Fool's Gold: A Kisses and Crimes Novel Page 6

  Bishop takes a threatening step towards me, nearly making me retreat. Every part of me wants to take a step backwards… but I don’t think my legs or feet have anymore to give.

  I stand my ground, not out of courage but out of sheer necessity. I explode.

  “You can’t just shut me out from the world! I need to experience it. I need to remember. And if I didn’t know any better…” I pose to Bishop, “I’d think that you were trying to get in the way of that…”

  I let the statement linger, anxious to see what he will say next.

  He glowers.

  “I’m only trying to get in the way of whoever made an attempt on your life.”

  “By not letting me live one?”

  The words come out harsher than I intended, and Bishop flinches. I think. I can barely see him.

  His voice, once menacing and raspy, turns soft. Still rough, it is the most gentle I can remember him being in these past two days.

  “This isn’t a game, Dani… You’re unarmed. You’re a million miles from home. And you’re totally fucking clueless. Somebody could shoot you in the middle of Times Square, and no one would be the wiser.”

  “So what… You’re my only resource? I’m just supposed to rely on you while we’re out here in no man’s land?”

  “Yeah. Because we’re in this little thing called a marriage.”

  I cross my arms under my breasts, feeling like a petulant child.

  “Some fucking marriage, this is.”

  Bishop reaches for the light, finally brightening up the space. He shoots a sadistic smile in my direction.

  “You can divorce me when this is over then. But until you get your memory back… that’s just the fucking way it is, kitten. For better… or for worse.”

  His last words strike some strange little chord in me, and I give in, heading towards the kitchen without another word while Bishop practically stands guard at the door.

  I rummage through several drawers while Bishop watches.

  “What are you doing?” he finally asks.

  “Making something to eat...”

  “Refrigerator’s behind you.”

  “I know.” I grab for the forks and knives.

  “Are you?” He glowers. “Sure you’re not finding something to stab me with?”

  “Thought about it. Figured it’d be easier to just kill you with my cooking.”

  At last, Bishop relaxes… but he doesn’t back down.

  His shoulders, tight and hunched, loosen as he eases away from the door, ambling further into the living area, and I watch them even more than I watch him.

  Lion-esque in stature, they bunch and unwind as he moves, the thin cotton no barrier to the broad and beautiful muscles that lie beneath.

  His back to me, he tucks something—a gun, something… else, for all I know—into the waistband of his jeans, and I wonder for the fourth time if I’m still drunk.

  I can’t help checking him out.

  Even when I’m angry at him like I am now, I can’t deny the effect that Bishop—my husband and practical stranger—has on me.

  There’s a roughness to him, an inherent lack of gentleness that he possesses with the way he walks (more like stalks) and speaks.

  He’s more gruff than grace, more lion than lamb, but when he puts his hands on me—like he did last night—there’s an undeniable finesse to his touch.

  The way he caught me in his arms that first morning. The way he held me against the wall. It was practiced.

  Sturdy but not tough. Forceful but not brutal.

  He touches me like he knows—like he understands that I will bend, but not break.

  I like it…

  I like that he handles me not as if I were glass… but gold.

  I grab the rest of the cooking utensils, taking a look at my now raggedy outfit, my sweaty ends and shabby shoes.

  I’m gold, all right… Fucking Fool’s Gold.

  I sigh, digging into the fridge as Bishop takes a seat on the sofa, wondering if he will stop me.

  When he doesn’t, I take the chicken off of the bottom shelf, placing it on the counter. Next to come out are the peppers, the onions, and some spicy mustard sauce.

  Thirty minutes of silence, two burns and one small cut later, I serve the most interesting-looking portions of stir-fry onto our plates.

  I exit the kitchen, clearing my throat over Bishop’s shoulder as I hand him the steaming plate.

  Food in hand, he rises from his seat, following me to the dining room table where we both sit, readying our utensils, shaking out our napkins.

  He reaches for my hand.

  I cock an eyebrow that nearly reaches my hairline.

  “Would you like to start or should I?”

  My eyes widen. “A prayer?”

  “They don’t call me Bishop for nothing.” Smug, he hands me his first smile of the night, and I accept it, gladly, with one of my own.

  “Of course.”

  Thirty seconds of clumsy “grace” later, I pick up my fork but hesitate before digging in. I watch Bishop’s face, anxious to see his reaction, and my face drops when he gives me none.

  I don’t know what to think.

  I twirl my fork while he shovels food with his.

  “How is it?” I ask.

  “It’s…” he hesitates. “Really good.”

  “Really?” I am almost astonished.

  “Yeah… the peppers, the chicken… The chicken is super tender. Mmm,” he moans.

  I practically beam at this point.

  I steady my fork, taking a giant sweep of the stir-fry before swooping it into my mouth. The second I put it there, I know I’ve made a mistake.

  It’s fucking awful.

  And if I hadn’t made it, I’d probably spit it out.

  The chicken is under-seasoned… and tough. The olive oil burnt beneath the peppers giving them the texture of sandpaper and a taste just as gritty.

  I swallow a mouthful that feels like bile, and I am on the verge of hurling it up.

  Bishop takes one look at my face… and smiles.

  The bastard. He knew.

  I throw my napkin at him and miss. I consider throwing my knife and decide against it.

  “You jackass. You knew,” I mumble at him.

  “This was your punishment,” he comments, standing. “Maybe next time, you’ll learn to listen to me.”

  “About cooking?”

  “About everything.”

  I bite down on my bottom lip at his suggestion, watching him watch me. I try to shrug casually.

  “Going to bed hungry…” I say. “It could be worse, I guess.”

  At that, he takes my plate, dumping the entire thing in the sink before grabbing a brown paper bag from the fridge.

  “Before you do… here,” he says, handing it to me as I gape. “I made roast beef sandwiches earlier. Don’t worry…” he says as I start to interrupt. “They’re your favorite. You’ll just have to trust me.”

  I take the bag slowly, feeling grateful. “Thanks.”

  “And when you’re ready to stop risking your life every fucking chance you get, just let me know,” he stares heatedly. “You know where to find me…”

  A FRIENDLY REMINDER

  DANI

  The next morning I wake up to the strangest smell.

  The smell of actual appetizing food.

  I walk downstairs in a silky pink robe and panties, letting my nose lead the way. I don’t even think to brush out my unruly hair before making an appearance.

  Groggy, irate from another restless night, I slump my schleppy-looking ass down the stairs, sleepy eyes and all.

  When I hit the bottom step, I feel instantly awake. He is so impossible to miss, and I’ve finally found the wake-up call I need.

  Bishop in low-hanging sweatpants, a thin white tank and, from the looks of it, nothing else.

  He barely glances up as I enter the kitchen, his attention fully focused on some sort of omelet-bread-toast combination that
he flips skillfully with his spatula, seasoning with one hand and turning with the other.

  It’s like a spectacle. He is a spectacle… and I can’t take my eyes off of him.

  Bishop with his stone-cold demeanor and fine cooking skills. Bishop with the careful hands and hardened smile.

  Bishop… with no first name…

  So much I’m starting to learn about my “dutiful husband.” And so much I have yet to figure out…

  I stare at the back of his extra wide shoulders, marveling at their beauty, mesmerized by the bold and black tattoo that covers one.

  I’m beginning to know what secrets are hidden beneath Bishop’s clothes. I wonder about the secrets that lie even deeper.

  As if hearing my thoughts, he looks up at me.

  “Morning, sunshine…” he comments, a hint of a grin on his lips.

  “Oh, I must look like a ray of fucking sunshine.”

  “Even better than that.”

  I can’t hide the sudden smile that finds my face.

  “So, what are we eating?”

  “None of your cooking ever again, that’s for damn sure.”

  “Smartass.”

  “You’re damn right I’m smart. Last night’s ‘meal’ nearly took me out.”

  “Ah, then I’d consider that a success.”

  Bishop gives me a pointed look before turning. He places the omelet-toast on one plate and then the next on another. He hands me the plate just as I cozy up to the stool at the kitchen counter.

  I wait for him.

  But he doesn’t sit beside me.

  Instead he leans over the counter, setting a taut and veiny forearm near his plate. I lick my lips and feel self-conscious that it’s not because of the food.

  I try to distract myself.

  I point with the fork he hands me.

  “This is different,” I say, motioning towards the omelette.

  “In that it’s edible?”

  I roll my eyes.

  “I mean, I’ve never seen this before.”

  “You have…” he says softly. “It’s just that you don’t remember.”

  Oh, right.

  “It’s no worry,” Bishop says, sensing my discomfort. “It won’t always be like this.”

  I poke feebly at my breakfast. “But when?”

  “When what?”

  “When won’t it be like this?”

  Bishop inhales deeply, standing straighter, planting that damned dangerous forearm on the edge of the counter like a kickstand. He regards me with molten maple eyes.

  “When you heal… Dani,” he answers meaningfully. “When your brain, your body, your thoughts heal. Don’t shut the memories out. Let them come.”

  And when he says that, I have a thought: singular and frightening. So scary I almost don’t want to ask. I think of my insistent nightmares.

  “But what if I don’t want them to come? What if what comes is awful?”

  Bishop narrows his golden eyes, dropping his fork slowly.

  “Dani, I…”

  A sudden ringing interrupts whatever he is going to say next. Distracted, Bishop reaches into his pants pocket… and produces a phone I’d never seen until now.

  I almost gasp as he answers.

  “Bishop…” he says on the line.

  “Yeah, no… I’m on my way. Be there in twenty.”

  He hangs up.

  I push my plate away.

  “Be where, Bishop?”

  He doesn’t answer. Instead he reaches over, grabbing a shirt from the back of one dining room chair and lifting it overhead. I look on as he pulls it down his body and digs in his pocket once again.

  This time he retrieves another phone. Similar to the first and just as tiny and black.

  He motions towards me.

  “C’mere, kitten…”

  I don’t want to go to him.

  I want answers more than I want to be patronized, but when he looks at me, a hint of expectancy in his eyes, I can’t do anything else.

  I round the counter, stopping to stand right before his bare feet.

  “This is yours,” he says, holding out the phone. “And this…” He reaches into his back pocket. He pulls out a gun that I immediately recognize as a revolver. “You are to keep it on you at all times…”

  “What…”

  “My number is already programmed,” he cuts in. “No one but me will call you on it, and it’s completely untraceable.”

  He grabs my hand, placing the rudimentary device in the middle of it.

  “When I call, you answer. When it rings, you answer. If it so much as makes it to the third iteration of the ring tone, I will personally find out where the fuck you are and retrieve it and you.”

  His implication makes me shudder.

  “I’ve got to go take care of something now,” he finishes.

  He walks past me, grabbing a pair of shoes and a black bag I’ve never seen before heading for the door with both in tow.

  I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say. I just stand there, stupidly, phone in hand, letting another secret between us go right out the door.

  “Bishop!” I call after him.

  He turns. “Yeah?”

  I shift on my feet. “You know I’m not just going to stay waiting for you all day.”

  He nods. “I know.”

  I hold out my other empty hand. “How will I get out without a key?”

  He grins then, making my stomach do a flip.

  “You’ll leave the way you did before.” He pauses. “You didn’t think I was going to make it easy for you, did you?”

  ***

  The bookstore in which I’ve wandered is only one of the many wonders of Annecy.

  I found a river that runs throughout town, a bakery (chockfull of crepes and macaroons), a chocolatier, antique shop and, finally, my favorite cup of tea: books.

  Loads of them, crammed into a corner store that wasn’t much bigger than my closet at the loft.

  Peppered with little stands of confections and trinkets at the end of each shelf, it had the character of a fairytale scene—quaint, whimsical and clandestine.

  It was hidden enough to feel like my own little secret.

  And I loved it from the minute I stepped foot inside.

  The owner Geoffrey—an older, little man with hands that betrayed his eighty years and lively eyes that seemed eighteen—regaled me with a story about its origins, never once missing an opportunity to mention how’d he “built” it with his own two spindly hands.

  Hands that busied themselves as he flipped through books and receipts behind the check out counter.

  Hands that helped to tell a tale I could envision as Geoffrey mimed out a depiction of the little shop’s animated history.

  I had a blast… especially when he pointed out the Romance section.

  I sauntered on my way to the back, touching pages with my fingertips as I perused.

  I finally land on an interesting looking shelf.

  Now in the back of the tiny store, I pull out a beautifully illustrated little book.

  It’s called Bonjour Tristesse. Hello Sadness.

  I read the first paragraph, feeling anxious. Impatient, I splay the pages with one shaky hand, keeping the other on the phone in my tight-fitting pants.

  It reads:

  “A strange melancholy pervades me to which I hesitate to give the grave and beautiful name of sadness. In the past, the idea of sadness always appealed to me; now I am almost shamed of its egoism. I had known boredom, regret and at times remorse but never sadness. Today something envelops me like silken web, enervating and soft, which isolates me…”

  It is bittersweet—a strange start to what promises to be a beautifully sad story. I almost hate to say it… but I am hooked by the time I read the last sentence.

  I want to bookmark it… but the only thing I have to use is the crumpled note that I’d written last night before a tortured night’s sleep.

  I skim through the not
e for the first time since I scribbled its hasty text.

  In the span of just 12 hours, the note is already wrinkled, dog-eared at the edges where it’s been folded.

  I slip it through the novel’s yellowed, weathered pages, placing it back on the shelf where it belongs.

  A sort of To Be Continued…

  But the day wears on and my page-flipping fingers grow weary. By the time I put down my final book, I am physically and mentally exhausted… and lazily satiated.

  In that respect…. Reading is a lot like sex.

  ‘Cept it’s half the satisfaction—none of the guilt.

  I walk away from the reading shelf feeling better than I have all day, thinking of sex, trying to remember it, and inevitably ending my thoughts on my—What do they call it?—sex-on-a-stick(?)… husband that is walking the streets somewhere.

  If only I could remember what sex with him was like…

  Caught in a whirlwind of sudden emotion and a downpour that doesn’t let up, I walk home from the bookstore, empty-handed—stories from Geoffrey’s Romance section still on my heart and mind.

  By the time I make it back to the cottage, my hair and clothes are soaked. For the first time since I started the trek, I remember how I got in.

  No key. And even less of a desire to hop back through the window from which I came.

  I walk the last block home in despair.

  Despair turns into fatigue. I reach for the window above my head and just as I start to open it, that’s when the voices reach me.

  “Yeah… No, I got it. Thanks. Picked it up today. Yes…” He sighs on his end of the phone line. “Yes, P.”

  It’s Bishop.

  “Everything’s under control. P, you don’t have to worry about me… Yes, I understand… No. Of course… Ah, more election year horseshit…? Look, if your boss yells at you, you can just blame it on me…” He laughs. “No, you’ve known me long enough to understand. I’ll handle the situation; I always do.”

  The situation?

  After the exhausting day I’ve had, I have half a mind to think that “the situation” he’s talking about is me.

  Then again, I am just tired… and cranky. And if I’m being honest with myself, I’m just curious.

  Who the hell could be Bishop talking to? Is this the “business” he had to attend to?