Checkmate: A Bishop's Pawn Novella Page 7

  “Dammit Rivera,” he growled. “Why the fuck do you always have to start shit? I appreciate the job you’re doing, but the last thing I need is relationship advice from…”

  “What? From me you mean? From someone who has such a sterling relationship record? Ever occur to you that maybe that’s what makes me the perfect person to head smack your stupid ass?”

  “What the hell does that mean? You think that because you deliberately fucked up a good thing that this somehow means you’re a relationship guru?” Pfft. “Cut me a break.”

  “Roman.” She slammed her hand on the bar. “Fuck Kelly over—don’t fuck Kelly over. I don’t really care. This ain’t about you ya’ dumb fuck. For the last time—I like Kelly. She’s okay. And it doesn’t matter to me whether you asked for advice or not because you’re getting some and I don’t give a rat’s ass if your snot-bag sensibilities get butt hurt.”

  “Oh yeah? Well right back atcha Domineau. I like Rafe. Shit, we all did. We all do!” he countered with a rising voice. “And I don’t recall you giving a flying fart about our advice when you were hell bent on acting like a right royal, grade A cunt. So slide down off that high horse and stop talking to me like I’m an idiot.”

  She glared at him.

  “I love Kelly, and while I realize that’s an emotion you aren’t friends with, she is my priority. Even knowing what’s coming with Justice—she’s at the forefront of my thoughts. If she weren’t, you wouldn’t be here giving me shit.”

  After a minute where they both calmed down, she asked in a tight mutter, “He’s going to Arizona, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  The look she gave him would shrivel the balls of a lesser man. “Fuck.”

  She drained an entire glass of cherry infused Diet Coke, slid the glass to the side and started on number two. Five or six Maraschino cherries disappeared into her mouth.

  He said nothing but sort of followed her lead by slugging down most of the ice-cold soda. His head started clearing.

  “Whose fucking idea was this?” he asked. “We know better than to attempt a conversation without a referee.”

  “You’ve always pissed me off, Bishop.” She gave him a very unsubtle middle finger.

  “Domineau,” he gravely added. “We don’t have time for this shit. You and I take sides on everything. Hell, remember trying to decide whether to R&R in Bangkok or Germany? That turned into a whole thing.”

  She snickered.

  “We could sit here all night and half of tomorrow hurling insults and one-liners until every fucking skeleton, and half of the government’s biggest secrets, were dug up and hashed out.”

  “Yeah,” she agreed. “And then start over tomorrow after a sneaky cigarette break.”

  “My point exactly. I get that you want to needle me about Kelly and I get why,” he said with a quick headshake and a hand signal when she looked about to interrupt. “And rubbing your nose about Rafe isn’t at all how I wanted to handle this so let’s step back.”

  “Priorities.”

  “Yep. And I hope you’re fucking kidding about the cigarette break. Those damn things will kill you.”

  The hair on the back of his neck prickled when a thunderbolt shot from her eyes. Roman held back the wince. His stupid choice of phrases could not have been more tone deaf.

  “Yeah, well I’d know all about shit trying to kill me, wouldn’t I?”

  “My bad.” It was all he could say.

  She nodded but deliberately avoided his gaze. He couldn’t blame her.

  “And on that note, I’ve had enough,” she told him a minute later.

  He went for his phone to call for a car, but she stopped him. “Separate ways, Bishop. I need to ride. Clear my head. You’re on your own tomorrow. If duty is calling, I have some shit to take care of.”

  Along with countless other clues to Domineau’s natural badassery, the biggest and most in your face—besides her height—was that she rode a motorcycle. Not a cheesy chick cycle either. Her preferred ride was a Harley Softail Classic that she recently had custom built. It was black, chrome and a serious piece of hardware.

  They parted on the sidewalk outside Templeman’s. His Uber came, and she shooed him off like a bad date that went on too damn long.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Fuck yeah. Give me twenty-four hours, and I’ll be my usual, friendly, encouraging self.”

  He barked with laughter. “You’re in the loop now. Dust off your English to Justice dictionary. I’ll be in touch.”

  She gave him the finger and grabbed her crotch as his car pulled away from the curb.

  On the ride to Tribeca, he contemplated the evening and had to shake his head. They ate, sparred, almost came to blows, hurled a shit ton of insults, started unnecessary shit, opened several conversation threads that never got resolved, and generally acted like pricks.

  In other words? A typical evening spent with the lone female wolf of the Justice pack. He’d trust Domineau with his life, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t ready to knock her the fuck out at a moment’s notice if she stepped over a line. And since she stepped over that line with annoying regularity, he wondered how the smack down she deserved with her shit stirring hadn’t earned her a cleaned clock long before this.

  Kelly pulled a pan of cornbread from the oven, gave an appreciative sniff, and set the scorching hot cast iron on the stovetop to cool. It was the third batch she’d made. This one was for Rhiann to take home.

  “Are you sure it’s okay to give this to Brynn? She’s sensitive about stealing family recipes.”

  Kelly chuckled and glanced at her new friend. She was waving the recipe card for the cornbread.

  “Steal away,” she said. “Pretty sure my mom doesn’t care.”

  Wiping her hands on the kitchen towel masquerading as an apron, she gave Rhiann a reassuring smile before turning her attention to the pot of chili simmering on a back burner.

  Cooking was her lifeline these days. The irony of falling in love with Roman’s modern kitchen, with its unending treasure trove of equipment and readily available supplies, when she’d been so sure going in that she’d hate anything that wasn’t her very practical cooker was an easy target for eye rolls.

  Finding an enthusiastic audience in her brother and his fiancée, she’d started making things in bulk. Liam was an easy chili convert—just as Roman had been. Guys, a pot of chili, and a platter of cornbread were guaranteed B-F-Fs.

  “Hand me that, would you?”

  She pointed to the stack of storage containers and laughed out loud when Rhiann picked the biggest one and chortled. “Maybe it’s time to double the double recipe. Your brother would spoon this stuff on his cereal if he could.”

  “So would Matty,” she replied. “What’s he doing by the way? He seems awfully quiet.”

  She backed up a step and leaned for a glimpse into the dining area. Matty wasn’t at the table—he was sitting on top of it building the medieval village complete with a fortress castle that Roman found the plans for on the Internet.

  “He’s obsessed with building a castle for Kiki.”

  Kelly smiled at Rhiann’s comment. “My little man.”

  “He gave Liam a raft of shit when they were looking at houses on the computer. It was all kinds of funny. One minute Kiki needs a garden. The next? A bigger garage. He went off on a preschool rant and let his brother know that he wasn’t going to thumbs-up anything that didn’t meet his exacting standards.”

  “Bet that put a knot in his starched shorts, huh?”

  They laughed. Liam was the epitome of how an arrogant dick looked, sounded like and acted. Matty, while coming nowhere near his older brother’s level of pretentious snotbaggery, did have a growing case of bullheadedness when it came to who was right in any given situation. It was comical as shit watching those two dance around each other as their sibling relationship formed.

  Rhiann gave a conspiratorial giggle. “The other day? I heard Liam have an entire pre
tend conversation on the phone with our realtor. He ticked off Matty’s list of needs for a house. That kid knows his shit.”

  “Sam makes it worse. Someone needs to explain to me how the men ended up taking the lead on this.”

  Pfft. “Because that’s what they do, and frankly, I’m fine with how this thing is unfolding. Sam is great, and he treats Liam like family. He needs that, you know. To feel part of something.”

  “I get it,” Kelly murmured. “Male bonding. Roman, Liam and Sam, with Matty driving the caboose.”

  “Don’t be surprised,” Rhiann jested, “if your brother throws a fuck it and hires a builder to create our little fantasy development from scratch.”

  “Can he do that?”

  The dry, amused smirk Rhiann gave her made Kelly laugh. “You’ve met him, right?”

  She threw up her hands in mock surrender. “I give up. Not a single Beta or Omega among them. Fuck my life.”

  “You’re making him nuts, you know.”

  “Who? Be specific because I seem to drive everyone a little cuckoo.”

  “Roman.”

  Kelly froze in mid-motion and stared at her soon-to-be sister-in-law. “Whyyy?” she asked incredulously. “What did I do now?”

  Dropping her face into her hands, she groaned. “I don’t seem to be getting any of this right.”

  Rhiann rushed to her side and draped an arm around her shoulders. “You’re doing great, sweetie.”

  Searching her face for assurance, Kelly swallowed hard and attempted a wobbly nod.

  Rhiann was quick to explain. “I’m so sorry. I was just teasing. Trying to be clever and funny. Poor choice of words.”

  “Well, you meant something by it,” she quickly snapped. “So tell me what he’s whinging to you about.”

  A soft snicker was accompanied by one last hugging squeeze before Rhiann moved away. “Can I just say that it’s bang-tastic that Roman fell for someone with a vocabulary that equals and quite possibly exceeds his own. Whinging,” she muttered. “Fist bump me, lady.”

  They tapped knuckles, and she offered a one-brow arch that said, ‘I’m waiting.’

  “For the record, Roman Bishop is the least peevish man I know. He rarely complains and if he does there’s always justification.”

  “Okay—but he’s obviously losing his cool over something so spit it out.”

  Rhiann picked up Kelly’s left hand. “Something’s missing.”

  “And that would be?”

  “A ring. Dear lord woman, let the man buy you a ring before he shits a soccer ball about it. Time to join the bling squad. You have no choice,” she grated out when Kelly shook her head. “What do I keep telling you? With these alpha types? Choose your battles.”

  “But I don’t care about bling.”

  “He does.”

  Not to be a clueless twit or anything, but she didn’t understand why. “Can you explain this to me? What is the big fucking deal?”

  Her voice must have been way louder than she imagined because from the dining room she heard Matty’s childish snort of amusement. “Penny Jar.”

  She and Rhiann rolled their eyes in unison.

  “The B-F-D,” Rhiann said with pointed emphasis, “is simple. A ring says, ‘Mine. Do Not Touch.’”

  ‘Oh,’ she silently mouthed. “Got it. He needs the public pronouncement.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” Rhiann gleefully snickered. “Alphas follow linear, baseline thinking. Yes, you’re right. A ring is rather like planting one’s flag at the summit. But it’s also all the justification men like ours need to punch someone’s lights out if a line is crossed.”

  The visual Rhiann described made an involuntary giggle shoot from Kelly’s mouth. “Not gonna lie. All that macho posturing?” She fanned herself and made a face.

  “I know, right?”

  A wayward thought flitted through her mind. Roman and Rhiann were exceptionally close. They shared a special bond. Kelly paused to contemplate whether that closeness included the whole owning a sex club thing.

  How could she ask without asking?

  “Um, Rhiann. Can I ask you a question? About Roman?”

  “Sure, sweetie. I’ve got zero filters. Ask away.”

  “Yeah, um,” she said with a long pause. “What’s the red card in his wallet all about? The one with the gold edge and no markings. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

  Watching Rhiann Wilde’s expression was nothing short of fascinating. A distinct blush appeared on her face, and she looked to be struggling between denial and confession.

  “The uh,” she stopped and cleared her throat. “The uh, yeah. Red card. Sure. I’ve seen it.”

  The woman’s eyes were roaming the kitchen—looking everywhere but at Kelly. Saying she’d seen it wasn’t the same as saying she knew what it was. An intentional dodge.

  “Don’t make me ask, Rhiann.”

  Motioning with her hand to follow, Rhiann moved to the far end of the long kitchen—far from the wide doorway leading to where Matty was.

  She looked reluctant to speak but didn’t try to deflect Kelly’s curiosity. “If you’re asking, you already know.”

  Nodding slightly, she bit her lip and took a good long look at her feet. Deciding she didn’t need specifics, she voiced the only real question she had.

  “It’s not weird? Is it? I don’t mean what goes on there,” she quickly added. “I mean,” she shrugged and made a pained face. “Oh, I don’t know. Just the sheer fact something like that exists and Roman’s involved. Is it cause for concern?”

  “Well let me ask you this,” Rhiann snapped her fingers. “First reaction. Absolutely your first thought. Were you repulsed?”

  “No.”

  “There’s your answer. Concern? No. Weird? No. A really good investment? Uh, hell yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “Easy answer. Bottom line—everyone has their own style of kink. In the circles where people like Roman and Liam exist? Those people will pony up premium dollars for exclusivity,” she said holding up a finger. Two fingers followed, and she added, “Secrecy and access.”

  “Oh.” She thought about it for a minute and then asked, “Have you ever been there?”

  This time when Rhiann blushed it was more along the beet red end of the color spectrum.

  “Yes,” she said with cocky bravado. “To celebrate our engagement. A private, um, party.”

  Kelly giggled. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Oh my god,” Rhiann comically wailed while she covered her face. “I can’t believe I’m going to tell you this. Hell! I haven’t even told Brynn, and that’s saying something cause she’d be all over this shit in a heartbeat.”

  Well, that was an interesting admission. It was kind of cool to discover other women had her kind of curiosity.

  “Pretty much everything except specific casual attire events take place in a formal setting. We were dressed for the opera, arrived in a limo and escorted to a private suite. Nothing was overlooked. Flowers. Expensive champagne. A catered dinner, white gloves no less.”

  “Sounds like a trip to the Waldorf.”

  Rhiann snicker-snorted. “Yeah. The Waldorf with a sex show going on twenty feet away.”

  “A what?” she stammered.

  Straightening her shoulders, Rhiann explained. “It was a scene. A fantasy scene. We chose what we wanted to see. The details are private,” she added with a wistful sigh. “Practitioners of the erotic arts are a specialty at the club. Whatever floats your boat, although my understanding is that Roman and his partners have strict protocols where the more extreme stuff is concerned. If sadism or edgy, questionable practices are your thing, there’s no way membership would be approved. There are plenty of places in the city to do all that other stuff. The Red Club is at the exact opposite end of the spectrum. Elegant, dignified, the first class of first class.”

  Well, that didn’t sound bad at all. There were questions running riot in her head. So many that she didn’t know
which one to grab hold of. “What about?” she asked nonsensically. Rhiann knew what she was asking.

  “If that’s what you want, yes. It’s the full experience. After the entertainment, dinner, and yada-yada, people leave you alone, the door locks and every shade of gray fuckery your little heart desires is at your disposal.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s what members pay for, remember? Access. Equipment, furniture, whatever.”

  “And you don’t find this weird?”

  Rhiann laughed. “Oh, fuck no. I embraced my inner slut with Liam when I was still a teenager, and I don’t say those words lightly. Praying you don’t get caught having crazy sex in a storage room at a big university when you’re starting out develops into more refined but still filthy exploits as you get older. Pick a fantasy. Any fantasy. Want to pay for home repairs on your knees or dress up like a school girl? Want Roman to play a pirate kidnapping a Duke’s daughter? Yeah. The Red Club.”

  “Get out!” She laughed and swatted Rhiann’s arm. “And why the hell isn’t Roman telling me this?”

  Looping her arms around Kelly’s shoulders, Rhiann pulled her in for a brief hug. “Probably because your enthusiasm would scare the snot out of him. Liam thinks it’s funny—how alike you two are.”

  ‘Yeah, well,” she laughed, “it certainly starts out that way, but the man has gifts. Know what I mean?”

  With a long, lusty and comical sigh, Rhiann said, “Preach, sister.”

  She had to laugh. “I like you, Ms. Wilde. You crack me the fuck up. And I’m super glad my douche nozzle brother fell for your kickass ways.”

  “I don’t like this,” Liam grumbled. “Why the rush?”

  “I know,” Roman answered gravely. “And I’m sorry, but you already have the answer. The team is compromised. The Defense Department, CIA, all those fuckers will simply disavow and back away if this thing gets out. It has to be shut down and handled from the inside, and we’re the only ones who can do it.”

  He could see his boss and friend lining up more arguments against what Roman knew was a fait accompli. Every minute he wasted defending the decision was another consideration to worry about.