Page 35 of Deceit

Instead, I shoved two M-80’s down his throat and lit the fuse. The report on the bastards wasn’t as loud as I wanted them to be; however, he cried enough for it to be worth it.

While half his jaw hung from his face, the last words he ever heard was,this is for the Bishop girlsbecause I blew his brains out and left him for the coyotes to eat.

“I know, I’m so sorry, Arm.” I run my fingers along the wall of peeled wallpaper of my hotel room, looking for the light switch. “I tried not to be gone for too long.”

My thigh drives into the sharp corner of a piece of furniture, and I curse out, immediately rubbing the exact spot where I ran into it earlier.

Kicking it—or trying to—with my foot, my already rooted rationality rears its ugly head.

I shouldn’t be here.

If Bishop doesn’t give two fucks about his dog, then why the hell did I just make a four-hour drive to deliver him back?

Because you haven’t seen him in weeks, and your weak ass misses him.

Armageddon whines, probably sensing how pathetic I am.

“Yeah, I know, buddy. It’s pretty distressing that a thirty-something-year-old can’t get it together. I’m surprised you’re still alive.” My fingers finally locate the light switch, and I flick it on. “We’ll go out tomorrow and find your daddy when—“

“You found him.” My heart leaps into my throat as I pivot, hitting the same table that assaulted me seconds ago and reach for my gun.

It’s out and aimed in the direction of the octave tone that just startled me.

The very one I can’t misplace in my head.

Sitting in one of the cheap chairs with Armageddon resting obediently between his calves is the man I’ve been searching for.

The one that brings that pitiful mood in me.

Dressed in a gray t-shirt that hugs and snuggles every single muscle that I’ve stared incessantly at for years and tattered dark blue jeans, Bishop lazily allows his gaze to absorb my black leggings and high-waisted tee.

I feel every inch that his eyes touch and graze, causing me to freeze like an idiot, but I can’t help but do the same.

He looks well, with no signs of anguish or lack of eating. He does appear exhausted, though.

The almost black stubble around his strong jawline is longer, along with the front pieces of his hair that overlap the sides. His skin is more tan, and his vibe still put off. But then his arctic blues suddenly latch onto my browns, openly staring without a care in the world, forging my cheeks to immediately flush at his open-ended stare.

It’s intense, scary, and utterly breathtaking to be soaked in by Kace Bishop and his shitty ass attitude.

“What the fuck, Bish?” I finally chide, finding my voice and watching him pull out a cigarette and light it between his lips. “You couldn’t leave the light on?”

Well, something has him fucked up because I’ve learned over the years that he’s not a casual smoker by nature.

He’s a stressed-out one.

“You gonna drop the gun, Princess?” His tone drips sarcasm and disgust, picking on the nickname that drives me fucking nuts, and he knows that. It’s not the name he used to softly call me when I believed he felt something more for me than my wet pussy after a few drinks.

I lower my weapon and watch him watch me stand here looking lost in my own hotel room.

Like always.

I’ve been addicted to him in a way that doesn’t make sense, but it’s there nonetheless. No matter how many self-help blogs I’ve read or magazine articles at the doctor’s office, I can’t get Bishop out of my head so I can comply with reason.

There’s zero.

I’m a dumbass.

“You forgot your dog,” I deadpan.

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