Chapter 9 – POSY #2
“I knew that. I figured you’re the kind of woman who doesn’t cum every time.”
“Guess you figured right.”
“I like it better when you get off.”
My face warms, and I cross my arms in front of my boobs.
I don’t care. He’s crazy, and I’m pretty much a captive at this point.
My brain offers up an image from earlier, Ivano desperately trying to push himself up from the floor, his leg bent in the wrong direction, his palms slipping on the bloody mat.
My flush fades as a chill seeps into my chest.
“Why did you do that to Ivano?”
“That’s a quick change of conversation.” He places the black king on its square.
“What did he do?”
“He’s a rat.”
“You let a rat live?” That’s not how it works.
My uncle was a rat. He paid for it with his life, and the rest of us lived with the stink.
It was a miracle Renelli didn’t kill my father even though he had no idea what his brother was doing.
I was in junior high when Renelli caught him skimming.
One day, I was popular. I had a boyfriend.
I was queen bee. The next I was sitting at the lunch table alone.
“You asked me to.”
“You don’t do anything you don’t want to,” I scoff.
He inclines his head. “You need to know your power.”
“I have no power.”
“To the contrary.” His eyes darken. “You decimate my control. If you run again, if you make me angry enough, I could kill you. I might not even mean to.”
He offers a chagrined smile as if he’s admitting to a minor fault, his expression almost boyish.
“You wanted him alive. And I needed to send Renelli a message.” He considers a second. “It’ll likely come back and bite me. Hopefully he’ll stay in whatever Sicilian backwater they ship him to.”
A different smile, sharkish and wide, twists his lips. “If he came back, I could finish him, though. He’ll want revenge. He’d be a threat to you.” He sounds wistful.
He sighs and taps the table. “Come on, now, Posy. I gave you what you wanted. Give me what I want.”
“I don’t want to fuck.” I hike my chin. “I’m not in the mood.”
“Come on.” He pats his lap and adjusts the chess board so it’s sideways. We’ve played this way before. It usually ends up with me riding his cock reverse-cowgirl.
He casts a long-suffering glance at the ceiling. “Only chess. I promise.”
It’s one of the last things I want to do. I need a break. A shower, a nap, a change of clothes. My wrists and the bump on my head are throbbing. I’d like an aspirin or a stiff drink. But the deranged boyfriend wants a rematch, so I guess we play.
I pad over to him and perch on his knee. He scoops me back and tucks me to his chest.
“Since you fucked around, I’m white this time,” he says. I can hear his delight.
“Be my guest.”
He moves his pawn to e4. Ruy Lopez or the Italian Game. Boring.
I counter by moving my pawn to g5.
He shakes me lightly. “The Borg Defense? Are you still fucking around?”
“Just go.”
His body is tense under mine, but as we play, he relaxes. I’m too tired to hold myself stiff, so I let myself slump against his chest.
He’s warm. His left arm is wrapped casually around my waist while he moves his pieces with his right. His chin, raspy with five o’clock shadow, nestles in the crook of my neck.
He smells like the soap I buy him, sandalwood and bergamot, and underneath, the musk that’s only him. A knot unfurls in my belly. I know I’m not safe, but my body is lowering its defenses, and I don’t have the energy to fight.
I take one of his knights. My stomach growls.
He slips his fingers under my tank top and strokes my belly lazily. He takes my bishop.
“What are you up to?” he mutters to himself.
I don’t even know. I’m playing on instinct.
My gut gurgles again.
“Why is your stomach making that noise? It’s distracting,” he complains, moving the wrong pawn. He just opened a huge hole in his defenses. He’s going to live to regret that. I sacrifice a bishop to keep him distracted.
“I’m hungry.” Isn’t it obvious?
“When is the last time you ate?”
I can’t remember. His fingers hover over his queen. If he moves her, I win in two. If he doesn’t, I lose in three. I can’t help but squirm, and his cock stiffens under my butt. I freeze.
He shakes his knee, jostling me. “I asked you a question.”
“Oh. I don’t know. Yesterday. The night before yesterday?” Time has blurred together. I heated up a microwave burrito at the Gas-and-Go when I started my shift.
“You need to eat.”
This is probably the first time he’s noticed that.
He helps himself when he’s hungry, or he asks me to make something.
I learned early on when I moved in that I need to help myself, too.
He doesn’t register other people’s needs.
I chalked that up to being an absent-minded professor, his mind always on the markets.
I had an excuse for everything, didn’t I?
All of a sudden, I want to win. Bad. Why won’t he move?
I hardly suppress a groan when his hand falls away from the board. He digs in his pocket for his phone. Oh my god. Move the queen.
He taps and snaps at Ray to have a tray sent up. “You can stop making the noise now,” he informs me.
Does he know how stomachs work?
I stifle the smart response as he reaches for the board. Come on. Qd7. Qd7.
He takes the queen by her crown. D7.
I exhale, and my lips curve.
Boom.
“Check,” I say.
Boom.
“Checkmate.” Over in two. I knock his king over with my queen, and then I stretch, arching my back.
He chuckles and makes a happy hum. “The Borg defense.”
“That was a stupid move with your queen,” I point out although I’m sure he realized it as soon as he did it.
“Yes,” he says. “It was.”
The game is over, but he’s not letting me go. His hands wander, gentle, questing. He’s checking my bumps and bruises.
“You’re very delicate,” he complains.
“No more than anyone else.” An awareness is rising inside of me. Nerves. He doesn’t usually touch me like this. He usually goes straight for my tits or ass.
“More than me.”
I snort. “No, you’re not delicate.”
His fingers ghost over a bruise on my thigh. “I didn’t even hit you.”
“You threw me in a trunk.”
He tenses beneath me. “I don’t like it.”
For a second, I’m confused, but then I realize he’s talking about the mark on my leg. “Yeah, well, don’t throw me in trunks.”
“Don’t run away from me again.” There’s an edge to his voice. A warning.
I don’t say anything. Of course, I’ll run as soon as I get the chance. I might not have a great sense of self-preservation when it comes to men, but I don’t have a death wish. And no matter how Dario smells and feels like the man I fell in love with, he isn’t, is he?
I fell in love with a fantasy. My heart aches. I thought I was done mourning, but his presence brings it back. It’s unfair that you can grieve a person who never existed, the loss of a love you made up in your head. But then again, life’s unfair.
There’s a knock on the door. It’s the tray. I make to get up, but Dario won’t let me go.
“What would it take? To stop you from running again?”
“A time machine.”
His hand moves to grip my hair, and he forces my head back so he can stare down into my face. His eyes glint.
“If you run again, when I catch you, I’ll hurt you. Worse than this.”
My scalp aches, and my eyes water. “I won’t run,” I gasp.
His lip curls. “You’re lying. Don’t run again, Posy. I don’t want to hurt you.”
Then he lifts me and sets me on my feet. “Eat. I want to play again when you’re done.”
And then he gets on his phone and tunes me out, just like he used to do.
I fetch the tray from the hallway and bring it to the table. There are two plates under silver domes. Club sandwiches, chips, pickles, and sparkling water. I place Dario’s plate in front of him, and he grabs a bite without tearing his gaze from his trading app.
Before, I thought he was a workaholic, and he is, but it goes deeper than that. I sit across from him, eating and watching as he scrolls and taps. I’ve completely disappeared from his world. If I speak now, I’ll have to repeat myself a few times before he’ll respond, and he’ll be pissed.
I only interrupted him a few times before I learned my lesson. Don’t speak to him when he’s working. Or exercising. Or reading. Or listening to music.
I had to wait for my openings. And I was okay with that. Why?
Because when I had his attention, I had all of it. And he was fascinated by me. No one’s ever been into my mind, but Dario admired it like a painting. And then, when he was done, he put me away like his laptop, his barbells, his books, or his records.
I was a belonging, and I craved it. Belonging.
It might hurt a little still, but he did me a favor when he kicked me out. He tore off my blinders. I wasn’t in love. I was deluded.
I didn’t really lose anything at all.
And his hyper-focus—it’s an opportunity. It’s how I’m going to get out of here again, and this time, I’m not going to look back.
* * *
The next day, Ray and I are hanging out in the media room when his phone chirps. He checks it and looks up. “You have to get dressed. You’re going to dinner in an hour.”
After our strange lunch yesterday, Dario disappeared, presumably to his office, and I didn’t see him again.
I laid down for a nap which ended up lasting until the morning.
Dario never came to bed. When I woke and peeked out the door, Ray was in the hall, propped on a stool.
He dogged my heels when I headed downstairs, huffing and bitching under his breath.
I guess I have a babysitter.
It’s fine for now. I need time to come up with a plan. Ray can watch this god-awful rom com while I figure out my next move.
I need money. I could have stayed off the grid if I’d had cash.
My dad always had a stash, but he was old school.
Dario uses credit cards exclusively. Even if I miraculously developed the skill to pick pockets, whatever Ray and the other staff have in their pockets wouldn’t get me as far as I need to go.