Checkmate: Checkmate, #8

by Finn, Emilia

  “You need to stop talking about you and her. You need to block her number and pour bleach into your brain until you forget what she looks like naked. I don’t like what you see in your mind right now.”

  He turns to me with a wolfish grin and sparkling eyes. “I can’t delete what I know. And even if I could, I’m not sure I would. She’s been fun for me too, Griffin. She was a hell of a good time.”

  “I’m still carrying, motherfucker. I’m smart enough to doctor security footage of me ever being here. I will dispose of your body in the desert, and your mother will never know where you went.”

  Scoffing, he settles back into the couch with a satisfied grunt. “I’m playing nice, cowboy. But I’m the law, you best remember that. Don’t threaten me, and don’t do anything to hurt her. She might not be my girl, but I own a part of her. It’s a small part, but it’ll forever be mine.” He settles his hands on his toned stomach and lets his lips curl into a nostalgic grin. “You love her?”

  His question shocks me. Like I’ve stuck my fingers in a power socket, his question jolts and stings beneath my skin. “Um…”

  “Either you know, or you don’t. There’s no um around here.”

  “She’s my family. It’s not the type of love like in the movies, but the type where my heart has beat for her for decades. She saved me and has no clue.”

  He nods thoughtfully. He’s fully present in our conversation, but his eyes remain on the television. “You say decades. She says days. I see how your book is laid out; she’s got some catching up to do.”

  “Are you in love with her?”

  He chuckles. “Yup. She saved me too, and she has no clue.”

  “Are we going to have a problem?” I step forward and sit on the coffee table. “This isn’t a competition where you get to step to the starting blocks. I will remove you long before she ever entertains the idea of returning your feelings.”

  “No. I don’t do the kind of love where I’d want to shackle her down. I love her like she’s my family too. I love her where I’d take a man out if he hurt her. But…” he lets the word roll between us. “Loving her means I can see who else loves her. It means I don’t arrest you and send you away for a long time, but instead, I sit in my living room with the man who just cock-blocked me in the most brutal way, and I chat with him. I ask his intentions and determine with my finely-honed detective skills if he’s telling the truth.”

  Finally, his eyes meet mine. “You’re not lying about your feelings, I see that, but I also see she has no damn clue. She sees some dude stepping up, and Lib has never stepped down from what she perceives as a threat. You need to change your approach and come in a different way, or you risk a bigger explosion next time. She escalates; she’s a bomb, and she’ll blow if you keep going the way you are. Show her your book, man. Show her the last page, and stop with the blindfolds.”

  I can’t. I won’t. I refuse to show her the real me.

  I walk away from Libby’s lover’s home with an odd sense of dread swirling in my stomach. I got her out of there, and I didn’t get arrested. But her page and mine are so far apart, it’s almost an impossible chasm. I need her to catch up to me, but I’m expecting her to do it without giving her all of the pages in the middle.

  In her mind, I’m a brand-new man, one she met just days ago, and traditionally, when a man and woman meet, they ask about their lives, their favorite foods and colors, they ask about career choices and family plans. But I already know her. I know her favorite candy, and I know she’s a cop. I know she wishes she was taller, and I know her family is as good as dead. I’m skipping the getting-to-know-you stage, and trying to pull her in like it’s normal to comply with everything a stranger demands.

  I need to be gentler. I’m not sure I know how.

  It takes half an hour to drive home, and I left far too long after she did to be able to follow her lights, so I drive in the dark and let Beethoven settle my nerves. Libby listens to hard rock when she’s working out. I listen to classical composers. She’s loud and demands attention and respect. I’m silent, and I steal the things I need.

  Olly is positioned outside Libby’s apartment on my orders, and about fifteen minutes into my drive, he beeps my phone to confirm she made it home. In the dark of my car, lit only by my dash lights and stereo, I reply “Thanks,” then reach across the seats and grab my sweater and run my fingertips along the worn-away zipper.

  I ran the risk of being found out tonight by bringing this sweater. What if, by some miracle, she decided my demands were reasonable and she came with me? How would I explain to her once she climbed into my car how I came upon that sweater? And if I got past that landmine – Sure, Lib. Not only did I break into your fuck buddy’s home, but I’ve been in yours too… twice – but then I run the risk of connecting what she thinks she knows about my eyes, and the sweater.

  It’s already sitting there in her subconscious. She already knows, she just hasn’t figured it out yet.

  Placing me and the sweater in the same space may be the catalyst for her tipping point, and telling her that I’m that boy might do me favors in the short-term, it might get me leniency that Theo Griffin cannot hope for. Fuck knows, she might fall into my arms and weep for the boy she thought she lost. But in the long run, Gunner needs to stay dead. He’s gone, and nothing good will come of bringing him back.

  I pull into town a little after nine, then I pull up behind Olly’s car and switch the ignition off. I don’t intend to stay long, but I need to see that she’s home. I need to make sure my family is safe.

  It takes only seconds for my eyes to focus on the dim light coming from between Lib’s blinds – she’s watching TV in bed – and another minute after that for my phone to ring and Olly’s name to flash on the screen.

  I pick it up and swipe to answer. “Yeah?”

  “It went well?”

  I chuckle. “I didn’t get arrested. Well, not officially, anyway. I wasn’t booked.”

  “Success,” he laughs. “You want me here all night?”

  “No. You’re off now. I’m leaving too, I just wanted to check in. I’m going to give her space, but we’ll keep watch.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go to bed, I’m following.”

  He hangs up and pulls away from the curb in silence. I turn to Lib’s window and watch for a minute more. I don’t know what I expected to find when I came looking for her – perhaps I was expecting her to still be that little girl. Something to protect, someone to shield. In twenty-two years, I guess I never expected her to actually grow up.

  But instead of a child, I’ve discovered a woman. A beautiful, dangerous, demanding, and brave woman. Instead of someone to protect, I’ve found someone to lust for. Instead of finding a girl I might cradle in the safety of my arms, I’ve found a woman I’d like in my arms for an entirely different reason.

  I came here hoping and praying she wasn’t dirty, but if she was, I was willing to eliminate her.

  And now I’m looking to bring her into my world in a way I’ve allowed no one else in… ever.

  Shaking my head, I indicate to pull out, then I head back to my hotel and pack up for the night. In forty-eight hours, I’ve snuck into Libby’s home twice, I’ve seen her at the gym once, I’ve stared into her eyes a dozen times, I’ve held her in my arms once – the fact she was kicking and screaming shouldn’t count – and I’ve offered my body instead of her visiting Drake.

  I’ve laid my cards out in the only way I know how, and now I’ve pissed her off so much that she’s bound to shoot me at some point. But she knows I’m here, she knows I’m interested. No one could ever accuse me of subtlety.

  But now I have work to do. She’s not dirty, so I’ll leave her be, and while she’s taking time to breathe, I’ll visit the next on my list.

  I have some research to do, then it’s time to visit the rest of the family.

  10

  Theo

  Dating A Ballerina

  I’ve kept a low pro
file the past few days while taking a look around town. I’m still getting my time in at the gym, but since I know Libby is working day shift, I go while she’s on shift and leave her alone for that one hour that I know she needs to clear her head.

  I’ll be damned if I’m the reason she’s working on no sleep and no therapy time at the gym. She works a dangerous job, and if she’s jittery because her whole world is being tossed, she might get hurt. No chance in hell will I be the reason she gets hurt.

  So I leave her be.

  My levels of self-control rival even that of the boy who refused to speak for a man that offered food in exchange for a word. I was starving, but I would not be dehumanized, I would not be treated like a dog. I would not sit, stay, or beg for a bone, and performing for a meal wasn’t on my list of shit to do.

  Even though I was really, really hungry.

  Libby sent a text on Monday afternoon that tested every piece of willpower I possessed. No doubt she reconstructed the business card that she tore to a billion pieces in the grocery store. She felt the need to lash out once more and demand I stay away, because that’s who she is, isn’t it? She needs to have the last say. She demanded I take my ass and relocate it to Canada. She promised she would be visiting Drake again that night – she didn’t – and she reiterated that I should go fuck myself.

  Far away from her.

  I took her request to disappear literally and, in the process of my radio silence, I probably sent her to the brink of insanity.

  She would have expected an argument. She would have expected something, but I act like I don’t open my messages thirty times a day, or like the fact she reached out doesn’t make me feel weird things in my gut. She sees me, she sees my eyes, and she feels something. She knows deep down that something is there, which is precisely why I remain a free man and not in jail awaiting my court date for assault or attempted abduction.

  It’s why the police – other police – haven’t knocked on my door. And it’s why the Bishops haven’t been made aware of my presence in town yet.

  When she remembers, she’ll know why I’m here. And when that day comes, the true test will be set. If she goes to them, I’ll know where her loyalties lie.

  But for now, I do my research in my hotel room. I work, I eat food delivered via room service, or better yet, the food that Olly brings to me. He’s been a part of my world for so long that he knows my daily habits almost as well as I do. He knows I prefer to eat healthy; he knows I want egg whites for breakfast, but that I’d rather buy a carton of eggs from the store and cook them myself.

  There’s nothing that can happen to me in my adult life, not a single dollar amount earned, stolen, or won, that could beat the frugality out of me. I have money, but I do not waste it.

  So while Olly cooks and serves me, I research Bishops.

  Turns out Kane is getting married, and word on the street is that he’s head over heels in love with a blonde lawyer whose boss is married to Libby’s chief. Connections, connections, connections. Jessica Lenaghan, according to her records, is an identical twin whose sister is a school teacher, and whose older brother is an EMT. She’s been studying since she was straight out of high school – first in business school, then she made the move to law and became a paralegal while she worked on the rest of her degree. Her license to practice is shiny and new, but her employment by the firm she works in is not. In fact, she’s been there longer than her boss, the chief’s wife.

  According to sources, Jessica is pregnant and expecting her and Kane’s first children – children, as in multiple – any day now. None of the three Lenaghan siblings are married yet, but they’re all comfortably shacked up with someone of the opposite sex.

  Jessica’s bank accounts are about as squeaky clean as Libby’s, though Jess earns twice as much. That doesn’t mean it’s dirty – being a lawyer is good money, and her employer has swimming pools full of green bills. Jessica’s shopping habits, before the past year, tended toward designer label. Not often, considering she was merely a paralegal on a paralegal salary, but when she did spend money, the items came with exclusive labels. She’d rather buy one pair of Louboutin than a hundred pairs from Walmart.

  Again, that doesn’t indicate dirty; one pair of fancy shoes a year isn’t enough to raise flags.

  It makes me smile when I find Griffin Industries charges on her card; she’d rather buy a brand-new Griffin laptop and phone over anything else on the market, which means my bank swells with her cash, for devices that cost a grand to manufacture, but are sold for five times that.

  Thanks for your money, Bishop.

  I take a fast glance at her siblings’ bank accounts, but there’s not a whole lot to see. They’re both sensible spenders, the guy more than the girl. He looks like he’s saving his pennies; no bought lunches, no fancy dinners, no extravagant jewelry purchases – bar one.

  There will be another Lenaghan wedding soon.

  The sister, though not a big spender, has a thing for meatball subs and shares her sister’s enjoyment for shoes.

  Maybe it’s a twin thing.

  I’ve tried, and moderately succeeded, in checking out Kane Bishop’s personal accounts – what I can see looks reasonably clean. Which implies I haven’t seen much of anything that’s truly happening beneath the surface. He hides his data almost as well as I do, so what I pull up looks pretty standard.

  Shoes; his girl borrows his credit card. Meals, gas, and lately, baby store purchases.

  I refuse to let my mind wander to the fact that those babies share my blood. If I were a more sentimental man, I would acknowledge they’re my nieces or nephews. I could possibly even share a small smile for the man that’ll soon become a father.

  I wouldn’t know what that feels like, nor would I know what having a father feels like. Kane knows both, and my bitterness at what he has and what I didn’t builds the longer I search his files.

  Jay’s accounts are more protected than Kane’s, which is kind of surprising. I always assumed the oldest was the smarter one, the business-minded, while the youngest is the hotdog. Their online presence would indicate that much. But maybe Jay’s skill is putting on one front, while inside, he’s a machine with a computer-like brain. Or maybe he knows someone with a computer-like brain.

  Whatever it is, I’ll be watching both closely, and I won’t let Jay’s constant need to grin lull me into a sense of safety.

  I have a company to run back home, an empire to maintain, walls to hold up to keep the trojans away, and no one besides Annaliese knows I’m not there. My assistant might look a little… I guess high-maintenance and simple. But she knows how to do her job, she knows how to guard my back in business, she has a spine no one would suspect, and a streak of loyalty that comforts me while I’m away from my office. She continues doing her thing in my absence, sending me hourly updates, and I pass half a week in a small town, living in a hotel, living out of bags, and watching certain residents like my life depends on it.

  My life does depend on it.

  Wednesday comes and goes, and when my email dings at 11:58pm with the drawings from the door engineer, I stare at my screen and grin. That motherfucker worked around the clock to make sure he delivered. I check the drawings the minute they arrive, I make sure they at least look correct, though I can’t know for sure unless I re-calculate the whole job from scratch, and when it passes my inspection, I forward them to another engineer – because I do nothing without double-checking the numbers.

  I send the final payment to Tasker, ask my other guy to take a look and make sure it’s all perfect, and then I send an email to my clients in Hong Kong to let them know their project is on time and almost ready for delivery.

  My entire job can be done electronically, and because of how fucking perfect my own tech is, I can watch the Bishops and the cops, keep an extra eye on Libby, and watch the gym and little Frankston all at the same time.

  I do all of my work while sipping my morning coffee, half paying attention to the news on th
e TV across the room. This town is so small, it barely rates ten minutes of news, so the broadcasters split their thirty-minute segment into local and national. The locals get the first ten minutes – the Girl Scouts are at it again, the local swim team made the state finals, the high school dance is coming, and the fighters are running a big brother program to help troubled youth. But when the anchor makes way to national news, the Griffin Industries logo flashes on screen, and the guy who took a swing at my intellect last week cries about the shares he spent his life savings on plummeting in value.

  “How’d he know?” he whines. “How could he have known prices would collapse?”

  “Because I research who I work with, you dumb fuck.” Shaking my head, I lift my coffee and take a sip. I cast my mind back to when I bought stocks a year ago, to when the company was doing things for the tech world that impressed me. Their drive was intriguing, their ideas futuristic. But I don’t take anything for granted, and not a single dollar – whether one or one million – is chump change in my eyes, which means I keep my eye on my interests. Those fuckers have been communicating with shady people the last month. Emails have crossed the globe, and discussions have been had about wars that might be sparked because of who controlled certain assets.

  This wouldn’t be a war between companies, but countries. And what does every war need to push ahead? Money.

  I took mine and jumped ship; I refuse to have my name tied with theirs when they’re so set on destroying shit. I’d hoped that by jumping, I was doing my part in slowing the war they wanted to start. Now the fuckwit on TV is out his life savings, a tech giant that was dabbling in explosives has fizzled out, a war has been prevented, and I still have nine million dollars more than I had when I met those people.