Chapter 23 #2
I have to at least try to fix things.
And if she doesn’t let me, I just keep trying ‘til she does.
Those words echo in my head as the elevator dings in the lobby, but I don’t immediately move to get out of it.
Where would she go?
When she stormed out of a penthouse hours ago, she was distraught, spiraling, more lost than she ever has been in her entire life.
So, where the hell would Bishop go when she’s lost?
Somewhere that feels like home. Somewhere she feels safe. Somewhere she might be able to find some semblance of control when everything around her is spinning out of it.
It hits me quickly.
I know where to find her.
* * *
BISHOP
My fist slams into the old leather and the heavy bag creaks and rocks back on the chains. Pain sears through my bare knuckles, but I don’t give a fuck.
That’s what I need more than anything else right now.
I need the pain in my body to match that living in my chest where my heart should be.
I need to keep going, keep hitting something until I drop or the bag does.
Considering that this particular one belonged to Wren’s grandfather and has been hanging here longer than I’ve been alive, my bet is on me giving out before it does.
That doesn’t mean I won’t give it my best shot, though.
I lay down a barrage of punches, pounding the bag over and over again, losing myself—or at least trying to—in the rhythm of the attack.
Even though I’ve been here for hours, alternating between the heavy bag and speed bag in between bouts of relentless sobbing, I still keep pushing as if I just walked in those doors. As if I had just heard the truth.
Because that agony will not abate.
The harder I go, the harder I want to keep going, but I’m not so deep into it that I don’t hear the gym door open behind me.
I know who it is before he ever says a word or even approaches.
Because somehow, I always know.
I always sense when he’s near, and the way my splintered heart does that stupid flip-flop thing is going to fucking kill me long before Satriano or McDonald ever will.
It’s the last thing I should be feeling right now—this intense mix of agony and longing for someone who doesn’t exist.
He doesn’t exist.
The man I fell asleep with last night isn’t real. Every word he said, all those things he did…none of it was real.
It was all some glorious illusion created by a masterful magician. A man who was trained in deceit. Whose entire life has revolved around it.
And I walked right into his trap.
I squeeze my eyes closed and suck in a sharp breath as the heavy bag rocks back and forth in front of me.
If I keep them clenched tightly for long enough, maybe he’ll be gone when I reopen them.
Maybe it will all have been some sort of wicked nightmare sent as a warning to keep my heart locked down tight…
But tentative footsteps sound across the gym floor, shattering any hope of that dream becoming a reality.
All that’s left is the creaking sound of the still swinging bag, my heaving breaths, the sting in my knuckles, and the blood rushing in my ears.
“I assume you’re picturing my face while you’re hitting that.”
His voice cuts through it all as sharp as the knife that he drove straight into my chest with his deceit.
I open my eyes and catch the bag, only now noticing the blood on my split knuckles. I didn’t even feel it when they ripped, didn’t even register the injury because I’ve craved the pain.
It’s better than being numb.
At least feeling this pain, I know I’m still alive, that somehow, I survived the type of betrayal that should have been unsurvivable.
That’s what drives me to slowly turn to face him. The knowledge that if I don’t get this off my chest, if I don’t have this conversation, it’ll never be truly over and it needs to be.
Now.
Gage stands only a few feet from me, still wearing the same clothes he wore at the penthouse—dark jeans, a white T-shirt, and that damn leather jacket that always makes him look so fucking dangerous and sexy.
His hair is a disheveled mess, as if he’s been running his hands through it repeatedly, and dark circles mar the skin under his eyes.
He bears a look of utter exhaustion I feel to my bones. “I know you want to hurt me, Bishop.” His eyes dip down to my hands. “But please don’t hurt yourself.”
The laugh that slips from my lips is dark, humorless, filled with so much agony and incredulity that I barely recognize the sound. “That’s rich coming from you.”
From the person who has hurt me more than anyone else ever has my entire life…
He winces, then glances back toward the door and the darkness that has descended outside. “Are you here alone? Where’s your security?”
I rest my hands on my hips, trying to regain my breath for the first time since I arrived.
Now that I’ve stopped, I’m sure I’m going to feel it.
Those aches and that soreness that has plagued me since the explosion, that Gage was so good at melting away, will come screaming back now that I’ve pushed so hard.
“I sent them home.”
Gage narrows his eyes on me, concern he has no right to feel flickering across them. “Bishop, why the hell would you do that when you know you’re at risk, when you know you’re a potential target?”
“Seems the only one who was targeting me was you.”
“Fuck.” He scrubs his hands over his face and shoves them back through his hair, shifting restlessly in his boots. “I deserve that. But you don’t.” He shakes his head. “You didn’t deserve any of this. And I know you don’t want to hear what I have to say—”
“Why the hell would I?” I slam my fist into the bag again, sending it rocking back. “It’s all been lies from day fucking one. Why would I want to hear a single word from your lying mouth?”
God, that mouth…
It said too much.
Brought me too much pleasure.
And I can’t look away from it or the tiny frown he wears when he’s usually so quick with a smile.
Stop.
That Gage doesn’t exist.
This one is the liar.
His hands twitch at his sides like he’s fighting the desire to reach for me, but if this man has any self-preservation instinct, he should know better than to try. “It wasn’t all a lie, Bishop. It wasn’t.”
There it is again.
That deep, believable sincerity in his words that I fell for, hook, line, and sinker, that he was probably trained to use to get people like me to fall for his bullshit.
I should have known better. I should have seen through him. I should have listened to my gut and stayed far away from Gage Newhart.
He shakes his head, holding his hands out, palms up, as if he’s offering himself to me and praying I’ll accept what I can never give him. “Getting involved with you was never part of the plan.”
Another mirthless laugh that borders on hysterical falls from my lips, but it beats the alternative—bursting into tears in front of him. “Bullshit! You came at me from day one. You came straight for me and didn’t back off until you had me wrapped around your fucking finger.”
He takes a step toward me, but I hold up a single finger in warning.
“Don’t. You. Fucking. Dare.”
If he comes any closer, I can’t be held accountable for what I might do.
I don’t trust myself where this man is concerned, or maybe about anything ever again.
Gage sucks in a sharp breath. “The plan was always to watch the Hawkes, to search for confirmation of where you stood when it came to Satriano. I had always intended to try to get inside.” He shakes his head.
“But not with you. I was supposed to approach Gabe. Use the Ranger angle to gain his trust. It was supposed to be that simple, but then you happened.”
I squeeze my eyes closed, unable to look in his warm blue eyes when he tells me more of these lies or I’ll risk drowning in them.
“I watched you through a camera lens from afar for months, and I saw how dedicated you were to your family, to keeping them safe. I saw what kind of person you were. And then that night, I went to the club to lay the groundwork and set the approach for Gabe. And I saw you in person for the first time…”
Memories of that night and seeing him at the bar for the first time flicker through my head.
That leather jacket.
The sandy-blond hair.
The way he carried himself that raised goosebumps over every inch of my body.
“And then we met, and it was like I was struck by fucking lightning.”
I wince this time.
Not because his description isn’t accurate but because it’s too right.
I felt it, too.
More than once. Damn near every time this man looked at me or touched me. It was a constant buzz that charged through me and kept me energized. He kept me going through some of the hardest weeks of my life.
When I was spiraling, he held me steady. When I was lost, he helped me find home. When I didn’t recognize the person I was becoming, he helped me find myself in a way no one else has ever been able to.
And it was all predicated on a lie.
When I open my eyes again, he’s watching. He’s waiting for something. For me to cry. For me to rage. For me to hit him. For me to do anything other than just stand here. But that numbness has returned, that feeling like I’m not even in my own body anymore.
“I know you can never forgive me for what I did, Bishop. You can never forgive me for the lies I told. I don’t need you to do that, but what I do need you to do is listen.”
Gage doesn’t deserve a single thing from me except my hostility and hatred.
He doesn’t get to make demands of me, not anymore. The days of letting Gage tie me up, emotionally and physically, are gone.
“Why would I do that, Gage?” I shrug, my ability to argue fleeing as quickly as my energy seems to have once I actually stopped. “Why would I do anything for you?”
Like I’ve seen him do so many times, his right hand slips into his jacket pocket. “Because deep down, you know I’m still the person you thought I was.”