05. anthony's angel
In the wake of the devastating car crash, a long-buried piece of Bishop's past resurfaces, threatening to upend his present.
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BISHOP
City Hall was chaos incarnate.
I’d gone to D’s toy drive to support my boy and unwind with the crew. And for a while, we were doing just that. But then, like a bad plot twist, it all unraveled into a damn crime scene. And at the center of it? Mr. House. Of all the ways to clock out, the man had to pick behind the wheel at a crowded community event. Every time I replayed it in my mind, it made me want to march down to the funeral home, yank his lifeless ass out of that polished box, and unload on him. Maybe then, wherever he’d landed—Hell, most likely—he’d finally feel the weight of his choices.
Now, the fallout was an avalanche of work piling on top of my already overloaded desk as Chief of Staff here in Juniper.
“Mr. Bishop!” Jontell’s voice shot through the chaos like a warning bell. My assistant, barely five feet tall, was practically sprinting to keep pace with me as I barreled down the hall toward my office. Papers fluttered in her wake as she tried to keep up. “The press is swarming us! You can’t keep dodging them.”
I didn’t break stride, didn’t even glance back. “The Mayor will speak when he’s ready,” I said, my voice sharp enough to cut glass. “Right now, his focus is on the families affected and working with D-Truth to get them through this tragedy. That’s the priority.”
I stopped, turned to her for the first time. My eyes locked on hers, my voice dropping an octave. “The press?” A slow, deliberate shake of my head. “Fuck the press.”
Jontell gulped audibly but kept pace, her short legs working overtime to keep up. Half-terrified of me, half-infatuated—that blend made for interesting workdays. I tried to act oblivious to the shy advances she’d tossed my way when she felt brave enough, but she didn’t want these problems. What she wanted was the power I carried, and I wasn’t stupid enough to let her ruin herself chasing it. She was young, smart, and ambitious, with a future ahead of her that could shine if she stayed on the straight and narrow. Juniper wasn’t worth fucking up the ladder for.
“This interview your friend gave live at the scene isn’t helping,” she said, cutting through my thoughts as she shoved her phone into my hand.
I glanced at the screen.
DeShawn.
On the video, DeShawn stood in front of the camera, the reporter holding a mic like she’d struck gold. “You know, I was out here with my niggas—Reap, Jackson, Bishop, y’all know him as Chief of Staff down at City Hall, and Ant, D-Truth’s brother—when all of a sudden, I was like GOD DAMN, AIN’T THAT MR. HOUSE?”
The dramatics didn’t stop there. DeShawn threw his hands in the air, practically shouting at the camera. “I said shit! And then he came through like—vrooooom!” He mimed gripping a steering wheel, twisting it violently as he made engine noises loud enough to rattle glass.
I closed my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose as the reporter’s voice cut in with a sharp, “So, you’re saying you saw the vehicle heading into the crowd?”
DeShawn nodded emphatically, his expression serious for all of two seconds before he broke into an exaggerated reenactment, complete with sound effects and gesturing wildly like he was auditioning for a low-budget action flick.
“Shit was happening so fast, his old ass came through like skkkkrrtttt…” DeShawn’s reenactment on the screen was so over-the-top, it felt like watching a parody in real time.
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered under my breath, the weight of embarrassment pressing down like a vice. I shoved the phone back into Jontell’s hands, as I tried to block out the sound of DeShawn’s dramatic engine noises still playing in my head.
“What do you want me to do, Mr. Bishop?” she asked, her voice steady but wary.
I shook my head, the corner of my mouth twitching with the effort it took not to lose my cool.
“I’ll handle it,” I muttered, though my mind was already replaying the many ways I was going to beat DeShawn’s ass for this nonsense. The man was a walking PR nightmare without an off switch, and now I had to clean it up—again. Every time something went sideways in town, DeShawn somehow ended up on the news, spinning his version of events like he was auditioning for a reality show. And those damn videos? They always went viral for all the wrong reasons—but he didn’t care. To him, it was just another angle in his never-ending hustle to pick up women.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and saw the name: Ant.
Finally.
I’d been trying to get in touch with him since the accident—calls, texts, you name it—but not a single response. Now he wanted to hit me uup?
“Bro,” I answered, my tone sharp, annoyance threading through the word.
“I need a favor,” he said, his voice heavy, like he hadn’t slept in days.
I frowned, leaning back against my desk. “I haven’t talked to you in days, and this is how you greet me?”
“Bish, come on…stop trippin’,” he said, the exhaustion clear in his tone. “It’s about one of the accident victims.”
That caught my attention. The smirk I’d been wearing vanished as I straightened up. “Aight, what’s up?”
“I got a phone number,” he said, his voice dropping low, heavy, like a storm rolling in. “Need you to find out who it belongs to. And I mean everything—address, job, taxes, records—whatever you can dig up.”
I blinked. “What victim are we talking about? What’s this about?”
Ant paused, the silence stretching too long. “I can’t explain right now,” he muttered. His voice had an edge to it, like he was forcing himself to keep it together. “I just need this done. Here goes the number…”
Ant never asked for favors lightly. When he did, it meant something was big—life-altering. This wasn’t just some casual errand. I could hear it in the weight behind his words, the way his voice wavered just slightly before steadying again.
“Who does the number belong to?” I pressed. “Ant, you’re not telling me anything.”
“I said I can’t explain right now.” His voice came sharp, a flash of frustration breaking through. Then, just as quickly, it softened. “Bish...I just need you to trust me on this.”
Trust him. Of course, I trusted him. We went way back—practically brothers. But the way he sounded, the way his voice dipped like he was carrying something he wasn’t ready to share—it set my nerves on edge.
I sighed, grabbing for the nearest notepad and pen which happened to be in my assistants hands. Jontell, startled, didn’t even have a chance to protest as I snatched them from her and scribbled the number down. Without missing a beat, I tore the page off and shoved it into my pocket before handing it back to her.
“Aight,” I said finally, my voice firmer than I felt. “I’ll look into it. You’re gonna tell me what this is about eventually, though.”
“Good looking out. Come see me with what you find later,” Ant said, his tone clipped, like he was already halfway out of the conversation.
“Man, where you at?” I asked, trying to keep him on the line a little longer.
“The hospital.”
“The hospital? What about all your animals and shit?”
“Pops been handling it for me. Got business to tend to here.”
I raised an eyebrow, even though he couldn’t see it. “You a fucking doctor now? Why you up there day and night?”
There was another pause, heavier this time. When Ant spoke again, his voice was quiet, almost too quiet. “Just...trying to make something right.”
Before I could ask what he meant, the line went dead.
I stared at the phone in my hand, the frustration simmering just beneath the surface. Ant was moving in shadows, and whatever he was caught up in, he wasn’t ready to share. Something about the way he’d said it—trying to make something right—gnawed at me. If he was acting like this, it meant something was seriously wrong.
For a moment, I considered calling him back. Pressing him for more details. But I knew how he was. If he wasn’t ready to talk, no amount of pushing was going to get him to open up.
I let out a slow breath, running a hand over my face. “What the hell is he into?”.
“I don’t know,” Jontell chimed in, as if I’d been asking her. Her voice startled me out of my thoughts. She stood near the door, her posture tight, trying to look professional but clearly bracing for whatever came next. “But there’s someone here to see you—”
I sighed, my patience thinning by the second. “Who now?”
“Some lady who says she knows you —”
“Tell them to go away,” I barked, already twisting the handle to my office door.
The moment the door swung open, the air shifted. Hell, it vanished entirely.
There she was. Emery Beaumont.
Leaning against my desk like she owned it—and me. Skin the color of rich, melted chocolate. Hips wide enough that you could see her ass from the front. And her tits? God’s finest architectural work, heavy and perfectly perched in a bra that defied logic. But it wasn’t her body that stopped me cold. It was her eyes. Always those damn eyes. They were sharp, dangerous, and cut through my defenses like they’d been forged just for that purpose. They scared the shit out of me, always had. Emery was a damn siren, her presence an invitation to chaos I couldn’t seem to resist.
Five years. It had been five long years since I’d seen her, and now? My head was already fucked up. Yea, that quick. I wanted to scream, but all I could do was stand there, staring, caught in her gravitational pull like I’d never broken free to begin with.
“Mr. Bishop, do you want—” Jontell started, her voice hesitant.
“Give me the room, Jontell,” I said, cutting her off without looking her way, my eyes glued to Emery’s like they were magnetized.
I didn’t blink until I heard the door click shut behind her. Only then did I feel like it was safe to breathe, safe to speak. But neither of us said a word for what felt like an eternity. We just stood there, letting the silence do its work, taking each other in.
“Chief of Staff,” she finally broke the quiet, a slow, deliberate smile curling on her lips. “Well done, Alistair.”
“Bishop,” I corrected automatically.
Her smirk deepened as she tilted her head just so, her voice dripping with mischief. “Yo’ mama named you Alistair, so imma call you Alistair,” she said, twisting her neck like she was channeling the epic line from Coming to America, but personalizing it just for me.
I swallowed the laugh bubbling up in my throat. There wasn’t a damn thing funny about this. “Should’ve known you’d find your way to Juniper.”
“How couldn’t I?” she asked, pushing off my desk with the kind of ease that made it look intentional, calculated. She didn’t just walk around to my chair—she claimed it, settling into the leather like she’d been sitting in it for years. Like she owned it. Like she owned me. “Your best friend’s brother finally comes back home, the hometown bad boy turned hero. A local activist-slash-pastor challenges him. He throws together a toy drive, and then an old man—who, by the way, folks have apparently been complaining about to both Juniper PD and City Hall for years—has a heart attack behind the wheel and plows through the event, injuring children.” She leaned back, her smile spreading wide, teeth glinting like a predator’s. “Hell of a story.”
Her words dripped with intrigue, with the kind of calculated detachment that told me she’d already decided how to spin this mess. That was Emery all over—observant, quick, dangerous as hell. And here I was, standing in my own office, feeling like the one who didn’t belong.
“I’m not talking to the press right now,” I said, my voice flat, emotionless. Controlled.
“I’m not asking you to talk to the press,” Emery countered, her tone smooth as silk, every word laced with a quiet challenge. “I want you to talk to me.”
“I don’t have shit to say to you.”
She scoffed, a soft, biting sound that said more than words ever could. Then, like she’d rehearsed it just to piss me off, she moved behind my desk, sat down and swung her legs up onto my paperwork, crossing them at the ankles. High-ass heels glinted under the fluorescent light, heels I recognized from the kind of stores that didn’t bother listing prices. All I could think about was how good those legs would feel thrown over my shoulders. How they’d feel stepping on my back. Fuck.
“Alistair,” she said, her voice like honeyed venom, dangerous and sweet. “I know you’re not holding a grudge.”
The smirk she wore dared me to deny it, to rise to her bait. God help me, she still knew exactly how to get under my skin.
“Miss Beaumont”, I said walking towards my desk and stopping right in front of her, “Get out my office”
She giggled, the sound light and sweet but edged with something sharper, something calculated. Her eyes locked on mine as she tilted her head, a smirk teasing the corner of her full lips.
"Mr. Bishop," she said, her voice a blend of teasing and venom, soft enough to almost disarm me but sharp enough to draw blood. “You’ve gotten so… mean. Did I do that to you?”
Her words hit like a sucker punch, dragging me back five years in an instant. I hadn’t seen her in years before that night at the gala. We’d bumped into each other, both a little too tipsy for good decisions. What started as polite small talk escalated into something deeper, something heated. That night had turned into the most mind-blowing, soul-snatching sex I’d ever had. The kind that wasn’t just physical but felt like it rewired your brain.
We’d talked afterward, late into the night. I let myself believe we’d try again—this time as more mature people in our 30s, no drama, no games. Back in college, we’d been rivals, me running student government, her running the school paper like a damn dictator. She was always on my ass about something, constantly throwing darts at my reputation. I’d tried to swat her away like an annoying fly, but damn it if I didn’t respect her. And she respected me too. That mutual admiration eventually pulled us together into a secret relationship only Anthony knew about. We couldn’t risk anyone finding out—us, the faces of opposing factions, together? It would’ve been chaos.
But it ended just as quickly as it began. I made a leadership decision she couldn’t stand behind. Told her the game was complicated, that sometimes you had to make tough calls. She didn’t buy it. Instead, she dumped me, talking about "different morals," and then she went nuclear—wrote a scathing article about me. The Corruption of Ambition. That piece cut deep, ended not just our relationship but any chance of friendship.
We moved on. I built my career in local politics, and she climbed the ranks as a journalist in Westonberry. We became experts at ignoring each other at events, pretending the other didn’t exist.
But that gala? It was a perfect storm—too many drinks, too much history, and one shared bed that felt like a bridge to something new. For a moment, I thought we’d cleared the air, that we’d finally shaken off the ghosts of our past. I went to sleep with her scent still on my skin and the idea of second chances humming in my chest.
When I woke up, the bed was cold, empty. No note. No call. No text. Just silence.
Later, I found out she’d taken a job in Philly. That night with me? It wasn’t the start of something—it was her last hurrah before skipping town. A final page in a book she’d already decided to close.
And now here she was. Sitting in my office, looking good enough to ruin me all over again, fishing for a goddamn story.
I hated her ass.
Or at least, I kept telling myself I did.
“I need to get to work, Emery. We’re too old for these games. Get out of here.”
“Give me a quote,” she said, leaning back in my chair like she had all the time in the world.
“Give me a fucking break and get out,” I shot back, my patience hanging by a thread.
She scoffed, swinging her legs off my desk and standing with all the flair of a spoiled brat. That heavy ass of hers—yeah, the one I used to love spreading wide and kissing—swayed as she strutted toward the door. She stopped just short, turning back to me with a grin that could spark a war.
“Zero kids, zero girlfriends, zero wives,” she said, her tone dripping with smugness. “Looks like someone never got over me.”
She thought she was so goddamn funny.
I leaned back in my chair, matching her grin with one of my own, then leaned forward, elbows on my desk, my voice low and cutting. “Eight car accidents, two mysterious disappearances, and one apparent suicide.”
Her grin vanished, replaced by a look of pure shock. I didn’t give her time to recover, smirking as I delivered the kill shot. “Looks like the men interested in you keep dropping like flies.”
Her mouth fell open, words lost somewhere between her brain and her tongue.
“Now get out of my office,” I said, grabbing a stack of papers like she wasn’t even there anymore.
For a moment, she just stood there, stunned into silence. Then she shook her head, the facade cracked and gone, and walked out without another word. She knew exactly who the fuck I was, and she thought she could come in here playing games like I wouldn’t remind her.
The halls of Juniper General were eerily quiet this late at night, the sharp tang of disinfectant thick in the air. I clutched a manila folder in one hand and a lukewarm cup of coffee in the other, settling into a secluded corner of the visiting area to wait for Ant. The room was empty, except for a few nurses who drifted past, their tired footsteps fading into the stillness.
I unfolded The Juniper Times and skimmed the headlines as I sipped. Every page screamed about the crash. Nothing D had said in his interviews about The Jubilee seemed to matter anymore—Mr. House had stolen the spotlight. The toy drive was supposed to be D’s chance to show he was a force for good in his hometown, a way to rewrite the story Pastor Lyman kept spinning about him being a negative influence. But now? Even with D making statements and the press snapping candid pictures of him visiting families affected by the crash, the narrative had slipped out of his hands. At least no one could say he wasn’t trying.
The Harris boys had good hearts. Reckless sometimes, sure, but their parents—people I’d long thought of as a second set of my own—had raised them right. Whatever Ant was doing here, my gut said it was about helping someone. That was just how he was.
The doors to the ward hissed open, and Ant shuffled out, still wearing the same shirt and jeans from the toy drive two days ago. His shoulders slumped, exhaustion written in the sag of his frame and the dark crescents shadowing his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept since.
“We not taking showers no more, or—” I started, leaning back in my chair, but his sharp glare cut me off.
“Got the file?” His voice came clipped, all edges and no patience.
Before I could respond, he snatched the folder from my hand and dropped into the seat across from me. The movement was rough, almost frantic, like he was running on fumes.
“You wanna tell me what this is about?” I asked, watching as he flipped through the pages, his fingers jittery but deliberate.
He didn’t answer. Ant wasn’t going to say a damn thing until he was ready, so I sighed and gave him what he came for.
“The name’s Carlos Steinburg,” I said. “The files cover both Juniper and Westonberry, so I had to lean on one of my contacts to pull more. Grew up in Westonberry Hills. Actually…” I paused, smirking faintly. “He went to Armitage Academy like me. Met him a couple times at a few alumni events, he’s a prick.”
Ant’s brow twitched, but he didn’t look up. “What you know about him?” he muttered, his tone steady, but his eyes sharper now, tracking the pages like a hunter.
“Daddy’s a big-time lawyer,” I said. “Carlos got away with everything in high school. Walked around like he was untouchable. Even for a private school kid, his sense of entitlement was next level since his mistakes were always swept up like they didn’t happen. His mama owns Ashford Insurance Group.”
Ant’s face stayed blank, but something flickered in his eyes—a hint of recognition, or maybe anger. He didn’t let it show, but I caught it.
“So he comes from money,” Ant said flatly. “He still got it?”
“Looks like it. He’s working at his mom’s firm now. Went pre-law but couldn’t pass the Bar, so Mommy dearest gave him a cushy role in the family business. Still living out in Westonberry Hills—six-bedroom spread, gated community, the works.” I flipped to the photos in the file, tapping one of the glossy prints. “Married to Blithe Hawthorne. Four kids—two girls, two boys. She’s PTA royalty, full-on Stepford vibes. They were high school sweethearts, broke up in college, but then he married someone else first. A… Angelina Moore.”
That name hit like a trigger. Ant’s jaw tightened, a vein in his neck pulsing hard enough to catch my eye. He tried to play it cool, but the tension in his shoulders gave him away. I tucked the reaction in my back pocket for later. Whatever this was, it had teeth.
“They were married for a couple years,” I continued, pretending not to notice. “Had a kid. Then they divorced. His daddy made sure she didn’t get a dime. Swept the whole thing clean.”
Ant’s hand froze on a page, his temple ticking like a clock wound too tight.
“And no records of child support for the kid from the first marriage,” I said, keeping my tone casual, like I wasn’t watching him unravel in real time. “Carlos is sitting on some serious paper, so you know that’s intentional.”
Ant didn’t say anything. His eyes stayed locked on the folder, but his silence said plenty. Whatever this was, it wasn’t just business, this was personal.
“Anything else I need to know about him… off the record?” His voice dropped low, deliberate, like he was steadying himself before stepping off a ledge.
I shook my head. “Not much. I don’t know dude personally, just hi and bye at alumni dinners. What I’ve got here is public record. But if you need more, I can dig.” I leaned forward, meeting his eyes. “Question is—what do I need to know, Ant? Off the record.”
For a moment, he didn’t move. Then he exhaled, long and slow, slumping deeper into the chair. “Nothing… yet,” he said. But the hesitation in his voice told me everything.
I sighed, running a hand over my jaw. I could tell I wasn’t gonna get nowhere with this, so I moved on to other pressing matters. “Bruh, you need to take your ass home and go shower. Get some sleep. I don’t know what you’ve been doing up here, but take a fucking break. I’ll drive you—look at you. You’re dead on your feet.”
“I’ll be home in the morning,” he muttered, brushing me off. “Nights are tough for—” He stopped himself mid-sentence, his jaw tightening. Then he stood, breaking the moment before it could land.
I rose too, refusing to let it slide entirely. “Tell me how I can help, Ant. What else can I do?”
He paused, looking away for a second before answering. “Just tell Jackson, Reap, and DeShawn that I’m straight. All y’all keep blowing me up.”
I scoffed, crossing my arms. “We haven’t heard from you since the accident. Our bad for caring.”
He sighed, his face softening just a little. “I don’t mean it like that. Just... let everybody know I’m good.”
“Home in the morning,” I repeated, watching him closely. “I’mma call Mama Harris and make sure.”
That got a smirk out of him, faint but real. He reached out for a dap, the weariness in his face lifting just enough to let a flicker of affection through.
“Love you, man,” I said, pulling him into a brief embrace. Ant wasn’t just my boy—he was my brother, through and through.
“Love you too,” Ant said quietly before stepping back. Without another word, he turned and walked away, his silhouette swallowed by the sterile glow of the hospital corridors.
For a second, I thought about telling him that Emery had been sniffing around, fishing for a story. But whatever Ant was tangled up in, it had already carved deep into him. He didn’t need another problem weighing him down—not yet. I’d bet good money it had something to do with this Angelina Moore, whoever she was. He wasn’t ready to tell me, but that was fine. I’d figure it out.
Anthony had secrets, but me? I had unfinished business—business that led me straight to Downtown Westonberry, to the Westonberry Grande. My destination was clear: Room 8701.
The elevator ride up was smooth, almost too smooth, the hum of its mechanics barely audible over the thoughts circling my mind. Once I stepped out onto the desired floor, I reached into my pocket for the keycard I’d arranged to have delivered earlier at lunchtime. A small favor called in—one I’d return later. Being a local government official had its perks, and tonight, they were working in my favor per usual.
The light on the lock blinked from red to green with a soft beep as I slid the key in. I stepped inside carefully, closing the door behind me without a sound. The room was dim, illuminated by the flicker of candles strategically placed around the space. The faint strains of jazz filled the air, smooth and sultry, setting a mood that was deliberate, calculated.
And then I saw her.
Emery.
Dressed in black lingerie that clung to her like it was painted on, sitting at the edge of the bed. Her legs crossed elegantly, her posture relaxed as she gazed out of the floor-to-ceiling windows. A flute of champagne rested in her hand, the liquid catching the light as she lifted it to her lips, taking a slow, deliberate sip. She didn’t turn when I entered, but she didn’t need to. She knew it was me. She always knew.
“I knew you’d come,” she said, her voice like velvet, smooth and confident. She took another sip, then placed the glass down on the table beside her. “I ordered your favorite—Dom Perignon.”
The words lingered in the air like an invitation, and as much as I hated the game she played, I found myself drawn deeper into it with every calculated move she made.
“You remembered,” she said, finally turning toward me as she stood, her body a silhouette against the backdrop of the city lights. “My favorite room here.”
“The room number, your favorite Usher album,” I replied, my hands tucked casually in my pockets, masking the churn of emotions beneath. “You’re a creature of habit, Beaumont.”
To know Emery was in town was to know she’d be here. It wasn’t rocket science. She was predictable in that way—always drawn to places that screamed luxury and control. What didn’t make sense was why I was here. Why, after throwing her out of my office, I’d let her linger in my mind long enough to pick up the phone, confirm my hunch about where she was staying, and dig into her booking details. Then, like a damn fool, I’d called in a favor to get her room key so I could show up unannounced.
But the frustrating part—the part that had my jaw clenching as I stood there—was that she knew I was coming. She’d planned for it. Set the stage with her candles, her Dom, her lingerie.
Fucking Emery, man. Always a step ahead, always pulling me into her orbit like I didn’t know better. And the worst part? Knowing didn’t seem to matter.
“Come to me, Alistair,” she said, her voice low and commanding, the kind of tone that seeped into your skin and made you forget reason.
It took everything in me not to move. Like I said, she was a siren. Emery could lure a man straight into his own destruction—and she’d done it to me more times than I cared to admit. She had a way of setting my ego on fire, leaving me scorched and raw.
I wasn’t innocent in this game either. I’d built a reputation for running circles around women, my playboy behavior whispered about in backrooms and social circles. But with Emery? That shit didn’t fly. It couldn’t. We were too alike, two halves of the same whole. Mirrors, reflecting each other’s brilliance and darkness.
We lived parallel lives, and magnets were fine when they stayed apart—but the second we got close, the second we caught the smallest energetic taste of each other, staying away became impossible.
It would be good for a while—so damn good it felt like the world made sense. And then we’d ignite, setting each other’s lives on fire, and the distance would come again. That was our pattern, and we both knew it.
But knowing didn’t make it easier. Knowing didn’t stop me from standing here, fighting the pull, even as my feet threatened to betray me. And knowing damn sure didn’t stop me from wanting her—the good, even if it came with the inevitable pain. I was here, and I’d let it burn me all over again if it meant feeling her fire, even for a little while.
Emery’s gaze softened as she tilted her head, the edge in her voice giving way to something almost nostalgic. She stood slowly, the black lace of her lingerie catching the candlelight as she moved toward me. She stopped a few feet away, her eyes locking on mine like she was daring me to remember.
“You once wrote me something,” she said quietly, her voice carrying the weight of memory. “Do you remember?”
I didn’t respond, my jaw tightening. Of course, I remembered. Every damn word of the poems I used to write for her. But I wasn’t about to admit it.
She smiled knowingly, like she could see through the wall I’d put up. “You used to leave poems in my bag during student government meetings. You thought I didn’t know it was you.”
I let out a slow breath, my hands still in my pockets, refusing to let her see how much she’d rattled me.
“Let me refresh your memory,” she said, her voice dropping into a near whisper. She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she spoke again, the words came slow and deliberate, each one pulling me back to a version of myself I’d tried to bury.
"She is the storm that uproots my certainty,
the quiet chaos that leaves me breathless.
Her laughter is rebellion; her silence, a weapon.
She is my equal, my opposite,
the only one who sees me unmasked
and does not flinch."
Her voice trembled slightly on the last line, and when her eyes opened, they were shimmering with something unsaid. “You gave that to me after one of our fights. I found it in my notebook, and for the first time, I didn’t know how to argue with you.”
I swallowed hard, the memory crashing over me. Back then, I’d been stupid enough to think words could fix what we’d broken. Now, standing here, I wasn’t sure if they’d been a gift or a curse.
“You still carry that around?” I asked, my voice rough, a weak attempt to regain control of the moment.
“Not on paper,” she said with a small smile. “But here.” She touched two fingers to her temple, then her heart. “You don’t forget words like that, Bishop. Not when they’re written for you.”
I hated how easily she disarmed me, how her voice carried me back to a time when everything between us felt raw and unfiltered. The fire in her eyes told me she knew it too.
She was in front of me now, so close I could feel the heat radiating off her skin. Her hands moved with purpose, slow and deliberate, sliding beneath the lapels of my jacket and easing it off my shoulders. All the while, her eyes never left mine, dark and full of something I couldn’t name—something I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
“I carry you with me everywhere, Alistair,” she murmured, her lips brushing against my neck as my jacket slipped to the floor.
Her words burned, carving their way through whatever resistance I’d been holding onto. “No matter where I go…” she continued, her fingers working deftly to loosen my tie. The silk slid from around my collar, and with a flick of her wrist, it joined the jacket on the ground.
“I can’t find you in anyone else,” she said softly, her voice a confession and a weapon all at once. She started on the buttons of my shirt, her touch firm but unhurried, her gaze still locked on mine, reading me in ways no one else ever had.
“There’s no one like you, Alistair Bishop,” she whispered again, her words dripping with certainty and pulling me deeper into her orbit.
Her hands lingered on my chest, warm and steady, her eyes searching mine as if daring me to refute her. But I couldn’t. The truth between us was a live wire, humming with tension. Emery was chaos, my chaos, and no matter how much damage we did to each other, we were locked in this gravitational pull that neither of us could escape.
“Whether I’m in Philly or New York, like I’ve been this last year,” she murmured, her fingers slipping to my belt, tugging at it with deliberate precision, “all I think about is you.”
The belt clattered to the ground, and she didn’t stop. Her hands moved with purpose, unbuttoning my pants as her eyes stayed fixed on mine, their depth pulling me under.
“Sometimes I swear…” she said, her voice dipping into something softer, more vulnerable, as she worked the zipper. “I swear I feel you staring at me when I’m out and about…sometimes in my apartment. I feel your energy. I feel you close…”
The pants slid down to my ankles, pooling around my feet. Emery didn’t falter, her voice unwavering even as her fingers hooked the waistband of my boxers and began pulling them down.
“And it makes me feel crazy,” she admitted, her words soft but laced with the kind of fire only she carried. “But it gives me just enough to survive without you.”
She dropped to her knees, her movements slow and deliberate, and as she tugged my boxers down further, her eyes locked onto mine. My wood, stiff, damn near poked her eye out as it sprang free. She giggled softly, that mischievous smile of hers making my chest tighten.
Before I could process the moment, her lips were on me, and then—straight to the back of her throat. No warning, no hesitation. The sensation hit me like a lightning strike. I could’ve screamed like a newborn from the intensity. My head fell back instinctively, eyes squeezing shut for a brief second before I forced myself to look down at her.
Her lips glided over me with precision, the red lipstick I loved so much leaving faint traces like her signature mark. Her eyes stayed locked on mine, dark and daring, like she was pulling more than just my body into her grasp. My hands fisted in her hair, gripping tight as her movements grew wetter, more intense, saliva pooling at the corners of her mouth. The sound, the sight, the heat—it was too much. My toes curled against the shoes I still had on, and I felt like I was seconds away from losing every ounce of composure I had left.
The way she stared up at me, her eyes full of challenge and triumph, made it clear—she knew exactly what she was doing. Like she was sucking the soul out of me and enjoying every second of it.
Emery Beaumont wasn’t just a siren. No, I’d been wrong about that. I’d forgotten who she truly was.
She was a fucking demon. And I was hers to devour.
Don’t look in her eyes. My brain kept screaming the warning, desperate to save me from the inevitable, but my dick? My dick wasn’t hearing any of it. It was doing cartwheels, thrilled to be reunited with the one person who could handle it without complaint. Emery—watery eyes, smeared lipstick, and all—was taking me in like she was born to, working me in a way only she could. She knew exactly what I wanted, what I needed, and she delivered without hesitation.
When my hips started moving, I couldn’t stop myself. My hand reached down, pulling her hair into a makeshift ponytail to hold her in place. The way she stayed locked in, meeting me halfway, her tongue and throat working in perfect sync—that alone was pushing me to a dangerous edge.
“You’re still such a good slut for me, huh, Em?” I groaned, my voice low, strained, and full of raw need.
She giggled around my length, the vibration sending shockwaves through my body as she kept going, unrelenting. God damn, I knew the end was near. I could feel it building, my body tightening, coiling like a spring ready to snap. And through it all, her eyes stayed locked on mine, dark and daring, wanting me to let go.
“Don’t you waste a fucking drop,” I warned, my voice cracking with urgency, knowing what was coming.
She didn’t hesitate, not for a second. As I released, she took it all, sucking me dry with an intensity that left me trembling. My body betrayed me, a broken whimper escaping my lips as she drained me completely. It was a sound I didn’t even recognize, one that made embarrassment flare in my chest for half a second before the pleasure swallowed it whole.
Emery pulled back slowly, her lips leaving me with one last deliberate glide. Her tongue darted out, licking the corner of her mouth as she looked up at me with that wicked, knowing smirk.
Demon. Absolute fucking demon. And she had me exactly where she wanted. Dammit.
I kicked off my shoes, stepping out of the pants and boxers tangled around my ankles. My movements were quick, deliberate. Then I grabbed her, lifting her effortlessly into my arms. She laughed, her head falling back, her hair cascading down her back like the reckless goddess she was. I wanted to kiss her—God, I wanted to—but I forced myself not to, the restraint like a chain around my chest.
I laid her on the bed, and she didn’t hesitate. She scooted back, her body melting into the plush mattress, her eyes fixed on mine with a smirk that was equal parts challenge and invitation. Then, slowly, she spread her legs wide, her confidence dripping from every deliberate motion.
Demonic.
I flipped her over in one fluid motion, pulling her up onto her knees. She gasped softly, the sound shooting straight through me. My hands moved with urgency, tearing through her black lace lingerie to get the access I needed. The ruined fabric hit the bed in shreds, but I didn’t care. I was already hard again, but this wasn’t about that.
Not yet.
I needed to taste her. To devour her. To claim this damn peach.
“Good Boy, Alistair,” she moaned, her voice low and breathy as I parted her cheeks, leaning in.
The first taste hit me like a jolt, her warmth and sweetness flooding my senses. I lost myself, my tongue tracing every inch of her with precision and hunger. She pushed back into me, her hips rolling, her moans turning into desperate cries that filled the room.
I had her exactly where I wanted her, but the truth was, Emery always had me too. And right now, I didn’t care. I just needed more.
I slapped her ass, the sound of my palm connecting with her skin echoing in the room, followed by her gasp and the way she pushed back against me. My hands roamed, squeezing and spreading her cheeks, watching them jiggle as I buried myself deeper in her. I was in Heaven, and the taste of her—it was enough to make me forget everything else.
Five years. She’d kept this from me for five damn years, and it burned. But what she didn’t know—what she hadn’t pieced together—was that I hadn’t really been gone.
She wasn’t crazy for feeling like I was always around. I was. Always watching, always making sure no man could keep her for long. Any motherfucker bold enough to think they could take my place learned real quick that they couldn’t. If a few of them had to go missing, or if things got messy, so be it.
Emery thought she could move on, thought she could treat me like I was just some regular guy. Like I wasn’t Alistair Bishop. Like she hadn’t fucked up with that one-night-stand shit after the gala, leaving me in bed like I didn’t own every piece of her.
She could run, she could try to forget—but the truth? The truth was right here, moaning under my tongue, her body trembling as I devoured her. She’d always belong to me. And no one, no one, was ever going to change that.
The moment she started trembling, her body tightening under my grip as she came undone, I didn’t wait. I moved immediately, positioning myself behind her and bottomed out in one hard, unrelenting thrust, burying myself to the hilt.
She screamed—loud, raw, and uninhibited. The kind of scream that didn’t just fill the room; it claimed it. I was sure security would be called, but at that moment, I didn’t give a damn. Let them come. Let the whole damn hotel know.
Her body convulsed around me, her orgasm still tearing through her as I stayed buried deep, gripping her hips like I never intended to let go. The mix of her cries, the trembling of her legs, and the heat of her surrounding me had me right there with her, lost in the chaos only Emery could bring.
She whimpered, pushing back against me, her body begging for more, but I didn’t move, keeping her pinned and completely filled. My lips grazed her ear as I continued, my words deliberate, each one meant to brand her.
“You think any of those other men could’ve given you this? You think they could’ve handled you? Touched you the way I do?” I punctuated my words with a slow grind, her gasp sending a surge of satisfaction through me. “You belong to me, Emery. You always have.”
Her head tilted back, her moans desperate as she gasped, “You’re so damn arrogant, Alistair. You think you own me?”
I smirked against her neck, biting gently before trailing my lips down to her shoulder. “I don’t think I own you, Emery. I know it. Every time you close your eyes, every time you’re alone in bed, who do you think about? Huh? Say it.”
She tried to fight it, the defiance flickering in her voice as she panted, “You’re so—”
“Say it,” I demanded, gripping her hair and pulling her head back gently but firmly, forcing her to meet my gaze in the reflection of the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Say my name, Em.”
Her lips trembled, her body shuddering against mine, and finally, she broke. “Alistair.”
“That’s right,” I growled, my grip on her tightening as I began moving, slow, deep, hard, every thrust a reminder of what she’d been running from. “You can fight me all you want, baby, but you can’t fight this. You can’t fight us.”
Her nails clawed at the sheets, her voice a mix of anger, desire, and surrender as she cried out, “I hate you so much.”
“You keep trying to play me,” I continued, my tone sharper now, cutting through the air between us like a blade. “Because you’re scared of me. Scared of what I do to you. Scared of looking in the fucking mirror.”
Her moans were laced with defiance, but I could feel her resolve breaking, shattering under the weight of what we were.
My lips pressed to her neck, my teeth grazing her skin as I whispered, “You know the truth, Emery. No one knows you like I do. No one sees you like I do. And that terrifies you, doesn’t it?”
She gasped, her words choking out in between moans. “Damn you, Alistair.”
“Say it again,” I commanded, my voice dark, a smirk curling my lips as I watched her reflection, completely undone as I pushed harder and deeper. “Say my name!”
“Bishop!!!”
I pulled her up flush against my chest, my arm wrapping around her waist as I buried myself even deeper, grinding against her with purpose. My lips found her neck, biting softly, then soothing the mark with my tongue.
“This is what you wanted, right?” I whispered against her skin, my voice low, dangerous, each word a deliberate taunt. “Putting on this little outfit, sitting here waiting for me.”
Her nails dug into my thighs as her hands reached back, desperate to find some leverage. Her breath hitched, and her voice came out shaky but sharp. “You’re such a bastard.”
“And you work my last fucking nerve every time you’re around me,” I shot back, smirking as I drove into her again, slow and deliberate, savoring every broken sound that spilled from her lips. I wanted her to feel every inch, to know exactly who was in control.
Her head fell forward, her hair cascading down her back in waves, her grip on the sheets tightening. Her body trembled under my hold, but then she spoke, her voice laced with defiance. “I’m in control. Me, not you. You belong to me.”
I laughed softly, the sound vibrating against her ear as I leaned in closer, my lips brushing her skin. “Control you?” I murmured, my voice dripping with amusement. “Baby, you let me do this. You want me to.”
Her head turned slightly, her eyes catching mine in the reflection of the window. There it was—that fire I knew so well, burning bright even as she quaked in my arms.
“You don’t know shit,” she spat, her words defiant even as her body betrayed her, trembling and tightening with every move I made.
I smirked, gripping her hair gently but firmly, pulling her head back so her neck arched perfectly for me.
“Oh, I know everything, Emery,” I growled, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. “I know how much you hate how good this feels. How much you hate that no one else can make you come undone like this. And you hate that you don’t want anyone else to.”
Her sharp inhale was all the confirmation I needed. She could fight with her words all she wanted, but her body told the truth. And in this moment, she was mine.
I grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at me in the window’s reflection. “Oh, I know,” I repeated, my tone sharp, full of dark satisfaction. “I know every inch of you, Emery. Every sound you make, every way your body responds. Tell me I’m wrong.”
She didn’t answer, couldn’t, her reflection betraying the truth her lips refused to admit. Her nails clawed at the sheets again as I drove into her harder, her cries filling the air.
“You’re mine, Emery,” I growled, my hand slipping down to grip her waist as I thrust deeper, faster, my control unraveling with every movement. “No matter where you run, no matter who you think you can replace me with, you’ll always come back to me.”
Her voice cracked as she gasped, “I hate you.”
“And I love how much you hate me,” I growled, my teeth grazing her shoulder before sinking in just enough to leave my mark—a reminder of who she belonged to. “Because it makes you mine. It keeps you coming back.”
My grip on her hips tightened as I thrust deeper, feeling her shudder beneath me. I leaned closer, my lips brushing against her ear as I smirked. “You didn’t come back for a story, Emery. You came for me. Just like you’re about to, right now.”
Her body betrayed her, tightening around me as she let go, another orgasm tearing through her like a storm. Her scream filled the room, raw and hoarse, her voice breaking under the weight of her release. The sound of my name spilling from her lips was the final push, the heat between us overwhelming, consuming.
I couldn’t hold back anymore. The tension snapped, my release crashing into me like a tidal wave, leaving my body trembling as I followed her into the abyss. My grip stayed firm, anchoring us both as the force of it left us shaking, gasping for air in the aftermath.
I stayed inside her for a moment longer, the both of us catching our breath as the room buzzed with the aftermath of what we’d just done. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, sex, and something unspoken—something only Emery and I could create.
She turned her head slightly, catching my gaze in the window’s reflection again. Her lips curled into a smug, satisfied smile.
“Fuck you, Alistair,” she panted, dropping onto all fours, her body still trembling as I remained buried inside her.
“You just did,” I shot back, smirking as I delivered a hard smack to her thick ass. She flinched, laughing breathlessly, and I pulled out of her with a slow, deliberate motion, leaving her there for a moment.
When I finally collapsed onto the bed beside her, she didn’t hesitate. She threw her leg over me, draping herself across my chest like it was second nature. It always was with us. No matter how much fire we’d just walked through, this part—the quiet after the storm—was always inevitable.
Our asses were out cold in no time. But just like I’d planned, it wasn’t for long. I woke before her, easing her off me carefully, not wanting to disturb her. She shifted slightly, mumbling something under her breath, her lips curling into a faint smile even in her sleep. But she didn’t wake as I got dressed.
I paused for a moment, standing at the edge of the bed, looking down at her. Hair wild, skin glowing, her body wrapped in the aftermath of everything we’d done. Emery Beaumont—my chaos, my addiction, my undoing. But not tonight. Tonight, the tables had turned. I’d gotten my lick back, and if things went the way I wanted, she’d be so furious she’d pack her bags and leave town without so much as a goodbye.
Satisfied, I slipped out of the room, the door clicking shut softly behind me. The hallway stretched ahead, quiet and dimly lit, and I walked through it with the weight of her still clinging to my skin. Each step felt lighter than the last, my smirk growing by the time I stepped into the elevator.
The dynamic had shifted. The power was mine again, and I’d made sure she felt it.
Who left who now?
to be continued…
Bishop is a cold piece and I’m loving it!!! He said let me get my lick back and I’m here for it ALL 😅
I’m glad Ant is getting to the bottom of Angelina and Carlos too. His interaction with him in Derek’s Destiny now has more depth to it!