Page 7 of Bishop

He planned it, after all.

My father suggested a night to reclaim his misspent youth. To flaunt his masculinity. To dominate in the bedroom for once instead of merely the boardroom.

“I plan to let you fuck me, Gordon.” I hold his gaze. “I intend to allow you to do whatever your wicked mind has been dreaming about since the first moment you laid eyes on me. And I anticipate making you so goddamn satisfied that you’ll not only agree to go into partnership with my family, but you’ll beg for the privilege.”

He grins while my stomach instigates another round of Olympic gymnastics. I must have eaten something that doesn’t agree with me. Again. Or maybe I just need another bump.

Is it too soon for one more bathroom break?

“You know I’ve heard a lot about you, Abri.” His fingers rub against my crotch.

I ignore the touch, which isn’t hard given the cocaine numbing my system. “All good, I hope.”

“All incredibly scandalous. I heard a rumor you’re a siren, luring unsuspecting wealthy businessmen to their demise.”

“Demise?” I scoff a laugh. “To their knees maybe.”

“That, too.” His fingertips circle my mons.

“I can assure you my intent has nothing to do with your demise, Gordon. My family is only trying to build a partnership. Our time together is meant to forge a lasting business relationship.”

“I’m not concerned.” He adds more pressure to his touch. “Although getting caught taking advantage of your loose morals would be an inconvenience, my wife knows her place.”

I don’t flinch at the insult. At this point, it’s water off a duck’s back. “Then why are we wasting time? Why don’t I freshen up so we can take this upstairs?”

Filth oozes from his smug smile. “That sounds perfect.”

“I’ll be back in a minute.” I push from my seat, grab my clutch, and raise my gaze over the crowd to find a long line in front of the female bathroom. “On second thought, I’m going to use the restrooms in the lobby.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

I stride through the drunken customers while my nausea increases, demanding to be acknowledged.

Why now?

I clench my hands around my clutch, my skin turning clammy as I fight to suppress the churn of bile in my gut. But every person I nudge past ruffles my tightly wound composure. I hustle into the reception area, my spine straight and smile brittle as I follow the signs to the amenities.

The closer I get to the sanctuary of isolation, the more my stomach roils, turbulent and painful. I’m going to throw up again, there’s no stopping it.

I shove against the bathroom door, finding the polished-tiled room empty as I gasp for air. I scamper for the closest stall, shove the door open, and buckle to my knees, my clutch falling to the floor. Bile-infested champagne sears up my throat in an instant, escaping my lips in heaves.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I can’t mess this up. Tonight is too important.

I gag. Retch. Purge. Over and over, the deluge leaves me, the taste sickening, the stomach convulsions agonizing.

Goddammit.

My face breaks out in a cold sweat, my entire body chilled. Why is this happening?

I heave another round of champagne-infused filth and then concentrate on my breathing. Big inhale. Long exhale.

You’re fine. It’s something you ate.

My pulse runs rampant, the high pace of my heart pumping blood through my system like a freight train. I squeeze my eyes shut, ignoring the anxiety flooding my veins.

I’m not stressed. I’m chill as fuck.

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