“Your turn to promise me that you will be careful, Madi.”
I search her eyes with a smile, but when I see how serious she is, her eyes glassing over with unshed tears and fear rippling over her features, I pat her hand and give her a sincere nod. “Of course I will, Tillie.”
THE FLAMES FROM THE LOG fire Bishop and the guys set up outside in the large front yard of the cottage flickers into the starry night, licking over my skin with each flash. I wrap my jacket around my body tightly again just as Bishop takes a seat on the log beside me, handing me what I assume to be a glass of whiskey. I take it happily, the ice cubes clinking and breaking our silence. A few of the guys are still awake, spread out over the logs that are outside, as well as Nate and Tillie, who are snuggled up on the ground and sitting against one. Nate kicks a stone into the fire. His other knee’s pulled up with his elbow resting on it, and Tillie’s tucked between his legs.
“Nate?” I call out to him softly. He pauses, his jaw tensing.
“What?”
“What’s wrong?” There’s never been any beating around the bush with Nate. I think, from day one, he’s just always been that person I feel like I can trust, despite his shitty decisions. So they play games. When you have as much money as we all do—except Tillie—you find pleasure in shallow tricks.
He looks to Bishop, his lip curling slightly. “No, nothing. Everything is peachy, sis,” he almost hisses, before looking directly at me. His eyes soften a smidge when they lock with mine, and he stands from the ground, making Tillie shuffle up quickly. Walking toward me, he stops directly in front and gently brings the back of his fingers to my cheek, running it down softly. I close my eyes. “Look at me, Madi.”
My eyes open to Nate looking down at me, ignoring Bishop. I could cut the tension.
“I’m sorry,” he says. Then he leaves, tugging Tillie behind him, who watches me from over her shoulder as she gets led back inside. Why is it that even though Bishop just told me what everyone was hiding, I still feel like I’m the only one out of the loop?
Sighing, I hand Bishop my drink and stand from the log. “I’m going to bed.”
He takes my glass, his fingers grazing over mine. “I’m just going to talk with Saint for a bit. I’ll be up soon.”
I smile down at him. “Okay.” Walking back inside the quiet cottage—despite the number of rowdy guys under this one roof—I trudge upstairs, with nothing but my thoughts. Pushing open our door, I pull out some panties and a loose tank before walking into the en suite. Flicking on the light, I place my clothes on the adjoining sinks and turn the faucet on. As the steam fills the large bathroom, I strip out of my clothes and pull a clean towel out of the cupboard, wrapping it around my body.
Why do I feel like there’s a major part I’m missing? I trust Bishop, though. I believe he’s sincere, and that might make me stupid, but why else would he feel like he has to hide something from me? His father being a part of the CIA makes a lot of sense. It aligns every single thing that has happened. That damn missing piece, though. It’s staring at me, flashing itself at me.
Chalking it up to me being overtired, hungry, and just exhausted, I drop my towel and slip into the shower, scrubbing up quickly but relishing in the hot droplets of water that cascade off my drained muscles. It feels so damn good. Remembering I want to get a quick read in tonight before Bishop comes to bed, I flick the faucets off and step out of the shower, wrapping the towel around me to dry quickly before stepping into my clothes—or lack thereof.
Hanging up my towel, I pull the door open, welcomed by uncongested air, and peek out the blinds next to the bed, checking to see if Bishop is still out there. He’s there, chatting with Saint and Hunter. I quickly shut the blinds, pulling The Book out from my duffel bag and slipping under the blanket. Lying down, I open to where I was and lose myself back in the story.
5.
Lost innocence
After that night I heard my husband plan the deaths of our leaders, I decided to bury this book until I could decide whether it would be safe or not to continue with writing it. My son turned fourteen today, and tonight, it’s his ritual. At fourteen, my son will lose his virginity to a woman who has far too many years on him than any mother would care to acknowledge. The years I had no say in. I used to fight Humphrey at every turn. Every decision he made that I didn’t like, I would fight him. It started with him yelling at me and then beating me, but he soon realized I took everything he gave me. Once he realized that, he would punish me by beating my son. That worked effectively, because the one day he threatened that, was the day I started obeying his every word. That was the day my shoulders dropped in defeat, and I swore to myself, as God as my witness, that I hope he dies one day soon. Dies a quick death, but dies nonetheless.
“Ma, I’ll be okay. No need to fuss.”
I pressed the crinkles out of his linen shirt, a smile on my lips. A fake smile, a smile he knew so well. My precious son, the one person I wanted nothing but happiness for, but I knew he wouldn’t get it.
“I know, my son. I know.”
He smiled. “This is for the best,
