Page 8 of Bishop

Pull yourself together.

I dab at my mouth with the back of my hand and glare at the bowl.

I will not vomit again. I refuse.

I grab my clutch, flush the toilet, and stagger to my feet to walk from the stall.

This business of throwing up has to stop. I’m losing weight, and the first place it disappears is my chest. The last thing I need is my father encouraging a trip to the plastic surgeon.

I force my head high with each step toward the basins. I don’t have the luxury of wallowing in illness. I have a job to do. One that has to run smoothly.

I stare at my reflection and turn on the water, refusing to be anything other than confident and composed.

I’ve got this.

I’m Abri Costa. A manipulator of men. A force to be reckoned with. Nausea will not be my downfall.

I wash my hands, fix my lipstick, finger comb my hair, then scavenge through my clutch for the intricately etched silver vial filled with powdered relief. I unscrew the lid, remove the tiny spoon, and raise it to my nose to sniff the numbing goodness into my system.

The coke will get me through. It always does.

It’s the powdery pick-me-up I use like medicine. A temporary yet necessary measure that speeds up time and nails my persona in place.

I inhale another bump and sniff until my nose quits tingling and the euphoric wave hits.

There. Perfect. Bliss.

I smile at myself, the nausea retreating, and drop the vial into my clutch before grabbing a breath mint.

In a few hours, this will all be over. Another job complete. One more notch in my belt to make my father proud.

And he will be proud. I’ll do everything necessary to ensure that outcome and ease some of the tension between us.

I readjust my breasts, plumping them through the cleavage-baring neckline, and reposition my scarf at the base of my throat.

Game on, bitch.

I escape the bathroom with my beaming confidence in place only to have a rough hand grab my wrist, yanking me to a stop.

“What the fuck is going on?” Bishop snarls.

He spins me toward him. My skin erupts in a mass of goose bumps beneath his touch as I meet his deadly blue eyes.

“Get your hands off me.” I attempt to drag my arm away, but his grip is like a steel shackle.

“Where’s your security?” he demands. “You were adamant they were necessary this morning, yet all I can see is the geriatric and his watch dogs. Those men aren’t here for you.”

Panic chips at my veneer.

“Are you fucking crazy?” I yank my arm harder, finally dislodging his fingers. “Leave me alone.” I storm away, making it two steps before his hands imprison my hips from behind.

He spins me, my stiletto heels skittering across the marble floor as he turns me back toward the alcove leading into the restrooms. “I told you I’m not going anywhere. Not until I know what you’re up to.” He looms over me, his bulking frame intimidating me against the wall. “Talk.”

“I’m in the middle of a business meeting,” I growl. “Leave me the fuck alone.”

He leans close enough for me to taste the scotch on his breath, to smell the faint hint of cigarettes on his suit. “Well, that’s some sort of interesting business model you’ve got there, belladonna.”

I glare, daring him to continue offending me.

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