Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 86833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“Fuck!” Bishop slams his hand on the steering wheel.
“What?” I look around us, wondering what could be bothering him. I mean, he won, right? That’s what this was for. I look back to him, and he reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone.
“Bishop?”
He ignores me, pressing the phone to his ear. “Yeah, we have a problem. She did stay in the car! It doesn’t matter. I saw it. Yeah, I’ll go there now.”
He hangs up the phone and then drops it into fourth, slowing his speed.
“What’s going on?” I ask, leaning on the door. “Bishop, for fuck’s sake!”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
“Oh?” I say, my eyebrows quirking up. “If that’s the case, then what was that about?”
We turn down a street that isn’t far from my place. If my memory serves correctly, it’s one street over from my house, which relaxes me somewhat. I hope Nate was right and we can trust Hunter and Saint to watch over the party, though I’m sure he’s not lying. I’ve noticed how everyone moves around them. Careful, scared, but respectful. Those are all things that come to mind. I already know Bishop is the ringleader. If Tatum telling me wasn’t enough, anyone could pin it with his air of command.
We pull into a high-gated driveway, and he rolls down his window, punching in a code. After a few seconds, the high wired fence separates and we drive down the cobblestone private road. Trees line our way, and tea lights hang amongst the leaves. We come to a large, round entryway, and—holy crap. When coming down the driveway, I assumed we’d be met with an old Victorian-style mansion, but that’s not the case. A massive glass house greets me, and I mean glass everywhere. The executive-style home is beautiful, but cold. I look around to the back and see a huge backyard, where a river flows on the edge of the property. Bishop pulls up the brake and gets out of the car. I take that as my cue to get out, so I slip out, my head spinning lightly. I think I’m past the drunk phase now, and head straight into the hung-over phase, except I should be sleeping through this, not awake. Damn.
“Where are we?” I ask, looking back to the house. The square glass that sits on the top of a slightly smaller glass where the front metal doors are.
Bishop walks around to my side of the car, taking my hand and tugging me forward. “Come on.”
“Where are we?”
“Do you ever shut up?”
“Honestly? No.”
He ignores me by pulling me forward. In return, I ignore the way his hand feels intertwined with mine, but sweat beads on my temple anyway. I quickly swipe it away with my other hand. He walks us toward the side of the house, through the garden, and then toward the backyard. I almost stop in my tracks. The pool is twice the size of ours and has a glass bar that sits in the middle of it. Jesus. Who are these people? There are neon lights that light up the floating stools that round the bar, and more that light up inside the pool. Toward the back of the pool, there’s a mini house that looks exactly like the main home, only smaller.
“Whose place is this? And why am I here?”
Bishop ignores me yet again, because he’s good at that, and then pulls me toward the smaller guest house. Walking up the few steps, he slides the floor-to-ceiling door open and pushes the black net curtain out of the way.
Holy fuck. I’m in Bishop Vincent Hayes’ bedroom.
HE SLIDES THE DOOR CLOSED and I pause, looking around the dark room. The walls are glossed with black paint, all except the wall his bed’s headboard is against. That one is red marble with black swirls messily woven into it. There’s no trashy posters, no naked woman—unlike Nate’s. It’s clean, yet disturbingly dark. His bed covers are red and black silk, his dresser black marble, and there’s a large L-shaped black leather living room suite opposite his bed on the other side of the huge room. I thought this was a guesthouse, but it looks like it’s just one huge room with maybe… a bathroom? No kitchen. There’s a red and black rug sprawled out on the dark carpet, and the biggest TV I have ever seen hangs on the wall.
Yet, there’re no personal touches to it. It’s as though he doesn’t spend that much time here. There’re no pictures, no nothing. It’s… empty. I step forward, toward the back wall, which is all glass and looks over the river that flows down his backyard. It’s stunning. This room is stunning. Reaching out to touch the glass, I turn around to find him watching me closely. This is the first time we’ve been together alone in a room. I thought the car ride would have been awkward, but we somehow fell into an easy silence. Being in his room, though, this is strange.