Page 1 of Bishop

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BISHOP

I’m going to kill the woman I was sent to protect.

Call me psychic. Or maybe it’s intuition. Who the fuck knows? But something inside me vibrates with a level of homicidal certainty. My palms itch to wrap around Abri’s delicate throat as she schmoozes with the Denver elite in this seductively lit hotel ballroom with its pompous decorations and endless supply of expensive liquor.

I’ve called her fifty goddamn times today without answer.

I’ve left innumerable messages. Sent endless texts. Not once did she respond.

I explained to her voicemail how I’d been sent halfway across the country by her brothers because she—she—called them this morning begging for someone to watch her back after her dad made changes to her security detail.

But she seems more than fucking peachy now.

She’s charming every man in a three-piece, her shiny golden gown dazzling, a matching sheer scarf covering the front of her neck like a choker, the long length of material draped down her back as her temptress smile hides whatever sinister intent she has lurking inside.

She’s the queen of this smorgasbord of upper-class snobbery. She laughs with politicians. Rubs shoulders with those I assume are tech billionaires. Bats her lashes at old money in expensive tailored suits.

She’s in her element, lapping up their attention without a care in the world while I remain by the bar at the back of the ballroom, my presence unknown to her.

For now.

The lights dim and a middle-aged guy in a tux walks onto the stage, introduces himself as some successful asshole from who-the-fuck-cares, and directs everyone to find their seats.

The herd of blue bloods comply, a grey-haired guy placing a hand on the curve of Abri’s back to escort her to a table in the middle of the room then taking the chair beside her.

The formalities drag on, the unending speeches harder to endure than a root canal. Some slick asshole receives a gold star for donating what I assume is his pocket change to an Ethiopian orphanage. Another gets recognition for starting a charity with no mention that it was obviously launched as a tax dodge.

An hour into this ego masturbation, Abri silently rises from her seat with her gold sparkling clutch in hand and discreetly maneuvers her way around the mass of circular tables, smiling at those who make eye contact as she saunters to a side hall leading to the bathrooms. To isolation.

I scrutinize the members of security stationed around the room, waiting for the dogs on her detail to follow—the ones she doesn’t trust. Because that was her issue this morning. She doesn’t have faith in the guys in charge of her safety.

Funnily enough, those concerns appear valid. Nobody pays her attention, at least not in a professional way. There’s no protective concern from the men I scan—only sexual interest.

I throw back the last of my scotch, slide the glass onto the bar, and stalk after her as the MC encourages yet another jerk-off to approach the stage to receive his participation award.

I reach the start of the hall as she disappears around the corner toward the ladies room. I follow, making sure nobody trails me while I take the same path and pause at the open archway into the female bathroom.

It’s quiet inside. Barely a shuffle of noise until a violent retch breaks the silence.

I frown, tempted to storm in there to find out what the hell has caused the picture-perfect princess to start throwing her guts up. Instead, I lean back against the wall separating us and listen to the splash of her stomach contents against the bowl.

She looked flawless in the ballroom. Exuberant. Downright fucking sprightly.

So what’s with the violent heaving?

Food poisoning? Bulimia?

The toilet flushes. The gentle bang of a closing stall follows. Heels tap against tile. A faucet turns on with a haphazard splash of water before being shut off. Then nothing.

No sound. No movement.

I chance a glance around the wall, catching her staring at her reflection in the mirror, her hands clutching the counter.

She stills for a moment, blinking back at herself, breathing slow and deep.

Then with a sigh, she straightens her bare shoulders and stands tall, her mask of charm shimmering back into place. Confidence curves her lips. Her eyes sparkle.

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