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He stops in front of me, his eyes falling down my body. “You and that fucking hoodie.”
“I love it.”
“Why?” he asks, but his tone lacks its usual bite.
I dampen my lips with my tongue and open my mouth.
“—the caterers and planners have been here all week to organize this.” Bishop comes up to us, shoving his keys in his pocket. “We’ve got around fifty people this year, because Spyder is bringing his crew, too.”
Brantley throws his hoodie over his head while leaning on the side of his car. “Spyder’s coming? Have you told Tillie?”
Bishop takes out a cigarette, putting it in his mouth. His eyes come to mine and I raise my brow. “Don’t look at me like that, angel face. If you knew the shit I’ve had to live through, you’d understand why me sucking on a cancer stick is saving someone’s life.”
“Well, maybe you can tell me…”
“Not likely.” He rolls his eyes, going back to Bran after exhaling a thick cloud of smoke. “I haven’t told her yet. Nate said he will.”
Now I lean against the car, figuring we must be waiting for Nate, Tillie, Eli, and Hunter to show. And the other one, I think his name’s Cash. “Why is it a big deal? Does Tillie not like Spyder?”
Bishop stares at me. “Spyder’s not the problem, it’s his girl. She was best friends—is—best friends with my—” He pauses, bares his teeth, and hisses. “Ex.”
Brantley shakes his head. “You’re fucking playing yourself if you think she’s your ex.”
“Is she here?” Bishop raises his arms to gesture around the place, and I watch as all his anger slowly rolls to the surface of his features. “Exactly. She’s an ex.”
“Are you there?” Brantley hits back candidly, and my eyes fly between the two of them, watching them take lyrical jabs at one another. “Because if she belonged to me, there would be no fucking way I’d allow that shit, and brother, you are the exact same, so quit fucking around.”
Bishop doesn’t get a chance to answer because Nate, Eli, and Hunter are rolling down the driveway, and I watch as Bishop storms up to the house, flicking his cigarette on the ground.
“I, um…”
“Fucking go,” Brantley murmurs. “I’ll grab your shit and put it in our room.”
I ignore him and jog after Bishop as car doors slam behind me. I vaguely hear Tillie ask what happened, just as I push through the front door. I pause at the threshold because it’s that beautiful.
An open fireplace is lit in the center of the lounge area, with a TV hanging above it. There’s a round couch that could fit at least twenty people on it with cream cushions that look soft enough to sink into. So inviting and warm for boys so cold and dark. Floor-to-ceiling windows are in the kitchen, built with tarnished wood that shines against the flicker of flames from the fire. There’s a large glass door that looks to open out onto the patio area at the back, but that’s all beside the point. I turn toward the stairs that are directly in front of the door and take them two at a time until I hit a hallway with a few more doors. At the end, there’s yet another round of stairs, which more than likely lead upstairs to another bedroom. All of these doors are open, so I figure Bishop must have gone up to the third level. I walk across the red rug that spills down the narrow hall, leading me to the next set of stairs. I take these slowly, because I know he’s up here. I don’t know what I’m going to say, or if I’m even going to say anything at all. All I know is I need to know he’s okay. The fourth step whines beneath my weight and I flinch, before quickly taking the next ones up. I push the door open while knocking.
“Saint, not now,” Bishop growls out softly from the bed. His head is bowed between his shoulders, his fingers buried in his thick mane of healthy hair. His knees are spread, his chest rising and falling. The energy inside the room is tense, hot, and tenuous.
I close the door behind me, but don’t say a word. The space is vast, obviously the master bedroom of the cabin, with panorama windows overlooking the entire property and a king-size bed in the middle. There’s a bath sitting behind the bed with no privacy, and a basin and freestanding closet opposite.
I sink down onto the bed beside him, holding my breath. I don’t want to speak. I don’t want to fill the silence with words he already knows.
So I remain quiet. And still.
Finally, after five minutes of us not speaking, I kick off my shoes and rake my fingers through my hair until it’s all pushed out of my face while climbing up his bed and lying back on the mountain of pillows. Air puffs out around me, filled with soap and lavender.
