Page 12 of Creole Kingpin
With a wink, he strides off down the street, and I wait until he turns the corner before I walk back to my gate, clutching the pawn. I don’t need handsome men who think they’re charming knowing where I live. My door isclosedto them.
Thankfully, as I stop in front of my place, my contractor, Rocco, pulls up in his white pickup.
“Sorry I’m late. Got hung up in traffic. This fucking city.”
At least one thing is going my way. “Good timing. I locked myself out.”
“Ah, shit. That’s no good. Come on, I’ll let you in. Did you look around? What do you think?” He launches into a stream of chatter about what he’s going to work on today, and everything he’s finished since we last spoke.
I only listen to half of it. My mind is on the chess piece I tip over in my hand and the three initials on the bottom.M. B. G.
A flash from the past bursts into my brain, and I have to clutch the counter to stay upright as the vivid memory unfolds in my mind.
The most beautiful man I’ve ever seen in my life sits cross-legged on the floor of the house I was willing to die to save, across a chessboard from me, wearing a smile on his face guaranteed to melt even the blackest of hearts.
“A beautiful woman who plays chess like a master. I never guessed that’d be so damn sexy or my greatest weakness.”
Moses.
Moses sent me a pawn.
What the fuck does it mean?
I’m his pawn? He’s my pawn?
No ...
He’s making the first move.
Seven
Magnolia
“Get it all done, and we won’t have a problem.” I give the order to Rocco with a firm voice, all business right now.
He smiles in return, with that appreciative look in his eye that plenty of men have had before him. But he ain’t getting none of me. Not a single one of them are.
Not even the man who sent me a pawn.
You sure about that, Mags?The voice in my head, who I call Ho-It-All instead of Know-It-All, taunts me. Thankfully, I don’t have time to think about the answer because Rocco replies.
“You know I will, Ms. Maison. You can count on me. You’ll be moving in on time. I give you my word.”
I offer him my hand, and when he shakes it, holding on a little longer than I’d like, I tug mine free from his grip. “Give my best to your wife, Rocco. I’ll see you in a few days.”
The reminder that he’s a married man produces a ruddy hue just above the collar of his white T-shirt. “Of course. Have a good evening, Ms. Maison.”
With that, I scoop up my handbag, toss the stupid pawn inside, and stride out of my new digs like I don’t have a care in the world.
But I do.
And I don’t make it a half block before my cell vibrates in my bag.
I swear to Christ, if it’s Moses, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind. Thinking he can come back here and walk into my life like it hasn’t been fifteen fucking years of radio silence.
But I should know better. He never calls.
When I look down at the screen, it’s a number I recognize.
