Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 120186 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120186 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
My hand trembles as I set the empty glass on the bar, then pound my fist against its scarred surface to signal Rick. “Let’s go again.” I slide the glass his way. “Keep them coming until I hit the floor.”
“You know I never stand between a man and the money he’s willing to part with.”
Even half blind as I am right now, I see his smirk. I’ve seen it before, too. It’s the look he gives customers who have obviously had too much to drink, but he’s not willing to cut off yet.
“Bishop money is as green as anybody else’s.” I tap the glass, pushing it closer to him. “Keep pouring.”
“Suit yourself. But you’re gonna regret it in the mornin’.”
I already have so many regrets with or without the whiskey. You don’t wake a few days after you murder your father and feel great. At least, that’s what I’m guessing. This is new territory for me. If only the people in this bar knew the truth.
All of ’em sitting around, having a normal night. Making bets on dumb shit like who can chug a beer faster or hit a bull’s-eye on the dartboard. Men and women making eyes at each other from across the room because nobody wants to go home alone.
If they did, they might have to face how pathetic their lives are, and then what? Where do you go from there?
Where do I go from here? Murder is a pretty hefty charge. I should’ve gone to jail. That’s where I should be now, in a cell with the other degenerates. It’s what I deserve, but I’m a Bishop—at least, that’s what it says on my driver’s license.
And being a Bishop gives you certain privileges. If my last name was Jones or Smith, I’d be rotting in a cell, waiting to talk to a lawyer, shoulder to shoulder with other losers like me.
Not only was I spared the kind of punishment anybody else would’ve received, but news of the great Roman Bishop being dead hasn’t even hit the public yet. None of these people know that the man who’s held Black Hollow Creek in his fist all these years is dead. I don’t even want to know how much Sawyer wound up paying to keep the paramedics’ mouths shut after what they saw.
My thoughts twist back to Roman.
What had he called me? Emma Porter’s mistake. He decided before I was ever born that I would never be anything more than a tool. Something he could use to punish my birth mother for having the balls to defy him. I wonder, dimly, somewhere in my booze-soaked brain, what opened her eyes. What forced her to make a move like that?
“Another one.” I slam the glass on the bar and wipe the back of my other hand across my mouth. I’m turning into the kind of drunk I can’t stand, not that I give a shit. Nor do I think anyone else in this establishment cares. If they did, I’d tell them to go straight to hell and say hi to Roman for me once they get there.
“Can ya not see me standing here, or do you just not give a fuck?”
I barely hear the voice over my shoulder through the memories battling the whiskey.
It takes getting shoved from behind to realize this asshole is talking to me.
“What the hell?” I snap and turn to him.
“You heard me.” He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and packed with muscle. “You Bishops think you can take up everybody’s time, don’t you?” His bald head shines in the neon lights hanging behind the bar, and his narrowed eyes gleam with hate. “I’m standing here trying to get service, but all that matters is you.”
Unfortunately, this piece of shit picked the wrong guy on the wrong fucking night. Slowly, I rise from the stool. I’m still steady enough to split this asshole’s face open, and I’m wound tight enough to make a stupid choice. “Probably because there’s a sign on the wall that says ‘No Douchebags Served’ but I guess that only works if you know how to read.”
His head snaps back. “What the fuck did you say?”
I point to his right. “Up there.”
Go figure, he turns toward where I’m pointing like the dumbass he is. I use the distraction to my advantage, pulling my arm back and slamming my fist into his jaw, making him stumble a few steps. Pain ripples across my knuckles, but I welcome it.
“Hey! None of that shit in here!” Rick barks over the rumbling of excited bar patrons. The whistles and hollers are so loud I can barely hear him.
“Send the damages to Sawyer,” I shout back, then focus my sole attention on the fuckface in front of me. This is exactly what I needed tonight. Someone to hurt. Someone to make feel the same way I’m feeling.