by A. E. Via
“It’s called Gordon Biersch. It’s at the corner of Central Park Avenue and Virginia Beach Boulevard.”
Without thought, Bishop inched closer and hooked Royce’s belt loop, pulling him forward. “You gonna be around a lot of people?”
Royce shook his head. “It’s a study group. They should be gone by the time you get there. I’ll just hang at the bar or something.”
Bishop needed to leave, he did. He knew Royce was flirting with him but he couldn’t think with his cock. But damn. Five fucking years. He did want to feel Royce shudder in his arms but certainly not yet. “Let’s talk tonight.”
Royce blinked a few times. “Okay. Then I’ll see you tonight.” Royce frowned up at him again as if he was seeing something he didn’t like.
Sly may have been right about his ex. Royce was high maintenance, demanding, and oftentimes, mean. He only cared about one person… himself. And Bishop thought that used to be enough for him, that that was all he deserved. But he’d matured over the last five years, having grown up the hard way. Prison had a way of turning a boy into a man whether they were ready or not.
“Bye, Bishop.” Royce turned and hurried back inside. Bishop stood a moment with his hands limp at his sides, his body still vibrating from being touched.
Chapter Four
Bishop
When Bishop left the alley he saw Trent leaning against a rundown dry cleaners with a white Styrofoam to-go container in one hand and a large coffee in the other. When he was almost to him, Trent thrust the box at his chest. “We’re freaking late as shit. Here’s the decent meal you wanted so badly. It’s cold. And so is your coffee.” Trent practically tossed the cup into his hand then started walking back in the direction they’d come.
Bishop didn’t let his annoyance show. Instead, he followed a little way behind his friend to let him stew in his anger alone because currently his own mind was racing with thoughts of his date tonight… he had a date. What the hell am I going to say to him? How would he get Royce to see that he’d changed and was a different man? Still someone he could be proud of regardless of his IQ score.
Sitting next to Trent on the bus, Bishop hurried to eat his gummy pancakes and cool eggs. It was better than starving all day, and since he hadn’t been home he also didn’t have his lunch cooler. That meant he’d have to purchase fast food on their break, which he hated. They only had two options in the area they were working today—eating a greasy burger, or heaven forbid, some Taco Bell and their damn mystery meat.
“Ya know. You keep fussing at me about moving forward, looking ahead, forgetting the past. Are you just spouting this bullshit to me? Because it damn sure doesn’t seem like you’re taking that advice. Royce is in the past.” Trent spoke up, after riding in silence for twenty-five minutes and staring out of the window as the bus moved them deeper into another adjoining city—Chesapeake.
“I’m not going backwards, Trent,” Bishop mumbled. “Not trying to, anyway.”
“You think he wants something more than your dick?” Trent glared at him.
Bishop bristled in his seat. Fuck. He couldn’t ignore that he was punching himself in the back of the skull with that very same question. “I guess I’ll see tonight.”
“You’re going out with him? Man! I knew it!” Trent yelled, making the bus driver raise her eyes to her mirror. Her narrowed gaze returned to road when Trent lowered his voice. “Unbelievable. He was practically humping you in that alley like a horny Rottweiler with his pink thingy hanging out. I can’t believe you’re being so blind.”
“Sometimes a man has to see things for himself,” Bishop said calmly.
He stood fifteen minutes later and stepped off the air-conditioned HRT bus and into the scorching sun. His forehead heated fast and the beads of sweat were beginning to roll down his temple. Damn. He was gonna roast today. At least he had his black bandanna in his back pocket; that would keep the sweat out of his eyes. Bishop didn’t have his gear, his cooler, or his wide-brimmed hat. Shit. Maybe Mike had an extra hat in the truck somewhere.
Bishop doubled his speed, realizing they were now over thirty minutes late. He heard the riding mowers and blowers already going as he made his way across Volvo Parkway to the small strip mall they did on Mondays. He and Trent hurried onto the trailer and began unpacking the other weed eaters. He also grabbed his hedge trimmers and pruning shears. Bishop checked the grounds for his boss, but he didn’t see him. He must be on the back side. Good. He and Trent got on the piece of property closest to the street, closest to passers-by. Mike liked him to be responsible for the designer beds and ground beautification.
Bishop realized it was lunch time when he saw the rest of the guys began to work their way back to the trailer from various parts of the property. He and Trent were both trying to avoid eye contact with their boss as he strolled by them, speaking to Manny about the prospect of a new contract in Virginia Beach. Manny was Mike’s best friend, had been for the last twenty-plus years, he was the manager and Bishop was the crew leader. It hadn’t taken him long to earn that title, especially after his designs started to make them way more money. He didn’t stop shaping the wide, four-foot, Dwarf Holly bush, paying extra attention to the fine details, noticing if even a twig was out of place.
“No need to work through lunch. I’m gonna dock you anyway, so you might as well eat.” Mike stood beside him while he knelt over the bush, double-checking the right side.
Bishop kept trimming.
“That looks pretty good to me.”
Bishop stood to his full height, staring his boss dead in his eye. Same exact height, build, stance, demeanor, voice, everything. He clenched his teeth as he removed the gloves he’d borrowed from Manny, since he’d been in the truck making calls most of the morning. They had another business to do after this and a large home in Lake Placid that required twenty-two crates of pansies to pick up, and three hundred pounds of mulch. It was going to be a long-ass day and food sounded good. But, he’d fucked up and he had to do penance. He moved to the next bush and got to work. Trent rolled his eyes, grumbling as he hefted his shears and followed Bishop’s lead.
“Bishop,” Mike said sternly.
“We didn’t mean to be so late. What had happened was—”
“It won’t happen again. Period.” Bishop cut off whatever the hell Trent was about to say. Any sentence that started like that was going to be nonsense. And Bishop wasn’t about that, or at least he was trying not to be.
Mike stood there, staring with dark, hard-to-read eyes. “You guys look like you had a rough night.”
Bishop didn’t comment, and Mike hadn’t posed it as a question. “We’re good. Hey, look. I have a side job after we finish in Lake Placid. Think I can use the truck when we knock off?” He’d hope the obvious subject change would give his boss a hint that the topic was closed.
“I just don’t want you to end up in any more shit, Bishop. I know the look you get when you’ve fucked up.”
“Mike,” Bishop growled.
“Excuse me? I’m Mike again? I thought we’d settled that.”
He needed to borrow the truck and Mike’s supplies. He didn’t have time to puff his chest out at him. Or deny him what he wanted.
“I’m not in any shit. I got a job, okay,” Bishop murmured stiffly. “Dad.”
Trent snickered behind him, and Bishop had a sudden urge to mule kick his best friend. “Go grab us something light, Trent, while I finish this.”
Trent didn’t have to be told twice. He hurried to catch up with the guys crossing the street to the Burger King.
“Sure.” Mike’s thick brows rose almost to his hairline. “You bid on it yourself.”
“Not exactly, boss man.”
Mike huffed, yanking his wide camouflage hat off his head and slapping it against his thigh. They even had the same buzz cut. “You still don’t wanna call me Dad? That’s what I am.”
“Oh, I know. But it’s kind of a hard habit to break after thirty years. I mean you fucki
n insisted I call you Mike my whole damn life, acting like we were brothers or cousins all the time because you were embarrassed to have a kid. Now that I’m grown as hell you want me to call you Daddy?”
“Not Daddy. Hell no! That just sounds wrong… especially with…with you know… you being gay and all—”
Bishop glared at his father while he continued to grip the hedge trimmers, almost daring him to continue saying that ridiculous shit.
“And I was never embarrassed to have a kid so young… just terrified. But that was a long time ago. Look. You keep telling me you’ve changed. And I see it. I do. But, I have too.” Mike glanced behind him as if to make sure no one had snuck up on them. Yeah, neither one of them were all that good about expressing their emotions to each other. They’d been more like squabbling brothers than anything else, certainly not a normal, healthy parent-child relationship. “When your own crew set you up to take a robbery charge and I had to sit through that trial and listen to all the shit you endured as a kid growing up on the block with a single dad who didn’t know the first thing about being responsible, I felt like I was being punished too for my mistakes. Not putting you around positive people, not helping you make the right choices… not making sure you went to school.”
“You giving me excuses?” Bishop asked. Because he wasn’t interested. He’d told Mike a million times that he didn’t blame him for his own bad decisions. No one had held a gun to Bishop’s head and told him to skip school and join the Young’s Park gang. Hell, even though Mike had joined the Devil Wreckers—a notorious motorcycle club—when he was nineteen and dragged Bishop along with him into that world, he was now trying to take the blame. Here was his dad, all grown up, trying to claim responsibility for him. And he didn’t know how he felt about any of it.
“No. These aren’t excuses. They’re facts. But we can move on from back there, right? You keep saying that you don’t want to dwell on old shit that can’t be erased or changed.”
“That’s right.” Bishop wiped the sweat dripping down his throat and into his damp collar.
“Then why can’t me and you start anew? It’s not too late.” Mike glanced down at his boots, scrubbing the toe across the dry grass. He looked worn out, a defeated expression crossing his intense features. It was like staring in a mirror sometimes. Bishop hated that downtrodden expression. Didn’t like it on a face that looked so much like his own. His father had been waiting right there for him when he’d stepped out of that prison. He hadn’t expected to see him, and he sure didn’t expect him to come up and hug him and say, “I’m glad you’re out, son. Let’s go home.”
Bishop had almost keeled over from shock, and the questions raced through his mind too fast to answer them all. What home? Back to the projects? Hell no. And did he just call me son? Mike had never called him that. It was always, ‘lil homie’, ‘boy’, or ‘runt’, or even ‘annoying little twerp’. But never son. His dad had been adamant about Bishop not making him sound old by calling him Dad. They were roll dogs, bros. When he’d reached a growth spurt at twelve and shot up to almost his dad’s height, it wasn’t long before people started asking how they were related. It was one of their best kept secrets. And now that he was thirty-two, Mike wanted to switch names and roles.
“Whad’ya say, man? Maybe we can even try some fishing or camping, or some shit. I don’t know. At least that’s what I heard fathers and sons are supposed to do to bond.”
“‘Bond’?” Bishop frowned.
Mike slammed his hat onto his head and retreated a couple of steps at the indignation in Bishop’s voice. “Dammit, Bishop. Can’t you see I’m trying? I was a shit dad, all right, and it got my kid tossed in jail for five years. I’m just trying to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Now that we’re both away from that life we can do whatever we want. Maybe keep building this landscaping business together?”
Bishop stared in the other direction, contemplating as he saw the crew heading back across the road with loaded, greasy bags of burgers and large drinks. He heard Mike curse under his breath before he began walking away.
“All right,” Bishop called out. Mike’s head was hanging low and his shoulders slumped in defeat. Ugggh. This time, Bishop left out the bite when he said the name Mike wanted to hear. When he called him a title he’d yet to earn. “Okay, Dad. Sure, why not? Let’s go fishing on Sunday, no camping. I’m not about to get lost in the woods with you.”
Mike double-stepped it over to him, a large grin splitting his rugged face. The only way to really tell them apart was by their beards. Mike’s was thicker, bushier, while Bishop kept his cut close, stubbly. “Okay. Yeah.” Mike frowned and rubbed his hand along his jaw. “You know how to fish?”
Bishop rolled his eyes, feeling a slight smile forming. “No. You suggested it.”
Mike reared back and laughed, suddenly looking carefree and elated. Bishop wondered if that was how he’d sound if he ever laughed out loud. “Well it can’t be that difficult to figure out. We’ll wing it.”
Bishop nodded, his mouth forming a tight line.
“Smile sometimes, B. It’s all right.”
“I will when I have something to smile about.”
His dad sounded almost heartbroken for him. And that better not be pity he was noticing. He didn’t need anyone’s sympathy.
“Here, Bishop. I got you two chicken club salads. They were out of that other one,” Trent said as he brushed past them, moving towards the shade of a tree. He dropped to the ground and placed Bishop’s food next to him. Trent tore into his first burger and shoved some fries into his mouth before he glanced up at them. “Manny has your food, boss.”
“Thanks, Trent.” Mike returned his hard eyes to Bishop. “So, I’ll see you home after your job tonight?”
“For a bit,” Bishop said.
Mike shuffled awkwardly for a moment before he reached over and clamped Bishop on his shoulder then patted it couple of times. Bishop glanced down at the spot where his dad held him, which made him yank his hand away. “Um, yeah. See you… I mean enjoy your lunch.”
Bishop did smirk for real. Their exchange was so weird and clumsy that it could only be funny.
He and Trent had been eating their lunch in silence when he asked. “What was all that about? Did you tell him about the fight last night?”
“No. He didn’t ask.” Bishop stabbed as much lettuce and cubes of chicken as he could onto his tiny plastic fork. “He already knows.”
“For real?” Trent crumpled his bag. He cut his eyes towards him, then to his hands. “He ain’t talking about putting you out, is he?”
Bishop took a large gulp of his water. “No. He wants to go fishing.”
Trent hesitated a moment as if he hadn’t heard correctly, then started chuckling. “Okay. Mike is on some shit. First, he sets you up a sweet spot to live when you get out, then he gives you a good job, wants you to start calling him Dad, and now he wants you guys to go fishing?”
Bishop had had years for reflection, but it was rare that he considered his and Mike’s relationship becoming anything more than what it’d always been. He didn’t know how he felt, so he filled his mouth with the last of his salad. It wasn’t near enough calories for him, but it’d have to do. He wiped the remnants of raspberry vinaigrette dressing from his mouth, then finished his water. He refused to use any type of ranch or disgusting cream-based dressing. It was what he’d had to choke down in prison, and he hated anything that reminded him of that place—like horrible food. He still had a difficult time with adjusting to some things since he’d been out but Mike—his dad—had been a huge help. So why was Bishop ignoring his efforts?
“Dude. Why are you looking like that?”
“Like what,” Bishop grumbled.
“Like someone just tried to shove something in your ass.”
Bishop jerked his head back, giving Trent a curious look.
“I think what Mike’s doing is cool. He’s nothing like he used to be. He’s like seriously trying. I mean
he’s always looked after us in some sort of way, but he’s never been all business-like and wannabe Cliff Huxtable.”
“I don’t think people use Bill Cosby as an example anymore, Trent,” Bishop deadpanned. He stood and brushed the freshly cut grass off his hips, then hollered at the guys still lingering around the trailer on their phones. “Let’s go! Time to finish this up!”
Chapter Five
Bishop
The second Bishop pulled the loud F150 into his and Mike’s driveway, he stared at the double-wide trailer in agony. He knew it was cool and homey in there, and he was so beyond exhausted that his vision was blurry. Mike appeared to be in the living room, since the light in his bedroom was off. Bishop sighed heavily and cut the engine. When he’d dropped Trent off at his girl’s house, he’d tripped over his feet twice trying to get into the small duplex. After getting no sleep last night and working as hard as they had today, it was no wonder they were both the walking dead. Then having to do a yard for free at the end of the day was a real kick in the nuts.
But he had somewhere to be. His jeans automatically got tighter the moment he thought of Royce and how he’d felt wrapped around him this morning. It had been the worst tease of his life, and he couldn’t believe he’d done that to himself. Even with how revved up he already was, he wasn’t going to bed Royce tonight or any night until he knew where he stood. And if Royce wasn’t into him anymore, then he’d accept that. Rotating his neck and popping vertebra, Bishop checked his watch. It was already going on eight thirty. Shit. He hurried out of the truck and jogged up the few steps, using his key to let himself in. They weren’t in a bad neighborhood anymore, but they weren’t in a place that screamed leave your door wide open, either.