Page 18 of Preferential Treatment

“Not as good as you.”

He smiled faintly, but there was a bitter edge to it. “I was professionally trained.”

Kate’s brows rose. “When?”

“When I was a child. Russia takes chess very seriously.” A brief flicker of distaste crossed his face. Apparently not in the mood to elaborate, he asked, “How did you learn to play?”

“One of my dad’s girlfriends taught me.” Lisa had been a bit of a train wreck, but she’d been nice to Kate. She was loud and brassy in a way that Kate, a nervous, watchful kid, had found awe-inspiring. Lisa had loved games—in addition to chess, she’d taught Kate how to play backgammon, cribbage, sheepshead, euchre, and liar’s dice. Though kind, she’d been an erratic presence. She’d often disappeared for weeks at a time, was always out of work, had lost custody of her own kids, and, in hindsight, the pills she’d always been popping “for her back” had probably been an illegal opioid addiction. Kate had caught her stealing out of Dad’s wallet multiple times, but she never told Dad, because she hadn’t wanted him to break up with Lisa.

“One of his girlfriends?” Mikhail asked mildly.

Kate kept her expression perfectly blank, betraying none of the mortified shame she felt for her shitty upbringing. Lots of people had parents who weren’t married to each other, Kate reminded herself. Not as many people had dads who were too busy getting drunk and chasing tail to make sure their kids had dinner, but Mikhail had no way of knowing that was the case as long as Kate didn’t say anything about it.

“Yeah. He and my mom were never married. He had a few different girlfriends when I was growing up.” A few was an understatement. Dad must’ve been charming as hell at the bar, because he was never single for long. Despite that, he’d driven women off just as fast he’d reeled them in.

She glanced over at Mikhail, taking in his reaction. Even bare-chested, hair mussed, five-o’clock shadow coming in strong, he looked sturdy and competent and self-possessed. She knew his rags-to-riches story—or, at least the gist of it—but it was hard to believe he’d ever been anything but wealthy and powerful. His parents must have been the sort to appear in Soviet propaganda art. A square-jawed ironworker father and a wholesome, wheat-harvesting mother. People of humble means, but strong in spirit. Good parents who, poor or not, did everything they could for their children to succeed—who made sure their kids had clean clothes and that they took regular baths and that their hair was properly brushed every day.

At that last thought, Kate instinctively ran her fingers through her hair, paying special attention to the nape of her neck. A little mussed, but no mats. She realized Mikhail was watching her, a contemplative look on his face, and she dropped her hand, embarrassed.

He didn’t know, she assured herself. Women checked their hair all the time. It was normal. There was no way for him to know that for several years, she’d been the stinky kid at school. That she’d only learned how to bathe herself properly by looking up instructions on the internet at the school library when she was in sixth grade. That she’d had to have her head shaved twice as a kid because the mats had become too severe to comb out.

“What are you thinking, knyazhna?” Mikhail asked quietly. The deep rumble of his voice, softly accented, was oddly soothing.

“You should do ASMR videos.”

“What?”

A hot flush crept up her neck. She’d blurted that out without thinking. “You have a nice voice,” she clarified, staring at the chessboard with excessive focus as she nudged the white pieces back to their proper places.

A beat of silence, followed by a soft chuckle. “I’ll keep it in mind for a backup career.”

His amusement at the very idea was a stark reminder, snapping her back into reality like a bucket of cold water turned over her head. For a while there, she’d forgotten who they were, what this was. Straightening, she got up from her chair. Mikhail’s brow furrowed as he watched her.

She couldn’t leave like a guest, because she wasn’t one—she was the help. But she also couldn’t ask to be dismissed, because deference was the exact opposite of what he was paying her for.

“It’s late,” she said. “I should go.”

He searched her face for a moment, his expression utterly unreadable. Finally, he stood. “I’ll call the driver.”

* * *

When Kate was gone, Mikhail returned to his office and sat down at the chessboard again. He stared at the perfectly arranged pieces. After a moment, he started replaying the last game against Kate.

Not to study the gameplay. Not to develop better strategy. Just to remember. To bask in the echo of a strange warmth—a warmth that faded as soon as she was gone.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The next few days passed, and Kate saw neither hide nor hair of Mikhail. He didn’t contact her. She eventually found out that he’d been in D.C., testifying to the Congressional Cybersecurity Caucus about data encryption and blockchain technology, because she saw it on the news. It hurt a little bit when she realized he hadn’t told her about it. It shouldn’t hurt. Logically, she knew what this was. It wasn’t a real relationship. But she’d never fucked anyone without some sort of emotional commitment before, and her brain was having trouble parsing the difference.

On Thursday, she was granted a distraction in the form of her new roommate moving in. When Kate got home from work, Anna, Jason, and Naomi were already there, hauling boxes up to the fourth-floor walkup.

“Kate, you’re here!” Anna wrapped her in a quick hug. “Naomi’s in the bedroom, getting her things unpacked.”

Kate walked over, pausing in the doorway to give her new roommate a discreet once-over. She was decidedly not what Kate was expecting from one of Anna’s friends. Her long, thick hair was bleached peroxide white, with dark roots and thick Betty Page bangs. She had a pointed silver hoop dangling from her septum, another silver hoop circling the center of her bottom lip, and a whole cutlery drawer worth of silver hanging off her ears.

She looked like a goth Barbie, wearing a fitted black turtleneck, a black plaid skirt, and black platform mary-janes over lace-patterned black tights. She’d pushed her sleeves up to her elbows while she worked to unpack her things, revealing forearms covered in intricate black tattoos. One arm was wrapped in a beautiful cascade of realistic wildflowers, with a delicate snake twined throughout them. Its head rested on the top of her hand, eyes glittering as its forked tongue flickered out. The other forearm was inked with an elaborate interplay of Chantilly lace, faceted jewels, butterfly wings, and beaded chains. Feminine and delicate, the design ended just below her wrist with a lacy point. Kate assumed, based on the rest of her aesthetic, that there was plenty more ink hidden under her clothing.

“Hi, Naomi,” Kate said, interrupting her own staring.

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