“Don’t hit anything,” Dex tells him.
“No sir!” he says, and I almost expect a salute.
“You’ll make the kid nervous,” I tell Dex as we step through the double front doors of the posh hotel and head toward the breakfast room. We pause at the hostess stand and I scan the large room where they manage, even for the size, to make the tables seem private.
“Sir, can I help you?” the hostess asks just as I spot the back of Bishop’s balding head. I wonder if he’s aware he’s losing his hair.
“No, thank you. I found who I’m looking for.”
Dex stands just inside the entrance, and I weave my way around elaborately set tables and waiters carrying trays of mimosas and silver carafes of coffee to Bishop’s table. I’m surprised he’s got his back to the door but as I near, his companion tucks her phone away and I wonder if she saw me before I even glimpsed them.
Julia Bishop. Isabelle’s cousin.
Carlton stands and makes a show of ducking a punch. “Whoa, big man, here to finish the job? Do I need to call security?”
“Sit down, Bishop, you’re making a spectacle of yourself.”
“Wouldn’t want that,” he says.
I don’t get him. He’s a fool but too much so. It’s not real and I know enough to keep my guard up.
Julia meanwhile watches me with hawk-like eyes. When I turn my gaze to her, she gives me a wide smile and I get the feeling she’s used to men looking at her. Tripping over themselves to please her. I glance at Carlton and wonder if he’s one of those men. Kissing cousins. Wouldn’t be the first time.
“I hear coffee’s good here,” I say taking an empty chair from the next table and setting it at theirs. Not bothering to wait for an invitation, I sit down, and Bishop watches me with incredulity, then resumes his seat. He raises a hand and snaps his fingers, actually snaps his fingers, all the while his flat eyes are locked on me.
“Coffee,” he says when a waiter approaches.
“Congratulations on your nuptials,” Julia says, picking up her fork to spear a strawberry and pop it into her over-rouged mouth.
“Thank you,” I tell her and turn to Bishop. “I’d like a word.”
“Why ask permission now? Just make yourself comfortable.” He pushes his half-eaten breakfast plate away. “Your presence has ruined my appetite.”
“Well, I’m sure skipping a link of sausage won’t do you any harm.” He looks a little like a sausage, I think. A raw one. Pink and soft. “I’d like a word alone.”
He narrows his gaze as if trying to glean what I’m thinking then turns to gesture to Julia with a dismissive nod of his head.
“I haven’t finished,” she says.
“You have. Go,” he tells her, and I watch this dynamic between them. I can’t say they like each other exactly but there is something there.
Julia sulks but stands, tucking her designer bag under her arm and shaking her ass as she walks away in her sky-high heels.
“You seem to take in all the Bishop strays,” I say.
“I’m generous like that.”
“M-hm. What about your wife?”
“My wife is none of your business.”
The coffee comes and the waiter leaves. I pick it up and take a sip.
“What do you want, St. James?” he asks.
“I want to know why you said what you said about my father and sister.”
He picks his napkin off his lap and wipes the corners of his mouth which have curved upward. I don’t like this. I don’t like having to ask. Don’t like being at a disadvantage.
“Why not ask Ezekiel? Which by the way,” he starts, setting his elbow on the table and leaning toward me. “Who the hell named you three?”
“Why did you say it, Bishop?”
He sits back again, makes a point of studying me, head cocked to the side. “You know, I’d thought you two were in cahoots. Just assumed it.”
My jaw tenses but I keep myself perfectly still.
“To defend your sister’s honor and all that shit,” he adds.
I pounce, picking the knife off his dish and stabbing it into the polished wood of the table a millimeter from his little finger. “Be. Careful.”
He looks down and I can see he’s visibly shaken. For all the hurt he’s caused he’s just a coward. Aren’t most men like him, though? Giving the orders but unwilling to carry out the violence. Or maybe they think that excuses them somehow. Makes them less culpable.
Carlton picks the knife out of the table with a strange little giggle and holds it in his hand. He turns it over, examining the edge which is too sharp for sausage and eggs.
“You and I may have more in common than either of us cares to admit,” he says.
“I doubt that.”
He studies me for a long minute. “Did you fuck her yet?”
I’m not sure if it’s the question itself or the way he phrases it that gets my hackles up.
“That’s none of your business, is it?”
“Her mother was a whore, you know. Like mother like—”
“That’s my wife you’re talking about. Be. Very. Careful.”
His expression darkens but he doesn’t finish the insult. He changes gears. “How much are you willing to sacrifice to avenge your dead fiancée?”
My hands fist, my heart hammers against my chest. I’m going to kill this man.
“It would be a shame if your pretty little girl became an orphan, wouldn’t it? Wait. Would that make Isabelle her mommy?”
“Why did you say it?” I repeat, fingers digging into the arms of the chair as I tell myself to keep calm. To remember why I’m here. To not let this man rattle me. Because it’s what he wants. It’s all he wants.
He throws his napkin onto his plate and pushes his chair back but instead of standing, he leans close to me. “Sometimes it’s better to hide in a corner and lick your wounds. Admit the better man won. And walk away while you still have something to lose.”
I lean toward him, too, but he doesn’t back away. “Why did you fucking say it?”
He grins. “You want to know about daddy dearest and your dead sister? Let me ask you this. How badly do you want to know? What are you willing to give up for that knowledge? What do they say? Ignorance is bliss, did I get that right?”
He stands.
“Are you so anxious to know the stock you come from? Because you’re just like him, aren’t you? Even the fucked-up eyes. A carbon copy of dad. I just hope you don’t commit the sins he did. Recycle an ugly past.” He takes a step away but stops, turns. “Just ask Zeke if you’re not sure what I’m talking about.”
34
Isabelle
I walk out into the hallway and remember my promise to Angelique to kiss her goodnight when I returned last night. Feeling guilty, I walk toward her bedroom, not sure she’ll be in there. I’m surprised to find her door open a crack and Angelique inside with Leontine and an older woman I’ve not yet met.
“Good morning. Or afternoon,” Leontine says, making a point of checking her watch.
I blush. “Good afternoon,” I say in a quiet voice as Angelique looks up from her small desk and waves. I realize this must be her teacher. “I can come back if it’s a bad time.”