Winner Takes All: Checkmate, #7

by Finn, Emilia

  Andi drew up the initial sketches and helped me turn the shit running through my head into something tangible, then Soph added the technology that I didn’t know existed for regular folks like us. Now we have access to a 3D printer, a computer software genius that’ll create it, and an artist who can make it look cool.

  I’m the munitions expert, the one who decides how to make the leg multifunctional, while Andi draws pretty designs, and essentially tattoos herself onto her man’s limbs.

  “Knife compartment here.” I lean across Soph and point at the 3D image she rotates on the screen. “Slide it in, slide it out.”

  “Good idea.” Soph’s hands fly over the keyboard faster than my eyes can keep up. She adds my suggestions in live time, so I see the prosthetic take shape. “What size will he want?”

  I shrug. “Five inches, maybe. See how it can slide down the back of the calf? Clip in, clip out. We’ll make the leg titanium. He won’t even be stopped at airports.”

  “Gun on the side?”

  “Gun built into the shape,” I correct. “Like, I want it to be built into the leg so when the piece is in place, he could walk around in shorts and no one would actually know the gun is there unless they know.”

  “I get it.” She continues working, adjusting, molding the shape on screen, while Andi sketches with steely focus.

  She’s designing machine pieces onto what is already a machine piece. Rose vines weave through and look badass, but the roses only serve to remind me of the flower shop I visited yesterday. And the woman who owns it.

  Abigail, who looks way too young for me to feel okay about. Abigail, who visited me in my dreams last night.

  Snotty little rosary-clutching woman with her perfect hair and mesmerizing eyes that have somehow burned themselves onto the backs of my eyelids.

  She’s not the first woman that has intrigued me, but she’s definitely the first that I didn’t just take to another room and fuck to get her out of my system. This is all brand new for me; she got under my skin with nothing more than a dislike for swearing and ink.

  I’m not a romantic. I don’t even have to like a woman to hook up with her. Tits and ass are tits and ass. I take what I want, grab their tits, smack their ass, then show them out to the cab that collects them and removes them from my life.

  It really is that simple in my world.

  So if a girl intrigues me, it’s not a grand, romantic thought where I might get nervous or excited for a date. It’s literally a case of this chick makes me wanna look twice. So I look twice, I do what I have to do, then I send her away like she’s just another tick on my to-do list.

  But Abigail isn’t my typical itch. She’s a fuckin’ nun. She’s a virginal prissy girl who can’t handle cussing or bad manners. She’s absolutely not someone who might agree to take a minute with me in another room so I can scratch that itch. She’s… different.

  And I don’t mean that romantically. She’s not ‘different’ in a good way, she’s not ‘different’ in a way that makes me want to stuff her in a bag and keep her for myself. She’s not ‘different’ like I might like to get to know her.

  She’s different like a fucking tumor on my back.

  “Spence?”

  “Hmm?” I come back and find Soph’s face just inches in front of mine. “What?”

  The brunette beauty flashes a cute smile that speaks nothing of the savagery she’s capable of. She vacillates between innocent ballet teacher who controls a troupe of five-year-olds five days a week, to the psycho avenger beneath the surface who personally took out, or had taken out, gangsters who did her wrong. She’s a contradiction of herself, and terrifying with how quick she can switch roles. I guarantee her students’ moms have no clue who is truly teaching their babies. But if they did, they might even applaud such a strong, female influence in their lives. Homicidal tendencies and all.

  Soph watches my eyes and nibbles on her bottom lip.

  I need to get laid before I get shot.

  “Whatcha thinking about?” she asks.

  I make an ‘eh’ sound and fake relaxation. “World domination. What about you?”

  She shrugs like my answer is legitimate. “Same. I’m always thinking about world domination. Did you hear me about the pin lock system?”

  “Nope, sorry.” I run a hand over my face and blow out a heavy breath.

  I’ve had too many sleepless nights, which have been compounded by too many nights where I could sleep, but Jay couldn’t, so he’d drive out to my place, and we’d shoot to perfect our already perfect aim. Now I’m running on a week of sporadic sleep at best, and dragging ass because of it.

  I’m not active military anymore. My life doesn’t have to revolve around sleeping when I can, and waking like my life depends on it. But I feel as worn down now as I used to while working. Which feels really fucking dramatic for a guy who knows starvation and fights to the death.

  Poor me, with all my modern conveniences and a comfortable bed.

  “Go on.” I drop my hands and look back to the computer. “Tell me about the pin lock system.”

  “You got something you wanna talk about?” Andi’s eyes don’t leave her sketchpad. Her hand doesn’t stop moving. But she speaks as though she’s part of this conversation. “Something on your mind?”

  “I do not gossip, ladies. You know this about me.”

  “Maybe you should try it.” Finally, Andi’s eyes come up. “It doesn’t always help, but you never know. This might be the one time that it does. We’re in the cone of silence, we won’t tell anyone what you say.”

  “Pass, but thanks.” I start collecting the papers spread out on the table in front of me. Sketches, notes, cartoon drawings of redheaded women with big eyes that are as unique as the bullshit that streams through my mind. “If we’re done here, I have someplace I have to be.”

  “Did you install Nadia’s system yet?”

  “No.”

  Andi grins. “Did you order Nadia’s system yet?”

  “Yes.” I toss a pencil and smile when it lands on Andi’s paper. “I ordered it this morning, smartass. It’ll get here day after tomorrow. I’ll install it later this week, and then Laine can quit nagging me for the sake of nagging.”

  “She does it because it’s fun,” Soph says. She works on her computer, but speaks like what her hands are doing doesn’t require massive amounts of brainpower. “You’re like her crash test dummy for men. I mean, who is badder than Spencer Serrano?” Her eyes come up. “Nobody. So she uses you, nags you, taunts you, because if she can step up to you, then no man can ever intimidate her. She’s got Ang wrapped around her finger, Kane is a marshmallow for her and Jess, Eric has always been soft for her, and Riley is busy with his leg shit. That leaves you… dummy.”

  “Call me ‘dummy’ again, ballerina. I dare you.”

  Chuckling, she grabs the mouse for her computer and shows me the prosthetic with the gun firmly in place, camouflaged into the rest of the design. “Here ya go, dummy. No one will ever know he’s got an extra piece. Airports will let him through, because they can’t discriminate, and scanning it won’t give away any of his secrets. We could send him into the White House, and no one will know he’s packing.”

  “So you’re saying…”

  “Riley can be our Terminator.” She pushes her laptop away and sits back in her chair. “Our indestructible bionic. What are your thoughts on installing titanium plates throughout his whole body? Chest, abdominals, head, arms… fists.”

  “No bueno,” Andi murmurs. “He’s not a national weapon to be conscripted and used for your pleasure.”

  “Only yours, then?”

  “Mmhmm.” Andi pushes pencil shavings off her page and grins. “All mine, and mine alone. We can mess around with his leg, but that’s all we get. Here.” She blows on her page with a loud gust, then she lifts the book and spins it to show off an image that isn’t a sketch of stick-figure quality, but something you’d expect to see in a tattoo parlor. The shading, the int
ricacies, the detail. Andi acts like she’s brainless and all about the fun things in life, but beneath that, she’s smart as a whip, talented with a pencil, and loyal to a fault. “Can we get a skin made to look like this? It’ll almost look like he has a real leg, but like, fully tattooed. He can switch it out whenever he gets bored. He can have a new look every week if he wants.”

  Soph stands, only to lean over the wide table to get a closer look at the sketch. Her tiny ballerina ass is barely two feet from my face, wrapped in tight jeans and swaying within reach. But all I can think about is Miss Priss’ non-existent ass.

  “That drawing is badass, Andi. It’s like a real machine with roses weaving through.”

  “It’s totally badass,” Andi agrees. “Maybe I should have this tattooed onto my leg too, so Riley and I can match.”

  “Can you draw something for me?” Soph asks. Her ass is right there. Right fucking there, but my mind circles around to places it shouldn’t. “I want a new piece, but I can’t draw for shit.”

  “Sure.” Andi’s jet-black hair hangs in her eyes when she turns her sketchpad back to face her. She drops it onto the table, and picks her pencil up as though she sees imperfections the rest of us can’t see. “Tell me what you want, how big you want it, and where you want it on your body. I’ll draw it up for Ian-the-tattoo-guy. He is talented as hell. He’ll take it from paper to skin, and you’ll never remember your life without it.”

  “I wanna do something for Jay,” Soph murmurs. She pulls back and drops into her chair. “He’s kinda it for me, guys.”

  “We know.”

  Andi’s smile grows when she and I say it at the same time. “Everybody knows. We see you together. You sure as hell ain’t it for anyone else, and he seems to think you’re the cutest thing since sliced bread.”

  Soph rolls her eyes. “Bread isn’t cute.”

  “Whatever. You know what I’m saying. Pretty sure he’s willing to hijack Kane’s wedding and toss you to the front of the aisle first. Better get your tutu ready.”

  “I’m not getting married in a fucking tutu,” she snaps. “I’m not getting married at all until he takes a hint and asks properly. And until then…” She stands again, and pushes her laptop closed. “I have shit to do. Send me the sketch when you’re finished. I’ll load it up and have the new leg printed.”

  “Are you doing Checkmate work now, or dance stuff?”

  Soph comes around the outside of her chair and shoves it in so the wooden armrest smacks my leg. “Dance stuff. I have a class at noon, and paperwork to file before that. I’m trying to work with this girl who’s had a rough time. She was part of the Inferno shit, so I…”

  Red hair.

  No ass.

  Abusive boyfriend.

  “Wait. Soph.” I grab the ballerina’s hand before she can collect her laptop and rush off.

  Soph has had a kind of training like the rest of us. Ours was done during drills and bootcamps, and while they were hard, they were also supervised for soldier safety. Soph’s was just a part of her everyday life when the world forced her to get hard. I was trained by racing across fields, climbing walls, and shooting until my arms wanted to fall off, but Soph was trained in the streets of New York City, where her options were to be the best, or die.

  Despite my more “official” training, she still snaps her wrist from my grasp and twists my hand back until pain slices through my arm and into my shoulder.

  “They didn’t teach you in ranger school not to grab women without their permission?” Releasing me, she palms the top of my face and shoves me back. “Don’t grab me again, Serrano. Next time, I’ll rip it off.”

  I massage my aching wrist and watch the naturally thin dancer pile her things together.

  “Before you go, I just wanna…” I pause. “Well… There’s something I wanna talk to you about.”

  “Is it… gossip?” Andi teasingly bounces her brows.

  “No.” I shoot her a filthy glare, and wonder where my life went wrong. I’m surrounded by estrogen, and not a single man does anything to put them in their place. “There’s this chick I met recently, and I wonder if maybe she might need a friend.”

  “I don’t have time for friends.” Soph lifts her laptop and turns back to face me. “I don’t even have time for Andi.”

  “Hey!”

  “No, not like that,” I tell her in a rush. “I mean like…” Freckles, magnetic eyes, and such a small waist, her belt wraps around her twice. “I think maybe this person needs an Ellie Solomon Dance Academy friend.”

  Those words slow Soph’s movements. Ellie is Soph’s baby sister. Long ago murdered, and now Soph’s dance studio’s namesake. Soph wanted to help girls that found themselves in a situation where they felt they needed shelter.

  “I don’t know for sure, but I met this chick yesterday, and she had a man with her. She swears it’s her brother, but I dunno. He’s dark, she’s light. He’s big, she’s practically malnourished. He was giving me weird vibes, and she just seemed so…” Innocent. Vulnerable. In danger. “Like maybe she’d be the type to say it’s her brother, rather than admit he beats her more often than not, and maybe that’s why she wears the things she does.”

  Soph sets her belongings back on the table with slow movements. “What does she wear? What do you mean?”

  “Like, clothes that are way too big for her. Jeans that are nothing like yours.” She frowns, and turns to check her own backside out. “She’s got no ass to fill them. She wears shirts that are buttoned right up to her chin. I guess I’m worried… I mean… I dunno.” I run a hand over my chin. “Maybe she wears that stuff to cover up bruises or whatever. Or maybe he makes her wear that stuff because he gets mad if she shows a little skin.”

  “Well…” Soph slowly reopens her laptop. Her lock screen shows a photograph of two laughing ballerinas in their teens, and one of them is definitely Soph. “Did you ask her?”

  “Ask might not be the right word.”

  Soph’s eyes narrow. “So tell me how you would describe what happened.”

  “I might have implied the dude abuses her, and that she’s a sucker for covering for him.”

  One heavy fist hits my arm, then a second when Andi shoots out of her chair and hits me.

  “Are you stupid?” Soph growls. “Have you learned nothing with Laine? Why would you kick a chick if she’s already down?”

  “She pressed my buttons, okay? She looks like a pound puppy, like she could do with a steak and a hug, and Jess tried to offer her an out. But this chick says how he’s bossy, but it’s okay. She said he’s her brother, which Jess bought like,” I smack the table, “that. Has Kane taught her nothing? She’s being hosed by the florist, and nobody seems inclined to check in on her.”

  “So, as her only remaining guardian who believes maybe she’s being hurt, you figure instead of helping, you’d sink your boot in instead?” Soph smacks my arm again, then one more time. “You’re stupid!”

  “Jess was so sure, okay! And Jess is usually pretty smart. They went about their business, and acted like the bossy brother was no big deal, so I followed them around for the afternoon. Abigail didn’t limp or cry, she didn’t grab her ribs or freak out when I accidentally touched her arm.”

  “Accidentally?” Andi lifts a brow. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

  “Of course it wasn’t an accident!” I stand and point toward the door. “I don’t touch anybody by accident. I wanted to see what she’d do.”

  “And what did she do?” Soph asks.

  “Nothing! She gave me a filthy glare, shook herself free, told me to go away, since she’s so opposed to cussing and can’t find it in her churchy soul to say ‘fuck off,’ then she kept on working. What she didn’t do was cry out because where I grabbed her hurt. I grabbed her arm, around here,” I grab Soph’s bicep. “Which is kinda where any guy would grab if he’s trying to control her. She didn’t seem to be in pain, but she was too skinny.”

  “So now, because you fuc
ked it up, you want me to make friends with her and save her from the big bad wolf?”

  “Yes!”

  “I feel like I know who the wolf is,” Andi grumbles. “And it ain’t this chick’s brother. I feel like maybe Spencer is intrigued and he doesn’t know how to deal with it.” She waggles her brows. “Was she pretty?” Yes. “Did you wanna pat her head… mere seconds before pushing her to her knees?”

  “No!” Maybe. Fuck, yes. “No, you’re wrong. If I wanna fuck a girl, I tell her I wanna fuck. Then we fuck, because I know she wants it too. It wasn’t like that with this chick. She needs help.”

  “So…” Soph snaps her laptop closed again. “Help her. Her name is Abigail, right? From the flower shop?”

  “What about it?”

  “She has five brothers. Her father is of Portuguese decent. Her brothers are dark, her mother is light. Maybe, just maybe,” she lets the word drag out, “she was telling the truth, and you’re just pissed because you want her to be your damsel.”

  “I don’t want a damsel! I don’t have time for that shit.”

  “If you say so. But I think I can leave this case in your hands, big boy. You have it under control.” She claps my shoulder like she’s a man. “I have shit to do. If you think she’s truly in trouble, then you know what to do. If you don’t, then make a move or move away from her. But whatever you do, stop being a little bitch about it.”

  The boardroom door swings open, then Jay pokes his head in with a smile. “Who’s a little bitch?”

  “Spence.” Soph swings away from me and meets her man at the door. “I wanna run some stuff by you.”

  “Okay. Hey, little bitch. You have a visitor.” He flips the blinds open and reveals the red-haired woman to his left, in her too-big clothes and strangling the straps of her handbag between her hands. “Said she needs to talk to a Mr. Serrano. Fuck if I knew who she was asking for.”