Page 21 of Bishop

This isn’t lethargy. It’s something far more sinister.

“Abri,” I roar, stumbling for the door.

That fucking bitch drugged me.

5

ABRI

As soon as the door closes behind him, I run for the coffee table and carefully carry it back to the bathroom. I wait for noise—any sort of possible sound to disguise my actions. The distraction comes in the form of running water.

I lodge the rectangular tabletop under the handle, wedging the opposite end tight against the floor.

If I'm lucky, it will hold long enough for me to get out of here. All I need is enough time to get downstairs, find Gordon, and beg forgiveness before news of this gets back to my father.

I hustle to grab my cell from the bed then stride for the entry.

“Abri,” Bishop bellows from the bathroom.

I escape into the hall, letting the door bang shut behind me as I continue to the elevators, my confident persona in place for anyone who might be watching through peepholes or surveillance cameras.

The numbers ascend, creeping closer as my pulse thrums through heavy limbs.

I eye the suite door, expecting it to fling open with Bishop in Hulk form storming out.

He’s such a big guy. Broad. Muscled. He’d have to be almost twice my weight and could’ve easily flung me off of him when I’d had him in a choke hold. But he didn’t.

The elevator doors open and I exhale in relief as I move inside.

I dial Gordon’s number on the descent, the call jumping in and out of cell range. Yet there’s no answer.

As soon as the elevator reaches the lobby, I clutch the lapels of Bishop’s jacket together, hiding the scant underwear beneath, and saunter to the bar. I scan the crowd from the hostess’s stand, the same drunken, rowdy chatter as before filling the air.

“Have you seen the man I came in with earlier?” I ask the woman. “The older guy. Grey hair. Expensive suit.”

Her gaze rakes over me with disgust. “Ma’am, we have a dress code.”

I scowl. The jacket is a million sizes too big. How does she know I don’t have a short dress hidden beneath? Well, apart from already seeing me earlier I suppose. “Have you seen him or not?”

“No.” She turns up her nose at me. “He hasn’t come back here.”

I pivot on the tips of my shoes and continue to the ballroom. My stomach fills with bile as I scan the still seated guests with mine and Gordon’s seats remaining empty.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I slink back into the hall and redial his number.

Did he go home? To his wife? To the place I’d be persecuted for invading?

I kick off my shoes and hustle into the lobby, trying his number one more time.

I must look a real treat, barefoot, disheveled, and wearing nothing but an oversized jacket and a long golden scarf.

My family’s designer clothing label will be dragged through the mud if my picture is taken. Not that it would affect our actual family business. The label is little more than a front for laundering money. Always has been. But my father will be pissed.

Problem is, he’ll go nuclear if news of Gordon gets back to him.

I can’t let that happen. Not before I fix the situation.

---