Page 77 of Bishop

“Then that’s when my special set of skills comes in handy.”

She reaches for her wine and takes a sip. “I wish the confidence you have in murdering people was comforting. The whole situation just seems too easy.”

“It is too easy. Money trumps morality. And when it doesn’t I get my hands dirty.”

She lowers her attention to her meal. “What about my mother?”

“What about her?”

“Do you know how I can find her? She still won’t answer my calls.”

“I’ve got contacts, but not enough. That’s why you’re going to have to tell your brothers—”

“No.”

I huff a breath. “Abri, you can’t—”

“Quit bringing it up.” She looks at me from under dark lashes, the deep blue of her eyes a brewing storm.

I’m not fighting with her. I’d much prefer to go back to not talking at all.

I pierce another piece of meat, then eat as I scrounge around the bowl full of chicken food in the hopes of more protein.

“You don’t like the salad?” she asks.

“It’s fine.” My tone says otherwise.

“Are you lying to me?” She quirks a haughty brow. “I thought you said I could trust you.”

“It wasn’t a lie.” I place down my fork and look her dead in those sparkling eyes. “Did the meat taste okay? Yes. Would it have been better left the way God intended and cooked whole on a chargrill? You bet your sweet ass. But you created the meal, and I’m not going to be a dick about it.”

“Maybe not out loud. But you’re definitely thinking dick-ish thoughts.” She reads my mind. Effortlessly. With precise precision. “I can just imagine what’s going through your head as you pick around your bowl, fearful a piece of lettuce will touch your fork.”

“Men eat protein.”

“Too much protein can cause cancer.”

I scoff a laugh. “Even if that were true, I’m not going to live long enough for cancer to get me, salad queen. So let’s leave the vegetables to the farm animals, okay?”

She forks something green and slides it between her teeth, slowly, her lips kicking in a subtle grin. “A celibate carnivore. What a strange combination.”

“I never said I was celibate.”

“Then what did you say?” She takes another sip of wine.

“That I don’t fuck women.”

“So you swipe right, take a girl out for dinner, then ask if she wants to follow you home to what? Fiddle around third base?”

She’s making fun of me. I don’t like how my pulse increases in response. That I’m fueled by her sass.

“There’s no dinner.” I grab my bowl of grass and stand. “I pay for what I want without the threat of unnecessary complications.”

“Sex workers?”

I walk to the kitchen and dump my garden scraps in the trash.

She follows, carrying her empty bowl and wineglass. “And you’ve done this for how long?”

---