by Finn, Emilia
Checkmate
Checkmate, #8
Emilia Finn
CHECKMATE
By: Emilia Finn
Copyright © 2020. Emilia Finn
Publisher: Beelieve Publishing, Pty Ltd.
Cover Design: Amy Queue
Editing: Bird’s Eye Books
Cover model: David Cook
Cover photographer: Golden Czermak/FuriousFotog
ISBN: 9781659332933
This Book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This Book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return and purchase your own copy.
To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at [email protected]
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of Emilia Finn’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Also by Emilia Finn
Looking To Connect?
Checkmate
Prologue
1. Libby
2. Theo Griffin
3. Libby
4. Theo
5. Libby
6. Theo
7. Libby
8. Libby
9. Theo
10. Theo
11. Sophia
12. Libby
13. Theo
14. Libby
15. Theo
16. Libby
17. Theo
18. Libby
19. Theo
20. Libby
21. Libby
22. Gunner
23. Libby
24. Gunner
25. Libby
26. Gunner
27. Libby
28. Gunner
29. Libby
Chapter 30
31. Theo
32. Olly
33. Theo
34. Libby
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Also by Emilia Finn
Looking To Connect?
Because everyone deserves family
Also by Emilia Finn
(in reading order)
The Rollin On Series
Finding Home
Finding Victory
Finding Forever
Finding Peace
Finding Redemption
Finding Hope
The Survivor Series
Because of You
Surviving You
Without You
Rewriting You
Always You
Take A Chance On Me
The Checkmate Series
Pawns In The Bishop’s Game
Till The Sun Dies
Castling The Rook
Playing For Keeps
Rise Of The King
Sacrifice The Knight
Winner Takes All
Checkmate
Stacked Deck - Rollin On Next Gen
Wildcard
Rollin On Novellas
(Do not read before finishing the Rollin On Series)
Begin Again – A Short Story
Written in the Stars – A Short Story
Full Circle – A Short Story
Worth Fighting For – A Bobby & Kit Novella
Looking To Connect?
Website: www.emiliafinn.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/EmiliaBFinn/
Newsletter: https://bit.ly/2YB5Gmw
Email: [email protected]
The Crew: https://www.facebook.com/groups/therollincrew/
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Checkmate
Checkmate, #8
EMILIA FINN
Prologue
Gunner – Eleven Years Old
“Come on, Doodlebug. You have to put your things away. We’re going out.”
I look up from my spot on the living room floor as Mom rushes across the room to snatch up her purse. My pencils line the original tray they came in, and sit just half a foot from my elbow. They’re all sharpened and in the order of the rainbow, because I don’t want them to get lost or broken. I sketch on old scraps of paper my mom swiped from the office at her work, but that’s fine, since only one side has stuff printed on it.
I live on the crappy side of town in an apartment building that has more bugs than humans – times a hundred. Cockroaches sometimes tickle my face when I sleep, and moths wreck my clothes, so I have to keep checking on my favorite sweater.
I don’t want it to be ruined.
My apartment is dark and crowded. Only one bedroom; and the bedroom isn’t mine. The floor is more comfortable for drawing than my couch, so I draw down here and try to stay out of the way.
My home is pretty crappy. It’s small, a little bit wet most of the time, and I think the metal bar in the couch has permanently warped my back while I sleep. But it’s clean. There’s no dust down here, no spilled food or dead bugs.
We let off a bug bomb once a month, spend the next week or two sweeping the dead bodies up as they appear, and then two weeks later, we bomb again and try to make sure cockroaches stay away at night.
It’s not so bad.
We’re going for a trip today, somewhere a few hours away. Mom’s been talking about it for ages, so I’m already dressed and have my shoes on. My favorite sweater sits on the couch so I don’t forget it.
Mom rushes to the bathroom one last time, so I set my pencil down in the tray and stare at the drawing in front of me.
It’s a man. A man I don’t know, but I’m supposed to be meeting him today.
Mom gave me a photo of him ages ago, so I drew his black hair from memory, since I spent forever staring at that picture. I drew his dark eyes and heavy forehead. His neat combover, and his broad shoulders.
I’ve never met anyone so big before; I guess I will today.
In the picture, he and another man smoke fat cigars and smile, but I don’t draw the cigars in. Or the other man. They look like they’re mid-joke, mid-laughter, and white smoke plumes around their heads.
“Doodlebug!” Mom flushes the toilet and rushes back through the living room. “Get up.” She claps her hands. “We have to go.”
“Okay.” I slide the tray of pencils under the floral print couch and stack my loose sheets of paper on top where they’ll stay safe. Pushing to my feet, I catch sight of my red sweater and reach out to pick it up, but the thought of needing to pee on our drive makes me turn away and rush to the bathroom.
I’m nervous for today, and I don’t know why. I’m nervous to meet this man, but I shouldn’t be; I meet new people all the time.
Heading across the living room and into the bathroom, I work fast, flush, wash my hands, meet Mom in the living room, and when she smiles and pulls me into a hug, I wrap my arms around her waist and snuggle in.
She’s busy a
ll the time. Always working. Always hustling so I can eat. She’s often short-tempered, she yells a lot, but she does it all because she has to. Because no one else will feed us. No one else will pay the rent so the cockroaches have somewhere to stay.
“This is going to be fun, okay?”
I’m the same height as she is now, so I bend my neck a little and rest my face on her shoulder. “Okay.”
“Don’t be nervous. This is an exciting day.”
Again, I nod. “Okay.”
“Alright.” She pushes me back and grins. “Let’s go. Our new adventure awaits.”
* * *
Three hours in the car isn’t so bad for an eleven-year-old kid with loads of music and a mom with an angel’s voice. We play “I Spy” with license plate letters, eat our pastrami sandwiches when we get hungry, and make good time when we don’t stop the whole way. I’m glad I peed before we left, because by the time we pull up out front of a large club and switch off the engine, I’m ready to go again.
The music cuts out, so we sit in the silence and study the multi-story building in front of us. “This is it.” Mom turns to me; she looks both happy and terrified. Nervous, but giddy. Emotions I’m not used to seeing on her usually serious face. “Are you excited?”
I nod and turn back to the club, to the blacked-out windows, and the overflowing dumpster at the far end of the lot. This place is dark, which sticks out weird, considering it’s the middle of the day and the sun shines down. It almost feels a little… I don’t know. Addams Family, maybe.
Mom wears a bright yellow sundress. Her long hair hangs low, and her lips, fire-engine red, make her blue eyes stand out against her light skin.
Blue eyes like mine.
Not like the man in the picture.
She doesn’t normally wear dresses like she’s wearing today, or heels, or a fancy purse. She doesn’t often wear lipstick, or style her hair overnight so it curls the next day.
My mom cleans hotel rooms seven days a week; she wears jeans, sneakers, and ponytails. She never wears heels, and she never ever takes days off, like she’s done for today.
That makes this special.
This place looks empty; there are no cars besides ours in the parking lot. The double front doors are closed, the windows dark. But this is where she brought us, so I guess this is where we’re going.
Turning back to my mom, I nod and reach out to pat her hand. She’s nervous, so it’s my job to make this less scary. “Let’s go.”
We push our doors open and step onto the parking lot of concrete and broken gravel bits. The breeze is chilly, and I forgot my sweater, so I fold my arms and slam the door closed. Moving around to the hood of the car, I wait for Mom to loop her arm in mine, then we move toward the front entrance.
She’s more nervous than I’ve ever seen her. It’s weird, because she’s normally our strong one. She’s our leader. She’s a single mom and she works herself to the bone.
The fact that she’s feeling weak means I need to be strong.
As though by magic, the doors at the front of the club open, and a man in a police uniform steps forward to wait. He’s not one of the men from the picture I’ve spent my life looking at. He’s like them, I guess. In the way that his face is hard, his jaw square and strong. This guy has shaved his head bald and wears a shiny diamond in his left ear.
He’s in full uniform, with a black gun on his hip and a shiny badge on his chest. His presence in this dark place brings me comfort in a way. Cops make some people nervous, they make the guilty worry that their crimes have been carved into their foreheads, but my mom and I have committed no crimes. We’re the good people, and he’s the police.
He watches us approach with heavy brows and narrowed eyes, and still, he makes me comfortable. But my mom doesn’t relax like I do.
Lifting his left hand as though to scratch his jaw, the policeman stops and speaks into his wrist like this is a spy movie. “They’re here.” He pauses, and while he waits, his eyes don’t leave mine. “Yeah, Sarge. On our way.” He drops his arm and finally meets Mom’s eyes. “Ms. Ellis, come on in.”
“Thank you.” Mom nervously pats her dress down and lets me lead her into the dark building and along a long hall. “Is… uh…” Mom looks around. She was nervous and a little scared, but the further we walk into this unknown place, the stronger she becomes. She becomes my protector, my leader, and helps my heart slow. “I’m here to see—”
“I know.” The handcuffs on the back of the man’s belt glint in the light that peeks through windows and doorways. Keys hang near the cuffs, and a flashlight sits on his left hip. He’s like the cops I see in the movies, which is super cool. I’ve wanted to be the law ever since Walker, Texas Ranger came out on tape. A tape I’ve watched so many times that it’s basically ruined.
Maybe if this guy is friends with the man from the photo, while mom talks to the man, I can talk to the cop. We can hang out and talk criminals, I can ask him about the cool cases he’s solved. I might even ask him if he’s ever shot someone before.
That would be really cool.
We’re led through the hall and into a large space that’s basically empty now except for tables and chairs, but I bet at night, people sit and drink while others dance. Colorful lights hang from the ceiling, though they’re all switched off right now. This is like a dance club, I think. People probably get drunk here, so maybe that’s why the policeman is here…
“Up here, Ms. Ellis.”
We follow the bald policeman when he turns left, then climb up a set of stairs that creak as we move. His boots stomp on the metal steps, Mom’s heels click-clack. My sneakers are silent, and when I release my mom’s hand, she and the cop move ahead without glancing back to me.
Arching my neck, I look around the club as we head up, and notice a long bar with a billion bottles behind it, empty milk crates stacked between, two cash registers, one on each end, and a box tossed on one of the tables, the flaps a little open, and black sticks poking out of the top.
Turning back to the top of the stairs, I jog to catch up, and reach the landing in the same moment the cop taps on a heavy door. Only a second passes, long enough for Mom to look back and take my hand when I step closer. She clutches me close, twines her fingers with mine, and pats our knuckles as she turns back to the door.
She holds our clasped hands to her chest, so I feel her heart racing as the door slowly creaks open and the policeman whispers to someone inside.
It’s all “she’s here,” and “she brought the kid.”
My pulse speeds as the cop steps aside with a kind smile and waves us in. Mom steps forward first, but she keeps my hand in hers and pulls me forward to step into a fancy office with black curtains and a heavy, wooden desk.
A man sits at the desk with his ankle on his knee, his hands clasped together.
He’s the man from the photo.
His eyes are almost black, the same as his hair. It’s a little bit strange, because this is a fancy room and there are two other men in here, both wearing black suits. But the man sitting in the center wears an Army uniform. He looks like a worker like the rest of us; rough hands, clean shaven, a uniform that isn’t faded, but it’s not brand-new either. The ankle resting over his knee is covered with scuffed combat boots and socks. A gun on his thigh, a knife on his ankle.
He clasps a cigar between his fingers, lit so the smoke plumes and spirals into the air.
One of the men in suits is the second man from the photo. I don’t know his name, and if my mom knows, she’s never said. He’s not fat, but he’s not skinny either. I guess I’d call him… well, fed. He wears a shiny silk tie and black shoes. His hair is combed, and so oily, I can still see the comb lines. His eyes aren’t as dark as the man’s at the desk, but they’re not light either. He wears glinting rings on his fat fingers, and holds a lit cigar between his lips, sucking on the end so the red ember glows and his mouth fills with smoke.
I turn when Mom’s hand begins shaking. My eyes
drift to the side of her face; she’s so pretty, smiling at the men now like they’re our friends.
Maybe they are. Maybe we’re done living week to week, minute to minute, and now we have new friends. Powerful friends in police uniforms, suits, and army uniforms. Maybe they’ll help Mom make ends meet so she doesn’t have to work until she passes out. Maybe they’ll make it so she can eat enough that her ribs don’t poke out so much.
“Jacintha.” The man exhales and sends the plume of smoke across his desk. We stand at least fifteen feet away, but a hand on Mom’s back – the policeman’s hand – shuffles us a little closer while Mom nervously swallows. “You look as beautiful as I remember.” He stands slowly, powerfully, and makes Mom and me arch our necks back. “Just as lovely as always.”
If I was older, smarter, less naïve, I might see what’s going on today as a power imbalance. But in my eleven-year-old brain, all I see is power. And for us, always hungry, always poor, always tired, power to me is like a flame to a moth, and if my mom is smiling as she is now, it must be okay.
“Yes,” she says in a whisper. “We’re here.”
The army man brings his eyes over to me, looking me up and down for a long minute before he turns back to Mom. “You brought the boy. He looks good; tall, solid.”
