Bishop nodded.
“So. Yeah. I wanted to ask if your company services any private residences. Homes?” Edison fidgeted again. “I’ve been meaning to get my backyard together for years. And I haven’t been able to vet any lawn companies because I’m always at work.”
Edison’s friend made a scoffing sound but didn’t say more when Edison glared at him.
“We’re not taking new clients. But I can give you the name of a company that’s taking our overflow,” Bishop said stiffly.
“Oh, burn.” Skylar chuckled. “Shot down like a short-range missile.”
“S-sure.” Edison looked as if he was trying his best to ignore the endless taunting going on behind his back and said in a hushed murmur, “That’d be great.”
“This is sad… it really is. I just can’t watch anymore.”
“What exactly are you watching, Skylar?” Edison tried to sound stern, but it didn’t seem to work.
“Watching you try to flirt.” Skylar chuckled again. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this. I thought you were dead down there. I almost want to get my phone out and record it for the office.”
Bishop felt sorry for Edison as his face brightened, and his once peachy, smooth cheeks were littered with angry, red splotches. Edison avoided Bishop’s eyes and instead stared at the non-moving line and then the sparse cashiers as if he was trying to silently convey to them to hurry-the-fuck-up.
Chapter Eleven
Edison
“What! Skylar, no I wasn’t.” Edison peeked at Bishop then hurried to turn his head again when he caught a glimpse of that hard frown. Bishop’s forehead was so high and creased with obvious outrage.
“Yeah, you were.” Skylar laughed. “So, if you get your ass kicked in the parking lot then you’re on your own.”
“I… I wasn’t flirting or…. I swear.” Edison could feel his heart racing a mile a minute. Had Skylar lost his danggone mind? Why would he just blurt out something like that for all to hear. But even worse was that Bishop most likely wasn’t gay. Edison wasn’t getting that vibe at all and he hadn’t been flirting; however, the line ‘do you come here often’ had just kind of slipped out when he’d met Bishop’s mysterious eyes. He’d gotten tongue-tied, that was all.
Edison had never been so humiliated in his life. Humiliated and freaking trapped. He couldn’t throw his books down and run out of the line like a wounded kid without looking like one. But what was worse was Bishop was standing there looming over him as if he was indeed going to quash any gay thoughts Edison had about him right out of his mind—with his big fist. Edison could feel the sweat starting to bead at his brow and under his arms. He’d only wanted to commend Bishop on the extensive work they’d done in just one day, not offend him and maybe even cost the firm their contract. Edison was already regretting stopping in this store. His crockpot timer had gone off hours ago, he should’ve just gone home like always.
“So, you like to cook, huh?” Bishop spoke, his tone low and raspy.
Edison darted his eyes up then muttered a quick, “Yes.”
“But he likes to eat even more.” Skylar laughed again.
“Yo man! I didn’t fucking ask you,” Bishop said sternly, glaring over Edison’s head at Skylar. “And why you giggling so damn much, you see something funny?”
Bishop’s retort was so forceful and quick that Edison startled, his eyes widening. He’d never heard anyone put Skylar in his place like that. Everyone kissed his ass. Skylar looked stunned. Like, if he’d had a string of pearls, he would’ve torn them off from clutching them so hard. After a couple seconds of gaping, or maybe waiting on Bishop to realize the error of his ways and apologize, Skylar found his voice.
“Actually, I see something so damn funny it cracks me up daily,” Skylar bit out, then cut his eyes to Edison.
Bishop didn’t speak. Instead, he moved up the few spaces in line and turned his back.
Great.
“Edison, I’m heading over to the Yard House,” Skylar said, as if nothing had just transpired. As if he hadn’t just crossed a line with Edison that he wasn’t going to ever forget. As if they were friends when they weren’t. Edison wasn’t oblivious to why Skylar gritted his teeth and sat with him sometimes—he was putting on a show, as if he was such good friends with his superior outside of the office, when he was the opposite. Skylar had somehow perfected the art of being a jerk.
“I’m not going to that loud, crowded place. I’m going home. Good night, Skylar.” Edison wanted to scream ‘get the f out of here’ but he never screamed. Or rarely, anyway. And he certainly didn’t use profanity.
“I wasn’t asking you to come. Besides, you sound like my grandma.” Skylar slammed this month’s GQ magazine flat against Edison’s chest, “This line is taking too damn long. Buy this for me and I’ll give it back later.”