Page 157 of Bishop

I wince, hating that he’s right and how I’m not always aware of what I’m doing.

“You make me want to tell you everything.” He turns back toward the bed, cupping my cheeks with his calloused palms. “You’re such a fucking tempting viper.”

I nod, wishing he was wrong. Wishing I was someone else.

“At least I won’t judge you.” I climb onto my knees, capturing his muscled waist in my hands. “You’re a brutal man, Bishop. But from what I’ve learned, you’re highly moral, too. More so than me. Whatever happened, you still believe in right and wrong.”

He stares down at me, face stark, eyes hollow.

“How old were you when it happened?” I ask.

“Sixteen.” His admission is softly spoken.

“You were a child.”

“No. My parents’ drug habit forced me to be an adult well before that. My earliest memories are of weekend benders where they’d slip something into my drink to keep me subdued. It wasn’t until my uncle and aunt found out that they took me in for those nights, trying to shelter me from the abuse. But by middle school, the parties were every other night.”

Sickening dread curdles in my stomach. “Did you tell your aunt that it got worse?”

“I couldn’t. Not if I wanted to keep the only safe space I had. My aunt and uncle were good people, but they didn’t want a little shit like me to look after at the best of times. Weekends were all they could manage, and I wasn’t going to volunteer to be put into foster care.” He keeps playing with my hair, his fingers slowly brushing past my cheek. “So I got used to watching my mom sell herself for crack. Or my dad pimping her out to secure his next high. There was never food in the fridge, and if there was, the electricity bill wasn’t paid anyway.”

I shouldn’t have asked. Shouldn’t have pushed.

“When they attempted to sell me to an old guy who had a taste for young boys, I knew I had to get out.”

I gape. “They tried to sell you?”

“Without batting an eye. But I was a thirteen-year-old who’d hit puberty early and already looked like I was approaching adulthood. Apparently, that didn’t appeal to the perverted.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, hating myself for forcing this from him.

“It’s okay.” He strokes my jaw. “It’s in the past.”

No, it’s not. Whatever happened to him has to be engrained in his flesh. Burrowed deep in his bones. There’s no way he could get rid of it.

“I kept biding my time until I thought I could make it on my own. I got myself a job after school, saved as much money as I could, and kept my nose clean.” His hand stops caressing my face, the subtle forewarning to impending doom making me anxious. “Then my mother fell pregnant.”

Oh, shit.

I open my mouth, poised to apologize for being nosy. For thinking my traumatic life experiences outweigh the rest of the world’s. But I can’t speak.

“Both of them acted as if having a baby was a great idea. And all I could think about was how long they’d wait until they sold that kid to a fucking pedophile.”

I shake my head, not sure I can take anymore.

“My mother gave birth to a daughter,” he mutters. “A tiny dark-haired, drug-addicted sweetheart, with eyes like midnight and lungs as strong as steel. She spent the first month crying, non-stop, and I was the only one with enough patience to take care of her.”

My eyes burn, the heat threatening to escape onto my cheeks.

“I bought the diapers and formula. My parents only cared about the welfare check.”

“Please tell me she’s okay.” My voice is barely audible.

“She was four months old when I came home from work to find my parents unconscious in the living room, my father still with a needle stuck between his toes.” Bishop’s hand falls to his side as if the memories are finally claiming him. “My sister was dead in her room, lying on her stomach in the second-hand crib I got from goodwill. Eyes wide. Skin grey. Mouth open.”

I scrunch my nose, refusing to cry when he’s being so strong.

“I don’t know what happened.” He steps back, my hands falling to my sides. “And I didn’t give anyone the chance to find out. I packed my shit, torched the trailer with my parents still inside, and disappeared. I spent six months living on the street before Lorenzo found me.”

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