14
Spence
Iswitch off the lights to my firing range, and the spotlights that light up the yard out back. Electricity that crackles in the air from the moment I wake until the moment I shut everything down silences, so my shoes echoing on the concrete floor are the only thing I hear as I close up for the day.
Jay and Sophia leave through the front and send my watch bleeping with security alarms. I know it’s them, so I ignore the beeps and move about, packing everything away. Glasses, earmuffs, empty water bottles that I intend to stuff down Jay’s throat tomorrow to teach him how to pick up after himself.
Soph has been communicating with herRomeoa lot lately, but she does it in front of Jay, so I’m comfortable knowing it’s not a big secret she keeps from him.
She’s just choosing not to share the details with the rest of us.
Shit is getting noisy again, because word is getting out that Colum Bishop – who just happens to be Kane and Jay’s dear ol’ daddy – is now dead and buried. Colum was a bad motherfucker who built an empire funded primarily by the sale of drugs and underage girls. Sophia herself shut that fucker down – which sometimes makes for colorful dinnertime chatter about her would-be father-in-law – but now that word has spread, and the world knows who shut him down, Checkmate is getting a little more attention than they’d like.
It’s not like the good old days of assholes knocking on doors and asking questions– mostly. Today is an age of malware and cyber security. Sophia has to be on her game, shutting people out and reversing their trojans so they bite back and destroy the sender’s systems rather than our own.
She makes it seem easy, like child’s play, with how she snickers, sips coffee from a mug in one hand and works with the other. She makes it look no more serious than if she were playing cards.
Go fish.
But she’s getting busier. Where she used to swear at her emails once a week, she now does it daily. Several times daily. So while the rest of us work the business and do our thing, she protects us all, because the most dangerous threat we face is online.
There’s always a threat. There’s always someone looking to tap us on the shoulder. Which is why we keep our security tight.
And why I almost jump out of my skin when I turn back to the entrance to my apartment, and find Abigail with her handbag clutched between her hands, and her knuckles ghost-white from holding on so tight.
“Fuck!”
Training means my hand instantly drops to my gun, but then my protective side overrides that, and makes me yank my hand back. Adrenaline slams through my blood and makes it so everything is brighter, louder, clearer. She’s turned my instincts up so it feels like I’m running toward a battle. Or away.
“You scared the shit outta me, Priss!”
“I’m sorry.”
She wears the same outfit she wore earlier in her shop. Her hair isn’t as perfect. Her skin’s a little paler – as if that’s possible. She watches me from thirty feet away, but doesn’t back up as I move toward her with steely determination.
She came to me. She’s here. And I’m wasting time thinking about a messy range and virus-filled emails.
Stalking forward until I stop barely a foot and a half away, I make her look up and meet my eyes. I watch her swallow, and the way her throat moves with the action. I stare into her bicolored eyes and wish I could swim in them for just one night. One time.
“What are you doing here, Abigail?”
“Um…” She looks down when I extend a hand and stroke her arm.
I don’t know why I do that. I was never much of a toucher, but I’ve found myself stroking her arm every single time I’ve been in the same room as her.
“Uh… well…”
“Change your mind?” I prod. “Willing to slum?”
“No.” She looks back up, but instead of pale cheeks, they’re now fiery red. “I… well… I’m not sure I can…”
I see the war she wages in her head. Her need to be pure. Her need to be in control. Her need to be the perfect girl she’s spent her whole life being. But beneath that are the dirty little desires, and the strange way I make her thrum every time we speak. I confuse her, and she’s the woman that craves predictability.
“Do you want me to make it so you don’t have to ask?” I lean in closer, bend down because she’s so fucking small, and run my nose along the shell of her ear. “Do you want me to make it easier on you?”
“Um…” She clears her throat. It’s almost like I’m a wild animal, and she’s too scared to move. So she remains utterly still and allows me to practically cloak her in myself.
“Do you want me to show you what it feels like to come… and mean it?”