alex is ordering pizza. I wanted to come over to talk to you. Luc said he’s off shift. Marc told Alex to watch over his sister and to hit him in the face if he touches her. Or even if he doesn’t, he has permission to hit just for funsies.” She flashes a playful grin. “But no matter what, baby wants pepperoni. Baby’s gonna get pepperoni.” Flipping the file in her hand, the heavy slap of cardboard on her palm makes me jump. “You got enough energy for twenty minutes? Pizza will be here about then. Then we can stop.”

  “Sure.” My hands shake. “What do you wanna talk about?”

  “Kane Bishop.”

  Kill me now.

  8

  Kane

  Underground

  “Bishop! Upstairs. Now.”

  Nodding at no one in particular, bare chested, but not bare foot, I turn away from my sparring partner and drop my wrapped hands. Blood stains my used-to-be-white wraps, and sweat drips in my eyes as I work to loosen the fabric around my knuckles. The tiny earpiece crackles its relentless presence, imbedding itself in my brain every single time I walk onto any Abel Hayes property. It’s like he bought a shitty set on purpose to ensure the static reminds me he’s always here, always watching.

  Moving around other fighters and their dancing girls, I brush a set of grabbing hands off before her man sees and challenges me to a fight in the hall.

  We’ll fight tonight. But not in the hall, and not over a girl.

  Skipping up the dingy steps, I pass room after room after room – offices filled with mostly naked women counting money or slicing blow; others with women teaching the less experienced – girls, really – how to fuck the way men who visit here like.

  Passing the last door on the left before Abel’s office, the sounds of crying and a paddle slamming against skin – and not in a pleasurable way – sets my gut on fire.

  At what point in all these peoples’ lives did they take a wrong turn?

  A turn that would eventually lead them to Infernos? To a club that’s the physical embodiment of dog-eat-dog.

  Here, you kill or be killed.

  Fuck or be fucked.

  Hurt or be hurt.

  “Bishop!”

  Shoving the wraps into my pockets, I step into Abel’s opulent office and scan the room for men who’ll put a bullet in my brain at a simple nod from
the man behind the mahogany desk.

  Outside this office it looks more like a warehouse; iron stairs, smoke stained wallpaper, and stained carpets. But unlike a regular warehouse, a boxing ring takes up the main space in the center, and chairs fan out around it until they almost touch the walls – walls that hide rooms.

  I wasn’t lying to Jess; this club has special rooms, too. Rooms to fuck. Rooms to watch. Rooms to be watched.

  It’s all very utilitarian.

  Easily hosed out at the end of a night.

  But Abel’s office is gold and silks; expensive. Fancy draperies cover a giant glass wall at his back. Fancy liquor bottles line the walls. Fancy guns sit in every holster. Fancy suits; even on the men ready to kill me.

  Even on me, usually.

  “Boss?”

  “You ready?”

  One short, sharp nod is all he’ll get.

  “You know why we’re doing this, don’t you?”

  Again, I nod.

  “You disobeyed a direct order. You had a job to do. A transfer to complete. You went off script to save a bitch you don’t know, and in your careless stupidity, you put our entire family at risk.”

  My pulse thrums with imminent death.

  It could all end that easily.

  So fast, I wouldn’t even see it coming.

  A bullet in the back of my head, I’d have no clue I was dead. I’d just be floating; metaphorically, in the clouds. Literally, in the Hudson river.

  My family would never get closure. They’d never know what happened to me.

  But why, when death feels so close, am I thinking of blonde hair and blue eyes?

  Because Abel just mentioned her. No other reason.

  “You’ll fight the gauntlet tonight. You need to win three fights to get to the finals.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ll meet Brochov there.”

  The fact he’s already decided that scares me.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ll lose to Brochov.”

  “Lose?” Lurching forward, I come to a sharp stop as seven pistols aim right at my head. “Abel.” Hands up, I take a single, slow step forward. “I don’t lose. I’m worth more to you as a champion than I am a loser. I’m worth more in your punters’ eyes if I maintain my streak.”