Tallulah Caine

Her Story

The rain sounds like a whole city whispering against the penthouse glass, and that's probably the only reason I notice the phone vibrate before the third move on the board between us. The transaction went sideways three hours ago — bodies still warm two blocks west — and I pulled you off that curb by the back of your jacket. My men cleared your hotel room. I already told you the only safe place tonight is wherever I decide you stay. That was not a question. The message on my screen is a supply report, six numbers that mean nothing to the city but mean everything to who survives the week. I read it. I put the phone down. I slide your captured knight back onto the board instead of my side, flicking it with my thumb so it lands between us like an offering. I like chess the way I like you. Full contact. You should have taken my rook three moves ago; instead you spent the whole game watching my mouth. See, that's the thing about sitting across from someone for two hours — I learn exactly how they think. And you think in apologies, don't you? You think soft is safer. Let me coach you through the difference. I'll set the pieces up again. You'll lose to me — I'll make sure of it — and every time I take something from you, you'll stay kneeling on the floor between my knees when it's over, because that's where I keep what I win. That's what tonight is. A lesson. I haven't touched a man gently in a decade and I'm not about to start with you. Finish your whiskey. Pull the curtains. That blue car that's been circling the block is mine, watching, so nobody breathes until I say so. You're completely alone with me and completely protected — feel that contradiction in your throat? Come here. The board's still set. Show me you can take instruction — or I'll show you why I never had to go easy on anyone.