Chapter 3
three
. . .
Randy Carlisle is once again looking to be the challenger for the Chess World Championship title.
After qualifying for the Candidates tournament in New York, Carlisle released a statement to the press stating that he couldn’t have done it without the support of his father, Paul, highlighting how his father has always been there in times of need.
The two of them were photographed celebrating Carlisle’s success with a bottle of champagne at The Aurelis.
We send our favorite star our condolences on the sudden loss of his father and look forward to watching him rise again and push through the pawns in his way.
Signing off, I am Richard Locus, and this is Endernet, coming to you from Lethbridge, where community grows. Back to you, Han.
“Yes, very impressive to be able to afford a literal royal suite in the middle of New York City. ‘Always there in times of need,’ AKA always there to pay off the problem.” Margot rolls her eyes and turns off the TV. “I can’t fucking stand him.”
I don’t mention the fact that he not-so-vaguely hinted at a toxic threesome.
Maybe Randy was joking with me to take his mind off his dad.
Either way, I avoid the subject with Margot, especially because she so clearly and pointedly despises rich people.
It’s not the first time I’ve heard her rant about their lack of obstacles, and I doubt it will be the last time either.
In fact, it’s one of the few things we agree on.
“Imagine all of the people they could feed, and all of the medical bills they could cover with that one night. It makes me sick,” she says as she throws the remote onto her mattress.
We’ve been down this road a thousand times.
And a thousand times, we arrive at the same conclusion: there are no ethical billionaires.
There’s no reason one person gets to purchase another yacht, car, or house, while another starves and can’t afford their insulin to keep them alive.
There’s no reason one person gets to waste a fifty-thousand-dollar bottle of champagne in the penthouse suite of the Aurelis while people are walking by on the streets below and all over the city who have to choose between getting their children glasses and buying the next month’s worth of groceries. There’s just no reason.
“No ethical billionaires,” I tell her.
She sighs and leans into me, resting her head on my shoulder the way she would at the end of these conversations in the past. “No ethical billionaires.”
It’s almost natural sitting here together, until I remember the cracks in my heart, carved by her in the past with a dull blade.
I tense and stand, removing her from me, but instead of relief, it feels like I’m leaving a part of myself behind.
“We should go back downstairs and say goodbye to the people before they go.”
Both of us were exhausted after the past two days of teaching chess to the rehabilitation group. As rewarding as it was, we couldn’t help but sneak away for some quiet time after it was all finished. But it’s been almost half an hour now, and people are going to start asking questions.
She gives me a sad smile and nods. “I’ll be right behind you, I just—”
“Need to talk to your mom for a bit.” Margot always did need some time alone after one of these rants.
I overheard her once by accident, apologizing over and over again to no one in particular.
Or so I thought. It turned out she was sitting with a photo of her and her mother on her lap, tears trapped on the glass of the frame.
She was apologizing for not getting her the right treatment in time.
For letting the cancer get so bad so fast. For letting it spread from her liver to her kidneys.
As if Margot ever had any control over the way her mother’s cells metastasized.
“See you in a bit,” I tell her, gently closing the door to our room behind me.
The tables in the hall below are empty, but there’s a crowd around the table near the bay windows, and it’s not hard to imagine why. Even rich people love free shit, and free food is almost always at the top of that list.
“Hey, mate, I saw your feature on the telly.” A tall, sun-kissed man with an Australian accent grips Randy’s shoulder as if they’re old friends.
Maybe they are? I don’t care. I’m only here for the coffee.
And after our brief, awkward encounter, I don’t want to be near Carlisle or any of his acquaintances.
I hide at the end of the line and grab my mug. I thought I was in the clear, but apparently my luck is stretched thin these days because I see the two men determinedly coming my way.
“Have you met Ellory yet, Lucas? She’s one of our new Candidates.”
“Blimey, a woman!” Lucas exclaims, as if he hasn’t pointed out that the sky is blue or the carpet beneath our feet is black.
“Great observation,” I say, holding out my mug toward him in mock salute. Maybe my incredibly welcoming tone (sarcasm) will turn him off.
“Our girl here isn’t much of a people person,” Randy says as he wraps an arm around my shoulders.
I once again have to swallow the bile rising in my throat.
Don’t cause a scene.
I remove his hand, pour the cream into my mug, and take a step away, putting as much distance as I can between us without being too obvious.
“You two enjoy. Nice meeting you, Lucas.”
I turn and run straight into Margot, spilling hot coffee down the front of her shirt and trousers.
“Fuck, I’m so so sorry. Are you okay? I’ll go get some towels,” I say, rambling through the anxiety newly coursing through my veins. Maybe caffeine in the evening wasn’t a good idea. Then again, it’s not like I’ve been sleeping anyway.
She grabs my arm and pulls me back as I try to make a break for it.
“It’s okay, Lore. I needed to shower and do laundry anyway.
” She takes the mug from my hands and places it on the end of the table, grabbing a few napkins on the way back to dab at her black button-down.
At least it won’t stain. “Who are your friends?”
I’m about to loosen my tongue and tell her that these two are closer to garbage disposals than friends, when she squeezes my bicep three times, disrupting my thoughts.
This was our code to say something kind and find an excuse to leave, and although we’re not together anymore, I’m glad we can still speak this language.
“Sorry again,” I say before gesturing to the Australian. “This is Lucas, and you already know of Randy. Actually, I should probably pay for your laundry since I spoiled your dress. But I left my cash upstairs.” I wave at the boys as we walk past them. “Have a good night, gentlemen.”
We walk in silence until we reach our suite, then, tongue still tied, I follow Margot to the laundry room, she with a basket in tow, and me with all the screaming voices in my head telling me that I’m a disaster.
Margot closes the door, and I’m finally able to take a proper breath with the physical barrier between me and whatever that was downstairs. I know I shouldn’t feel comfortable around her, but there’s something about Margot that always has me mentally reaching for her.
Finally grounded, I turn and—holy shit, she’s stripped down to her underclothes.
Her plain blood-red lace panties and bralette hold her curves perfectly, and I swear my brain misfires as I watch her lean over to put her soiled dress into the front-loading washer.
The only thing covering her cleavage is the black tie that was tucked into her shirt earlier and was apparently unmarked by my clumsiness.
It takes until she makes her way back over to me, palm outstretched, expecting coins to start the washing machine, before I finally return to full consciousness.
I retrieve the toonie from my pocket—yes, I lied to the boys about the change in my room, but it was far from the worst white lie I’ve ever told to get out of an uncomfortable situation—and hand it to her.
“Thanks,” she says as she places the coin into the holder and pushes the metal plate into the machine. There’s a light clink before the light turns on and the steady whir begins. “You’re look—”
“I’m not staring,” I blurt out, even though I most definitely am—I mean, was—and she knows it.
Margot smirks, running her tongue along the seam of her lips. She leans back against the washer and crosses her arms over her chest. I absolutely do not note what that does to her breasts. No, I am looking straight into her round mahogany eyes that seem to—
“I was going to say that you look tired. Maybe you could use a shower as well?”
At this rate, I need an ice bath and a reality check. And maybe therapy. Scratch that—absolutely therapy.
Margot pulls her housecoat over her shoulders and ties it at the waist. Just the hint of lace peeks through the top of the soft white fabric.
“Care to join me?”
This is a bad idea. This is a very bad idea.
Which is why I, of course, nod and let Margot lead me to the shower room next door.