“Seriously?”
“No,” he says, snorting a laugh and shaking his head. “Jesus, you’ve definitely had too much to drink.”
“Nah, I’m fine. Gimme just one more?” I ask hopefully, downing the last few drops from my glass and grinning at him hopefully.
“Sorry, but you’re cut off.”
“Fuck,” I groan. “You know, you’re literally the worst person I know right now.”
He laughs again, the sound grating my nerves. “Because I won’t give you another drink?”
“No, because you made Bishop blow me off,” I snap.
His smile drops, replaced by a look of confusion.
“I did what now?”
“Bishop,” I repeat his name slowly because he’s clearly not getting it.
“I know who Bishop is, what I don’t know is what I supposedly did.”
“Fuck if I know,” I answer. “All I know is, you two were flirting, he didn’t come home until a few hours later, and when he did, he told me he didn’t want to fuck around anymore.”
“Have you considered discussing this with him, or was your plan to just get drunk and blame some guy you don’t even know?”
I grumble under my breath, because we both know it’s the latter.
“Bishop seems like a great guy, maybe pull your head out of your ass, and you might stand half a chance with him.”
I scoff at his condescending tone. “I have more than half a chance with him. He’s been my best friend my whole life, and we’ve been sleeping together for years.”
“And now you’re not,” he points out calmly, which is just as annoying as the condescension. “Maybe ask yourself why that is.”
“I’m asking you why it is,” I counter. “Did you have sex with him?”
“That’s between Bishop and me,” he answers. “I’m sure if he wanted you to know who he spends time with, he would tell you.”
“Fine.” I get up from my seat, wobbling as I get my feet under me. “I’ll go ask him.”
“Hey,” Riot calls as I turn to walk out. “You’re wasted, I’m not letting you drive out of here. I’ll get you an Uber if you wait a minute.”
“Bishop lives a few blocks over, I’ll walk.”
Leo
A loud pounding at the door startles me from sleep, sending me toppling off the narrow couch and onto the floor with a thud.
“Mother fucker,” I mutter.
“Bishop, open up, we need to talk,” someone says from the other side of the door. I glance over at the clock. It’s three in the goddamn morning, whoever it is clearly has a major hard-on for Bishop. I lay there for a few more seconds, taking pity on my aching ass and waiting to see if Bishop is going to hurry out of his bedroom to escort his mystery hookup in.
The pounding stops, and I climb back up onto the couch, grumbling the whole way as I rearrange my blankets and try to get comfortable again.
Thud, thud, thud.
“Goddamn it,” I groan, throwing back my blankets and getting to my feet.
I unlatch the chain on the door and throw it open, ready to tell this asshole to have the decency to call or text next time instead of showing up at Bishop’s door and waking the dead with all this banging. But as soon as I set eyes on the asshole, a whole new irritation washes over me.
“Of fucking course it’s you,” I mutter.
“Leo?” Hudson squints at me like he’s sure he can’t be seeing things right, and he sways a little on his feet.
“And you’re drunk too. Fucking charming.”
“Fuck you,” he says. “What are you even doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing. Why the hell are you drunk off your ass, banging on Bishop’s door at three in the damn morning?” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, it all makes a sickening amount of sense. “Holy goddamn shitballs, you two are fucking.”
“What is all the racket about?” Bishop asks from behind me. I turn my head to look at him over my shoulder, my jaw clenched as I fight the urge to knock Hudson on his ass. Something tells me it would be exceedingly satisfying to pop him one like he deserves. My mom is the only person I’ve told about what Hudson did, and she thinks I’ve held a grudge too long. I love my mom, but this is a grievance I’m nowhere near ready to let go of.
“Not much, just catching up with my good old buddy, Hudson,” I answer sarcastically, and Bishop winces, glancing around me at the drunken man now leaning against the door frame.
“What are you doing here, Huds? It’s the middle of the night,” Bishop asks with an exasperated sigh.
“I need to talk to you,” Hudson slurs.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” he mutters.
“I know,” Hudson answers, his voice sounding so defeated it might make me feel bad for him if he was anyone except for Hudson goddamn Bellows, ruiner of worlds, self-centered prick, canoe full of fucking douche.
“And you’re drunk,” Bishop sighs a second time.
“I know,” he says again.
Bishop groans and rubs his hands over his face. “Come inside.”
“Wait, hold the fuck up,” I argue, throwing an arm out in front of Hudson as he tries to step into the apartment.
“Let him in, Leo.”
“No fucking way,” I growl, still trying to decide if it would be worth punching the asshole in the face.
“It’s my apartment.”
I growl again, dropping my arm. Hudson has the gall to look smug as he stumbles inside, and I very nearly stick my foot out to trip him, simply for the satisfaction of watching him fall on his face. If Bishop wasn’t right behind me, I probably would.
I turn to look at Bishop again, raising an eyebrow at him, the question of what’s going to happen next going unspoken. Is he honestly going to take Hudson to bed and make me lay on the couch and listen to them fuck? The thought turns me on as much as it irritates me. And the fact that it makes my dick half-hard only annoys me more.
Hudson takes a step toward Bishop, who puts his hand up to stop the approach.
“Hudson go sleep it off in my bed,” he instructs, and a lazy smile spreads over Hudson’s lips. “I’m going to sleep on the floor out here,” he finishes, and Hudson’s smile falls.
“What’s he doing here?” Hudson asks, jerking his head in my direction. “Thought he was too good for this town, had to run off to fancy ass New York.”
“It’s nothing you need to worry about at three in the morning,” Bishop answers, sounding exhausted.
“What? Is he your boyfriend now or something? Is that why you don’t want to be with me anymore?” Again, with the endearing goddamned vulnerability.
“Go to bed, Huds,” Bishop says again instead of answering the question.
Looking like a kicked puppy, Hudson shuffles down the hall to Bishop’s bedroom. As soon as he’s gone, Bishop grabs a throw blanket off the back of the couch and lays it on the floor.
“You take the couch,” I argue, snatching the throw pillow from him as he tries to add it to the sad bed pile.
“I’m fine on the floor.”
“Don’t argue, just lay down on the couch,” I insist, and Bishop’s shoulders sag, the fight going out of him.