Page 73 of Bishop

I change my trajectory, forgetting the beer to stalk up to her, not stopping until we’re foot to foot. She doesn’t flinch as I get in her face, and that only annoys me more. She should be scared of me. Fucking petrified.

“Do you think a man like me blushes, belladonna?” I inch closer, staring her in the eye. “Do you need a reminder of what I do for a living? And why you shouldn’t mock me?”

She leans back, her hands finding the counter behind her. “No.” Her voice is an alluring whisper. “But with your close proximity, do I need to ask if you’ve forgotten my career choice and what I’m profoundly good at?”

She bites her bottom lip, dragging her teeth across the puffy flesh. Slow. Overtly sexual.

I sink deeper under her spell despite the deliberate provocation.

Jesus Christ, you pathetic motherfucker.

“You’re definitely good at your job.” I edge closer, trying to prove she has no effect on me despite the hardening of my dick. “But not good enough. I haven’t fucked a woman in years, and that’s not going to change now. Nice try though.”

Surprise slackens her features. “Are you serious?”

I step back and return to my path toward heavenly beer. “About not fucking you? You better believe it.” I yank open the fridge, grab a bottle of boutique beer, then chug that shit like a man dying of thirst.

“About not having sex in years.”

“Does it sound like something I’d joke about?” I hide in the fridge, not wanting to witness her reaction. “It’s also the reason your wicked wiles don’t work on me. So you can give it a rest.” I grab another beer and slam the door shut with my foot. “I need to make some calls. How long until dinner?”

“Not long.” Confusion lingers in her tone. “It’s only Thai beef salad. I can hold off cooking the steak until you’re ready.”

My steak? Oh, hell no.

I yank the fridge door back open, praying to the Gods that she found a piece of meat in the freezer and didn’t use the Wagyu I purchased earlier. But there it sits, the grade-A, top cut of bovine goodness now chopped into pieces and resting in a bowl, ready to be crucified.

I slap the door shut and take another chug of beer.

At least the woman knows how to kill a hard-on as fast as she creates one.

Fucking Thai beef salad.

“I’ll make my calls outside.” I finish the first beer and dump the empty bottle in the trash. “I won’t be long.”

I don’t look at her as I pass, but my traitorous eyes find her reflection in the glass windows.

She watches me, still flawless in her shock.

Goddamn her.

I walk onto the porch, down the few steps, and into the dark of night. My shoes crunch through the dry lawn, crackling along with my self-restraint. I don’t stop until I reach the wire fence of the house yard.

I have to get her out of here. Away from me. Under someone else’s supervision. After dinner, I’ll make the necessary calls to set the wheels in motion to find her daughter. I’m not diving into that minefield without more strategic thinking. I sure as shit won’t be responsible for the kid’s death.

For now though, I drink beer and return business calls.

I need to extinguish one spot fire at a time, and with Langston being the face of the clubs we own together, I have to pick up the slack and take on his leadership role while he’s laid flat.

I chat with management. I get updates. I yawn my ass off through boring-as-fuck conversations about temperamental DJs and a junkie being caught shooting up in one of our public bathrooms.

I make sure everything is running smoothly so no corporate bullshit is on Langston’s plate while he tries to recover. But once those calls are done, there’s no escaping the irritating feeling that eats at my gut.

I stand in the darkness, the gentle breeze rustling through the trees as I stare at Abri in the kitchen.

Langston needs to know about her. About his mother and the fucking kid. Keeping the depth of her suffering from him is a low act. I’d kill someone over a lesser betrayal.

Not that I have anyone else in my life to give a shit about. But if I did, he’d do whatever it took to keep me informed.

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