“I’m sorry,” I say, digging my fingers into my scalp. I turn around and start walking.
I make it only a few steps before Bishop catches my wrist and whirls me around. “You can be happy, you know. It’s okay for you to be happy again.”
Tears well in my eyes.
He sighs and slackens his grip. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell at you.”
I don’t say anything, but it’s not because I’m mad at him. I just don’t know how to tell him how grateful I am that he understood me, that he knew how I was feeling—torn up that I could feel anything but anguish when the memory of Mom dying is still a heavy weight on my heart—all without me having to say a single word. So I show him the only way I know how. I snake my arms around his neck and crush my lips against his. They’re soft, much softer than I expected, and for a moment, they’re motionless against mine. And then he moans into my mouth. His hands sink into my hair and he kisses me back, hard and fast and passionate, like it’s both the first and last kiss of his life. His lips find my jaw, my throat, the spot behind my earlobe, sending a thrilling ache into my belly. I claw at his clothing, tugging his shirt up, and pull him to the sand. He falls on top of me, pressing his full weight onto me. His greedy hands move up my body, and I yank at the sides of his pants, my heart racing in my desperation to get rid of those two layers between us, because I need this, because I need the way it feels to not think of anything else but what I’m doing. Bishop slides his warm hand up my shirt, and my back arches in response.
And then his lips stop moving. He lets out a frustrated groan and becomes as motionless as a statue on top of me.
“What?” I ask, breathless.
He groans again, like he’s in actual physical pain, before rolling off me into the sand, white-knuckled fists braced over his stomach.
“What? What is it? Why’d you stop?” I push up on my elbows, catching my breath and watching Bishop splayed in the sand, squinting into the fading sun.
“I don’t want it to be like this,” he says.
I shake my head. “What do you mean?”
“When you’re sad. It was stupid of me. I don’t want to take advantage of you.”
“Stupid of you?” I exhale and push to sitting. “I kissed you, remember? What happened to all the ‘it’s okay to be happy’ bullcrap?”
“I’m sorry, okay? It’s my fault.”
Fault. Like he did something wrong. Tears sting my eyes. I can’t believe what’s happening. Nowhere along the line did I think he’d humiliate me, that he’d make me feel like a sexual predator. I stand up so suddenly pockets of sand go flying onto Bishop. “Forget it, let’s go back.”
He groans once more, loudly, without getting up, then chases after me. “Come on, Ind. Don’t be mad. Can’t you understand? It’s not that I don’t want to.”
Oh great, what’s next: it’s not you, it’s me?
“Ind.” He catches my wrist so that I’m forced to face him. I speak before he can delve into any more embarrassing apologies. “Listen. It was stupid—you’re right. I shouldn’t have done that.” My voice cracks a bit when I say it, so I lace some extra anger into my last words. “I shouldn’t have done it, I’m sorry I did, and it’ll never happen again.” I shake free of his grip and walk away. “Now take me home. I’m tired.”
28
I liked Bishop’s kitchen just fine the other day. In fact, it was my second-favorite room in his zillion-room mansion. It features the same wooden beams across the roof, smooth archways around the doors, and windows covered in cast-iron grilles as the rest of the house, making it look like the feature spread in Architectural Digest. But there are also stone walls, an ornate tile backsplash, fancy tile floors, dark-colored wood cabinets, and a low-hanging candle chandelier suspended over an island full of planters. Together, the look is just so warm that I couldn’t help loving the room.
But that was the past. Because today, as I perch on the counter, Jezebel pushing back her cuticles as she leans against the massive stainless steel fridge, Bishop drumming his hands on the island with Lumpkins curled in a ball at his feet, I suddenly don’t like it at all. I’d rather be anywhere but here, in this stupid kitchen, with the worst company I can think of, except for maybe Leo and the Priory.
Which is why we’re here having this little meeting. I finger the edges of the blackened newspaper, the headline strange men seen lurking around high school cheerleading practice stamped in heavy Gothic script across the third page of the local newspaper.
“I propose a permanent twenty-four-hour guard,” Bishop says.
I bark a laugh. I know he’s waiting for me to look at him, but I won’t. I haven’t looked him in the eyes since last night when he rebuffed me in the sand dunes. And that’s saying something, considering the long drive home.
“That’s ridiculous,” Jezebel says.
“Why?” Bishop spins around to face her.
Jezebel heaves a sigh and glances up from her nails. “Because that’s a lot of manpower, there’s a war going on, and the rest of the Family would never go for it, to name just a few of the reasons it’s a terrible idea.”
“I’ll do it myself, then,” Bishop says.
My stomach knots up, and I toss the Los Angeles Times aside in a flurry of paper. I want to yell at him to quit this I’m-so-concerned act, point out that he didn’t seem too worried about me when he ripped my still-beating heart from my chest. But Jezebel’s here, and plus, that would mean admitting I’d felt something for him when I should have been feeling nothing but the loss of my mom.
Jezebel’s face remains as impassive—and flawless and beautiful—as ever. “And what about when you sleep? You need to sleep sometime. There are big holes in your plan, my friend.” She returns to her impromptu nail-care session.
“I won’t sleep, then. I just won’t sleep,” Bishop says.
Jezebel’s jaw hardens almost imperceptibly. “Oh yeah?” She marches over to where Bishop sits, perfect red hair falling in front of her face, and narrows her cat-green eyes at him. “And do you think the Family will approve of this little plan of yours? You’re already in enough trouble as it is, having lost the Bible, without them discovering you’re in a relationship with a student. A student you’ve been assigned to—”
“Jezebel …” Bishop rises an inch from his stool.
Jezebel ignores Bishop’s warning and finishes her statement, eyes flicking to mine as she does. “As punishment.”
All the air is knocked out of my chest, and my heart squeezes so hard it’s as if someone were using it as a stress ball.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Jezebel cocks her head to the side and sticks out her bottom lip. “You didn’t know that, did you?”
I don’t want to cry. Crying would make everything so much worse. But nothing goes my way.
“Aw, look!” Jezebel says.
Bishop’s expression is a blend of horror and remorse, his fingers knotted up into his tangle of hair.
Jezebel faces me again. “Our friend Bishop here was assigned to train you after his little screwup with the Bible. Training newbies like you is so undesirable it’s used as punishment where we come from. Yep, that’s why he came back. Not because he cared about you sooo much he just couldn’t stand to be away. He had to, or he’d have been tried for insubordination.”
“That was why at first,” Bishop says quickly. “Not now.”
Jezebel tosses her head back and laughs.
I cover my ears. I should run away, just leave. But that wouldn’t solve any of my problems. I need to ignore Jezebel’s tormenting, pretend Bishop’s not here, forget about whatever I thought we had. I shake my head hard, as if to physically remove him from my People I Care About list. “I don’t want a bodyguard.”