Bishop: A True Lover's Story

“Hey, um. Is your manager here?”

Natalie stuttered a moment, “Is there something…?”

Bishop hurried to clarify what he wanted. “I’m looking for an old friend.”

“Oh.” She smiled. “Actually, we have three managers. Royce is here in the mornings and Jen and Stuart are the evening managers. One of them?”

Bishop’s throat went bone dry at the sound of his ex’s name and he suddenly wanted Natalie to hurry up and get his water. He was in the same building as Royce. Right now. He could appear at any moment. Would he look the same? Tall, blond, beautiful, and with a supple mouth that a man would mortgage a house for. And so much damn attitude and neediness that it didn’t make sense. All the things Bishop used to get turned on by. Used to. He didn’t really know what he was into now. Peace. Kindness.

The waitress dipped to get a better view of his eyes, and he realized he’d been staring, saying nothing. “Royce. Could you tell him an old friend is here to see him? Please.”

“Sure thing. His office is right off the kitchen there,” she pointed over her shoulder. “I’ll grab your drinks while you decide on your food.”

Bishop’s tongue was too thick for him to speak so he nodded and watched her leave. When she disappeared behind a set of double doors. Trent sat heavily in front of him. Bishop tried to appear unfazed, but his hands started to sweat, and his knee wouldn’t stop bouncing. His nerves were getting the better of him no matter how much he’d told himself everything was cool. Nerves are just your body preparing for the moment. Bishop was silent, lost in his head, as Trent droned on about the expensive prices, completely oblivious to his inner turmoil.

“Shit man. Ten bucks for the chicken and waffles. Do I get a whole chicken?” Trent scowled, flipping more pages. “I’ll just have the special. For five bucks I get pancakes, bacon, and eggs.”

Bishop stared at the many pictures on the menu trying to make a decision about what to eat. When he’d first stepped out of the county lock-up forty minutes ago, he’d been famished. But the second their server came out a side door—that he assumed was the manager’s office—he felt like a swarming beehive had been dropped in his gut.

“He said he’ll be right out,” she said to Bishop, setting their coffees in front of them. Next, she picked up two glasses of ice-cold water from her small tray and set them down with two straws she’d pulled from her black apron.

“Who’ll be right out?” Trent asked.

“I’ll have this, please.” Bishop ignored his friend and pointed at a decent-sized plate of bacon, ham, sausage, hash browns, eggs and pancakes. He had no clue what it was called, but it looked delicious, despite his unexpected wave of nausea.

“The breakfast sampler. Sure,” she hummed. “And how would you like your eggs cooked?”

“Scrambled plain,” Bishop croaked.

She turned to Trent who was still frowning. “And for you?”

“I’ll have the two, two and two special. Eggs scrambled.” Trent gathered the large menu and handed it back to her.

“Cheese on those?” she asked.

Trent gave her a thoughtful expression. “Hell why not? I think I’ll treat myself. Add me some cheddar cheese on those eggs, darling.”

She giggled while jotting a couple of notes on her pad. Bishop glanced up as she sauntered away with their menus. Only when she made her way to the kitchen’s double doors, she brushed shoulders with a tall, striking man who was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his tight chest, eye-fucking the hell out of him. The hair on the back of Bishop’s neck rose and his dick was next to follow suit.

Royce. Bishop cast his eyes down to his coffee mug as he swallowed a large lump of nothing in his throat. He reached for his water and drank half the glass, hoping the coolness would quench the fire in his belly and his groin. Fuck. He was hoping Royce wouldn’t come over to his table, he just… he just wanted to see him. But now that he had, he thought maybe he wanted more. Royce had been everything to him before he’d gotten locked away like an animal. Bishop tried to level out his breathing but there was no way anyone would miss the rise and fall of his chest the more he drank in Royce’s presence.

“What the hell is up with you?” Trent scowled. When Bishop didn’t answer, instead choosing to down the last of his water, Trent turned and locked eyes on Royce who was still leaning as if nothing bothered him. Especially Trent’s muttered curse, or the daggers he was shooting from his dark brown eyes. The left one twitched when he looked back at Bishop, his anger getting the better of him.