Pawns In The Bishop's Game

by Emilia Finn

  Without a care in the world, while his minions run around his club making him millions, he shrugs “You’ll lose tonight.” Unruffled, Abel – with the raven hair sparkling with oil and gel, his manicured hands that are buffed and polished every week by underpaid and underfed workers who can barely speak a lick of English – stands from his desk and straightens the ivory silk tie I’d like to one day strangle him with. “You will lose tonight, because I’ve put one-point-three million on Brochov.”

  “Why would you bet that? I don’t lose! I could’ve won you the same money if you bet for me to win.”

  “Why did I do it?” He slides his hand inside his breast pocket in warning. We don’t question Abel. We don’t question a damn thing he decides. “Because I own you, Bishop. Because you’ll do as you’re fuckin’ told. You lose, or you die. There is no third option.” Pulling his hand out of his coat, he waves the ring adorned digits in dismissal. “Go. Enjoy. Save any teeth for the tooth fairy. She might drop a quarter under your pillow tonight.”

  With flaring nostrils and clenched teeth, I turn on my feet and come eye-to-eye with Lance’s former… ‘partner’ is a term reserved for the guys on the right side of the law. For cops and shit. Lance and Chad were more like associates. They shared women. And needles. And guns. And probably assholes, too.

  “Move.”

  “When you fuck up,” he snarls, “it’s my bullet that’ll end your life. It’s the least I can do to repay you for what you did.”

  “Yeah? My blade sliding across his neck felt good.” I look down at my shoes. “I didn’t wash the blood off yet. Wanna lick them?”

  “Oh, and Bishop.” I turn at the sound of Abel’s voice sliding through the room and my earpiece barely half a second apart, and come eye-to-eye with the devil himself. Chad is a gnat in my face. Abel is a fucking monster who’ll crush me without breaking a sweat. “Make it believable. Lose, but do it convincingly. We have certain guests tonight that won’t take kindly to leaving without their money. Make them believe it.”

  I don’t know the names of the men I put down. I don’t know their families, or the reason they’re here. It’s likely they have hungry children and a pouting wife. They probably need the winnings more than me, and definitely more than Abel – since I don’t keep a cent of my prize money – but hungry children and cranky wife or not, I still blaze through the rounds in the out-of-place regulation size boxing ring.

  Abel doesn’t waste money, but to make money, he has to provide a quality service.

  That includes a gold standard boxing ring.

  Professional referees, though there are no rules.

  And good fighters.

  It’s a boxing ring, with ropes, not a cage, but the fights here aren’t all stand up. It’s grappling. It’s wrestling. It’s razor blades between your knuckles. It’s whatever the fuck you gotta do to be the guy still breathing at the end of the fight.

  Moving through the rounds with nothing more than bruised ribs and a bleeding eye, I come to the final round against a fresh-faced Russian who, somehow, gets to walk in tonight and advance straight to the finals.

  And yet, everyone’s money – except Abel’s – is on me.

  Taller than me, and possibly tipping over to seven and a half feet of pure fucking muscle, the three-hundred-pound motherfucker actually helps me relax. If I must lose, it’ll look pretty fucking authentic with this monster.

  Tonight will be easy. Let his meaty fist rattle my brains and put me to sleep.

  Tomorrow will suck.

  Tomorrow, I’ll need a scan on my brain, but no way to get it.

  One day, eventually, if the thugs and drugs and bullets don’t end my life, it’s likely I’ll die of a brain tumor, or stroke, or flat out stupidity as I drive the wrong way up the interstate because assholes kept punching me in the head over the years and knocked all my brain cells loose.

  Stepping forward in high-top shoes and sweaty shorts, I bring my wrapped hands to my face to swipe dribbles of blood and sweat from my eyes.

  “Brochov. Bishop.” Taking my hand, the referee studies my eyes, then takes my opponent’s and does the same. “The fight ends on a tap, or when one of you are out or can’t defend yourselves anymore. Don’t tap.” His dirt brown eyes come back to mine. “Trust me, go to sleep. Don’t tap. The people paid for blood; tapping will get you in big trouble with bad people.”

  I look to my green-eyed opponent and nod. This asshole’s gonna knock me out less than ten minutes from now. Awesome. And there’s not a single soul on the premises who’ll keep watch and make sure no one fucks with me while I’m out.

  Like I do so often, I wonder how the fuck my life ended up here.

  Because my boss is an asshole. That’s how.

  Stepping back, the referee whose name I don’t know picks up a whistle that hangs around his neck and brings it to his lips. “No rules, guys, except your fans want a show. Win, and make it spectacular.” He looks to Brochov. “Are you ready?” When the seven-foot yeti nods, when his body says one thing, but his eyes say he’s scared, the ref turns to me. “You ready?”

  This isn’t like the fights we watch on TV. It’s not a respectable crowd, not a respectable organizer. People die in this ring. And when they do that, when they’re so inconsiderate as to die, Abel’s people – me – lift them up and put them out the back.

  Dead bodies offend the women. They get a little shocky and start to turn green.

  When the women ask to leave, the men leave.

  When the men leave, the money leaves.

  Abel’s a businessman through and through, so hiring a cleaning crew was a small price to pay to keep the money here.

  If I die tonight, my ass will be thrown in a dumpster by none other than Lance’s fuckbuddy, Chad. And he’ll probably shove the barrel of his gun up my ass first.

  “Let’s go.” Blowing the whistle, the referee’s white shirt brings me back to sharp reality. The crowd holler until they’re hoarse. The men toss money at the women-bookies that move through the crowd.

  They have until halfway through the first round to lay down bets, then the women with the money disappear and Abel swaps out the good cash for the counterfeit. The winners receive their cut, but in counterfeit notes that pass bank inspection – for now. Abel gets his cut of the winnings, but then he gets the whole cut of the real money.

  Double dipping motherfucker.

  My fresh-faced opponent circles. Long legs help him eat up the space so his stride is my run. Hands up. No gloves. No padding. No mouthguards or cups. Just wraps on our knuckles to hide razor blades if we wish to be pricks.

  Sandy blonde hair hangs over Brochov’s too-big forehead. His jaw juts out, and his thighs act like tree trunks. I’m not a small man, but this fucker’s thighs are gonna snap mine.

  And yet, the money tonight is still on me.

  The reputation I’ve built for myself at Infernos in the last year and a half makes me proud. Makes me wish I went into pro fighting rather than this shit. Promo tours, money, endorsements, ring girls walking around in panties hoping I look their way.

  I know this town is home to badass fighting champions. I know this town has a whole lot of money tucked away behind closed doors, where the owners still drive regular cars, they eat take-out more often than not, and they work out every day rather than pay a surgeon to make them look the way they do.

  They’re regular people living regular lives, but they don’t live in shitty apartments like mine, and they don’t worry someone will shoot them in the head on a regular basis.

  Sidestepping Brochov’s meaty fist, I pivot away and swing my arm around. Snapping his roid-filled jaw to the side, his scared eyes transform to something akin to that fucker in the Rocky movie.

  If he dies, he dies.

  Pushing forward on thundering feet, he slams me against the ropes and moves twelve of my twenty four ribs up into my chest. Hook, hook, hook against my side, his sweat flings from his hair and lands on my face.

  S
pectators scream just half a foot behind me. If his sweat is hitting me, it’s hitting them, too.

  Abel stands in his office, the drapes open, and the glass wall does nothing to hide the disapproval in his eyes. He thinks I’m throwing the fight already. Too obvious. Not enough blood.

  I’m not throwing shit. I’m just trying not to die.

  Ducking a tree trunk that threatens to snap my neck, slipping out from his hold, I move around the blood-stained canvas and watch my monster opponent turn.

  He’s big. He’s strong as an ox. But he’s slow.

  Stepping forward, I swing out and bust open the brow above his left eye. Blood rains down on the canvas and adds to the artwork left there by a thousand men before.

  In real fights, in the pay-per-view fights, they might pause the round and close him up. They don’t want too much blood. But at Infernos, nothing stops the fight. It ends when it ends, and we hope no one lied on the ‘do you have any transmittable diseases’ form.

  Faster than I gave him credit for, Brochov’s thick arm swings around. His fist slams into my side and almost pierces something important with my own ribs. Lifting me off my feet with the momentum, I wrap my arms around his throat like I’m hugging the guy, and when we land on the canvas, when he lands on me, I know tomorrow will hurt bad.

  Straddling me, blitzing me with his jabs, I cover up and grunt at the knuckles cracking my forearms.

  Who the fuck bet against this guy?

  Bridging up when his fists slow, I lift three-hundred-pounds with my hips and flip us over. In half guard, with his legs wrapped around my hips and his hands covering his face, I throw strikes like my life depends on it.

  And it does.

  Hurt him. But don’t knock him out.

  It’s a fine fucking line, because if I accidentally knock him out, it won’t matter that I’m Abel’s best soldier. All that will matter is that I lost him nearly one and a half million dollars.

  I’ll pay for that with my life.

  Unlike televised fights, our rounds aren’t timed. These aren’t five-minute slots, then a rest and water break. There are no medics here to make sure everyone walks away breathing. There are just my fists slamming against a solid Russian head, and Abel in my peripherals, shaking his head and nibbling on his pointer finger.

  There are no clocks in this club. No watch on my wrist. No timers telling me how long the fight has been going. It feels like I’ve been in this ring for hours, but at the same time, mere seconds.

  Looking into Brochov’s dimming eyes – one swollen shut, the other side of his face turning slack – then another glance at Abel, biting off a curse, I hold my final strike and let the monster flip me.

  He’s down, but he ain’t out.

  I get the feeling he doesn’t know of Abel’s agreement, because once he senses my exhaustion, he scissors us, slams me to my back, and like it’s all in slow motion, I watch his fist come straight for my face.

  One Mississippi; his teeth bare with feral rage.

  Two Mississippi; his chest fills with oxygen as his new position reinvigorates him.

  Three Mississippi; his fist connects with my temple and the lights go out.

  There is no four.

  9

  Jess

  There Are A Million Lances

  Parking my car not so far from Infernos club the night after Kane told me not to come back, I study the street around me. The dark pockets. The alleyways. And the dangerous men who stand around discussing whatever business they have with each other.

  Some glance up when I cut the lights, but for the most part, they stay put and continue their dealings.

  They’ll mind their own business if I mind mine.

  I refuse to make the same mistakes I made last time. I’m still nursing stitches in my ribs from my naiveté. My stomach still hollows at the thought of what could’ve been if the stranger, my dark knight, never stepped in.

  He told me not to come here last night.

  He specifically said he wouldn’t be here.

  He made me promise.

  So I made a promise to a criminal and I stayed home and watched child genius shows just to test my abilities against toddlers.

  I didn’t always win.

  Starving like I never have before in my life, I ate enough pizza to put Alex and Luc to shame. Not even Jules and her ‘I’m eating for two’ outlasted me. So with a full belly, I went to bed and slept twelve hours straight.

  And I dreamed. Such sweet dreams.

  Jules said I could have another day off – since my face was legitimately white as a ghost most of the night. And since today’s Friday, I’m off now until Monday.

  I have case files to work on.

  I have an exam to study for.

  I have a sister I should be paying attention to, since she’s been so absent for so long. Graham’s out of town this week and I should be elated; I should be perched on the couch beside her and lapping up her attention while he’s gone, but I’m not. Instead, I’m here.

  I take my cell out and unlock the screen, and bringing it to my ear, I pretend that I belong as I open the car door.

  In wedge shoes – tall and sexy, but more supportive of my tender ankle – and a baby pink sundress despite the chill outside, I slam the car door and move across the street toward the club that pumps chest-thumping music.

  My heart races with exhilaration. I’m walking back into danger.

  But more than that, I’m walking back into Kane’s life.

  I saw him only yesterday, but the divide between our lives – the normalcy of eating pizza with my friends and sleeping in a room with tiara’s – makes it seem as though I haven’t seen him in a decade.

  I ran yesterday.

  I ran away scared and told him not to follow, and yet, I dreamed of him. It felt so real. So clear. So pointed and familiar.

  Which is why I’m here now.

  Stepping onto the curb, two men step out of the alley I was in the other night; but this time, instead of being dumb – instead of locking up – I fake a smile like we’re old pals, and I squeeze the silent phone by my ear. “Kane! Hi. I’m just walking in now.”

  Just like I expected, like I knew the grizzly bear would hold power around here, dropping his name makes them freeze in their tracks. One of the men with long hair, a gold tooth, and muddy eyes, skims his gaze along my legs and makes me sick to my stomach.

  “Yeah? You said to meet you out front, right? Uh-huh.” Despite my racing heart, the guys take a step back into the shadows. “You want me to come in? There are some guys out here. I could ask them for directions. No?” Stopping near the front door six feet from a giant bouncer, I turn back to the guys who disappeared into the darkness, but I still see their shadows; I see the milky white orbs of their eyes. “Alright. I’ll come in.”

  Like my name dropping worked magic on the bouncer, too – or maybe he just doesn’t care, since I’m a woman in a short dress – I slide through the crowd and move inside the club that sends chills through my blood.

  I thought the street was scary, I thought the guys skulking in alleyways were creepy, but they’ve got nothing on what’s going on inside.

  The entrance is one long hall. Like that Stephen King movie, the hallway that goes on forever, but every few feet is a doorway.

  Most are closed, but some are open.

  Naked people. Dressed people. People on couches. People tied to a cross.

  Women crying in ecstasy. Others crying from the crack of a whip. Men circling their prey. Others simply sitting back and watching the show.

  I’m both horrified and intrigued at the room with ropes. Ropes everywhere. A woman hanging from the ceiling in a way I think can’t possibly be comfortable, but her cries are of pleasure. She’s not sad to be there.

  With my pinky nail caught between my teeth and a horrified fascination as I watch the man work around her, I tilt my head to the side and watch on in a trance as another circles the couple and takes photos. They’re documen
ting it. The girl doesn’t hide her face. In fact, the cameraman moves in closer and has her moaning with pleasure, literally dripping onto the floor.

  Heat rises through my body and settles low in my stomach. I’m not a voyeur. I’m not even into kinky stuff like in the movies. But watching these men circle her, mixed with the feelings of incompletion that Kane’s skilled hands left behind, has me settling into a comfortable warmth that dissipates like smoke when a hand slides along my ass and snaps me back to reality.

  Spinning, heart racing, I come eye-to-eye with a stranger.

  A creepy stranger.

  With a toothy grin and grabby hands, he leans in close to my ear to be heard over the loud music. Close, way too close, he buries his face in my hair and touches my neck with his pointed nose. “There’s a spare room back there. I’m horny, and you’re beautiful. Wanna–”

  “No.” Dancing out of his reach, I bring my cell back to my ear like a shield and speed walk through the hall that never ends. My tender ankle goes forgotten at the memory of that man’s hand sliding over the front of my hip. “I’m walking through the club, Kane, and I’m looking for you. I need you to find me.” I speak to no one, but at the same time, I pray my little atheist heart out that he hears me.

  Leaving the narrow hall with no less than a dozen ass grabs and a handful of boob squeezes, I emerge into a great room and stop with an indrawn breath. A huge space teeming with the noise of people and their shouts of excitement, the space expands out ahead of me and makes me reconsider the size I thought this club was.

  Their shouts – the screamed bets, the words of encouragement, and the cries of disappointment – make my ears ring, but nothing beats louder than my own heart when my gaze locks onto Kane in the center of the room.

  In the center of a boxing ring.

  Being slammed to the floor by a giant.

  Sex dungeons, crosses, and whips flee my mind the way the fog vanished when I was grabbed in the hall, and instead, the racing beat of my heart takes over and envelopes me in a brand-new panic.