Bishop: A True Lover's Story

“No. He didn’t ask.” Bishop stabbed as much lettuce and cubes of chicken as he could onto his tiny plastic fork. “He already knows.”

“For real?” Trent crumpled his bag. He cut his eyes towards him, then to his hands. “He ain’t talking about putting you out, is he?”

Bishop took a large gulp of his water. “No. He wants to go fishing.”

Trent hesitated a moment as if he hadn’t heard correctly, then started chuckling. “Okay. Mike is on some shit. First, he sets you up a sweet spot to live when you get out, then he gives you a good job, wants you to start calling him Dad, and now he wants you guys to go fishing?”

Bishop had had years for reflection, but it was rare that he considered his and Mike’s relationship becoming anything more than what it’d always been. He didn’t know how he felt, so he filled his mouth with the last of his salad. It wasn’t near enough calories for him, but it’d have to do. He wiped the remnants of raspberry vinaigrette dressing from his mouth, then finished his water. He refused to use any type of ranch or disgusting cream-based dressing. It was what he’d had to choke down in prison, and he hated anything that reminded him of that place—like horrible food. He still had a difficult time with adjusting to some things since he’d been out but Mike—his dad—had been a huge help. So why was Bishop ignoring his efforts?

“Dude. Why are you looking like that?”

“Like what,” Bishop grumbled.

“Like someone just tried to shove something in your ass.”

Bishop jerked his head back, giving Trent a curious look.

“I think what Mike’s doing is cool. He’s nothing like he used to be. He’s like seriously trying. I mean he’s always looked after us in some sort of way, but he’s never been all business-like and wannabe Cliff Huxtable.”

“I don’t think people use Bill Cosby as an example anymore, Trent,” Bishop deadpanned. He stood and brushed the freshly cut grass off his hips, then hollered at the guys still lingering around the trailer on their phones. “Let’s go! Time to finish this up!”

Chapter Five

Bishop

The second Bishop pulled the loud F150 into his and Mike’s driveway, he stared at the double-wide trailer in agony. He knew it was cool and homey in there, and he was so beyond exhausted that his vision was blurry. Mike appeared to be in the living room, since the light in his bedroom was off. Bishop sighed heavily and cut the engine. When he’d dropped Trent off at his girl’s house, he’d tripped over his feet twice trying to get into the small duplex. After getting no sleep last night and working as hard as they had today, it was no wonder they were both the walking dead. Then having to do a yard for free at the end of the day was a real kick in the nuts.

But he had somewhere to be. His jeans automatically got tighter the moment he thought of Royce and how he’d felt wrapped around him this morning. It had been the worst tease of his life, and he couldn’t believe he’d done that to himself. Even with how revved up he already was, he wasn’t going to bed Royce tonight or any night until he knew where he stood. And if Royce wasn’t into him anymore, then he’d accept that. Rotating his neck and popping vertebra, Bishop checked his watch. It was already going on eight thirty. Shit. He hurried out of the truck and jogged up the few steps, using his key to let himself in. They weren’t in a bad neighborhood anymore, but they weren’t in a place that screamed leave your door wide open, either.

The stench of burnt bologna and cheese was the first attack on his senses the moment he walked through the door, the smell making him wince at the mere thought of that meat. Mike was sprawled on the couch with one hand down the front of his nylon shorts and the other stuffed with a half-eaten sub sandwich.

Bishop kicked his boots off at the door so he didn’t track grass and dirt onto the sandy brown carpet. “Man. What the fuck are you eating?” he asked on his way into the kitchen to get three bottles of water and a Gatorade.

“It’s a fried bologna and mac and cheese sandwich.” Mike took another huge bite, moaning after he swallowed. “I call it the poor man’s Philly sub.”

“Yeah, well, you enjoy that,” Bishop said.

“I am. Want me to make you one?” Mike asked, raising up on one elbow.

“Never will always be the answer to that question.”

Mike laughed at him and shrugged. “That’s cool. I picked up some more Hungry-Mans on the way home. You liked that Salisbury one, right?”

Bishop was finishing his second bottle of water, leaning against the half wall that separated the living room from the bedrooms. He dipped his head to hide the tilt of his lips, “Sure. I like those.”