Page 54 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"It would appear so," Plague says tightly. "You haven't tried yourself?"

Whiskey shrugs his huge shoulders, jostling Plague with the movement. Plague hisses. "If it comes on, you'll be the first to know, considering all you do is refresh that damn screen like you're going through withdrawals. And I'm the one with ADHD? I'm hookin' you up with my doc, bro."

I try again. Same result.

"This is unacceptable," Plague mutters, stabbing at his screen.

"Dude," Whiskey interrupts gently. "It's just Wi-Fi."

The look Plague gives him could freeze magma. "It's not just Wi-Fi. It's access to Ivy."

"She's hangin' out with Thane and Wraith, dude," Whiskey says, grinning. "Trust me, she's busy."

Plague's mouth snaps shut. The tips of his ears darken slightly, which is fascinating to witness on someone who usually has ice running through his veins.

I tuck my useless phone away, then reach into my carry-on bag. My fingers find the familiar weight of my chess set, a metal magnetic board folded to contain hand-carved ebony and maple pieces. I slide it out and Plague's attention shifts immediately to the chess set like a cat spotting a laser pointer.

"Since the Wi-Fi gods have forsaken us," I say, setting up the board on my tray table, "perhaps a game?"

I watch Plague's internal struggle play out across his face. Pride warring with genuine interest.

"Fine," he says finally, unbuckling and climbing over Whiskey without waiting for him to get up first. His knee drives into Whiskey's gut and forces all the air out of his lungs with a woof that turns a few heads.

"Seriously? You're just gonna leave me here to have some nerd pissing match?" Whiskey grunts, shoving Plague past him and into the aisle.

"Yes," Plague says without hesitation, falling into the seat beside me.

I bite back a grin. This is going to be entertaining.

"I could teach you to play if you'd like, Whiskey," I say, arranging the pieces. "Though I suspect you'd prefer to learn from your mate."

The barb lands exactly as intended. Whiskey's face flushes red while Plague goes rigid beside me again.

"We're not—" Plague starts.

"That isn't what my family thinks," I interrupt smoothly.

"You're such a fucking dick," Whiskey mutters from across the aisle, but there's no real heat in it. More like resigned acceptance. The passenger in front of him clasps her hands over her child's ears and turns around to glare at him.

"Little ears," I remind Whiskey in a singsong.

Whiskey gives me a blank stare. "What the fuck does that mean, bro? That's fucking menacing."

"Language," I correct flatly, grinning at him before turning to Plague. "White or black?"

"Black," Plague says immediately.

I turn the board so the black pieces face him, then make my opening move. E4. Classic. I watch his eyes track across the board, analyzing possibilities before he responds with C5.

Sicilian Defense.

Interesting choice.

We fall into the rhythm of the game. Click of piece on board. Pause. Counter-move. The familiar dance of strategy and prediction that I find infinitely more satisfying than small talk.

Plague plays aggressively. He's done this before. Often. His long fingers hover over pieces before committing to moves, and I notice he has a tell.

His left eyebrow twitches slightly when he's considering a sacrifice.