Pawns In The Bishop's Game Page 3

  Smug grin gone, his eyes turn dangerous. “No. Lance never saw this.”

  “He doesn’t know my name? Where I live?”

  “No. He won’t be a problem for you anymore.”

  Studying my card, swallowing down the burning tears determined on making me look like a fool, I breathe through the whooshing in my head.

  I’m hungry. Exhausted. In shock.

  Bleeding.

  “Thank you.” I meet his eyes. “For returning this. For saving me. For making it so I can sleep tonight without worrying he might climb through my window.”

  “I told you,” he bites out. “This isn’t a fairytale world, Jess. Not everyone gets a second chance. You shoulda taken care of him while you had the chance. Instead, you have bags under your eyes, so I know you didn’t sleep last night.”

  I shake my head in answer. That’s all I have to offer.

  “So now that you admit that lie, answer the rest; are you in pain?”

  A lone tear, treacherous and weak, slides along my cheek as our eyes meet.

  In silence, I look down to my side, peel my jacket back, and swallow at the sight of my white blouse turned red from oozing blood.

  “Ah, fuck.”

  I don’t see him move before my legs give out.

  3

  Kane

  Patchwork Perfect

  Diving forward, I catch her slumping body mere feet before her delicate skull bounces off the concrete. Hefting her into my arms, I bite off a string of profanities.

  Stupid woman. Will she never learn?

  With her slim body dead weight in my arms, I work to move lower to the ground to collect the folders she dropped earlier. I toss the files into a messy pile on her stomach and move toward the back alleyway before the cops that patrol this little town find me abducting one of their sweethearts.

  In an effort to not make her injuries worse, I get the back door of my truck open and lay her out along the cracked bench seat, and tossing the files to the floor, I pull the expensive blouse out of her waistband and assess the oozing injury between her bottom ribs.

  That motherfucker cut her.

  And she never said anything.

  She went home, she went to work, and she never told a soul.

  I thought she was limping because of a sore ankle. I thought he sucker punched her.

  He fuckin’ cut her!

  I study her injury – the sludgy blood that’s darker than it should be, and the wound dirtier than is safe – and bite off enough ‘fucks’ to make every grandma on the planet turn in her grave.

  Why’d you do that, Jess? You know people. You coulda gotten help.

  Tucking her legs in, I place her bag on the floor of the truck and close the door. Fuck knows how many crimes I commit as I jog around to the driver’s side, but I switch on the roaring engine and add to my rap sheet.

  If the cops pull me over while I head across town toward my shitty apartment with her in the back – bleeding and unconscious – I’ll be shot on the spot.

  Shoot now. Ask questions when the coffin is already nailed shut.

  I didn’t know this woman before last night, but a name, a date of birth, an address – a license – turns up a bunch of information for guys like me who know where to look.

  I know her last name: Lenaghan. I know her address. I know she works for Juliette Jones – though Jones’ last name is now Turner. I know that Juliette’s husband is Chief Turner, the guy who’d get off on locking me up.

  So many fucking connections.

  I know her brother is Luca Lenaghan – EMT. In fact, we’ve met, though he’d never remember me, and if it weren’t for Jess tripping into my life, I wouldn’t remember him, either.

  The family resemblance is uncanny.

  I know Jess is closer to thirty than she is to twenty. I know she grew up here. I also know she has some of the best medical insurance money can buy – thanks to Jones Fortune 500 money.

  So why the fuck is she walking around with sliced up ribs?

  Because she’s stubborn? Arrogant? Naïve?

  All of the fuckin’ above.

  Minutes after kidnapping the blonde beauty, I pull around the back of my rundown apartment block and park near the stench-oozing dumpster. The single working streetlamp doesn’t lend much light as I push my door open and walk around to hers.

  This neighborhood is so shitty, I don’t have to worry about people watching. Carrying an unconscious woman into my apartment isn’t something that’d raise suspicion.

  I hate these people.

  I hate living here.

  I have a list longer than my rap sheet of people I’m going to deal with just as soon as the opportunity presents itself.

  Abel keeps me on a short leash, so for as long as I want to live, I don’t get to do shit. But soon, once my contract is up, I’ll have the freedom to deal with the wife-beater in 2A the same way I dealt with Lance. Then after that, I can visit the child abuser in 3C. Everyone keeps their shit so quiet, it’s not surprising the cops aren’t onto it, but I know about it.

  I live here. I hear the crying.

  Climbing the five-flight walk-up with an unconscious blonde should be more surreal than it is.

  I should be concerned that Abel will put a bullet in my brain before the sun rises tomorrow. I should be concerned about the cops smashing my door in. I should even be worried about a lifetime prison sentence for carrying her away from her workplace without her consent, but with her blood seeping through her coat and onto my hand, the only thing I can focus on is Jess’ fluttering lashes and the soft whimpers that escape her plump lips each time we turn and start up the next flight.

  I killed a man last night.

  In cold blood.

  But tonight, I’m worried about a pretty girl who needs medical care – but I can’t take her to the hospital. I can’t drop her off at the hospital doors, nor the cop shop. That’ll create a damn panic.

  So what do I do?

  I bring her home.

  Bracing her weight in one arm and a knee, I work to find my keys and jimmy the door open. I live with a shitty lock – and a high-end security alarm system made up of pots and pans, water glasses, and a Glock .45 within hand’s reach at all times.

  Shoot first.

  Ask questions later.

  Pushing the flimsy door open, I walk through and kick it closed, then two steps later, I’m in the middle of my apartment – kitchen, living, and bedroom all in one. The only door, other than the one I just walked through, belongs to the tiny bathroom. No bath. Just a leaky shower. One toilet.

  I bet the blonde has no clue what living like this is like.

  And thanks to a lifetime of living with a military dad who got off on kicking the shit out of me for infractions I may or may not have committed, my bed is made to the hospital standard.

  Corners tucked in. Sheets spotless and wrinkle free.

  Good ol’ Daddy taught me how to be clean. How to live a minimalist life. How to get in and out without anyone knowing. How to protect even the flimsiest home from invasion.

  Lying her on my bed, I pull her skirt down for modesty, then move back to my door and set my homemade alarm system; it’s the best no-money can buy.

  I swing by my little kitchen nook before making my way to the bed and take out the first-aid kit more equipped than any regular home might carry.

  Shucking off my coat, I lay it over the arm of my ratty two-seater couch and shake out the cold that penetrates my bones. I blow into my hands and glance down at Jess. Is she cold? She should be, but she wouldn’t know, since she’s still unconscious on my bed with pursed lips and a severe frown.

  “Jessica?” Kneeling beside her, I brush long, almost-platinum blonde hair away from her face. “Jess? Wake up.”

  She doesn’t. She doesn’t react except to pull her brows in tighter.

  “Jess.” I stroke her cheek. The contrasts are blinding. My dark tan to her fair skin. My ink to her milky white purity. “Jess. You have to wak
e up. I can’t take you to the hospital. You need to wake up.”

  I glance at my first-aid kit and consider the ammonia. It wakes even the most injured man after a fire fight.

  Peeling her coat back, blood oozes through her shirt and stains further around to her belly. Looking back at her face, to the slightly relaxed V between her eyes, I bite off a curse.

  She’s making me choose. Again. She continues to force my hand.

  “Motherfuck.” Unfastening the bottom three buttons on her blouse, I push it back and fight the rage that sings through my blood. A toned belly gives way to blood that ain’t red anymore. To a cut about two finger lengths long that runs along her bottom rib.

  He got her.

  I never saw it last night, but he got her good.

  Leaning closer, I’m careful not to touch, careful not to make it worse. The outer edges are pink and angry, the wound dirty. But it doesn’t look too deep. He didn’t stab her. More like the blade glanced off her side.

  “Jess?” Leaving her blouse off the injury, I come back to her face. “Blondie? I need you to wake up. I know you haven’t slept, but I can help you. I can stitch it up, but I can’t fuckin’ start until you wake up.”

  Jesus. Starting – being midway, using needles on her while she’s unconscious – and then her waking… I’d be a dead man.

  And she’d probably die from fright.

  Flipping open the dark gray first-aid kit, I go straight to the meticulously organized sections and fish out a small vial of ammonia. Shaking it, I tap the glass vial against the corner of my bedside table and bring the foul-smelling liquid to her perky little nose. “Wake up, Jess.”

  Instantly, her head whips back to escape the stench. “Don’t.”

  “Wake up. Careful.” I grab her when she shoots back. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

  “Bishop?” She blinks, two, three, four times. “Kane?” She looks around my tiny apartment with a frown similar to what she had while asleep. “Where are we?”

  “My apartment.” I hold her down when she attempts to sit up. “Just stay down for a sec.”

  “What are you doing? Please don’t hurt me.”

  “You fell asleep in the street. You’re bleeding, Jess. What the fuck is wrong with you that you bleed like this and don’t go to the ER?” Her carelessness pisses me off. “You go out to Infernos, where you do not belong, you almost get raped, you run home and go to work, and you’re fucking bleeding. What the hell is wrong with you?” I lean forward and tap heavy fingers against her skull. From zero to sixty, I transform from worried to pissed. “The blonde getting into your brain and strangling the bit that holds common sense?”

  Her defiant eyes narrow. “You don’t have to be a jerk about it.” She works to sit up again, only to let out a yelp and fall back to the mattress. “What did you do to me?”

  “What did I do to you?” Her question offends me more than it should. “What did I do? I stopped you from bouncing your stupid head off the concrete. I brought you home to help you. Look at your fuckin’ ribs. You must be in pain, yet you’d rather bitch at me.” I push her back and ignore the challenge in her eyes. “I can help. Lay back and give me permission to help. Or say hospital, and I’ll drop you off at the front doors. Your choice. You choose.”

  “I can’t go to the hospital,” she whispers. Her voice shakes. Her hands shake. “I have family that work there. They’ll find out, then they’ll tear me apart.”

  “So you went home and figured a spit-shine would fix your ribs?” I want to strangle her. “So fuckin’ stupid. Do you want my help? I’ve done this enough, I know how to close a body up. I’ll do it up right, I promise.”

  Her eyes narrow. “You’ve stitched others up before?”

  “No. I’ve stitched myself up. Several times.”

  “How the hell do you stitch yourself up?” She throws her hand up with attitude, but tweaks her sore ribs and drops it again. “I can’t even look at it. I can’t even wash it out.”

  “You haven’t washed it since yesterday? Nothing?”

  With watery eyes, she clamps her lips closed and shakes her head.

  “Fuck.” Ever heard of infection, dumbass? “I can help you. I won’t even send you a bill.”

  She buries her face in my covers the way a woman might when in ecstasy. Her long hair fans her face and hides her bright blue eyes from me.

  But she’s not in ecstasy. And she’s not a regular woman I might have in my bed. “This won’t be a favor owed?”

  I bite my smirk and turn to my first-aid kit to get my shit ready. “Maybe. We’ll see. I’ll raincheck it. You’ve got nothing I need right now.” I stop and study her bleeding wound. “Lift your top. I’m gonna clean it out. Stitch it up.”

  She turns to reveal scared eyes. “Is it going to hurt?”

  “Yes.” There’s no point lying. I don’t waste my time bullshitting. “Yeah, it’ll hurt a little bit. I have Lidocaine. That’ll help numb it a little, but I have to clean it first. That’ll hurt.”

  Nodding, and like she can’t bear to hold my gaze any longer, she drops her head back and stares at my ceiling. “Okay.”

  “You can still choose the hospital. It’ll hurt there, too. But maybe you trust them more. I’m gonna be stabbing you with a needle. Pretty big trust exercise for a ‘guy like me’.”

  She continues to study my ceiling. “No hospital. You saved my life, so I guess I can trust you to do this, too.”

  “You guess.” Shaking my head, I stand and take her hands. “Pull your top off. I won’t look at your tits. Probably. Your shirt needs to be washed; you can’t put it on again over top of your cleaned cut.”

  “Pull my top… You want me to…” Sputtering, her pearl-clutching indignation doesn’t quite match the sparkle in her bright blue eyes. “I’m trusting him to stitch me up. I’m trusting him not to rape and murder me.” Unbuttoning her expensive top with shaking hands, she avoids my eyes. “He saved your life. He could’ve tag teamed with that other jerk. He didn’t. He gave your license back. He’s going to stab you with needles. Oh my God.” The shaking in her hands moves to her voice. I watch her, study her. Standing in silence, I unsnap my belt and smile when her eyes open impossibly wider. “Oh my God. Trust. Trust. Trust. He won’t kill you. Laine, where are you? Why didn’t they give us telepathy?”

  I slide my hands along my belt until it’s taut in front of my chest, and when she’s transfixed, when she holds her breath, I snap it with a loud crack and laugh when she squeaks.

  “Do you often talk to yourself?”

  “I think…” She licks her bottom lip. “Um… I think I might be a little delirious. Blood poisoning. Maybe a touch of shock.”

  With shaking hands, she pushes her jacket and blouse back to reveal a lacy baby-pink bra. It’d almost be a sight I’d weep for – except for the blood smearing her china-doll skin.

  Fuck, I’d slit his throat a second time if I could. “I think shock, too. I really fuckin’ hope there’s no blood poisoning.”

  “What…” Her eyes flip between mine and my belt. I push her back to my bed and arrange her like she truly was a doll. “What are you doing with your belt? Why are you getting undressed?”

  “Lie on your side.” I press the belt into her hand and move back to my first-aid kit. “That’s for you. You’re gonna need something to bite down on. I’d rather it wasn’t my hand or yours.”

  “Bite down on?”

  I pull out a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and set it on the bedside table. With fast and practiced moves, I move to my rusty sink and wash my hands, then move back to my kit and take out a pair of latex gloves. “Uh-huh.” Snapping them on, I open the bottle and meet her eyes. “This is gonna hurt. Get ready.”

  “No, wait! I’m not r–”

  I pour anyway. I pour excessively, because the pink and red edges of her wound are meaner than I want them to be.

  Stuffing the leather between her teeth, she screams loud enough that, in a respectable neighborhood, som
eone might actually call the cops and help her.

  But not here.

  My neighbors would rather pull up a garden chair and watch me hurt a woman.

  The hydrogen peroxide sizzles and bubbles against her skin. Body taut, she stretches as long as she can manage, points her toes, and clutches at the belt until her hands and lips turn white.

  “I’m sorry, Jess.” I pour again for good measure. I don’t want her to die in three days from infection. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to hurt you.”

  “It hurts,” she cries out. Fat tears roll from her eyes and stain my navy-blue bedspread. Changing direction yet again, instead of spreading lengthwise, she pulls her legs up and in, flashing her panties for the second time in as many days. Her wound, stretched wide and then pressed together, fizzes and sizzles for the longest minutes of my life.

  Reaching into my kit, I take out a tube of Lidocaine. I unscrew the cap and smear an extra helping of the numbing ointment in way of apology for the peroxide. “This’ll numb it, okay? Give it a minute.” I pull my gloves off and toss them aside, then take out a plastic wrapped box and carefully pull open the edges to reveal a paper wrap.

  Every move I make, I’m careful not to touch the supplies inside.

  I’ll be damned if I pour that shit into her, only to contaminate the shit I use to stitch her up.

  Setting out the little green tray from within, I take the plastic tweezers supplied and set out the gauze, needle, and the thread that’ll hold her together. With my clean, but not yet sanitized hands, I take the bottle of Chlorhexidine and pour a little into the end of the tray.

  Drawing a deep breath, I take out the pack of sterile gloves and work meticulously to make sure I don’t fuck it up.

  Like she knows shit could get dicey if I put an infection into her, Jess holds her breath and watches me. Her lips are white, her cheeks red.

  A contradiction.

  As contrasting as my skin and hers side by side.

  Carefully pulling the sterile gloves on, I touch nothing except what’s in my tray, not even her. Taking the antiseptic soaked gauze, I move it along her skin and glance up. “Can you feel that?”