Page 67 of Bad Bishop
“Brandy?”
“What’s up?” She clicked her small mirror shut, batting her lashes at him.
“Get the fuck out. You’ve served your purpose.”
Her jaw hung open in shock. “Are you serious right now?”
“I’m always serious.”
“You didn’t even…we didn’t even…wait.” She held a finger up. “What was my purpose?”
“Making my wife yell at me.” He tugged his wallet out of his breast pocket, pulling a wad of rolled cash and patting her cheek with it. “Here. Use it to buy some self-respect.”
“I thought you said you aren’t together.”
At this point, I lost my patience. With a huff, I wrenched out Tiernan’s gun from his holster and pointed it at her.
She shrieked, stumbling backward and hitting the wall. For the first time in my life, I was glad I couldn’t hear.
“Stop this nonsense, Lila. The paperwork would be insane.” Tiernan touched my shoulder.
I gave him a shut-the-hell-up look.
He sighed. “If you want to kill her this much, at least let me drive us somewhere secluded.”
I swiveled toward him, pointing the gun at his face.
“Care for a rerun of our wedding night?” I spoke out the words.
He arched a sardonic eyebrow, posture as languid and laid-back as a big cat. “Don’t mind if I do. I’m not picky with the way you touch me, as long as you do.”
When I turned back to Brandy, she wasn’t there anymore. Probably ran off while I was contemplating blowing my husband’s head off.
“My gun?” He opened his palm for me to dispose of the weapon.
“No.” I tucked it into the waistband of my pink ensemble. I raised my hand to sign to him. “Next time you bring your whores to my apartment, I’ll just assume I walked into a suicide pact.”
He studied me with an approving sparkle in his eye, a wolfish grin on his face. He almost looked…proud.
“I mean it, Tiernan. No more sluts.”
“How about you sit your ass down and answer all my questions? If I find them sufficient, I might grant you your wish. If not, get ready to see me fucking the entire Northeast population.”
Even though he deserved his other eye plucked out for this answer, I did acknowledge he was entitled to some explanation. Deceiving your lawfully wedded husband wasn’t an ethical thing to do. Even if he was a bloodthirsty murderer.
I walked over to the couch and perched myself on its edge. He joined me on the opposite recliner.
“How do you compose music if you’re deaf?”
His question surprised me. First, because there were so many bigger questions to ask. Second, because he wasn’t supposed to know that.
“You’re going through my things?” I scowled.
“At least once a day,” he said easily.
“Why?”
“You fascinate me.”
