Page 36 of Kept in the Dark

There is a heavy pause, and my eyes drop back to the incongruous shapes on the page that I can no longer make sense of. Another lurch of the boat tosses her into the edge of the counter, and she exhales a softoof. “How long will it take for me to get my sea legs? That’s the term, right?”

“It varies.”

“Okay… give me an average?”

“A few days.”

“Oh.” She sounds disappointed.

I force myself to make sense of the letters…

“Is that a chessboard?” she asks, pointing to the box on the shelf next to the books. It has a picture on the side of the pieces of the game, so I know she knows the answer. “Do you like games?”

“So many questions,” I huff, shaking my head and adjusting the book in my lap. When she drops her eyes and presses her lips together in chagrin, I feel like an ass.

“Sorry… I’ll um… I’ll go back—”

I snap the book closed, set it aside, and stand to grab the box from the shelf. “Do you know how to play chess?”

Last night in the car, I was distracted, tired and losing blood. Now patched up and temporarily at peace, there are things we need to discuss. It would not be such a bad idea to play with her—it may act as a useful way to split her attention and lower her guard. I must know about her involvement with Kyle and the likelihood that she will cause a problem for me in the future—since, apparently, I have no plans to kill her.

Nicole looks almost excited as she nods, and it digs away at my misgivings about her trustworthiness. “It’s been a while, but I used to play with my friends on an app. I like games.”

I set the board on the table and begin placing the pieces on the tiles as she slides into the other side of the seat where my feet were propped. “I propose we add a rule. For every piece you take, you may ask a question of me. For every piece I take, I will ask a question of you.”

That way, it will not seem like an interrogation.

Her eyes drop to the board, and I watch her visually do the math. 16 possible questions that I will answer for her. Unfortunately, her calculations are missing a variable—my skill level. She will get eight at most.

“Is there a grand prize for whoever wins?” she asks, a teasing smile playing at the edges of her lips.

“Yes,” I growl, fixated on her mouth. “If I win, I get you. However I want.”

She gasps, her eyes rounding. But though this answer has clearly shocked her, there is no rejection of the idea in her expression or body language. Her face is a canvas of interest and desire, though masked by indignation. Her nipples have hardened under the shirt and are poking and creating tiny bumps under the cotton.

The silence becomes a standoff as she searches for the truth, wearing a slight frown. I am expecting her to retreat, but she licks her lips, and I follow the movement hungrily. I can tell she is conflicted about wanting me, and I do not blame her for it.

“You’re messing with me,” she decides, though she does not sound certain.

In truth, I want these to be the terms of our game very badly. But I know this will create too much tension to get the answers I need, so I incline my head, allowing her to believe—for now—that it was the joke she wishes to think it was.

She nods, then spins the board, so she controls the white pieces to go first, which I allow. The only lingering sign of her desire is how she presses her thighs together when she sits.

“If I win, you show me how to throw one of those knives.”

Clever girl, bartering and taking whatever advantage that she can, but no one is permitted to touch my knives. There is no real reason for me to play along, other than that the idea of seeing her wield one of my instruments of death makes my body tighten in a hot, frenzied way.

“If I win, you will be learning how to fish instead.”

It is a challenge not to smile when she makes a face of disgust.

I sit. She moves a center pawn—a very common first move. I move one of my pawns into her attack zone to see what kind of player she is. She takes it. She is aggressive and prioritizes early game. Very common in western schools of chess.

“Why do you have a chessboard if you come here alone?” she asks, weighing the painted stone piece. “I’m surprised they’re even staying on the board with how the boat is rocking.”

Interesting. An aggressive player, but she has wasted her first question. “The pieces are heavy enough. It is sentimental; I brought it with me from Russia.”

“You played with someone there?”