Page 115 of Deceit

No more anything.

“We’ll talk,” I reply because I got nothing.

“Yes, please,” Alexander chimes in, and I wish he’d just shut up. “She never eats, and I could use some help making sure she does. Emmy is probably tired of my text messages by now.”

“Oh, I bet she is,” Bishop affirms. “She hates being nagged.”

My eyes widen at his rudeness. “Stop teasing.”

Bishop’s blue eyes snap back to mine. “I’m not.”

Alexander chuckles like this is a game. And that’s all I want him to know it as. Bishop would murder Alexander in his sleep, and it’s my responsibility to make sure that doesn’t happen.

“Bishop’s got jokes,” I deadpan.

“It’s good to have fun on the job.” Alexander’s hand finds my right hip, and Bishop’s blues snap to it like a shark to blood. They reduce and turn murky, being tested to the limits.

“Good night, Bish,” I relay. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

He pivots without another word, leaving me with a silent fuck you as I cover my mouth with the roar of nausea that just crashed into my frame.

“You alright?” Alexander’s hands come up to my biceps, and my stomach knots again.

I don’t get to answer him because I puke all over my front porch.

The most recent definition of anidioton Google has to have a picture of my face next to it with the stupid fucking shit I pulled two nights ago at Emmy’s.

I was jealous as fuck.

I had checked her Instagram hours before, finding a new snapshot of her but not taken by her. Me, being me, I saw the image of the person behind her camera in the reflection of her sunglasses as she puckered up those plush lips and held up a peace sign.

It was a man.

And that man was Alexander.

It was a harsh reality that I decided to ignore or assumed would never happen. I missed the fuck out of her when I was away—I always did. There won’t be a day in my lifetime where Emmy wouldn’t be a forming thought.

Whether she was still employed with B723 or not.

Emmy was part of me.

She was someone I always wanted more of.

She was simply everything.

And now, sitting with my second family around a table while Ledger bitches at us for “taking matters into our own hands” (this is mostly my fault), I shamelessly stare at the woman who did exactly what I didn’t want her to do.

She was going to slay me as no one else has, and I was obviously helping her.

The white and pink plaid button-up that she’s wearing is too big for her. Then the black tank underneath that purposely exposes the bottom half of her stomach and light blue jeans that cover that perfect ass of hers that I’m obsessed with.

She appears exhausted, another reason that my brain goes a million miles per hour and hasn’t looked at me the whole time we’ve been in this room. She usually checks the table to get everyone’s vibe, but Emmy is staring off into space like she’d rather be anywhere but here.

It’s mutual.

I would willingly do anything else or even speak to Mills just to be annoyed and pissed afterward than be present to this shit.

“I didn’t gather this group together so that you all could go running around like you own the damn country. Youdon’t,” Ledger storms at the head of the table in his full pressed black suit. “This shit is going to end.”

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