“Oh my fuck, we forgot to lock it!” I say with wide eyes.
A hand meets her mouth, her own eyes widening, before a nervous laugh escapes her lips. “I can’t even deal right now. We are so dang lucky, you know that?”
“No kiddin’. I didn’t go through six weeks of counselin’ just to end up in court at the end of it anyhow.” I laugh. “Next time we’ll remember to lock it, huh?”
“Next time, I’ll remember not to tell you about my twisted fantasies.” She sticks out her tongue.
“No, no, dear. That’s not right. You gotta tell me every last one, so I can make each one a reality.”
As she finishes re-braiding her hair, a smile on her face, she says, “Bye, Bishop. I’ll text you soon.”
I blow her a kiss and open the door, striding out into the hall. As I make my way through the hospital to the parking garage, I walk with the boastful cockiness of a man who holds a dirty little secret.
THERE AREN’T MANY TIMES IN my life when a woman I’ve only known a short time, and only fucked twice, could possess my thoughts so incessantly. Yet, again, Carleigh has disappeared on me without explanation. A text I sent her last night, telling her how incredible she felt and how much I loved being inside her, went unanswered, as did the one I sent at around eleven today, when I asked her about our plans for the evening. It’s Saturday, after all, and she sounded as excited as I was for it. It’s now ten p.m., and I am fuming. Fuming not only because I’ve been ghosted for no apparent reason for the second time, but also because I’m so damn bothered by it in the first place.
I’ve tried shaking it. I’ve been watching sitcoms all day, had a six-pack of SweetWater 420, and ate nearly an entire pizza (not to mention the pint of Ben & Jerry’s I fucked up afterward), and still, the persistent thoughts of what I could have been doing with my time instead run through my head like an endless, confusing slideshow.
Did I not fuck her right?
She certainly seemed to enjoy our time together, both in and outside of the “bedroom.”
Was it something I said?
I’ve run every word I’ve uttered through my head. I’ve been nothing but polite, respectful, and honest with her from the get-go, when the circumstances dictated it. And I fucked her like a porn star when the clothes came off.
Is she afraid of her feelings? Could that be it?
I pull up our text exchange and type, Hey, not sure what’s going on, but I think you might be afraid. Afraid of what you’re feeling. Afraid of my intentions. I want you to know, I feel it too. I’ve felt it since the day I laid eyes on you. Something was different. Something was powerful. I feel pulled to you. Connected to you. I hope that’s not saying too much. I was just really excited to see you tonight. I’m excited to see more of you, period. Hope you’re well. I’d love to hear from you at least.
After pressing send, my heart races. I read over the message a thousand times, scrutinizing every single fucking word.
I am so fucking stupid.
I head to the kitchen for another beer, anything to quell the anxiety that binds my insides. I open the refrigerator and grab blindly for a bottle, my eyes on the phone when it abruptly lights up and the text alert chimes. Slamming the fridge door shut, I scurry to the counter and snatch the phone.
Bishop, my heart is breaking right now. Literally, BREAKING. I’ve written and deleted about a thousand messages to you today. I just didn’t know how to tell you this. I hate, hate, HATE having to write it, because I do have feelings for you, but what has occurred between us shouldn’t have. It was inappropriate of me. It should have never happened. It was a mistake. This isn’t your fault. None of it is and I really need you to know that. This is all on me.
I frown, worried and confused. I respond, WHAT is on you? And what is happening here? I thought we had a good time. I thought we were on the same page.
The wait is excruciating, regardless of how short it is, as the slew of text messages from Carleigh stream in, one after another, indicating she’s written me a short novella—of excuses, no doubt.
We did have a good time. A great time. But it’s a time that shouldn’t have ever happened. I’m beaten up over this, I really am, Bishop, but my husband and I are going to try to work things out. I know you’ll never understand this, but it’s not something someone who hasn’t been through it could ever really understand, just like with me and your service. And you know, I can never thank you enough for that. For everything. I can’t see you again, Bishop. I just can’t. I told Ronnie about us anyway. I had to. And he doesn’t think it’s a good idea we finish out the sessions. You’ve passed the program, obviously, and all you’ll have to do is come in at your usual time next week to take your last breathalyzer and urinalysis. Bishop, again, I’m so incredibly sorry this all happened. I can be so dang stupid sometimes. You’ve done so very well these past couple months. Be proud of yourself, and please keep it up. Good luck to you. And thank you for all the life you brought back into me since we met. You’re a special soul. Please, PLEASE, don’t message back. Ronnie is upset about this whole thing and I really want things to work between us this time. I need them to. I’m sorry, Bishop.
I can only laugh, a painful laugh appropriate when shit really hits the fan. The slightly crazed laugh of a man left completely fucking blindsided.
As I open the beer bottle that’s sat idly in my hand, I run responses through my head, certain that at some point tonight, I will have a goddamn novel worth of shit to send her.
IN THE PAST TWENTY-FOUR HOURS, I have finished off a case of beer, eaten excessive amounts of fast food, and smoked nearly two packs of cigarettes. What I haven’t done is left the house, except to restock the aforementioned brew and cigs, and I surely haven’t responded to Carleigh.
I’m fucking proud of that.
I don’t really care to see anyone right now, and with finals coming up in two weeks, I should be studying anyway (as if I’ve managed to get a lick of that done.)
I’m on my way to slumber town now, at ten o’clock at night, which has become quite the norm for me since pledging ended. With all the beer I’ve consumed, sleep seems like the only good idea. The boob tube is on, and I’m wrapped up in my blankets like a burrito when my phone suddenly rings, startling me. Letting out an annoyed sigh, I reach over and grab the cell, seeing Sarge’s name flash on the screen.
Answering, I ask, “Sarge, is everything okay?”
I hear loud commotion coming from his end but nothing distinguishable.
After a few moments, Sarge’s voice comes over the line. “Is everything okay?” He scoffs. “Have you not seen the news?” There’s a subtle drunken slur to his words.
“News? What news?”
I can barely hear him over the chaos in the background.
Somebody laughs.
Someone else chants U.S.A.
“Bro, how am I the first one to be telling you this? Bin Laden is fucking dead, man!” he shouts into the phone. “We fucking got him.”
It takes me a moment to make sense of what he’s just said. I can hardly believe my ears.
“What did you just say?”
“Seal Team Six got Bin Laden’s ass in Pakistan earlier today. They just released the information to the press. He’s fucking dead, man!”
“I can’t even believe this. I feel like you’re fuckin’ with me here.”
“Check the news, man! But do that while you’re getting your ass to the DIK house.”
“The DIK house? What the hell are you even doin’ there?”
“Bro, everyone is here! Everyone. You’ll know what I mean when you get here. Take a cab, you won’t be able to park anywhere close to the house.”
“Huh? Why not?”
“Trust me, bro. You’ll see what I mean when you get here.”
“Okay, Sarge.”
“You coming?!”
“Yeah. Just let me get dressed and grab a cab, and I’ll be right over.”
“See you soon! Get ready to get your
’shine on! Tonight is for celebrating, my friend.”
“Oh Lord.”
I hang up the phone and lumber out of bed, pulling up the news and verifying that Bin Laden was, in fact, killed earlier today in a raid in Pakistan.
Well, Halle-fuckin-lujah!
Once dressed, and in the cab, I make the short trip to campus. It doesn’t take long to see what Sarge meant. As the cabbie pulls toward the quad, I see thousands upon thousands of students covering every square inch of both the Commons and frat row that runs just beside it.
“Looks like I gotta let you off here, buddy. They got the road completely blocked off. I wonder what’s going on.”
I throw him a twenty and open my door. Before exiting, I say, “You don’t know? Bin Laden was killed.”
His mouth goes slack, his eyes wide. “You’re shittin’ me.”
I shake my head. “No, sir. Not shittin’ you one bit.”
He laughs, shaking his head slowly, a look of awe painted on his features. “Well, I’ll be damned. You be safe out there, huh?”
“You too. Have a good one.” I exit the cab and start walking toward the crowd. There’s a buzz of electric energy and excitement that sweeps over the entire area. A roar of conversation, laughter, and cheering permeates from the massive crowd, overwhelmed only by music blaring from a few different frat houses. I would estimate there are thousands of students here. Pushing my way through the congested crowd, up the street to the DIK house, I can’t believe the chaos that surrounds me. Kids are hanging off porch railings and pissing in every available crevice, standing on cars that were unfortunately parked on frat row at the absolute worst time. Alcohol is being downed like it’s the end of the fucking world. The smell of weed hangs around me like I’m kicking it with Snoop’s people.
I have entered Sodom and Gomorrah.
Finally spotting the DIK house through the raucous crowd, I see Sarge standing on the front porch with a number of other brothers around him in clusters, all drinking and laughing. As I approach, Sarge notices me and throws his hands into the air.
“Bishop! What up, bro! Get your ass up here and kill some of this moonshine with me!” He holds up a mason jar and the fact that the ’shine is clear scares the living daylights out of me.
Making my way to the porch, I slap hands with a few brothers before meeting Sarge by the couch. He takes me in for a bro hug; the giddiness he’s exuding is infectious.
“We fucking did it, man!” he says, separating from me and handing over the jar. “We got that sonofabitch.”
Taking the mason jar from him, I ask rhetorically, “You had a bit to drink tonight, bud?”
He laughs. “Just wait until you try that shit. I brought the good stuff for tonight’s festivities.”
I eye the jar, my throat going dry. I take a thick swallow. “I got a feelin’ I’m gonna hate you after this.”
“You’re gonna love me. More than you already do, I mean.”
I open the jar and hesitate before I take a big gulp.
“Whoa!” Sarge’s eyes go wide, and it takes but a second to realize why.
It feels like I just poured hot fucking lava down my throat. It doesn’t stop when it hits my stomach either; instead, it leaves a trail of fire from my lips to my gut.
“Oh my fuckin’ God!” I gag, spitting a few times to try and rid my taste buds of the flavor, but to no avail. “That was the most toxic shit I’ve ever tasted.” Spinning the lid on the jar first, I hand the nausea-inducing concoction back over with a quick shake of my head. “Here, take your fuckin’ poison.”
He grabs it, chuckling as he opens it back up and takes a drink of his own with not so much as a grimace.
Pulling out a cigarette and lighting it up, I take a heavy drag to coat my mouth and give me something to taste other than toxic moonshine. Letting the smoke out, I ask, “You see my pledge brothers around this shit show?”
“Yeah, they just went downstairs to get another drink. They should be right back.”
As Miley Cyrus’s “Party in the U.S.A.” takes over the speakers on the DIK porch, I hear my name being called out from behind me. Turning, I see my pledge brothers approaching, all of them looking like they’ve had quite a few drinks themselves.
“Good to see you, dude!” Mac yells, slapping hands with me. He adds, “Congratulations, man! What a day!” as I then greet Jeremy and Carter.
“When did you guys get here?” I ask.
“A few hours ago. I sent you a text, but I figured your ass was passed out,” Jeremy says. “Wasn’t expectin’ to see you.”
“Well, I wasn’t plannin’ on doin’ shit, but with this goin’ on, are you kiddin’ me? I wouldn’t miss it. That motherfucker’s day has been comin’ for a long damn time. Did they say what they’re gonna do with the body, by the way? It’d be fun to string his ass up right at Ground Zero so people can throw rocks at him, or something. Survivors first. Then New Yorkers. Then everyone else. It could be a fuckin’ tourist attraction.”
They all laugh, and Sarge shakes his head. “There won’t be any body. No burial. The Navy ‘buried his body at sea.’” He throws up air quotes.
“Wait, I don’t get it. What’s with the air quotes?” Mac asks. “You don’t think he’s really dead?”
Sarge shakes his head. “No, I think they really got him, but I don’t think he’s dead. How the fuck are they just going to give Public Enemy Number One a burial at sea? I bet the Seals were ordered to take out every target, except Bin Laden. Probably told them to take out his kneecaps or something. The CIA probably has that motherfucker in some basement in Uzbekistan, pulling out his fingernails and castrating him with a blowtorch. Why do you think I’m so damn happy? Death would be too easy for that motherfucker. He’s going to die slowly. No doubt about that.”
“No way!” Mac says. “You really think that?”
Sarge shrugs. “I wouldn’t put a thing past our government. Not a goddamn thing.”
“Well, fuck,” Mac mutters.
“Dead or not, what the hell is this shit?” I motion toward the massive crowd covering all signs of road or grass as far as the eye can see.
“Just wait,” Carter says with a grin, taking a sip of his beer.
“What do you mean?”
“This kind of shit happens all the time here,” he responds. “Big football or basketball wins. Big losses, too. There was one time they rioted over the changing of the mascot name—from Braves to Pilgrims—after enough complaints. The school hates the rioting. They always try to prevent it, but it never works,” Carter says, his gaze set on the mess of people. He points up the road. “You see the cop cars up there?”
My vision shifts to the top of frat row where two cop cars sit, their occupants standing rigid near the open doors as they scan the crowd. “Yeah.”
“Well, eventually, this shit is going to get out of hand. People are going to start fucking shit up. Breaking shit. Probably burning shit. And those cops are going to come and shut all of this down. Or try to, at least. I don’t know about this one. This is the craziest I’ve ever seen it.”
“Burnin’ shit?” I ask.
“Oh yeah.” Sarge nods, a grin on his face. “Bigtime. It’s been going on here since the sixties. They’ll either start a dumpster fire, or they’ll grab one of the cum couches from a frat house and light that fucker up.”
Scrunching my brows, I say, “No way”
“Yes way.”
“That’s fuckin’ ridiculous. What’s the point to all this?”
“What’s ever the point?” Sarge shrugs. “They’re drunk kids. Fucking shit up is in their DNA.”
As I’m about to respond, I spot a kid on top of an SUV on the road below, waving an American flag around in the air. He drops it onto the road and seems to have no intention of picking it up as people begin to trample it.
I can’t believe my eyes.
Do these kids even have any clue what they’re celebratin’?
I motion to the stereo sys
tem. “Sarge, turn that down real quick for me?”
“You got it.”
As he heads to the stereo and turns it down, I lean over the railing and yell at the top of my lungs, “Hey, you! With the green hat!”
The kid looks up, as do some of those around him.
I point to the flag on the ground and bark, “Get that fuckin’ flag off the ground!”
He shoos me away, going back to dancing and whooping atop the SUV.
“Motherfucker!” I growl. “It wasn’t a request. Friends of mine have fuckin’ died for that flag. Now, pick it the fuck up!”
He shoots his eyes up toward me, a scowl on his face. “Fuck your friends, and fuck your flag,” he says, turning away from me again.
“Oh, fuck no!” The anger boils within me. Heat trails up my back as I ball my hands into tight fists. Starting my way across the porch, I feel a hand grab me and yank me back. I stumble a bit, turning to see Sarge is the one holding on to me.
“Let me take care of this one, bro,” he says. “You don’t need any more trouble your way.”
I nod, and he makes his way to the parking lot, through the crowd, and down to the road where the SUV is parked. Leaning over the railing to watch, I see Sarge make his way to the flag first, pushing people out of the way to get to it. He squats, picks it up, and tucks it into the crook of his elbow. The kid still dances atop the car without spotting Sarge’s movement.
Sarge eyes the kid for a moment, shaking his head before he lifts his other hand up high, wraps his fingers around one of the kid’s ankles, and yanks him off the SUV. The kid comes crashing down onto the road like a sack of bricks, the air forced out of him when he hits.
Sarge casually strolls back to the porch, walks right up to the stereo, and turns the volume back up. Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the U.S.A.” plays now.
I laugh as he approaches me as if nothing’s happened. He holds out the flag. “Help me fold it?”
“You got it.” I smile. “Thanks, bro. That was fuckin’ awesome.”
As we fold the flag up the proper way, Sarge replies, “Maybe that’ll teach him to disrespect the colors.”
Bishop (A Frat Chronicles Novel) Page 38