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Bishop had used Trent’s shower, not wanting to go to Edison’s smelling like a dead skunk. “You got any 2X white tees?”
Trent cut his eyes to him for a second. “No, B. Since I wear a large.”
“Fine. This’ll have to work,” Bishop said, putting on the large, sleeveless, dark gray shirt. It was tight around his chest, but it was better than dirty. He was glad he always kept a pair of clean basketball shorts in his book bag. “Where’s your underwear?”
“Oh hell, no. I draw the line there, Bishop.” Trent paused his video game. “You can’t ask to borrow another man’s drawers. That’s just… just no, dude.”
“Shut up.” Bishop kept searching. True, it wasn’t something he wanted to do but he couldn’t free-ball it in nylon shorts. His cock would be everywhere. “As long as they’re clean.”
Trent still didn’t give in. But Bishop found the small stash of boxer briefs. “You’re just mad because you know your little-ass shorts can’t hold all my junk.”
“Fuck you,” Trent said and went back to his game. There was nothing he could do since Bishop was already yanking them over his still wet ass. “It’s not like I’m gonna take ’em off and hand them right back to you. I’ll wash them.”
“That’s all right, B.” Trent waved him off. “How about you just keep those.”
Bishop laughed and went about balling up his dirty clothes and shoving them into his backpack. Trent was watching him closely. “What are you staring at?”
“You, man. Look at you. You’re all jumpy and shit, like you’re going on a first date. You just laughed loud too,” Trent pointed out.
“I did not.” Bishop didn’t like the way his friend was staring at him. He did have a dual purpose for going to Edison’s house. He wanted to see his yard to help him, but he also just wanted to see him. His dad had said not to mix business and pleasure, but Bishop was positive that he could keep them separate.
“You did. What is it about this guy?” Trent asked.
“I’m going to see about a side job, Trent,” Bishop said unconvincingly.
“You don’t need to shower and change for that.”
“He’s a potential new customer. Yes, I did.”
“Are you lying to yourself, B?” Trent asked more seriously. “But on the real, why the fuck are you lying to me?”
Bishop didn’t answer right way. Was he lying?
“You don’t know this guy and you already said that he’s got the wrong idea about you. Are you going to be honest with him? Because I know you, Bishop. You like this guy. Even gave him a compliment in front of everyone.”
“Why don’t you say what you’re really thinking. That an executive like Edison is out of my league?”
“What the hell?” Trent growled, jabbing him in his chest. “I was talking about telling him where you’ve been the last five years.”
“It’s all good,” was all he could think to say, turning to leave.
“Be careful, Bishop,” Trent said quietly as he let the door shut.
He’d followed the directions Trent had given him after he’d put Edison’s address into a GPS app. The entire ride, he beat himself over the head with how disastrous this could be. He was attracted to the guy. Edison was so different than what he had been used to. He lacked the attitude and sass that Royce had, and he damn sure didn’t have the roughness of the men he’d lived with in prison. Edison was just a kind-hearted, warm person and he wanted to continue to experience more of that. But there were just some things that would stay with him no matter how hard he tried to shake it—his criminal record. Trent was right. He had to be honest before he attempted any work on Edison’s private residence.
Bishop’s nerves began to eat at his stomach, making the leftover lasagna he’d scarfed down at Trent’s threaten to come back up. It was a good thing he’d only had twenty minutes to torture himself. Edison lived off of the Boulevard, a short distance from Town Center. Bishop took a deep breath when he’d reached his destination. Of course, Edison lived in a nice, single-family home in Thalia, a quiet neighborhood in Virginia Beach.
He pulled his late model F150 into the empty driveway. He assumed Edison parked his nice car in the garage. The house appeared to be well taken care of. The brick home had dark blue shutters, with a matching front door. The yard was just as Edison described. Ignored. And the lawn called to him, giving Bishop the push he needed to get out of the damn truck. He walked across the cut lawn to the empty flowerbed. There was a bricked-off area, as if someone had meant to plant something there but had changed their mind. He knelt and dug his hands into the dirt, letting the soil sift through his fingers. He stood when he heard the front door open.
