Bishop's Queen

by Cristin Harber

  “That was easy.” Finished, Tara dumped the phone into her purse and moved behind Ella, rubbing her shoulder as though she was readying an athlete for a match. “One of the best red carpets you have ever had.”

  “Thanks, Coach.” Disagreeing took energy. Ella had simply delivered the talking points that Tara had drilled into her head. They had flowed like water, mainly because they were based off of issues that Ella was a true believer in, but having had the verbiage crafted for her was, for the first time, a gift from Tara that she’d used. “I aced the rope line and didn’t fall flat on my face.”

  “And you gave details on the lavender and mint project. Rallied the Vamanato haters. Fist-bumped the beekeepers and easily reminded prime-time viewers that the environment is as trendy as your dress. And everyone is talking about this little number. That’s what teamwork is all about.”

  Tara had prepped several reporters about the incident at Seneca but also had given them tons of backstory on Eco-Ella projects. So even as Ella had ignored the drama-filled questions about the accident—no mention of the stalker and little of Jay—she could finally boast about the venture that had nearly killed her and Manny.

  “I appreciate it. Really.”

  Tara gave Bishop a placating thumbs-up. “And you kept us safe. Way to make sure this holding cell of a green room is super safe from hostile takeovers.”

  He grunted his non-amusement, not lessening the uncomfortable tension in the air. Bishop had remained either ten feet in front or behind her, even between pressers and photo ops, never once adding to the conversation with Tara. He’d behaved like any other security detail that was assigned to actual celebrities.

  Internally, this event had ginned up a lot of what she liked to call impostor syndrome. Because there was no way in the world she was supposed to be there. Though with how her notifications were blowing up after Tara had just posted those pics…

  “Thousand likes already on this one,” Tara mumbled. “And thousand plus thumbs-up over here on this vlog. Plenty are tuned in.”

  Bishop’s phone buzzed, which was different than him talking into his wrist, which he had been doing since they left the hotel. “Hey, Locke.”

  He turned to the wall so she couldn’t hear, not that she wanted to anyway. But why was he on the phone?

  Tara narrated from hers. “Tonight’s trending pretty much everywhere.”

  Everyone was on their phones, and Ella felt naked without one. But for the purposes of making a point, she didn’t ask for it from Tara. “Great.”

  Bishop handed the phone to Tara. “Locke needs to talk to you.”

  Ah, that was why it wasn’t a wrist-and-earpiece convo.

  “Perfect.” Tara paced. “Yes, I want to see that.”

  She hung up and handed Bishop his phone back.

  “You want to do more behind-the-scenes video or pictures?” Tara asked, perhaps trying to saw through the pressure and keep her limber for the stage.

  “Not really.” Ella had morphed into a machine, but it was exhausting, and she needed to save all the faux candor for the stage.

  “Right. So what would you like? A candle?” Tara opened a drawer against the wall, peeking around the corner at the vanity and couch. “They have incense.”

  “Actually, I’d just like to be by myself. Can I do that?” She turned toward Bishop. “Is that allowed?”

  “Sure. The talent gets what the talent wants.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, you two.” Tara rolled her eyes. “Yes, Ella. Bishop and I can stand outside the room. Not a problem. Do you want to stick with still water, or I can find you sparkling?”

  “Really, I’m fine.” There was a mini fridge if she suddenly couldn’t handle flat water, and she could get it herself. “I just want to be alone.”

  Tara touched her arm. “All right.”

  “We’ll be right outside the door,” Bishop said, stiffly moving to the door and holding it open for Tara.

  Ella paced back and forth in the tiny, L-shaped room then dropped in a chair in front of the vanity. “Keep it together.”

  She pictured the beach, calming waves, and she pulled in a breath, letting it drift. When she opened her eyes, the woman staring back at her was hard to recognize, but that was still her. “Just makeup and hairspray. It all washes away.”

  At the base of the mirror sat an envelope with her name elegantly scrawled across it in calligraphy. It leaned on a small gift box. How had they missed this?

  She picked it up. The cardstock was heavy and expensive. She rubbed its textured paper between her thumb and forefinger, tilting the card until the sharp edges scratched her palm. She closed her eyes, trying to relax, turning the card over and over… How had everything gone so wrong with Bishop? And so fast?

  Again, she stared at her airbrushed and processed reflection in the vanity mirror. Just make it through tonight. And to do that, she needed to put Bishop aside.

  Ella slid the little box forward, surprised by its weight. She batted it between her fingers on the counter before letting it slide to a standstill. “You’re strong. You’ve always been that way. Sometimes, it’s harder to find that strength, but it’s in there. Even when you don’t recognize yourself.”

  She tore the expensive envelope open, ripping the thick paper, and slid the card out.

  Dear Ms. Leighton,

  We would like to thank you for your participation as a category award announcer this evening! We’re pleased to have you and the Eco-Ella powerhouse brand as part of the show. Please accept our token of appreciation with this small gesture.

  With our sincere thanks,

  Your Friends at the Capri Awards

  How thoughtful. Normally, Tara intercepted gifts and cards, and she only learned about them after the fact. Ella picked up the box and removed the decorative cardboard. It was pretty, though a completely unnecessary waste of resources. Not to be unappreciative.

  Nimbly, she opened the top of the box and—well—not her style, but staring up at her was a beautiful bracelet.

  It had an intricate design and was unlike anything she’d seen—very abstract art-looking, she guessed, very New York City. Ella lifted it out of the clips, peeling the unneeded plastic wrapping off of the thick, ornate metal band, and held it out on her fingers. The ornate clasp was even a work of art, and she wrapped the bracelet around her wrist, locking it on.

  Definitely gorgeous and absolutely not something she would normally wear. But really, it was fashionable, and maybe even matched what she was wearing.

  She held her arm out then dropped it against her dress. The bracelet didn’t move much and was fairly tight on her wrist. Was she expected to wear this tonight? What were the social rules on these things? She didn’t know. This was a time that it would be helpful to have other “celebrity” friends. What was there? A message board where they could post questions? An Ask Abby of online personality protocol?

  Or was the gift part of a sponsorship, and she was expected to wear it as part of her speaking tonight? Tara sometimes made arrangements, and Ella was supposed to wear certain gifts and borrowed items from designers. Like this dress—a Malia Sava original. How many times had Tara dropped that phrase into conversations, and Ella too, as instructed?

  “Hey, Tara?” Ella called over her shoulder.

  The bracelet definitely didn’t match with anything boho chic that she owned. If she was ever to wear it, it would probably be tonight. Fumbling at the clasp, she couldn’t undo it, as if she needed evidence that this wasn’t her type of jewelry. If they had given her something handmade of beads and hemp, Ella would have been a happy camper.

  “Come on…” But—ugh—she was going to chip her nail polish, and Lord knew if she did that, Tara would give her hell. Sometimes, her publicist could be like a mom—a helicopter one that leaned to the bitchy side and needed to have a glass of wine. But right about now, she needed that mom to undo this bracelet. Shoot. Never mind.

  Ella stood up and looked in the mirror, po
sing at various angles. The combination looked good, though. “Tara?”

  She waited for her publicist to burst in and immediately drop the gauntlet with the fashion decision before Ella could ask the question. But no dice.

  It wasn’t as if the place was soundproof. She walked to the door and twisted the knob, only to find Bishop alone. Dang it. “Where’d Tara go?”

  “She went to find Locke and stake out your seat.” Green eyes crawled down her dress, drifting over every curve and pausing too long in that deep V between her breasts. His throat bobbed before he turned back toward the empty hallway.

  Ella stared at the opposite side of the empty hall, still feeling his gaze. “Is she coming back?”

  “Probably not. Event staff will find you before your time. Why?”

  He didn’t sound as if he was asking because he cared, more that he was asking for work. They were back to the beginning, when she was a job. And he was good at his job, which she should be thrilled about. The best of the best was watching her butt. Almost quite literally, except it had been her boobs.

  She turned back when she felt his gaze again. “I had a question about jewelry.”

  He raised his eyebrows and bunched his lips, obviously assessing if fashion at an awards show was serious. “Is it an emergency?”

  “No, it’s not.” Ella held the heavy bracelet out. “The Capri Awards gave this to me. I… never mind.”

  The metal clung to her skin tighter than she liked but then again, she was used to beach wear. Even these hellacious shoes were foreign to her, and she was pretty sure that after this event was over, Tara had them ready for a charity auction. At least two fashion reporters had asked her about them, one even remarking about her spectacular toe cleavage. To which, Ella had kept her stupefied what the hell to herself.

  Bishop let his eyes drift down and back up, and it would have been a total lie to say she didn’t feel every inch of his inspection.

  God, she hated this feeling. Hated the distance between them, figuratively and literally.

  “Ella Leighton,” a man called from down the hall. “Lights, camera, action!”

  She jumped, spinning toward the man’s voice and almost killing herself in the shoes and skirt combo while making that move.

  A young man came swiftly down the hall. He was dressed in black, wearing a headset attached to two electronic packs on his waist, and carrying a clipboard. “Your turn. Let’s go, my dear. If you need anything, say it now or forever hold your peace.”

  Her stomach catapulted as he breezed past them, motioning for her to follow. She didn’t need anything. “I’m great. I got the card. The bracelet—”

  “Little faster, honey,” he called over his shoulder.

  “You’re good, Ella. You walk as fast as you want,” Bishop countered protectively.

  The man ahead laughed. “Sure, whatever security says. Or you can listen to me. We’re live on TV.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Bishop tugged at his earlobe, repositioning the earpiece until it moved into the least uncomfortable spot. It had just been him and Locke, but any moment now…

  “Hey, I’m here,” Parker said from Titan HQ home base.

  “Hey, buddy,” Locke said.

  Bishop brought his wrist to his mouth. “Hear me okay?”

  “Loud and clear,” Parker responded. “Just logged into their systems, and everything looks good. Video feed’s up. Let’s get this one in the can and call it a night.”

  “Roger that,” Bishop mumbled as he followed Ella. They maneuvered around the shit ton of people backstage. There were teams of staff, clipboard-holding, headset-wearing directors, and random folks that made him uncomfortable. There were people who looked important, surrounded by those who reminded them of that fact constantly. Bishop then passed someone who seemingly had once been important, but had drowned that memory in a bottle, and was currently being babysat by what he could only assume was the intern of someone important. Backstage was a clusterfuck.

  Ella followed behind the clipboard man until they came to a stop on the side of the expansive stage. Throughout the entire labyrinth of hallways and people, she had opened and closed her fist as though she was trying to work out tension and anxiety, nervously twisting that bracelet.

  “One minute,” their stage escort said amidst the flurry of people spinning backstage.

  The auditorium erupted in laughter, and the booming voices from the sound system surrounded them. How was Ella getting away with only a simple twist of her hands as an outlet for all of her nerves? Bishop had no idea.

  If he was about to go onstage in front of hundreds of people? No way. And knowing that it was a live broadcast? Hell no. More power to her for being able to handle that kind of pressure. Not that he’d made it any easier for her.

  Two women dressed in black strode over, one carrying an envelope. He had expected them, as per Tara’s very specific instructions. The envelope contained the name of the award winner that Ella would announce. Watching her take it all in stride was spectacular. Hell, she was spectacular. Beautiful, smart, and all he wanted to do was tell her that—yeah, he was starting to realize how big he’d fucked up and needed to get a fast grip on his goddamn issues.

  “Thirty seconds,” clipboard man said.

  Ella closed her eyes and let her head drop back, elongating her neck in that daring dress that had been driving him insane since he walked into her hotel room. Between the dress and not knowing what the shit he was doing at an awards show, he itched at the unknown—and his chest needled.

  He swept his gaze backstage, always on patrol. Nothing popped, but his skin prickled at an unknown he could sense. What was he missing?

  Bishop brought his wrist to his mouth. “All good?”

  “Eyes in the sky have nothing to report,” Parker said.

  “Nothing front side,” Locke added.

  Damn. Give him a grenade launcher, and he would feel at home. Put him in a monkey suit at a prime-time awards show, and he was lost. Lost and… his senses tingled.

  What was it? Something…

  “Ella,” Bishop whispered.

  Startled, she abruptly turned to him. And maybe he should’ve talked to her way before she went on national television.

  With wide eyes, her bottom lip dropped open, and she again started her new nervous habit of twisting her wrist. “Yes?”

  Damn it. Her voice was too quiet. It shook. And since when did she fidget? He shouldn’t have said a word before she went onstage. What had he been thinking?

  She fiddled with her bracelet rather than further acknowledge his existence. He couldn’t blame her.

  “You’re going to do amazing. I’m really proud of you.” It was the only thing he could do. He had to save the moment. He had to do that for her.

  Semi-smiling, maybe reassured, she refocused back on the stage as though that was what she needed to hear. She certainly didn’t need him asking, Are you okay? Do you feel weird? Does anything seem off? Because those were irresponsible things to say. And he couldn’t tack on I’m a fucking asshole; I’m mad but not done.

  The man with the clipboard raised his hand and pointed his finger. “And you’re a go.” The music crescendoed as the lights swayed up then dropped down. The announcer boomed the names of Ella and her co-presenter to a huge round of applause.

  Cold chills competed with his proud enthusiasm. She was stunning, graceful, and he would not have been able to handle the pressure of all those eyes and cameras. Even with her stalker and the stress between them, she was flawless.

  That was the kind of person he wanted by his side, and as she walked onto the stage and into the homes of millions, he couldn’t have been angrier with himself.

  Still, every step she took exacerbated the feeling that something was off. The farther she got, the more he was concerned. Bishop’s eyes tracked behind stage, seeing the expected chaos, but nothing out of the ordinary.

  The hairs on his arm stood like soldiers readying for w
ar. The ones on the back of his neck jumped to attention. His cold chill escalated, crawling across his shoulder blades, and sweat dampened his shirt underneath his tuxedo jacket.

  Hesitant, he brought his wrist to his mouth again, chewing his bottom lip. “Locke, does anything seem out of place?”

  “That’s a negative.”

  “Parker?” Bishop couldn’t see across the stage for all of the glaring lights. Then all went dark as the large screens showed a video montage about Ella’s category. Something about best in documentaries on TV, but Bishop didn’t give a crap about what was on the screen.

  “Not that were seeing, buddy. What’s up?”

  What the hell was he supposed to tell Parker? That he had a feeling his girlfriend—his ex-girlfriend—was in a bad spot? They already knew that. He probably just had nerves by proxy. He’d never felt so out of place before in his life. This was the antithesis of being on an Afghani mountain in the middle of nowhere on the back of a donkey while carrying a gun.

  “Bishop,” Parker ordered. “Spit it out.”

  “Something’s wrong. I don’t know it. I feel it.”

  “Feel what?”

  Bishop shook his head, unable to explain. “Locke, is Tara with you?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Shhhh,” the guy with the clipboard hissed.

  Bishop glared until the man shrank down even though he took a step back and focused on his conversation with Parker and Locke. “Ask about the bracelet. She’s wearing a bracelet.”

  “Hang on.”

  Seconds felt like eternity until Locke came back. “Tara said that it is uglier than hell and she wants to have Bishop’s ass for letting her walk onstage with it—And if that was his I’m sorry gift, she had things to teach him.”

  Both Locke and Parker chuckled, and if his guts hadn’t bottomed out, he would have had something to say. “I didn’t give that to her. Ella said it was waiting for her. Something from the awards show?”

  Locke relayed that information and came back at breakneck speed. “Tara said no way. She would’ve known prior.”