Up in Smoke (Kisses and Crimes Book 2)

by Natalie E. Wrye

  Right next to my bare feet.

  Awkwardly, I slide them away from him, hugging my knees as I pull my own thighs toward my chest.

  The air inside the loft is still cool, chilled despite the summer night, and I shiver, wondering if the reaction is solely because of the thin sweater I now wear, or the man who handed it to me earlier.

  I think it’s a bit of both.

  And now that we are alone again, and the dusk is darkening, I have no other choice.

  I can’t spend the night with this man without knowing something—anything—about him.

  I decide to start with the simple questions first.

  “So this might seem like an obvious question… but I’m guessing we’re in France?”

  Bishop doesn’t blink.

  “You’ve guessed right.”

  “And this doctor—he knows me?”

  “He attended to you once before, yes.”

  “And it’s a problem for me to go to the hospital?”

  Bishop opens his mouth, closing it quickly, before responding quietly.

  “Actually, it’s a problem for you to go anywhere… Dani.”

  The feeling of imminent danger, the one I woke up with this morning—the one that made me run from Bishop just hours earlier—chokes me like a cough caught in my throat.

  Now, I know about the bullet, the gunshot.

  But I hoped, just as anyone probably would, that it’d been a mistake, an accident—something gone terribly wrong.

  It’s hard to hear this man say—without really saying—that it wasn’t.

  I caress the area of my head where the doctor just examined, now knowing that wherever the bullet came from… it was meant for me.

  I suppress a shudder, standing up out of the bed to face the window. I drop my head into my hands and listen to Bishop who rises off the bed behind me.

  I suddenly feel numb to it all.

  “This is crazy… This can’t be happening…” I recite the words to myself, still halfway expecting to wake up from a bad dream.

  Bishop answers, unprompted.

  “But it is, Dani. I’m…” He exhales loudly, his breath nearly reaching my neck. “I wish to fucking God that it weren’t...”

  I step away from him.

  “I need some air.”

  I grab for the purse Bishop says I own, the only possession I have in the room that feels normal, and I head towards the bedroom door.

  Unfortunately, exiting doesn’t seem to be that easy.

  Bishop rushes ahead of me, blocking the way out, his large frame swallowing up the entire doorway, and I take a surprised step backwards.

  My God, he’s so much taller than me—easily towering somewhere above six feet-three—and I gawk up at him.

  I know I should be intimidated by his sheer size, but I’m not.

  Looks like I’ve taken a bullet, and all of a sudden, I’ve got balls made of brass.

  Go me.

  I stare Bishop down, willing him to back away with a stare that could cut through glass.

  “Just where do you think you’re going?” he asks me.

  “Out.”

  “Didn’t you hear a thing I said before? Or anything that the doctor said?”

  “Yeah, yeah… bullet wound, memory loss, my life is fucked. I think I’ve got it all down.”

  I attempt to push past him.

  “This isn’t funny, Dani,” Bishop tells me. His immovable chest shifts to my right, closing off any space on the other side.

  I contemplate hitting him with my purse, but I don’t want to go another round with him. I force my antsy hands to stay still at my sides.

  I sigh.

  “I’m being serious, Bishop… and while we’re on the subject of serious things, let’s talk…”

  I cross my arms in front of my chest.

  “Why don’t you use your first name?”

  He blinks. “Because I don’t like to be called by my first name.”

  “Even by your wife?”

  “Not by anyone,” he answers stolidly.

  “Ok, so what about my family? Do I have any?”

  “Some.”

  “Parents?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, where are they?”

  “Far.”

  “Any siblings?”

  “None.”

  “Where am I from?”

  Bishop sighs, though I can already guess the answer based on how we both talk.

  “America. New York.”

  I snort in triumph. Finally.

  “Good. Finally, we’re getting somewhere.”

  The look in his eyes says “Don’t press your luck” however. But of course, I do. I just can’t help myself.

  “If I’m from America, then what are we doing here?”

  “We live here.” He turns his back on me. “At least, for now.”

  His short answers make me want to tear my hair out.

  “What the hell does that even mean?? Why don’t you start with some real answers?”

  “Because I can’t give you real answers… Not right now…”

  Bishop exhales, turning.

  “I’m not going to patronize you, Dani,” he declares. “I can’t have you giving up information without knowing what you should and shouldn’t say. Knowledge is a weapon… and we need to make sure it’s not used against us.”

  He points in the direction of my bullet wound. His low voice hardens.

  “It’s already been used against us before.”

  I meet his eye.

  “Does that mean you know who shot me?”

  “No… I don’t,” he answers.

  He walks closer to me, making the hair on the back of my arms stand up.

  “If I did, I’d have his head hanging on my fucking wall, Dani… because that’s the kind of man I am.”

  His dark brows sit low on his forehead as he fixes me with a glare that is both solemn and menacing. He comes within two feet of me.

  “Do you know who I am?” he asks.

  My lips part. “No.”

  “Do you know who you are?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Are you afraid of me?”

  I stand still, staring at Bishop’s face to see what my heart will do.

  “No… I… I don’t think so…”

  “You see, Dani? That’s how I know you’re vulnerable. Because if you were in your right mind… you would know what I’m capable of.”

  I exhale, frustrated. Bishop removes his leather jacket, placing it on the edge of a coat stand, and I point to the bruises on his forearms.

  The discoloration and scratches. Marks made by me.

  “I think… I can handle myself,” I comment dryly.

  He stops… and in that moment, we have our own version of a standoff.

  And neither one of us is backing down.

  Bishop speaks first.

  “I know this is hard for you, Dani,” he says slowly. “I wish I could make it fucking easier… but I can’t. You just have to trust me.”

  “Now get some rest.” He turns his back on me. “I’ll go downstairs and get dinner started.”

  STRANGER THINGS HAVE HAPPENED

  DANI

  Dinner never happens.

  I go to bed hungry that night and wake up the same way.

  That night, I fall asleep… and my psyche wanders into a room filled with gold lighting, music and decorations.

  I’ve never had a dream like this before.

  Pink and white dresses. Dancing and parading amidst a young crowd. The entire night, this is what flittered through my head.

  A party. But it was unlike any party I’d ever seen.

  Extravagance. Decadence. Money to the max. And somehow I seemed to be the center of it.

  There were endless faces, countless hands to shake. I floated into the room on a cloud of opulence and landed in the middle of a ballroom with no end.

  A young guy walks up to me, places his hands on my wa
ist, and when I look into his face, he is no longer there.

  My ballroom has ended and in its place is a curbside on a lonely street.

  An elder man walks up to me. Maybe not even elder. Just… older. He’s handsome, dark-haired. Standing on that isolated avenue, he takes my hand.

  And I want him to.

  “Come here…” he says. “Dani, Dani, Dani…”

  My name plays on repeat, reverberating on his lips.

  By the time I wake up, the name has attached itself to my psyche. I know my name to be Daniela. But I don’t know anything else.

  Including Bishop.

  I don’t get out of bed all day.

  I wrap myself in the strange bed sheets for the better part of a partly-cloudy Saturday and to my surprise, Bishop—who has spent the night downstairs—never really bothers me.

  Only interrupting from time-to-time with one short knock.

  He leaves food and a couple of aspirin on the dresser that’s located on the far side of the room, never bothering to walk any closer.

  He leaves, in and out all day, as the sound of locks on the living room door slam in his wake. He never leaves for what seems like more than an hour.

  Part of me takes comfort in it. Part of me feels caged.

  And all the while Bishop never stops visiting me, his golden gaze undoubtedly sweeping my hunched body as it crouches beneath the covers just above the bedspread.

  We run this routine from dawn until dusk for two days… until finally, hungry and sleep-dazed, I wander into the kitchen.

  I make the only thing I can think to make, and Bishop—just returning from another outbound trip—sits a lone grocery bag on the counter.

  With mild curiosity in his eyes, he gazes over at me as I cook, never letting his glare linger for more than it has to.

  He lets me burn a pan… then two—only stepping in when I’m on my third, and reluctantly, (with a silent, secret sigh of relief), I let him take over.

  He whips up the best-smelling meal I have ever seen, and awkwardly, we sit together at the dining room table.

  We eat dinner in complete and total silence.

  The streets outside our windows—windows that Bishop has purposely shielded to appear opaque from the outside—are quiet, the faint sound of outdoor laughter intermittently drifting into our walls, cutting the quietude into two.

  In a black t-shirt and sweats, his hair lying low over his forehead, Bishop eats with the voraciousness of a starving lion.

  How he manages to stay so chiseled, I have no idea. I have half a mind to pick at him about it, but I don’t dare.

  Teasing is too intimate for where we stand, and I don’t want Bishop to get any ideas.

  I believe him—what little he’s said… but in the grand scheme of things, I still don’t trust him.

  No matter what he says, he and I, at this very moment, are nothing but strangers.

  For all I know, I muse… he could be the maniac who shot me.

  I pick at the spaghetti he’s made, barely able to hold it down.

  “Do you not like it?”

  I glance over, surprised by Bishop’s question. He never lifts his gaze from where it’s fixated on his plate, but I know he’s talking about the food.

  And I have to admit: it looks damn good… but I’ll be damned if I let him know I think so.

  “Depends,” I say, staring down into my plate. “D’ya poison it?”

  He laughs, a sound that is soft and strangely seductive.

  “C’mon... give me more credit that that. If I wanted to kill you… I’d feed you some of your own cooking. You never did know your way around a kitchen.”

  That explains the three burned pots of long-lost spaghetti.

  I look over at Bishop and he raises an eyebrow at me. A hint of a smile dances on his full and stubble-framed lips, and it does something to me.

  It tugs at a sense of humor I seem to have forgotten.

  “Too soon?” he asks.

  I dig my fork back into my plate, taking my first real bite.

  “Way, way too soon. So what if your spaghetti is a little more edible than the batch I whipped up? Big deal.”

  I start eating from my plate, holding back the first urge to laugh that I’ve felt in three days.

  “A little?” Bishop asks. “I’ve seen dog shit more appetizing than what you just made.”

  I grin. “You eat dog shit a lot?”

  He laughs, placing his fork back into his food. He looks at me, and I can tell that his mind is moving a million miles a minute.

  He squints at me.

  “No… and to answer your question, kitten, I could never poison you. I could never hurt you.” Bishop declares, his voice staying level despite an undercurrent of curiosity.

  I don’t answer his unspoken question, instead choosing to eat more, so that my mouth is occupied with meatballs and spaghetti sauce.

  “You know that, don’t you?” he presses.

  I chew soundlessly, swallowing hard with each forced bite.

  “This is crazy,” Bishop says, shaking his head, seemingly speaking to himself. “I close my eyes just a few nights ago, and you’re sleeping like a baby. I wake up and you’re wigging the fuck out with no memory of me. I didn’t think our situation could get any worse…”

  I find my voice, devouring my last bit of food.

  “Our situation?” I scoff. “What would you do if you woke up to a strange, half-naked man in your bedroom?”

  Bishop gazes off into space, seemingly considering it.

  “I’d seriously question my sexuality…”

  I crack a smile. Dammit. And just when I thought I could stay stoic…

  Bishop picks up my now-empty dish. He stands, placing my plate atop his own before heading, without another word, to the kitchen sink where he begins to run the faucet water.

  I jump up from where I’m seated, feeling somewhat guilty.

  “You don’t…” I call after him. “You don’t have to do that.”

  He looks up at me with self-assured eyes, his large fingers beginning to scrub at a dish.

  “Of course I do.”

  But somehow, Dani, the woman somewhere deep inside, won’t let that be it. She and I are up out of our seat, pushing away from the tiny dining room table to join Bishop’s side, where we grab a towel and start drying.

  Nothing else happens for the next God-knows-how many seconds.

  Bishop and I work without exchanging words, busying our hands while our minds undoubtedly go nuts.

  I realize now, while clearing the kitchen, that every minute—every moment that passes—is another hurdle I must surmount in order to stop the panic—a panic that creeps in every time I allow myself the opportunity to think.

  To think and to remember… that I truly remember nothing at all…

  I settle in, growing slowly comfortable in Bishop’s presence… which is probably even worse than the panic.

  I dry my last dish.

  “Well,” I comment awkwardly. “I guess it’s getting late.”

  Bishop takes the last utensil from my hand, putting it away.

  “Mm.”

  “Guess I’ll go upstairs…”

  “Sure.”

  “Food made me a little sleepy…”

  Nothing. Dead silence.

  Doesn’t take me long to realize that I’m engaging in a one-person conversation. What I expect from Bishop, I don’t know… but I can’t help but wonder…

  “Where will you sleep?” I say to Bishop’s turned back as he wipes the counters down.

  “Where do you think?”

  My breathing grows shallow.

  He turns to me. “On the couch, of course…”

  “The one down here, right?”

  Bishop almost grins. “Yeah… What’d ya think I’d do?”

  I expel a breath, feeling foolish as my eyes drift to his arms, which are still moving. Flexing and bending and contracting as he continues to tidy up.

  The
tail-end of his tattoo—long, black and intricate—catches my eye for the second time as Bishop’s white sleeve drifts up and down his hardened bicep.

  I look into Bishop’s face and wonder if he can see in my eyes what I feel.

  “Nothing. I just… Nothing.”

  “Good,” he says quietly, wiping his hands on a nearby towel. He says nothing else.

  He turns from me, and when he does, whatever I was going to say next dies a quick death on the edge of my lips. I want to talk to him, but just being beside him makes me nervous.

  He speaks so roughly to me… and part of me likes the way he does.

  Disappointment, unfounded and unexpected, places the tiniest ball in my throat.

  “Well, then I guess I’ll say good night.”

  Hesitantly, I raise a hand in a semi-wave. And just as I spin around to head towards the stairs, I feel Bishop’s hand. Swiping gently across my lower back.

  I turn around.

  “Wait…” He steps into me, his determined eyes locking onto mine.

  Irises, the color of sunburnt ivy, travel from the top of my head down to the tip of my chin.

  He places a hand there finally, tilting my face towards him, and just when I fear the worse (or best)—just when I think Bishop might place his mouth on mine—he swoops in with his other roughened hand, sweeping my hair behind my ear.

  The ear just below the bullet wound.

  I flinch… but not from fear. I flinch from something I can’t identify… something I won’t even admit to myself.

  I stand silently in wait.

  “Dani, let me make a few things clear to you,” he comments softly. “And listen to me when I say this… I need you to really fucking hear me,” he emphasizes, holding my gaze.

  My mouth turns dry. I nod without even realizing what I’m doing. Bishop continues.

  “I don’t know what’s happened to you. I don’t know what the fuck could be going through your head right now or what you feel. I don’t know if you even want to hear this shit from me…” He takes a deep breath. “But I hate that this happened to you.

  “I hate that someone hurt you… And I…” He cuts himself off, grinding his teeth together.

  “And I hate that I fucking let it happen. But you need to—you need to understand that… protecting you is the most important thing to me, and I won’t ever give anyone a chance to hurt you again. You have my fucking word. You have my…” Bishops stops, and his golden-green eyes turn somber, serious—blazing.