Page 14 of Bishop

A female replies, the murmur too subtle for me to determine if it’s Abri or not. But I know. I can sense her inside that room.

A coddled choke emanates from the other side of the door. Then male laughter.

“Stop. Don’t,” the female cries.

This time there’s no mistaking who owns those pleas.

The panicked cadence is unrecognizable, but the tone is unmistakable. It’s her.

“Stop,” she screams.

I retrieve my gun from the back of my waistband and square up with the door, slamming my foot near the handle.

It holds.

“Fuck.” I do it again. One more booted kick that sends splinters of wood flying and the heavy weight of the door to swing back and thwack against the wall. “Abri?”

I aim my gun at Gordon seated in a chair straight ahead, his pants undone, his cock tenting his briefs like a perve at a peek show. “Don’t move. Keep your hands where I can see ’em.”

He slides his palms to the arms of the chair as I continue inside to get the full view of my best friend’s sister on the bed.

Jesus Christ.

She’s sits atop the covers in her underwear, the deep red lace matching the color of her face as one of the guards fists her hair, holding her neck at an odd angle.

“You’ve got two seconds to let her go.” I aim at his skull while the shorter guard raises his palms in surrender from the end of the bed.

“Do it,” Gordon grates. “Release her.”

The blond guard complies, his eyes angry slits as he slides off the mattress toward me, following suit with raised palms.

Abri scrambles to the head of the bed, panting as she pulls a pillow to her chest. “What the hell are you doing?”

What the hell am I doing?

“Get out of here.” She glares, her hands white-knuckling the pillow, her breathing rampant as that scarf remains draped around her neck.

“You heard her,” the hair puller snarls. “Get out.” He eyes me off. Inching closer. Measuring me up.

It’s no surprise when he charges, his shoulder lowered to barge into my chest.

I sidestep before impact, grab his wrist, and yank him forward, sending him off-balance, then coldcock that fucker in the back of the head as he passes.

He face-plants on the floor. Arms splayed. Motionless.

Abri gasps.

“Anyone else feel like taking a nap?” I ask.

The old guy stands, regal and poised as he raises his zipper. “What we’re doing here was prearranged,” he says slowly, “and consensual.”

“Consensual?” I look to Abri with a hiked brow. “Is that true, belladonna?”

She nods despite the shock written all over her face. “It was. It is. You need to go.”

Like fuck.

Langston would kill me for leaving her here, and I’d begrudgingly let him.

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