Page 7 of Mr. North
“We’ll be playing over here,” he says stiffly, guiding me over to the northern corner of the room, where a small table has been arranged with two wingback chairs sitting opposite one another. On the table, a chess set has already been prepared. The pieces are works of art, the black side carved out of what looks like polished stone, and in place of white bone or stone, the opposing side’s pieces have been shaped out of what looks like solid copper.
“Which do you prefer?” Raphael asks. “Light or dark?”
I grip hold of my purse, wringing the strap in my hands. “I don’t really have a preference.”
Raphael glances at me with those sharp eyes. “That’s a pity. I hoped you’d be a woman who knew what she wanted.”
Ouch. His tone is even, his voice quiet, but his words are sharp as razors. I feel like I’ve just been judged in some way, and I haven’t exactly impressed. Raphael sits down on the left, behind the copper pieces. “I’ll let you stretch your legs with the obsidian. When was the last time you played?” His questions are clipped, perfunctory almost.
“It’s been a couple of years,” I admit. “I haven’t had a lot of time for chess recently.”
His head snaps up. “Why?”
I sit down, studying the set before me. It really is a lovely thing. Picking up the rook from the edge of the board, I turn it over in my hands, taking a closer look. “I’ve been studying for the last eight years. I don’t have a lot of free time.”
“You’re a doctor?” he asks.
“No. Lawyer. At least I will be once I’ve passed the bar.”
“Hmm.” There’s a critical edge to that hmm that makes my defensive streak rear its ugly head.
“You don’t approve of lawyers?”
“Not particularly. They plagued my adolescence. Every time I opened my mouth, there was someone in a pantsuit ready to cover my mouth in case I said something inappropriate. I should have guessed by your choice of outfit that you were a bloodsucker in training.”
I tug self-consciously at the front of my dress shirt. “Thalia told me you requested business attire.”
“I didn’t. She made an assumption,” Raphael says, picking up the copper rook, the mirror to the piece I’m holding in my hands. “People do that a lot,” he continues. “Maybe once upon a time, it would have been normal for you to come here dressed for a job interview, but not any more. And that’s not what this is. I prefer for people to feel comfortable in their own skin when they’re around me. If you choose to come and play with me again, Ms. Dreymon, please wear whatever the fuck you like.”
I know he curses—he swore eighteen times on his questionnaire alone—but hearing him say fuck does something to me. Something…odd. He’s being pretty damn cold, but there’s something so edgy about him, so slick and confident. It has me a little turned around. I fidget in my seat, trying to gather my thoughts, which are currently scattered to the four winds.
“I will. Thanks,” I reply.
“Good. Then shall we get started?”
“Yes.” I whisper the word. It seems to catch in my throat. The immense space is totally silent, though, so even the soft rasp of my voice sounds like it echoes. I place the rook back on the board, and so does Raphael. Since I’m black, and white goes first, Raphael makes the first move. Strange that he took the advantage of first move for himself. Most people I’ve played in the past with, especially guys, make a point of giving up the first move to prove they’re the more superior player. Raphael doesn’t seem to give a shit about appearances, however, in more ways than one. He brings his e4 pawn out first, a strong opening. A forceful opening. He’s an aggressor, then. Some people might go for a softer opening, to test out their opponent, but not Raphael. He’s coming out guns blazing.
I counter, moving my pawn to e5, and Raphael meets my gaze, smirking a little. “Tell me something about yourself,” he demands. His knight to f3.
“What would you like to know?” Something about watching him watch the board is very distracting. I’m not pinned under the full wattage of his eyes, which is definitely a relief, but I still feel like he’s monitoring me intently as he plays. His brow creases ever so slightly in the middle as he picks up his bishop and moves it to b5, and I realize I’m staring at that small groove of concentration above the bridge of his nose.
“I want to know why you’d come here,” he says. “Isn’t going to a stranger’s house alone still considered dangerous?”
I gape at him. “You answered the ad on Craigslist . Who does that ?” I pick up my knight, moving it to f6. Raphael moves immediately afterward, relocating his a pawn to d3. He looks up from the game, then. Looks up at me. Looks into me somehow. I sink back into my chair, shying away from how weirdly vulnerable he makes me feel when he focuses on me like that. I feel…I feel like a tuning fork that’s been struck, vibrating, humming on a cellular level.
“I answered the ad because I’m an eccentric recluse who just does shit like that. You’re a smart girl, a girl who’s studying to be a lawyer. A pretty girl. Someone who’s been warned her whole life about getting into cars with men she doesn’t know.”
“You sent Nate to get me.”
“Yeah. And did he look like the kind of guy you’d expect to be driving around in a Tesla? He wears his ball cap back-to-front like a frat boy for fuck’s sake.”
I open my mouth, floundering for something to say. Raphael just stares at me. “It’s your move, Ms. Dreymon.”
I look down at the board. I’ve completely lost where I am now. I scan the pieces, figuring out where he moved last. I move my bishop to c5 right next to his. I’m thoroughly perplexed right now; the way Raphael is speaking is very to the point. Brusque, even. I’ve never met someone so combative before, and to be like this five seconds after we meet? I don’t know what I’ve done to offend this guy, but I’m beginning to think this was all a horrible idea.
“I’m sorry, I seem to be a little confused. Did you want someone to come here to play chess with you, or did you want someone to come here so you could insult them? For the record, I did think this was a risky thing to be doing. I said as much to Thalia, at least three times. I even turned down the job twice. And then…”
He presses the knuckle of his index finger into the table, hard. It’s a subtle action; I wouldn’t see if it if I was trying to stay a step ahead of him in the game. He presses so hard, his skin blanches white. “And then your friend said my name, and you changed your mind.”
