Chapter 36
Chapter
Thirty-Six
Luna, a few weeks later…
“I’m good enough. Oh, God.” I grip the bathroom vanity as Vince fucks me from behind.
“Again.” He pulls out and thrusts deep; the filthy sound of his pelvis smacking my ass fills the room.
I moan, watching us in the mirror as my body trembles. “I’m good enough.”
“Yes, you are. And what’s happening today?” He pulls out and thrusts back inside me.
“I’m becoming a Grandmaster.” If I win three out of the nine rounds in today’s tournament.
“Again.” He pulls out and, I arch my back, needing him to thoroughly fuck me already.
“I’m becoming a Grandmaster!”
“Better,” he murmurs, lifting me to my tiptoes with each forward thrust of his hips. He releases hold of my right hip, snaking his hand to my stomach. It hollows as he moves his hand lower, circling my clit with the pads of his fingers .
“Mmm, Vince.”
He pulls out, and I back my ass up in search of his dick.
“Your cunt’s so greedy, Luna.” He slows his work of my clit, rubbing lazy circles.
“Please, Daddy.”
He hums his approval, the sound vibrating its way straight to my pussy. “Love it when you beg.” He begins to fuck me in slow, long thrusts, my toes curling on the cold tile floor as my knuckles blanch from holding onto the vanity so damn tight. “Love it even more when your pussy gushes on my dick.”
“Make my pussy gush on your dick, then,” I challenge, clamping down on his dick with all my might.
The smooth rhythm of his hips falters, and I smirk at him in the mirror. “Luna, Luna,” he chides. “Still thinking you control me with this pussy. I shouldn’t let you come?—”
I release one hand from the vanity, desperately rubbing my clit; I’m so worked up, I come immediately. “Fuck!”
“Bad girl.” Vince growls, slamming his dick into me as he wraps a hand around my throat. He sets a punishing pace, fucking me so hard it borders on pain.
I don’t know which I love more: being his good girl, or being punished for being his bad girl. Like I said, I’m completely fucked up.
“Lu-na.” He says my name on a roar as he empties himself inside me.
Pulling out, he locks eyes with me in the mirror as he places a single kiss on my neck. I still won’t let him kiss me on the lips. My reasons for refusing him becoming less clear as the days pass.
Endgame. Remember your endgame principles.
Vince turns on the shower for me and says, “I’m going to make breakfast. Can I trust you with a razor by yourself?”
I square my jaw. “Yes.”
“Good girl. ”
After a shower and a shave where Vince isn’t monitoring me, I towel dry my hair and throw on my outfit for today’s tournament—a hoodie and skirt. Surprise. Surprise.
Entering the kitchen, I sit at the table, watching Vince behind the stove. This has become my favorite seat in the house; obviously, as it has the best view. His back muscles bunch as he slices and dices, and while he may get pleasure in watching me eat, the pleasure’s all mine watching this man cook shirtless.
Vince presents my plate with the flourish of his hand.
“What is this?” I snort a laugh. It’s a waffle with an angry emoji face, topped with a crown of bacon slices.
“Grandmaster waffles.”
“But why the angry face?”
“That’s your game face.”
“I do not look like this when I play,” I inform him.
“True. You typically save your best scowls for me.”
I stab the waffle with my butter knife in the center of its forehead. “I do.”
His body shakes with laughter as he fetches me the butter and maple syrup.
After breakfast, I sit cross-legged on the floor in the living room and thumb through the playbook Vince has created. I start with the rundown on my first opponent of the day. Statical probabilities of his white opening move based on an average of all his games from the past three years. My potential opening move if I’m white, and based on that move, the statistical probability of his black move.
Vince takes a seat on the couch behind me, giving my shoulders a rub.
“I never knew having an oddsmaker for a manager would come in so handy.”
“I’m handy,” Vince agrees, giving my shoulders a squeeze.
I continue flipping, coming to last page of the handbook. My potential opponent, should I make it to the last round: Grandmaster Wesley Morrell. And this time, I’m not letting him off the hook.
We arrive at the convention center in Philly, my coach waiting for us in the lobby. “You ready?” he asks me.
“Yes.”
“Ricordate cosa abbiamo praticato. Rimanete fedeli alla vostra strategia, ma non abbiate paura di cambiare rotta se necessario. Soprattutto, tenete sotto controllo le vostre emozioni. ” Remember what we practiced. Stay true to you strategy, but don’t be afraid to change course if need be. Most importantly, keep your emotions in check.
I nod, more than ready to do this.
Player, coach, and manager , we all check in, receiving our lanyards and instructions, and I make a beeline for the nearest chair. Grabbing my headphones from my backpack, I put them on and close my eyes. My pregame ritual is simply zoning out. I don’t even listen to anything; the headphones are simply a deterrent to keep people from talking to me.
Vince nudges me. “You’re up. Give ‘em hell.”
I pass him my headphones in exchange for a soda, marching across the floor to my table. Situating myself, I pop the top and take a sip before extending my hand to my opponent, who looks like he might pass out.
That’s his problem, not mine.
The game commences with my opponent making the Sicilian opening move. Internally, I’m smiling. Vince calculated this to be a forty-four percent probability.
Shaking Vince out of my head, I get into my zone, moving my black pawn and locking in the move.
Play proceeds, with sweat dripping down my opponent’s face. It’s his move, and he lurchers forward, spraying puke all over the board.
“Oh my God!” I cry, shoving back from the table.
He hits pause on the clock, and I aggressively wave an arbiter over.
The man hustles to our table. “Is there a…” He notices the problem, his face turning green, and it’s his turn to puke.
I pinch my nose.
The tournament director hustles over, and thankfully, the man has a stronger stomach than the arbiter. “Do you need a medic?”
“No, let’s continue play,” my opponent says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“If it’s agreeable to you both, we’ll get a new board set up.”
“Yes.” I release my fingers from my nose. “I’d rather not play in puke.” I pinch it again, breathing out of my mouth.
“Yes,” my opponent says sheepishly.
The man snaps his fingers, and we’re escorted to a new table, where they move the clean chess pieces on a new board to reflect our game.
The smell of vomit waifs from my opponent across the table, but I hold it together, pulling out a win.
I meet Vince and Coach in the hallway, and we enter an empty skittles room to discuss my play.
“Good job, Luna.” Vince hands me a takeout bag. I peek inside and smile: burger and fries, with a small container of ranch .
“Not a good job!” Coach D’Agustino barks .
“What are you talking about?” I ask, confused by his reaction.
“One of your pawns, it was not placed back on the board,” Coach says adamantly.
“Really, I didn’t catch that.” I dip a fry into ranch, and Vince makes a face as I pop it in my mouth.
“Exactly.” He points at me. “I do not care if your opponent is projectile vomiting and you are ankle-deep in bile. Never agree to move to a new table. Never agree to a new board!” He thunders.
Vince gets in my coach’s face. “ Never fucking yell at her again!”
“Will you both stop?” I jump out of my chair, getting in the middle of them to break it up. “I got the win. It wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t have to be.”
Coach shakes his head. “Assume it will have to be next time.”
I hold up my hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. Lesson learned.”
“I’m going to watch your opponents. Be back on the floor in twenty.” Coach points at me.
“Yes, Coach.”
My coach walks out, with Vince staring him down. Turning to me, Vince asks softly, “You need anything?”
“Another soda.” For some reason, I feel like I’m about to tear up. God, what is wrong with me?
“You don’t need another soda. I’ll get you a water.”
“Five minute increments,” I mutter at his back as he slips out the door.
I finish my lunch, mentally getting my shit together.
“Hey, there you are.” Bridget says, out of breath.
“How’d you do in the first round?” I ask.
“I’m knocked out, but that’s not why I wanted to talk to you. There’s a video going around; I debated whether to tell you, but figured you’d want to see it yourself. ”
“Show me,” I say, and she hands over her phone.
I press play on the video, watching Wesley Morrell walk up the steps to the Chess Hall with his manager.
“Grandmaster, what are your thoughts on rising star Luna Barone?” Someone stops him.
“Luna Barone’s all parlor tricks; she’s someone I don’t concern myself with,” he says haughtily. “If you’ll excuse me.” The men disappear inside the club.
There’s another video stitched from inside the Chess Hall.
“Parlor tricks and big tits,” Wesley says to his manager, unaware he’s being captured on video. Both men chuckle.
“I swear to God, it’s like we’re still in high school. Everyone’s watching this video in the hallway,” Bridget warns me. “That’s why I thought you’d want a heads up.”
“I’m glad you showed me. Do you have a permanent marker?” I hand Bridget her phone back.
“I saw one in the skittles room across the hall. Be right back.”
She returns with the marker, and I remove my undershirt, getting to work.
“Are you about to do what I think you’re about to do?” Bridget asks with mouth agape.
“Only if I make it to the final round.”
“Please, God, let her make it to the final round.” She holds her hands together in prayer.
Forget God; I’m making it to the final round out of pure spite.