Pawns In The Bishop's Game

by Emilia Finn

  I spent this week in the arms of a woman I never could have expected to meet. I never planned ahead for this. I never imagined I’d meet someone that had the power to set my world on fire.

  But I did. And I don’t think she realizes she has that power. She has no clue of what I feel inside, no clue of her importance in my world.

  And I refuse to tell her, because it would do more harm than good.

  I started my day like I started every day this week; her silky legs wrapped around mine, her lips on mine, her hair in my face. It’s exactly the way I hope to start tomorrow, but when you grow up the way I did, when you work in the field I do, you learn to read the signs. You learn to listen to your gut.

  And mine says I won’t be going back to my bed tonight.

  Or ever.

  I worked at the club all week when Abel called me in, and I ran errands when he didn’t. I moved guns between warehouses, and when they were stacked, I counted them three times each.

  I inventoried girls and ignored their tears – at least I didn’t see Nora once – and I supervised others as they counted cash and cut the already cut coke into resale portions.

  And as each day passed, I wondered about Jay. My best friend. My brother in arms. I searched for him when I could. I asked around the club as quietly as I could manage. I even asked each of the whores, since he was so partial to them. But once five in the afternoon hit, it was time for Jess.

  I shouldn’t choose her over him.

  But I do.

  Since the first time I saw her, I’ve been choosing her, and there’s nothing in the world that’ll change that now.

  It’s too late for me.

  But that doesn’t erase the worry in my heart at Jay’s continued absence.

  During the days while I’m busy preparing for the end of the world, and Jess is in her office actively working on a case against me and my boss, we text. She sends me pictures she really shouldn’t. She tells fart jokes. And on her lunch break, we talk. I call her at one on the dot, because by that point in the day, I’ve been without her for five whole hours and my addiction begins crying for a hit.

  It makes me giddy that she answers, even while in her office.

  But when I say ‘Hey, Blondie,’ and she replies with ‘Hey, Al,’ that wipes away my giddiness.

  I should be pleased she’s protecting herself; hell, I truly am. Her safety is my only concern. But she’s not in danger from her boss, and saying my name won’t put her in physical danger. Just in danger of a lecture.

  She can’t explain me.

  She can’t defend me.

  She can only hide me.

  I wish she knew the old me. I wish we could have met at a different time. A time with less danger, less worry, less rush.

  But wishes, for guys like me, are nothing but wasted breath.

  So instead, I play along and pretend my name is Al. Neither of us dares put into writing the things we speak about in private – the drugs, the guns, Abel. I tell her everything she needs to know while it’s just us. I help her build her case, because her wellbeing is the only thing that I worry about. But during the day, when we type, when anyone could cross our paths, we talk about everyday stuff and pretend nothing unusual is happening.

  She tells me of the salad she ate for lunch.

  I promise to buy her a burger for dinner.

  She tells me the current case she’s working on – mine – is bothering her.

  I vow to make it all better soon.

  She doesn’t understand how I can make it so, and I can’t explain to her my reasons. So we go back to salad and sex, and ignore everything else.

  Puffing warm air into my hands, I look around the same truck stop that Jess and I ate in almost exactly a week ago, and I watch as each truck passes through the well-lit gas station. Dolly wouldn’t be here at this hour. She’s a day shift gal – she told me so. So it’s just me, the dark, and a bunch of truck drivers who probably miss their wives.

  The front of the stop is lit up from the overhead halogens, but the back, where I stand and trucks park to catch a few hours sleep before they move on again, is dark as fuck and just as creepy.

  Of course Abel chose this place.

  I press my back to the grimy wall and cast my gaze as far as it can go. Flynn should’ve been here already. We spent hours in Abel’s office last night discussing the plan before Abel had to leave for his family plans bullshit.

  I know it’s bullshit.

  He knows I know it’s bullshit.

  But there’s no way he’ll be here for the drop – that’s what his soldiers are for. So when the cops sweep, Abel has an alibi and a new stamp in his passport.

  Asshole.

  My skin itches, and the gun tucked into the back of my jeans sits frozen against my flesh. As used to the cold metal on my back as I am of the blade in my hand, I walk around the large building and keep an eye out for visitors.

  It’s too dark.

  Too quiet.

  Where the fuck is Flynn?

  I don’t trust that motherfucker one bit. He has a fat ego, an attitude problem, and a grudge because I bumped him out of Abel’s top slot. He knows he’s dispensable. He knows Abel’s making plans without him, and he seems to think that’s on me.

  I don’t want to spend a single second with the prick, but if he’s supposed to be here, I’d rather he was right in front of me, rather than skulking around with a gun in his hand.

  He’ll take me out in a heartbeat and tell Abel it all happened in the heat of the moment. If he was right in front of me, I could get off the first round.

  The enemy you see is better than the enemy sneaking up behind you.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket, and though I asked her to send it, though I asked her to check in, the vibration against my leg still sends a bolt of electricity through my blood.

  Digging my left hand into my pocket, I take out the silent cell and breathe a little easier just at the sight of her name on my screen.

  Jess: I’m at Britt’s house – she’s the one married to the fighter. I’m safe and sound. Lying in bed with my sister. Locked up behind a ten-foot fence, guarded by a giant dog that might be part Russian, and I have half a dozen world champion fighters within arm’s reach. That’s actually not an exaggeration. Everything is fine here. I’m safe. So I need you to do your job, then text me when it’s done. I’ll come to your apartment.

  And just like that, she’s adapted to my world.

  So pure, so innocent, the girl who’s never done anything wrong in her life has now adapted to being the girl of a criminal; instead of focusing on my actions and the fact I’m helping tens of millions of dollars worth of drugs into the country, she’s worried for my safety.

  We need to talk about that.

  She needs to straighten her priorities.

  Me: Stay put. I’ll come to you. Don’t step outside that house without my permission. Go to sleep, Blondie. It’s gonna be a long night. Who knows; maybe everything will go fine, then tomorrow I’ll be free. Maybe you can invite me over for Thanksgiving dinner and I can practice running from bullets some more. I really wanna meet this giant ass family you keep bragging about.

  “Bishop.”

  I turn and slide my cell into my pocket. With a halo of light behind his head, I come eye-to-eye with Flynn; the man I’m supposed to trust. But I don’t. Not a fuckin’ chance.

  There are now three people on this planet I trust.

  Jess is one. Jay is the second. Flynn isn’t the third.

  “Flynn.” My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I don’t take it out. I don’t show my weakness. “You ready?”

  “We still have time.” He steps up in the dark. A black ski cap sits heavily over his eyes, and an arrogant smirk plays on his lips as he studies me. “Abel wants us to set up on the north side. A B-double named Betty is coming in a couple hours, so he wants us to bunker down and wait.”

  “Why’d you get us here so early?”

  Shrugging, he dig
s his hands into his pockets the way I do and turns toward the picnic area on the north side. He’s as packed down with firepower as I am; with a shoulder harness under his coat, two Lugers resting against his ribs, a bulge under the denim at his left ankle, and I have no doubt another tucked in to the back of his jeans.

  As I study the small pistol strapped to his thigh, Jess’ face flashes through my mind.

  I miss her already.

  My addiction eats at my gut. I want her. I need her.

  And I might never have her again.

  Dread sits low in my belly, because I know tonight’s gonna suck.

  “Abel touch down safely?”

  Flynn walks ahead and gives away his nerves with a jerky shrug. “You’re his pet, Bish. You’d know his whereabouts more than I would.”

  I take the knife from my pocket and flip it open. Closed. Open. Closed. “Are you sad because I’m on his Christmas card list and you aren’t?”

  “Fuck you, asshole.” Walking deeper into the darkness, his shoulders bunch with anger. “Don’t talk to me. We’re here to work.”

  “But we have a whole hour before we’ll see anyone. No doubt Abel has this whole place under surveillance, so we have time to chit-chat. That’s a whole hour in the dark; we could really bond, Flynn. Get to know each other. Learn each other’s secrets.”

  “I already know yours, so you better back your arrogant ass up.”

  “Yeah?” Smirking on the outside, shaking on the inside, I picture my beautiful Jess in bed right now. Pink underwear. Ugly stitches that still tie her skin together. Her eyes watering with worry as I stand out here with this asshole who wouldn’t hesitate for a single second to put a bullet in my brain. “What do you think you know about me? You didn’t find my diary, did you? I used the little lock it came with and everything.”

  “Cute.” He rolls his eyes. “I found your girl, Bishop.” Turning just his head, his smug grin sets my blood on fire. “Not just her social media, but her. I know where she is right this second.” He lifts a brow. “I know which bed she’s in. I know who she’s in bed with. I know she’s hugging a dog right now, and I know she’s crying into her pillow because she’s worried about you. I also know she’ll never see you again.”

  “You planning on killing me tonight?” I take my right hand out of my pocket and slide it around to the gun at my back. “I’m fast, and I don’t much like you. Maybe we’ll play a game of tag. Winner gets Abel. Loser gets tossed in the diesel tank.”

  “Nah, I won’t kill you tonight. Abel gave me strict instructions not to.”

  “You asked him if you could?”

  “Of course. I don’t like subtleties. And I hate missed opportunities because of a stupid miscommunication. I got something for you, though.”

  Stepping onto the concrete path leading to the rickety wooden table, my shoulders brush against his when he stops. “You get me a gift, Robin Hood? Steal from the rich, give to the poor?”

  My finger slides along the barrel of my Glock when he reaches into his breast pocket. I’m not going down yet. I’m not going down without a fight. I might’ve accepted that I can’t have Jess, but it doesn’t mean I’m just gonna lay down and let him fuck me.

  “Stand down, boy. No need to shoot me.” He pulls out a single white envelope. “I told you; a gift. From me to you.”

  Stopping at the half-rotted picnic table, I step onto the seat and sit on the wooden tabletop. This place stinks of gas and body odor, days old fried food and bathrooms that haven’t been cleaned this decade. I concentrate on stilling my shaking hands before Flynn gets comfortable and takes notice.

  He can’t know he has me spooked.

  He can’t know he’s got the upper hand.

  Elbows resting on my bent knees, shallow breaths to fight the nausea this mysterious envelope causes in my gut, I know whatever’s in there won’t be good news. There’ll be no Christmas cards or gift vouchers.

  Flynn wants to hurt me. He wants to fuck with my head before we go into this shit tonight.

  Whatever it is, she’s safe. I work on convincing myself of a lie before I go crazy. Whatever it is, he doesn’t truly know my secrets. Deep breaths. Calm your shit. She texted three minutes ago. She’s safe. Whatever it is, I refuse to let him fuck with my head.

  Slicing open the sealed envelope, I finger a small stack of photos. Six-by-four color images slide into my lap, and Flynn’s amused grin flashes in my peripherals.

  What has he got? Fuck, what has he got?

  “Look at them. I got these just for you.” He rubs his hands together to create friction. “The suspense is killing me.”

  My fist tingles with the need to break his fucking face. I haven’t even looked yet, but I want to kill him.

  I slide the first image over and swallow down the protein shake I chugged before leaving the apartment. I can’t blow here. I can’t give him what he wants.

  But he has pictures of her.

  Ass up, delicate shoulder blades popping, blonde hair fisted in a man’s tattooed hand, cock in her pussy…

  Worst of all; her face smattered with tears of sadness.

  It’s Jess. Getting fucked. And she doesn’t want it.

  Rage burns in my blood, tempting me to turn and snap his neck. “How did you get this?” Don’t kill him yet. Don’t snap yet. Get answers first.

  Giddy, he nods toward my hand. “There’s more. Keep going.”

  I shouldn’t do it. I’m only playing into his hand by looking, but I flip to the next image and find her again, tied up in Abel’s club. Red welts mark her milky flesh, her eyes are covered with a silky mask. Her head lolls to the side so her long blonde hair dangles over her bare chest.

  “That one’s not new,” Flynn explains like we’re discussing third grade math. “Look at the date in the bottom corner. That was last month. I didn’t take that image. I bought it.”

  Breathing through my teeth, heart hammering, I turn to him. “You bought it?”

  “Uh-huh. There’s a whole website filled with these images. Your girl’s been inside Infernos more than you know.”

  “No.”

  He snorts. “Yes. I didn’t manipulate that photo, but I don’t even care if you believe me. I still have pictures of your girl’s pussy.”

  “I’ll kill you.” I pull the gun from my waistband and face him with the Glock in one hand and naked pictures of the most important person in my world in the other. “I’ll peel your fuckin’ skin back and make you eat it.”

  He scoffs. “You’re the twelfth person this week to say that. Eventually a man becomes desensitized. But keep going, there are more. This is one of those gifts where I get pleasure in watching you open it.”

  I’ll kill him. I swear to God; his life will end at the tip of my blade.

  I sit back and flip through the images – because I’m hopeless when it comes to her – I find more of her in my club. More welts on her delicate body. More pictures of her pussy. Her ass. Her tits squeezed with rough hands.

  But not one single picture is of her crying with pleasure. None of them are the face I’ve known this week. None are the cries of ecstasy I’ve seen.

  Every single time, it’s pain. She doesn’t want it.

  “These aren’t recent photos.” The welts aren’t on her body. I saw her creamy flesh beneath my hands just this morning. I turn to him. “These aren’t recent.”

  “No, last month. But it burns, doesn’t it? It burns to see your girl in our club. Tied up. Beaten.”

  “Are you the man in these pictures?”

  “Nope. That’s her man. They weren’t a random pairing. They arrived together. They left together.”

  So he’s an ex. An ex I’ll kill, but an ex nonetheless. “They’re old photos. This has nothing to do with me.” It has everything to do with me, but I won’t admit that to this asshole.

  “Keep flipping, amigo. There are more.”

  I flip through dozens of photos of her private parts, but for the first time ever, I don�
��t grow wood from seeing them. These images, purely pornographic in nature, don’t turn me on. They make me sick. Images of his dick in her pussy. His dick in her ass. Hand prints on her flesh. Hair fisted and her head tugged back so far, tears glisten on her cheeks.

  These aren’t consensual.

  These aren’t even a BDSM lifestyle with two consenting adults.

  These are rape.

  These are the bad screams.

  Flipping to the final few images, I stop on one in the street. The fact they’re dressed shocks me. Long platinum blonde hair cascades down her back from a high ponytail. Jeans. Sneakers.

  Her hand tucked in another man’s.

  Her eyes – looking into his.

  Her lips – on his.

  “No.”

  “Yes.” Giddy with power, Flynn knocks my shoulder with his. “Look at the date. I took these for you, Bishop. Just today. Tonight.”

  I look at the timestamp. “You could’ve manipulated this. This could be from any time.”

  “See…” Sitting back with a childish laugh, he flicks his fingers. “I knew you’d say that. I knew you wouldn’t believe. I’ve seen the way she looks at you, like you’re her hero or some shit. I knew you’d call foul, so I ran up the street and got a newspaper. Double timestamped. Next image, please.”

  Don’t do it. Don’t do it, Bishop. Don’t let him break you.

  I flip to the next image and experience my first ever heartbreak. His tongue in her mouth, his hand – that same tattooed hand from the beginning of the stack – squeezing her ass to the point of pain.

  Then Flynn. With a fucking newspaper in his hands, standing in the foreground with a stupid grin on his face.

  The next image, the same as the last, but the couple separating. Her eyes staring straight into the camera. Straight into mine. And guilt splashed all over her face.

  Her hand in his; her walking toward the camera, but him tugging her toward the office building in the main street.

  He doesn’t know they’re being photographed.

  But she knows.

  She knows she’s been caught.

  “Kinda stings a little bit, huh? She left your place, said she was going to work, but instead, she met her man at his office. But the best part is… are you ready for this? Are you ready?” Giddy to the point of giggling, his chest bounces with glee. “Guess what he does for a living?”