Page 117 of Bishop

Has she already quit story time to wallow in her room?

No. If Langston was in the know, he’d currently be sitting there in thinly veiled shock instead of continuing to scowl at me with volatile rage.

I raise my arms in question and mouth, “What’s going on?”

“You tell me,” he yells back.

Fuck this shit.

I stalk to the glass door, yank it open, and continue a foot inside.

“What did she tell you?” I demand.

Langston’s eyes narrow. “We can’t get her to show her face, let alone talk. Care to explain why?”

I glance to the hall as if she’ll miraculously appear just because I’ve mentally demanded it of her. “Where is she?”

“Locked in one of the bedrooms,” Lorenzo offers. “I think it’s time you told us what’s going on.”

“I can step outside if you’d like.” Layla approaches the table, two filled coffee mugs in hand, and places them down on the wood.

“I’ve already made it clear it’s not my story to tell.” I keep my gaze on the hall, willing Abri to show her face and let me know she’s okay.

“But that’s all you’ve made clear,” Langston mutters. “I’m losing patience, my friend.”

The endearment is far from friendly, and I’m getting pretty fucking sick of his holier-than-thou attitude. One more grate against my raw nerves and nobody is going to appreciate where this conversation goes.

“I’ll get her.” Every limb is tense as I march to the hall and straight past the empty room we’ve shared the past two nights. It’s no surprise she’s not in there. Not lingering in the scent of sex and sin.

I stop before the closed door of the second room, her subtle sniff of emotion carrying from the other side of the barrier.

She’s crying?

Fuck. My chest grows uncomfortably tight. I’m not built for this shit.

I much prefer the sterile existence I had before this woman messed up my life.

“Abri?” I press my knuckles to the door. Attempt to knock softly. “Let me in.”

I give her a beat to respond then test the lock, the handle unmoving. “Open the door, belladonna.”

“Put the tire back on my car and I will, Butcher.”

I grind my teeth, hating how every word we share is inevitably being scrutinized by those eavesdropping. “Open the door.” I lower my voice. “Or I’ll kick it down.”

She ignores me.

“Abri,” I warn.

The quiet continues.

Lorenzo, or maybe it’s Langston, clears his throat from the living room. When I look down the hall Layla is standing at the opening.

“Want me to give it a try?” she asks.

I bare my teeth.

“Jesus.” She raises her hands in surrender. “I was only trying to help.”

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