by A. E. Via
Bishop
A True Lover’s Story
Published By: Via Star Wings Books
Copyright © September 2019
Edited By: Sue Laybourn
http://nostoneunturnedediting.co.uk/
Cover Art By: Jay Aheer of Simply Defined Art
Proofreading By: Carra Saigh of Making it Happen Book Blog
http://moonangel23.blogspot.com/
Formatting & Illustrations By: Casey Harvell of Fancy Pants Formatting
http://www.fancypantsformatting.com
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, Adrienne E. Via.
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Dedication
To my family, my team, my friends and my readers: Thank you for making writing these last twenty books the most amazing experience of my life.
I can’t wait to write twenty more for you.
Loves,
Adrienne V.
Contents
Dedication
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Author Bio
Also by A.E. Via
References & Mentions
Chapter One
Edison
Edison pushed his tired body out of bed. He felt sluggish and bloated. He’d had the audacity to come home late Wednesday night and eat General Tso chicken, five donuts, then feel guilty as hell an hour later. He foolishly did thirty minutes on his treadmill, and twenty minutes of bench presses on his chest without so much as a stretch first. Idiot. But he’d had a hard time getting his coworkers’ brush-off out of his mind.
He’d left work too late to go home and cook a decent meal, so he’d gone to a popular nearby restaurant in Town Center to have dinner. He’d been surprised to see several of his employees around the bar, laughing and having a good time. However, the moment he’d tried to join them, he’d been given a lot of excuses about how they weren’t staying and needed to be up early the next morning. None of them had looked ready to go when he’d arrived, but he’d given them an understanding smile and walked back to his table for one. After he’d finished eating and headed back to his car, he’d seen everyone just two blocks up at a trendy evening spot with an outside bar, holding fresh drinks in their hands. He hadn’t bothered to go in and ask what was up. He already knew. Edison had never been popular in high school, or had he been a player in college. Nope, it’d just been him, his pops, the barber shop and his studies. And life had been good to him.
He went about his usual morning routine but made sure to take an extra-long shower to try to relax his tight muscles. Maybe he’d see some results from last night’s effort. You can’t pig out then exercise. It doesn’t work like that and you know it. All the health and fitness magazines scattered across his coffee table had already told him that. He secured his bath sheet around his hips and got out his shaving kit. “Morning Pop,” he whispered. He did that every time he took out the vintage set. It had been passed down from his grandfather to his father and now to him. While Edison chose not to go into the family business, he’d still grown up there and his father had taught him everything he knew.
Edison worked up a good lather then smoothed the creamy foam across the minimal stubble on his chin and cheeks, then opened his just-sharpened, straight razor. He started at the top of his cheekbone and expertly worked his way down his jaw with hands steadier than a surgeon’s. When he was finished he rinsed well, then applied a cool cloth to close his pores. Keeping with tradition, he splashed a sparse amount of Paco Rabanne aftershave into his palms, then patted the scent into his cheeks and along his neck. He knew cologne was in and aftershave was a habit of old, but it wasn’t a ritual he could let go of. It was one of the few ways he stayed connected to his father. Even after two years, Edison missed him every single day.
Thursdays were more laid back at the office, but Edison had multiple meetings scheduled, so he wore a pair of coal slacks, a gray shirt and a black silk tie. He surely wasn’t going to be caught looking unprepared. At twenty-six, he felt as if he was always having to prove he was good enough, mature enough to be in his position. The office had never run smoother, and the staff hadn’t been so well supported in years before Edison came. The last executive manager had had a personal agenda and used the company name to boost her résumé, only staying for three years and not implementing a single change or making any difference. So far, it hadn’t been contested that Edison was the right man for his job.
He’d stopped at McDonalds and got himself a steak and egg bagel combo to eat in the break room before his meeting. The dinky Danishes and plain bagels with low fat spreads they served at the morning meetings did nothing for him. By ten his stomach would be growling again. He’d tried using protein shakes as a snack substitute, but he found them to be useless. About as useless as a handful of healthy, omega-3 fatty nuts, or a half a cup of fruits and berries, or a doggone pack of dry granola in Greek yogurt. He was half Italian, for heaven’s sake. None of that crap did anything for his robust appetite. It was like using sprinkles of water to extinguish a blazing fire. When Edison was hungry, he wanted food, real food, g
ood food.
He pulled into the executive lot and noticed several work trucks parked up front. There were men unloading countless bags of soil and some digging trenches. Then he remembered they’d scheduled a company to come out and check the irrigation system before the new landscapers started this week.
“Hey, Edison.”
Edison groaned quietly, taking his time to pull his bag from the back seat and securing his breakfast. Skylar’s voice was not what he wanted to hear first thing this morning. The handsome, six-foot-tall, walking ego sauntered up to him with a humorous tilt on his slim lips. “Did you buy up all the goodies at Mickey D’s, pal? That bag looks kinda heavy.” Edison felt a hard palm land in the center of his back, making him want to jerk away. Instead, he rolled his shoulders. “I thought you were dieting… this week.”
Edison slammed his car door and began walking through the parking lot, towards the building, leaving Skylar to follow. Technically, he was Skylar's boss, but Skylar didn’t act as if that was the case. It was as if he despised Edison being his superior. Skylar was only thirty-one and he was already a senior paralegal for one of the senior partners. But he didn’t have a corner office in the executive wing beside the owner, Presley Alfred, like Edison did, and he believed it got under Skylar’s collar. So, he threw little jabs and potshots when he wanted to make himself feel better.
“Hey, wait up,” Skylar called out and fell in stride beside him.
Edison checked Skylar’s appearance out of the corner of his eye. Of course, he was impeccably dressed. His suit was designer and tailored, his socks trendy, and his shoes so fashionable they looked uncomfortable. Edison didn’t dress like a slouch. He had a few shops that catered to the regular-sized man, and that knew how to fit his suits properly. While they weren’t Armani and Stefano Ricci, he was still proud of his Ralph Laurens and Kenneth Coles. He hoped the compliments he got were genuine and not suck-ups because he was the boss. It didn’t matter. He’d take it either way.
Chapter Two
Bishop
Bishop had his elbows propped on his knees and his head braced in his hands. The sound of the cell doors sliding open, then clanging shut continued to pound between his ears. How the fuck am I back in the damn Breaks again? He glanced over at his best friend Trent who was rocking in the corner, murmuring something he couldn’t make out. He sighed and leaned back against the cold concrete, the roughness digging into his sore muscles. It was almost six in the morning and he was tired as shit. He’d been up all night and he still had to be to work in two hours for manual labor.
The fifth guard passed through on his heavy rotation, glancing between the cells lining the narrow walkway with a scowl he’d managed to keep in place all night. Bishop held the man’s beady eyes with his own annoyed glare. In his mind, he flipped the officer off, then told him to get fucked twenty times. But in reality, he clenched his fist and tightened his mouth into a firm line, just wanting to be let out.
He and Trent were stuck in the Breaks together just like old rotten times. The sheriff’s department called it twenty-four-hour lock-up, or the drunk tank. In the city of Norfolk, Virginia, there was so much rowdy behavior on any given day that the police department didn’t have the capacity to arrest everyone. Jails were already overcrowded with serious offenders. However, they often removed the disorderly from the streets and tossed them in a holding cell until they sobered, began to act rationally, or kept their mouths closed long enough. So far, none of them had been released.
“Yo man! When the fuck you letting us outta here?” one of the rival gang members asked from the cell across from him.
Bishop gritted his teeth.
The guard stopped short. He slowly rotated his thick neck, his bald head glistening even in the dim lighting. His thin lips executed a perfect sneer. “Well, I was about to say let’s go but since you had to talk shit, how about we wait one more hour.”
Fuck. The groans and curses were probably like music to the guard’s ears as he strutted away with his head high while being called every name in the book. Trent pushed off the wall and spun to glower at the members of the Digg's Park gang, and none of them hesitated to shoot daggers back at him. Bishop’s head pounded harder.
“What the fuck are you staring at, Trent?” A big tatted-up bear named Jessup, with fists the size of cinderblocks, advanced across his cell space until his nose was almost touching the steel bars.
Bishop knew Jessup. He was well known for not only his harsh words but also for his no-mercy policy. Trent didn’t answer, but he held Jessup’s challenging gaze. Thank goodness, the guards had sense enough to keep rival members, or ones picked up for fighting, in opposite tanks. It prevented them from trying to kill each other, but it didn’t stop them from talking trash though.
Bishop didn’t want words to start flying again. It was what had gotten them all thrown into the Breaks in the first place. He, Trent, and a couple of their buddies from the old neighborhood had been at a nightclub in downtown Norfolk, a spot they used to frequent all the time but had cut back on since they were no longer gang members. Most of the clubs in that area were notorious for shady activity. They had been a part of that scene for most of their lives until roughly six years ago. Bishop had made the decision to stop living that lifestyle for him and Trent, after doing five years in a minimum-security prison. They’d been let out the official way— the hard way. Bishop had done his time. He’d never snitched, he’d never given the feds anything on his gang, and for his loyalty they let him and his best friend exit without penalty. Now they were allowed to walk their streets without getting jumped or killed. They’d taken one for the team. He and Trent were no longer affiliated, and they were also off-limits.
“You know you talk a lot of shit, Trent, to not be able to back it up. If it wasn’t for Bishop saving your ass I would’ve put a slug in your temple,” Jessup rumbled in his gritty voice.
Bishop didn’t bother staring that threat in the eye. It was idle, unless the man sitting on the metal bench across from him permitted it. Sly wasn’t as high-strung as most of his members, and he ran his neighborhood with a combination of empathy and strength. He was a good leader and a decent guy, not to mention he and Bishop had history. He was hoping that his old friend would remember that and cut him and Trent some slack.
“All right let’s go, fellas,” the shift leader announced after another hour and fifteen minutes. A loud buzzer rang out, and the cell door unlocked with a clank, but Bishop was done hearing it. He heard that damn sound in his nightmares. “And if you even think of starting something outside, I’ll have no problem snatching you back in here and putting you in front of a magistrate.”
There were a few grumbles and muted curses, but they were all silent for the most part. They were quickly given back their bagged-up personal belongings and escorted out of the building. When Jessup shoulder-checked Trent on his way past, Bishop hurried and gripped his friend’s bicep before he could call Jessup out for it. “Don’t even fucking think about it, Trent. Forget him.”
“Forget?” Trent growled low, his furious gaze darting to the asshole guard still lingering nearby. He waited until they were out of earshot of the deputies before he kept talking. “You saw what he just did, B. He practically challenged me. And after what he said to you last night. I’m gonna get ’em.”
Bishop towered over his best friend’s five foot, eleven inch, tight frame. His head felt as if it was going to explode, he was so tired and angry. He had no clue how he was going to get it through Trent’s thick skull that he was over this life. It just wasn’t for him anymore. The fighting, the lying, the sneaking and dealing—he’d outgrown it all at thirty-two years old. Especially when it’d cost him valuable years of his life. With his forehead against Trent’s, he clenched his teeth as he reined in his anger. “I don’t know how many ways I can say this to you, man, but I’m not getting locked up again. I’m sick of the bullshit. I’m sick of fighting, Trent, and you should be too.”
“It’
s about respect, B.” Trent frowned.
“You think we don’t have it? We never once snitched on our brothers no matter how many deals the cops offered us and we did our time. The people who really matter to us have mad respect for us. Who cares what they think?” Bishop pointed in the direction of Sly’s crew who’d moved several feet up St. Paul’s Boulevard, but had stopped and huddled around a bus stop as if they were waiting to see what they’d do. On the streets, it was a respect thing, but Bishop wasn’t street anymore. He wasn’t gonna do anything but make him and Trent square with a rival neighborhood before they got into trouble they didn’t need.
“I care,” Trent said sternly.
“Then you’ll care by yourself.” Bishop backed up a few paces and stared his friend down, letting him know he was dead serious. Trent knew when it was best for him to shut his mouth. They’d been together most of their lives, since Bishop had first gone to juvenile detention at age twelve, where he’d met a foul-mouthed, hot-tempered boy who was either quick to stab an enemy in the back or was loyal to a fault if his trust was gained. Bishop had been the only one not to tease, but instead had befriended the short kid with the dirty clothes that never fit. They’d clicked immediately because of their similar background and upbringing. Both had questionable fathers, and mothers who’d long ago wanted nothing to do with them. And over the years they’d become as thick as thieves. Brothers.
“I was fighting for you,” Trent’s voice lowered to almost a pleading tone. “I won’t stand by and let anyone call you stupid.”
Bishop was quiet for a while before he muttered. “Do you think I’m stupid?”
Trent bared his teeth. “Don’t fuckin’ ask me that. You’re the smartest man I know.”
Bishop snorted and took a deep sigh. “Then you need to get out more.”
Trent frowned and it finally made Bishop crack a hint of a smile. “Come on, man. We only got an hour and a half before we have to be at work. I hope Mike stayed at his girl’s house last night, that way he won’t know I didn’t come home, and I won’t have to answer any questions.”