Bishop (A Frat Chronicles Novel)

by B. T. Urruela

  “Fuck, baby. Give it to me. Give it to me now!” she demands, pushing her body into mine, her muscles tightening around me.

  Picking up the pace in satisfying thrusts that send charges of energy up and down my limbs, my heart thumps in my chest; my skin is flush with desire. She grows wetter with each exhilarating plunge, and the feel of it has me harder than I ever thought possible—so hard, it feels like my dick might just explode. And after a few more moments of ecstasy, it kind of does. I arch my back, a fistful of her hair in one hand and her supple ass cheek in the other, as I come. Her hand covers her mouth, her eyes closed as she moans into her palm.

  As I pull out, I release a pleasurable sigh, and she opens her eyes slowly, letting her hand fall flat to her side, her face flushed and breathing ragged.

  I lean down and kiss her. “I love you,” I whisper against her lips. “You feel fuckin’ amazing, woman.” I shake my head.

  After one more kiss, I stand, making my way to the kitchenette, where I toss the condom into the trash. Heading for the fridge, butt-naked, I turn back to see Chelsea hurriedly putting her dress back on, a new nervousness on her face much different than the pleasure she previously showed. She’s yet to even catch her breath.

  My eyes analyzing her as I grab a bottle of water, I scrunch my brows and ask, “Is everything alright?”

  She doesn’t answer right away, instead, turning her back toward me. She motions behind her and whispers, “Can you zip me up, please?”

  I take a swig of water and set the bottle on the counter. Swallowing hard, I approach her and zip the dress up slowly.

  “What’s up?” I whisper, my heart starting to pound for reasons other than the incredible orgasm.

  She faces me, biting her bottom lip, her eyes trained on the tiled floor. “Ugh, I hate this,” she mutters.

  “Hate what, Chelsea?”

  “This,” she responds, louder now. She motions between us.

  Suddenly, my nakedness terrifies me. I feel completely vulnerable, unwanted, rejected. Grabbing my shorts and slipping them on, I say, “You need to tell me what the fuck you’re talking about and you need to tell me quickly. ‘I hate this’ ain’t somethin’ a boyfriend wants to hear after fuckin’ his girl.”

  “I can’t do this anymore,” she whispers, shaking her head as if she’s disappointed in herself for saying the words. There’s something else in her features too, though, faint, but noticeable.

  Relief.

  “This?” I ask.

  “Us.”

  I look toward the bed, the sheets strewn about, and I scoff, shaking my head in complete disbelief. “Then what the fuck was that?” I say, my brows scrunching tightly together. “Was I just mercy fucked? Really?”

  A tear rolls down her cheek, and I instinctively want to catch it with my finger, but I fight the urge.

  “I d-don’t know,” she stutters, more tears falling now. She crosses her arms, hugging herself … shaking. “I love you, Kenzie. I really do. It’s really, really hard bringing myself to this point.”

  The ‘Kenzie’ part really stings. She’s the only one I’ve allowed to call me by any variation of my first name since I was a kid.

  “So why are you at this point then, if you love me so damn much?” I question, a sharp heat trailing up my neck, the temperature in the room seeming to abruptly rise.

  “How many times have I asked you to quit drinking?” she asks, her eyes on mine now, a new strength in her tone. “How many?”

  “It’s not as easy as just clicking my fuckin’ heels. I can’t just turn this shit off, you know.”

  “Have you even tried? I mean, really tried?”

  “More than you give me credit for.”

  “Oh really.” She motions her head toward the trashcan with her lips in a tight line, a smug, knowing look on her face.

  I don’t have to look to know what she’s implying. “That’s fucked,” I growl. Hesitating, I take a deep, calming breath before moving closer to her, grasping her elbows. “Chelsea, I’ve tried. I’ve done counseling. I’m takin’ my pills.”

  “How long did you do the counseling for? One month? One and a half, at best. You half-assed it. And you know that. What about AA? What about the pamphlets I got you?”

  I drop my hands to my side, stepping back and letting out a huff. “Listen, I’ve told you already. I don’t like that kumbaya bullshit. That just ain’t me.”

  “And that’s exactly why you and I can’t be ‘us’ anymore,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “You have got to be fuckin’ kidding me.” I lower myself to the bed, dropping my head into my hands and grabbing fistfuls of hair. “I just can’t even believe this, Chelsea. I can’t believe you mercy fucked me. I mean, really? Is that love to you?”

  “I’ve gotta go,” she says, stepping into her heels as I rest my hands on my knees, looking up at her and fighting back the tears that are trying to break free.

  “Just like that then?” I ask. “You fuck me, dump me, and then leave? Nine months and this is how you end it?”

  “I did what I could,” she whispers, her voice cutting out, the tears returning. She steps to the door and turns, her hand resting on the handle. “This has been coming for a long time now, Kenzie. I’m sorry. I really am,” she says. And with those last heart-wrenching words echoing off the barren white walls, she’s gone, leaving me in a state of complete shock.

  My heart pounds, my carotids pumping thickly, my thoughts an avalanche. I drop my head in my hands again when the tears come. They coat my cheeks and tumble from my chin, down to the floor. As I choke them back with a stiff throat-clearing, I wipe an arm across my face and allow my focus to drift toward the refrigerator across the room and the demons inside.

  A thirst possesses me.

  After three shorts steps, a bottle of Jameson is in my hands. The thirst is quenched. The pain subsides … for now.

  CRUISING THE QUIET COUNTRY ROADS of Western Pennsylvania in my recently purchased, jacked-up, matte black Wrangler, I do my best to fight the persistent thoughts of Chelsea from only three weeks ago. Her words still resonate in my mind. Her presence lingers like a ghost. I’ve done my fair share of crying, and blaming, and obsessing. But I’m past that for now … or so I’d like to think. The armor only holds for so long. I know that better than anyone.

  But I also know I’m ready for a fresh start. Of that, I’m certain.

  Taking in the farms and quaint countryside, the frigid late autumn air filtering in through the small crack in the window, I wonder why and how I even chose Buchanan State University. It’s named after an inconsequential president, after all, in a part of the country I’ve never been to before. But after being dumped and needing to figure out my next steps, I had to make a choice. BSU has what I need most; it’s far enough from D.C. to escape the thoughts of Chelsea, and far enough from Florida to keep my childhood in the rearview. Maybe that’s why I ended up here after all … it’s the farthest college from Florida to accept me.

  Out of all the colleges and campuses I researched, this place had everything else I was looking for, too, beyond the needed distance. After spending three years in metropolitan D.C., I needed beautiful woods, rolling hills, and the kind of tranquility you can only find this far from the city. Being from the damn swamp practically and living as country a life as I did growing up, D.C. was always completely foreign to me. The persistent horn-honking, the ‘hold no doors, say no thank yous’ mentality of its high-strung population, and the bumper-to-bumper traffic, regardless of the time of the day, all lead to a healthy distaste for city life. No way was I going back to D.C., and no way was I going back home; not after the childhood I had. In my eyes, I have no family, and no friends outside of the fellow soldiers I’ve met along the way, who have scattered like cockroaches to new duty stations and new responsibilities. Most have forgotten about good ol’ Sergeant Bishop by now.

  As I drive, the cold wind rustling the thick beard a medical retirement has allowed me to
grow, I hope it’s not a mistake to attend a school where I know no one. I worry that I may have acted impulsively after Chelsea dumped me. The anxiety of such a decision being made on a whim is now suffocating, through hindsight.

  In the beginning, when my medical discharge was finalizing, the idea of going somewhere new, somewhere where I was an unknown, seemed like a damn good idea. The only good one, really. I wanted to start a new chapter in my life—to find my new normal. So, with that in mind, I applied to schools as far north as Binghamton and as far south as Clemson, and everywhere in between, trailing the Appalachians and all its beautiful glory. Now, as I drive up on Main Street, in the little town of Crescent Falls—home to Buchanan State—a constricting wave of nervousness charges up from my gut to my throat. I’m so used to pushing past these bouts of numbing anxiety that it’s been hard to accept that maybe they’ve gotten worse, maybe they’ve gotten harder to ignore.

  Do I really have the strength to do this on my own?

  I scoff, shaking my head as I eye myself in the rearview, annoyed that I’ve let this new chapter be soiled so soon. Forcing the doubts and anxiety back, I think about what’s to come—the excitement of a new life. The possibilities. The potential. I can be whoever the fuck I wanna be.

  I locate my new apartment complex just past the main road, bordering the college buildings and dormitories that make up the core of the university campus. I take a moment to admire the beautiful snow-tipped Crescent Mountains. The serrated peaks serve as a backdrop for this area.

  Having set everything up online ahead of time, it takes only a few minutes in the leasing office to sign all the paperwork and grab my keys. I drive around the winding complex roads, looking for Building E, while taking in what will be home for, at least, the next six months. Every building looks the same—brick foundation leading to a dreary pale blue siding, inadequately small, black shuttered windows—like some suburbia nightmare, and the parking lot is a testament to social class discrepancies; cars that look to be running on hope and prayer alone share the lot with Beemers and F-250s lifted so high it makes me wonder if Shaq might have one just like it. I guess I’m adding to that discrepancy with my Wrangler, but hell, I earned it. It’s the vehicle I always wanted, and after becoming bomb feed, I handed over every dime I made during my last deployment to get it. I refuse to feel bad about it.

  Finally spotting Building E and pulling into a parking space, I laugh aloud as I notice the trash bins, even before the start of the semester, are filled to the brim with empty Busch boxes and an equal amount of fast food refuse. Hopping out of the Wrangler, I snatch my large duffle bag—the one that’s been with me since basic—from the back seat, and I shoulder it, closing the door behind me. The boxes, I’ll grab later.

  I take a deep breath, willing myself to feel better about all this as I head toward the front door, trying to focus on the natural beauty that surrounds me, the invigoration of a fresh start, and not the numbing bite of the fierce wind. And not the anxiety that sits at the base of my throat.

  I’ve managed to find a veteran roommate online, so I’m not as nervous about signing up to live with a stranger as I might be otherwise. Having been in the Army, I’ve met my fair share of people. I’ve liked quite a few of them, loved a handful, and hated damn near most. I’m not holding my breath here, but I’d rather take my chances with a veteran than a civilian any day.

  Entering the building, I look around for apartment E-6, eventually spotting it down the hall, and make my way toward it. I open the door and pop my head in, finding a mostly barren living room—no TV—and cheap, particle board furniture that I’d expect to find in a barracks room or hospital, not a ‘fully-furnished’ apartment.

  I guess this is what ‘fully-furnished’ means in a college town.

  Stepping inside, I shut the door behind me, noticing one of the two rooms has the door closed and an eruption of lights and sounds spilling through the cracks. Periodically, a man’s voice yells out in frustration, followed by the sounds of plastic hitting wood, and the familiar pings and dings of a video game in play.

  Fucking gamers.

  I shake my head as I make my way toward the open door across from the gamer’s room, and I flip on a light. The small room is sparse, just a twin bed, dresser, and desk. Tossing my bag onto the flimsy bed and paper-thin mattress, I open it and begin unpacking, still taking in my surroundings. There’s a twenty-inch television on a dresser that looks like it was made in the 90s, a large hump protruding from the back and rabbit ears sitting unsteadily atop it.

  Nodding toward the set as if it were alive and breathing, I mutter, “I think you and me are gonna be fast friends.”

  The anxiety inside me beckons as I stuff clothes into the dresser drawers, my thoughts interspersed with Chelsea, this new, strange, yet oddly familiar environment, and the choking realization that I am no longer a soldier. And I never ever will be again.

  I’m a civilian now. And I’m doing this all on my own.

  IT’S QUIET.

  Cemetery quiet with the same kind of odd, morbid feeling surrounding me. That sweep of prickly cold that comes when death envelops you.

  After two previous deployments, I know what a deafening silence like this can mean in a warzone, especially when it comes on the heels of a two-day firefight with little support or visible way out.

  I wonder how the hell we even got in this mess to begin with, my ragged breathing the only thing taking my mind off the awful quiet as my men await my directives.

  It was supposed to be a simple overnight mission for us. The five of us were to be dropped off at the shack we’ve been in now for two and a half days, under the dark cloak of night, to provide sniper overwatch on the main road in preparation for a special delegation convoy, and then we were to be picked up the next morning. What we hadn’t anticipated was the enemy knowing the plan from the start (likely a gift from one of the many spies who wear the Iraqi Police uniform and pretend to be our allies). They took out our two support squads who were encircling the neighborhood in Humvees—Lord knows how those men are doing, how my friends are doing—leaving us alone to fight our way out. In all the firefights and mayhem I have endured in combat up to this point, nothing could’ve prepared me for the carnage we’ve been met with over the past two days.

  After fixing communications a day ago, we’ve scheduled a rescue chopper from headquarters and received very specific instructions on landing location and time, both of which add an element of danger to this already fucked up situation. But with the break in fighting, this may be our only opportunity for escape. They will bring back the fight—that’s a certainty. It’s just a matter of when.

  “Alright.” I take a deep, steadying breath. “Let’s move,” I say, leading my men outside of the shack and we aim our backs toward its adobe walls, our rifles out toward the road and buildings around us. The barrel of my rifle trembles with a combination of battle fatigue and fear.

  For three hours now, there has been only silence as the enemy scurried away, their ranks decimated, morale likely broken, but they are no doubt taking the opportunity to obtain more ammunition and fresh bodies. Dozens upon dozens of their buddies now lay dead or dying in the street. It’s hard to decipher the difference between blood and sand anymore. Some of the bodies are from the initial round of fighting that first day and their flesh has been mostly picked clean by birds. I note that a few dogs must’ve joined in as many of the jagged bite marks are far too large to have been from a beak.

  A stiff shudder trails down my spine.

  I don’t want to feel like it bothers me to see them in this state. I want to believe they’re insurgents and they were trying to kill us, so our actions were warranted, their deaths necessary. And realistically, they were. It was their lives or ours. But I’m also tormented by one frequent thought: should we even be here in the first place? And what’s so different between them and me? If I had grown up here, with the childhood I had, would I have found my way to terrorism too? I don’t
see how I wouldn’t have. I quickly swallow against the choking weight of remorse and glance back toward my second in command, Sergeant Tommy Callahan, positioned in the back with an M240Bravo machine gun aimed to our rear.

  “You ready?”

  He nods, but his eyes are wide, his chest heaving with each breath.

  Not counting the agonizing moans of dying men, the streets are empty and quiet, the silence deafening. The absence of gunfire after so long is both calming and unnerving.

  I nod, my focus shifting back out to the quiet road, my hands gripping the rifle with white-knuckled intensity.

  There’s a dog bark in the distance and a whistle of the wind as it stirs up the dusty road, but nothing else. The town was abandoned by most residents long before the battle, as they’re always warned ahead of time. Others, I imagine, hid themselves away sometime thereafter, leaving this place feeling like a ghost town. It’s terribly unsettling.

  I glance back once more, this time, meeting eyes with every man on my team. “Watch your asses and that of the man in front of you. Let’s get the fuck out of here in one piece, huh?” I whisper, motioning toward the road.

  My men nod, but their faces say it all. They’re scared, and they want out of here. The desperation is ever-present in their sunken eyes, but they’d never say a word. We don’t discuss things like fear out here. Just like we try our damnedest to not think about remorse or empathy. And that’s why they wouldn’t know that I’m scared too, so scared I can feel it in my marrow.

  “Jensen, Barker… Just like we talked about. You press forward first, Sanchez and I will cover you,” I whisper, my eyes trailing to Tommy—one of my oldest military friends.“Callahan, you watch the rear.”

  “Roger that,” Tommy responds, winking and clicking his teeth as he turns his head back toward the road.

  I motion Sanchez forward and he meets me at my side, his rifle aimed down one end of the road, and mine down the other, my muzzle just past the side of the shack.