Page 17 of The Hitman's Omega Priest
“Whatever you want from what we’ve got. Don’t expect anything fresh, like bacon and eggs, but there might be instant oatmeal. Probably dry cereal and boxed milk. Help yourself if you’re hungry.”
“Would you like something? The least I can do after you saved my life is make you breakfast.”
Bishop smiled, and the genuine kindness in his expression made the corners of his eyes crinkle. “That’d be fine. I’m not a picky eater.”
“Well, good, because I’m not much of a cook. We all swap cooking duties in the abbey, but it’s always very standard, simple food. I would actually love anything except oatmeal for a change.”
“I take it that was a breakfast staple?”
“Six mornings a week. On Sunday, they added simple extras to the menu, like sausage or eggs.”
“Sounds boring.”
Kensley shrugged as he walked into the kitchenette to rummage for food. “Food was fuel to get us through the day, not something to derive pleasure from. Pleasure was to be found in service and prayer.”
He sensed, more than heard, Bishop approach. “Our mouths are made for more pleasurable things than reciting prayers.”
Heat coursed through Kensley, fast and scorching, and he grabbed the edge of the counter for balance. He didn’t turn around, though, keeping his attention on the selection of canned goods on a cupboard shelf. “So I’ve heard. I do also find singing hymns pleasurable.”
“Humming is good, too.” Bishop was behind him, so close Kensley could feel his body heat. “Anything up there look good to you?”
His mouth went dry, and Kensley was having trouble catching his breath. “I’m not sure. It’s all so, um, new. Having choices.”
“I imagine choice is both freeing and confusing, after so much time following routines and doing what you’re told.”
Air moved by his shoulder, and Kensley tensed, waiting for a hand to touch him. Instead, Bishop moved away, and it gave Kensley room to breathe. Imagining all the things he wanted to do with Bishop, while he was alone with a chance of acting on those thoughts, was one thing. When faced with the real man and a bed and a lot of alone time? It was too overwhelming, and he was grateful that Bishop had professional restraint on his side. This was a protection gig, not a booty call.
“It is freeing,” Kensley told the cupboard. “And a little terrifying.”
“I imagine so. I would also check the other cupboards for options, unless you want beef and barley soup for breakfast.”
He snickered softly and did as told. A box of pancake mix looked like heaven. He even found a shelf-stable box of milk to use, instead of water. No syrup or jam but he did find an unopened, unexpired jar of peanut butter he could thin with more milk. A scoop of powdered concentrate became a pitcher of fruit punch, and Kensley was pleased to serve them both pancakes with peanut butter sauce.
As Kensley sat across from Bishop at the small dinette set, it hit him that this was the first meal they’d shared since Kensley was fourteen. That last, big supper at King’s house before the shit hit the fan and Kensley was summarily packed up and shipped off. King had made a pan of stuffed shells with spinach, his specialty, the flavor of which Kensley had never forgotten.He’d never forgotten refusing to hug King or Bishop goodbye, too furious at their betrayal, or the devastated look on Bishop’s face as the Cadillac pulled away from the house. Taking Kensley away from them.
Ripping him, once again, out of another life he liked and into one he never asked for.
Halfway through silently eating, Bishop stood, found a jar of instant coffee, and began heating a mug of water in the microwave. It hadn’t even occurred to Kensley to ask about coffee, because they didn’t drink it at the abbey. It was only offered to guests during fundraisers or functions. He’d never liked the taste, anyway.
Once Bishop settled with his steaming black coffee, Kensley said, “Will you tell me now? About your fake death?”
Bishop didn’t tense or fidget; he simply stared at his coffee for a long time, either gathering his thoughts or conjuring up another excuse not to talk about it. Kensley wouldn’t know until the big, broody man finally spoke. “I know you saw what was in the newspapers, that the furnace in my house blew up, and I supposedly died of complications from my burns.”
“Yes.” Kensley’s heart had shattered that day, not only for the death of his childhood friend, but also for the agonizing way in which he’d reportedly died. Second and third-degree burns were serious and painful, and no one deserved to die like that. “I was horrified at the idea of you dying alone, hooked up to tubes, drowning in your own bodily fluids.”
“I was definitely in pain and hooked up to tubes, but King and Ziggy were able to fake my death and move me to a private facility in Puerto Rico to finish recovering. Honestly, I was in a medically induced coma for the first six weeks, and I didn’t really understand what had happened for another few weeks after. By then, they’d done the reconstructive surgeries on my face and, well…”
Bishop stood and took off his long-sleeved sweater, leaving him in a white sleeveless tee. Kensley tensed, uncertain, until he saw the burn scars on Bishop’s upper arms and shoulders. He imagined more lurked beneath the t-shirt. A shirt that hugged a perfectly toned torso that tapered into his snug jeans. And those scars, while scary and an awful reminder of his ordeal, also meant Bishop had survived.
“The worst of the burns were actually on my back and shoulders,” Bishop continued. “It was mostly broken bones in my face, and at first, I was furious with King for the plastic surgery that I didn’t really need. But as I recovered, I understood his reasons. I could have chosen to leave, but King was my family, and I was still an asset. Now I was also a ghost. Someone no one in River City knew, someone the families and the feds didn’t know. I could move around, gather intel. Keep an eye on you.”
“How long?”
“How long what?”
“How long have you been back? How long have you been watching me? Why didn’t you…?”
Bishop put his sweater back on. “Why didn’t I what?”
