Page 81 of Pawn's in the Bishop's Game (Checkmate 1)

“Yeah. I come home to you, beautiful. She was a virgin, but you’ve only been with peanuts, so you’re a virgin, too.”

Moving up to the next flight, he overcorrects and slams me against the concrete wall. All two-hundred and more pounds of almost-unconscious muscle crushes me against the wall and constricts my lungs.

“Get off me!”

“Sorry.” Turning, he swings to the opposite side of the stairs and throws his head over the railings. With his bare back blocking my view of everything but an angry Grim Reaper and a handgun tucked into the back of his jeans, he throws up between the gap in the railing, and I grimace as lumpy liquid splashes against the tile at the bottom. “Fuck.” Groaning, he rests his arms on the rail and bends until his forehead rests on his arms. He shakes his head as his breath comes out on noisy rattle. “I dunno what he cut the coke with, Jessie. I don’t know what he did to me.”

“We can still go to the hospital.” Stepping close to his head, I hold the rail with one hand – in case he swings out and sends me rolling down the stairs – as my other hand massages his scalp with my nails. “Please let me take you to the hospital. You’re scaring me.”

“No.” He stands abruptly and knocks me back, just like I predicted. “I can’t. Not allowed.”

“Why aren’t you allowed? Who said? Abel? Because I don’t particularly give a fuck what he wants right now.”

“No.” He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head to clear away the fog. “Not Abel. Abel’s a pussy. Come on.” He throws a heavy arm over my shoulder and looks toward the next flight with a gray face. “Three more. We need to get inside.”

“We should’ve gone to my place.” Grunting, I work him up the next flight. “I have no stairs, and no creeps hanging out in the yard.”

“You wanna take me home to meet your folks, Jessie? Do you think I’d be allowed to sit at the table on Thanksgiving, or would they put me outside like a mutt dog?”

“Do I look like the kinda girl who’d let you sit outside in the snow?”

Snorting, he stops and clamps his mouth shut. Shaking his head, he grows heavier against me.

“No,” I answer for him. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I get my way often. I wouldn’t make you sit outside. Will you let me get you a regular job, yet?” Turning at the landing, I sigh and lead him toward the next set. “Let me get you a job.”

“I already got a job, Blondie. I get to carry guns.” Grinning, he bounces thick brows over glassy eyes. “Does that turn you on?”

“No.”

“Don’t worry about me, Jess. I got a job. How’m I supposed to take care of my girl if I got no job?”

“What does Abel pay you?”

“Cocaine and black eyes. Oh!” Knocking me to the side, he pushes his hands into his pocket. “Cocaine. I got a party bag, beautiful.”

Pulling out a lunch bag filled to the top with white powder, he waves it around like it truly is a party bag filled with candy.

“Kane!” I jump up to snatch it from his hands, but he simply yanks it out of my reach.

“Nuh-uh. Don’t put your fingers on this, Blondie.” He shoves the bag back into his pocket. “Can’t have your fingerprints for when the cops come sniffing.”

“You can’t have a bag of cocaine!” I’ve never in my life even tried a pot brownie, and yet, Kane stands half naked in his stairwell with a bag of cocaine that would be worth thousands on the street if he chose to sell. “Oh my God, you’re not gonna sell it, are you? Please don’t sell drugs. Please don’t be that guy.”

“Not gonna sell it. It’s okay.” He trudges toward the final flight on his own, but before I can catch up and help, he trips on the bottom step and slams down onto the stairs. His face smacks against the concrete and blood splatters.

“Kane!” I sprint the three feet between us and skid down onto my knees. “Come on. Come on. Come on.” Shoving my thumb against his eye, I pry the lid open to find the same fully dilated pupil he’s had since he got in my car. “Get up, please.” I’m so tired of him hurting himself. So tired of him being sick and sad. I cup his bleeding face. “Please get up, Kane. I need you to wake up. Stop being sick. I need you.”

“Mm’okay.”

“You’re not okay! You’re in the stairwell. Get up!”

“Tired.”

“No!” I’m so frustrated, I’m tempted to kick the shit out of him. “Get up! Get up! Get up! I’m never coming back again. If you let me down right now, I’m never coming back. You’re supposed to protect me.” I sob when his breath evens out. Slumping over him, I cry tears of heartbreak.

I barely know this man, but his pain hurts me. He’s so unbelievably sick; so sleepy and defenseless, and the longer his eyes stay shut, the closer the shadows come. “I never needed to be saved before you. But now I need you. I need you to wake up. I need you to protect me. Please wake up.”

“Need a hand, lady?”

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