Page 116 of Bishop

She watches me as Langston moves inside, her gaze bright with enjoyment.

“You got something to say?” I sneer.

“It looks like you’ve got yourself in a pickle.” She smirks. “It couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.” She blows me a kiss and follows after Langston, the screen slapping shut behind her.

I deserve that after the shit I’ve given her recently. Doesn’t stop me glaring though.

“I must admit, figlio—” Lorenzo hobbles his way up the stairs, favoring his left leg. “—this is not what I expected to find when Matthew told me Abri was in some sort of trouble.”

“There’s nothing going on.” I butt my cigarette, too pissed off to even smoke anymore.

“I guess that depends on your definition of nothing.” He indicates the door with the wave of a hand. “Are you coming inside?”

“No.” I turn my back to him, resting my forearms on the railing to stare across the yard. “I’m not family. She can explain her situation to you on her own.”

She wouldn’t want me in there anyway. Probably already has a knife clutched, waiting for the moment I come within slashing distance.

“As you wish.” His footsteps trek across the wooden porch boards, then the screen door squeaks open. “We will discuss this later.”

“I can’t fucking wait.” I glare at the scenery. The birds, trees, and fucking clouds.

Lorenzo’s guy rests against the hood of the car, drawing my attention. I glare at him too. Glare so fucking hard he snaps rigid and scampers to climb into the driver’s seat.

Asshole.

If he’s not careful, he’ll turn into the punching bag I desperately need. Or better yet, target practice.

I breathe deep. Inwardly curse myself. Sulk like a motherfucker.

I should’ve made Remy and Salvatore chase Abri from their house. I should’ve hightailed it from that pretentious mansion as soon as my sedated ass became conscious.

I’ve never fucked up like this before. I don’t appreciate the way it feels.

I stay there for more than half an hour. Just me and the goddamn birds in the trees, my usually nonexistent conscience now a yabbering, judgmental prick.

I can’t stop picturing how Abri is retelling her story. If her anger toward me will keep the demons at bay as she relays the atrocities inflicted upon her.

Will Langston know what to do if the words become too much and she begins to panic? Will he be able to calm her like I did?

I shove from the railing and drag my feet to the lawn.

Will they come get me if she hyperventilates? Will they stop her descent into madness before she passes out?

I clench a fist, battling the unknown as I make my way around the side of the house.

I need to know what’s going on. How she’s handling reopening freshly cut scars.

I continue to the back of the building, planning to stay outside. Have another smoke. I don’t want to be in the conversation, but being able to observe it will ease the knife that’s tightly twisting between my ribs.

I take the steps onto the porch, subtly looking through to the kitchen from the corner of my eye to find Langston and Lorenzo at the dining table with Layla in the kitchen at the coffee machine.

Where’s Abri?

I quit the pretense and scan the room without subtlety, waiting for my belladonna to scoot out of the pantry or pop up from beneath the counter.

But there’s no popping or scooting.

She’s not there.

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