Breaking The Chains (Satan's Knights Prospect Trilogy) Read online

  “What do you mean she’s dating him?”

  “C’mon, Char, you’re not really surprised, are you?”

  Surprised would be putting it mildly.

  “It’s fairly new from what I gather, but they’re definitely dating. It started with small repairs around the house until he finally got the nerve to ask her out or maybe he got tired of fixing her pipes. They’ve gone on a few dates from what my mom says.”

  “So your mom knows, and you know…anyone else?”

  “Mrs. Carollo across the street caught them making out.”

  “Why hasn’t she told me?”

  “Well, I guess she anticipated you’d choke on her macaroni pie for one.”

  “It’s not funny,” I argue, pushing my dish away. I no longer have an appetite, in fact, that last bite is working its way up my throat as we speak. I can’t picture my mother with anyone other than my father. “My dad is barely—”

  “Stop that,” she scolds, the humor fading from her. The stern tone of her voice causes me to lift my head and watch as she points her fork at me. “Don’t discredit the relationship or bring your dad into any of this, Char. He’s been gone a long time now and your mom—God, Char, she’s been through so much. First, your sister got sick, then your father went to prison, and that was just the beginning. She buried her daughter and not long after she buried her husband. Doesn’t she deserve a little bit of happiness?”

  Nothing she’s saying isn’t true and if I’m being honest, my mom does deserve to be happy. I just never imagined she could be and maybe that’s because I’m not happy myself. We’ve been stuck, living life on pause since the loss of my sister and father. I mean at least that was the case. Sure, I may have thrown myself into school and nailing my current job, but when I go home at night, I’m just as miserable as my mom. At least as miserable as I thought she was.

  Looks like my mom has more of a social life than I do.

  “You’ve been busy with school and now, with this new job,” Gabby continues. “We barely see you, and no one faults you for that, hell, we’re all proud of you. Your mom especially because she knows how passionate you are about your career but there’s more to life than grief and work. Your mom has realized it and maybe it would do you some good if you did too,” she pauses, cocking her head to the side as she shrugs her shoulders. “Maybe nothing will come from her and Mr. Sanders, but at least she’s putting herself out there again. She’s living, and it’s time you did too.”

  “I’m living,” I defend, crossing my arms against my chest like a toddler. This is why I haven’t come here much over the last few months. I’m tired of being badgered. If it’s not Gabby, it’s my mom, someone is always telling me to move on, to get past the grief. Well, everyone mourns differently.

  “You’re wearing a shirt that’s like ten years old,” she points out.

  I groan.

  When I get home, I’m burning this fucking shirt.

  “It was the first thing I grabbed,” I say, gritting my teeth.

  “Honey, if you were to donate that thing to Goodwill, they’d turn it away. I know it's hard to let go and I’m not even asking you to do that. Carry them with you, let them live through you. You want to honor Bethany’s Betty Boop obsession, buy a new fucking shirt. You want to honor your dad? Smile. Your dad loved your smile most.”

  Tears prick at my eyes and I force myself to look away from her.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to forget them.”

  “Impossible.”

  “You don’t know that,” I argue, slamming my hand against the table. “I can’t hear his voice anymore, Gabby. I used to be able to close my eyes and recall the sound of his voice. I can’t do it. Do you know my first day on the job, the lawyer I work for, Schwartz—”

  “I know all about it,” she interrupts. “Your mom told me, she said you’ve been consumed with helping this guy get out of jail so he can be back with his son.”

  I bring my attention back to her and narrow my eyes.

  “Why did she tell you that?”

  “Because she’s worried about you!”

  “She’s a hypocrite,” I argue. “The last we spoke she told me my dad would be proud of me for using my voice because no one used theirs to help him!”

  “That’s not true,” she argues. “Your father had everyone from Brooklyn to Suffolk county pulling for him. People rioted outside the courthouse when they sentenced him. Don’t you remember?”

  No, I don’t.

  I know she’s telling the truth. I’ve heard the stories and I’ve seen the newspaper clippings, but I don’t actually remember. All I recall are the visits and the hole in my heart that never went away. I remember the tears I cried and my mother’s sobs every night.

  “Your mom wants you to succeed and if that means working for this lawyer, she will support you. That doesn’t mean she isn’t worried you’re going to burn yourself out with this case.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  There’s that theme again.

  “Is it? Why didn’t you come to dinner yesterday? I know you were invited. I was there when my mom left the voicemail on your phone.”

  “I had to work.”

  “On a Sunday?”

  “Yes! Schwartz and I had to accompany Bikers Against Child Abuse to meet with Bishop’s son.”

  “Bishop, huh?”

  “Stop.”

  “Fine,” she relents. “And you sat in your car for twenty minutes before coming inside for what reason?”

  “You know what? I don’t have to take this. I didn’t come here to be put on the witness stand.”

  “Spare me the lawyer mumbo jumbo, Char, I see right through you.”

  “Really?” I shriek. “If you saw through me, you would know the reason I sat in my car for twenty minutes is because I am well aware that I’m in over my head. I know I’ve thrown myself into this case for all the wrong reasons, that I’ve been comparing Bishop to my father since I met him. The reason I’m so eager to help him and his son is because I wish someone would’ve been able to reunite me with my dad. I lost my sister and when given the choice, my father chose Bethany over me.”

  “Charlotte—”

  “I know he was only doing what any father would’ve done,” I continue. “But he had another daughter at home who still needed him, and that thought had never crossed his mind.”

  Tears stream down my cheeks as I push myself up from the table. Gabby goes to stand too, but I shake my head violently and hold up a hand.

  “If you saw right through me, you’d know I can’t turn my back on that little boy because I was once him. I spent night after night wishing and praying my dad would come home to me, but he never did. If you could see through me, you’d realize I’m a mess, and that I took the day off of work to visit Bishop in Rikers.”

  Her eyes go wide and I nod.

  “Yeah, that’s right. I went to that fucking hell hole on my own free time to see a man my boss is defending and to make matters worse, I think I might be attracted to him.”

  “Charlotte, please, I…”

  “What? Is this the part where you tell me I’m out of my mind? I won’t argue with you.”

  The next time Schwartz tells me to take a mental health day, I’m not leaving the house. No, scratch that, I’m not leaving my bed.

  “Tell my mother I didn’t feel well that I’ll call her later.”

  “Charlotte don’t leave. Let’s talk… I promise I’ll just listen.”

  “I love you, Gabby, but I need this day to be done,” I explain, wiping my eyes. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes,” I reply before turning and hurrying out of the kitchen. Tears continue to fall down my face as I go to pull open the door. Pausing, I turn and glance at the photo of Bethany. Next to it hangs a similar frame with a photo of my father. I suppose I should feel some sort of comfort that they’re together, but I don’t. Every time I look at those photos, I think of myself
and all that I lost. Shame on me for calling anyone selfish…including Bishop.

  Spinning back around, I leave the house. The door slams behind me and I run as quick as I can down the stairs. Once I’m inside my car, a shrill sob rumbles past my lips. It doesn’t get easier and time doesn’t heal old wounds. My gaze moves to the house next door and I picture my mother smiling with Mr. Sanders. I’m not bitter, I swear I’m not. Gabby is right, my mother deserves happiness.

  We both do.

  But perhaps only one of us gets what we deserve.

  My phone pings from inside my bag and I reluctantly tear my gaze away from the house to fetch it. Looking at the screen, I wipe my eyes and note I missed a call from an unknown number. I enter my passcode and bring up my voicemail, seeing I have one new message. I hit play, and the air leaves my lungs as Bishop’s voice fills my ears.

  You were right, Parrish did put money in my commissary account…I just wanted to apologize for acting like a dick. I uh…I appreciate everything you’re doing for me and Connor and those photos…they’re my new prized possession. Alright, well, I guess I’ll talk to you next week. Take care, Peaches.

  His voice fades and as my stomach does another somersault, I hit play again.

  Note to self: take the mental health day.

  -Fifteen-

  Bishop

  Past

  I stare at the photograph of Connor and Charlotte for a moment before flipping it over. Cradling the phone to my ear with my shoulder, I punch each number into the payphone. The automated message sounds in my ear, revealing the balance on my card before it transfers the call and it starts to ring.

  After she left here yesterday, I tried calling her, but it went to her voicemail. I wasn’t sure if she had forwarded it purposely or if she had simply missed the call and that hounded me all night. I lost my shit on her and gave her a dose of the real Bishop. She pushed, and I pushed back ten times harder and I’m not all that sorry for it either, because Charlotte responded in the most unexpected way. I discovered there were many layers to the clumsy, Betty Boop loving paralegal. Underneath the prim and proper facade, there was a woman begging to be unleashed. A wildcat dying to toe the line between right and wrong. If things were different, I might be the guy who picks her apart, layer by beautiful layer and encourages her to embrace that side of herself. But I’m not lucky enough to be the guy who reaps the benefits of that beautiful disaster.

  “Hello?”

  Her voice sounds in my ear and every coherent thought flees my mind. It’s not every day a man like me loses his fucking mind over a woman he barely knows, but here I am, dumbfucked by merely the sound of her velvety voice. Rolling my neck, I reposition the phone to my ear and clear my throat.

  “Charlotte, it’s me, Bishop.”

  “Is everything okay?” she whispers the question, and the sound shoots a chill straight down my spine.

  There’s nothing worse than losing your son. But a close second is living life knowing as long as you live, you will never get to enjoy the small things. Things you spent years criticizing others for having. Like the man who goes home to his wife and sits with her on the couch. Maybe they watch a movie together. Maybe he bends her over the coffee table and fucks her senseless. Either way, that guy goes to bed with her and he gets to hear her whisper things like I love you in his ear. I pitied that guy. I called him a sucker, but that guy is a fucking king. He gets those little things, those stolen moments that make life rich.

  Some guy is going to get those things with Charlotte.

  He’ll hear her whisper simple phrases like ‘how was your day?’ and ‘is everything okay?’ I probably won’t be around for any of it but if I am, if I somehow stay in her life, I’ll look at the guy and remember the time she whispered those words to me.

  I’ll remember this moment.

  A brief blip in time when I had Charlotte’s attention.

  “I called you yesterday,” I say, clearing my throat.

  “I got the message,” she replies in that breathy tone and I decide it’s one of my favorite sounds, that I could listen to her voice all day and be perfectly content.

  Clearing my throat, I shake the ridiculous notion from my head. I hate that she gets me fired up, that she makes me think and wish for things I’ll never have.

  “Receiving it and listening to it are two different things,” I snap.

  “I’m at work,” she whispers. “If you need to talk to me, you can call the office line.”

  “I don’t want to call the office line,” I hiss.

  “Bishop…”

  “Peaches,” I volley, frustration evident in my tone.

  Defeated, I touch my forehead to the payphone and close my eyes.

  This was a bad idea.

  The worst, actually.

  “You can’t call me that,” she murmurs breathlessly, and I swallow hard, savoring the sweet fucking sound.

  “Why the fuck not?” I grind out.

  This is my fucking moment.

  The one blip in time where I’m the guy making her legs clench.

  “Because now I know why you call me that and it’s completely inappropriate.”

  Opening my eyes, I glance around the empty room and lean my back against the wall. Most men would probably take that as a warning of some sort, but I take it as a dare. Peaches has no idea how inappropriate I can make things or that there isn’t a fucking line I won’t cross. But she’s about to find out because pushing Charlotte’s buttons just might be my new favorite pastime.

  “You know what I think? I think you like being inappropriate. I think you’re sitting at your desk, imagining just how inappropriate you and I can get. Have you ever done anything that wasn’t by the book, Peaches?”

  “Are you asking if I’ve ever broken the law?” she shrieks.

  “No,” I say. My lips tug into a grin and I realize it’s been a really long time since a smile or anything close to one has touched my lips. Pushing the thought aside, I focus on the conversation at hand. “I know you’ve never broken the law but how about the rules?”

  “I…” her voice trails and I take advantage of her loss for words.

  “What are you wearing?”

  “Okay, I’m hanging up now.”

  “No, you’re not. Tell me, Peaches, are you wearing that tight as fuck t-shirt,” I rasp hoarsely and immediately I recall the way her nipples pebbled against the thin fabric.

  So fucking inviting.

  So fucking perfect.

  “I threw it away,” she snaps, pulling me out of my nipple induced trance. The harshness of those four words is quite a contrast from the breathless tone of voice she gave me only a moment ago and it makes me curious as to why she tossed the shirt.

  “Why?”

  “I have to go.”

  “Don’t,” I say. “We’re not done.”

  “Bishop, we were done the second you called me Peaches.”

  “Why’d you throw away the shirt?”

  She huffs out an exasperated breath.

  “Because it was old and didn’t fit me. I should’ve thrown it away years ago.”

  I don’t buy that, but I decide not to press the issue. As much as I’m enjoying the banter between us, I know it’s only a matter of time before she does, in fact, hang up. Charlotte probably has a whole bunch of people she can talk to. Family, friends, maybe there’s even a guy in her life. That thought hadn’t crossed my mind and now that it has, I immediately dismiss it.

  The truth of the matter is, she’s all I got.

  The only person I can talk to.

  The only one I want to speak with.

  “I’ll let it go for now,” I relent, swallowing. “I didn’t call to get you hot and bothered.”

  “Then why did you call?” she asks with a sigh.

  “Are you admitting you’re hot and bothered?” I tease, unable to resist.

  “Okay, I’m really hanging up now.”

  “I’ll stop,” I say quickly, desperate to keep h
er on the phone. “I meant what I said. I didn’t only call to push your buttons, Peaches. You got me thinking…”

  “Oh?”

  Not having someone to talk to on the regular means you have no idea how the fuck to share the things weighing on you. For so long I’ve kept my shit bottled inside. Every thought and every emotion. Dreams and plans…I never spoke of them. Maybe that’s why them fuckers never come to fruition.

  “The snowflakes…” I begin, pausing to collect my thoughts. “During one of my visits with Connor, he and Shay had traced and cut a bunch of snowflakes out of some construction paper. They actually linked them all together and made garland out of it. It was one of the few visits where Connor spoke to me. He told me he wanted to play in the snow and asked if we could build a snowman together. I left that visit feeling like his dad for the first time and it was the best fucking high of my life. A buddy of mine was a tattoo artist, and I went straight to his shop after the visit with the snowflakes in hand and asked him if he could tattoo them to me. I never wanted to forget that visit. It was my first good memory of my son and I wanted to immortalize it.”

  I take a breath as I recall looking at the art on my shoulder for the first time and the pride that swelled in my chest.

  “I know a tattoo doesn’t mean shit, that it doesn’t make me a father, but in that moment, I felt like I had done something good and it sparked me to do more. I got a job after that. It wasn’t anything crazy, but it would put money in my pocket legally and it looked good on paper.”

  “Another step in the right direction,” she murmurs softly.

  “Yeah,” I agree. “Anyway, the reason I’m telling you this is that what you said to me yesterday got me thinking and you’re right, everyone is doing what they can to reunite me with Connor, it’s time I start figuring out what my part in all this is. Now, that I got the means to make some calls, I’m going to reach out to my old boss and see if he’ll rehire me once I’m out of here.”

  “That’s good, Bishop,” she praises gently.

  “I’m going to build that fucking snowman with Connor, Peaches,” I tell her hoarsely. “If it’s the last thing I do in this world, we’re going to do it.”