James jumped up from the table. “Leave the dishes. I’ll put the game on.”
Kit wished James would indulge in some macho possessiveness right about now. But when Bishop asked, “Hey, can I talk to you outside?” James just waved them off and moved to the kitchen.
Curiosity outweighing his caution, Kit followed Bishop to the front patio. Trees surrounded the property, a privacy screen that was James’s only water-hungry landscaping vice. The rest of his property was xeriscaped with rocks and native plants. Stray stars glittered overhead. They weren’t quite far enough from the city for a full blanket of galaxy.
Kit was still barefoot, the concrete cool and rough beneath his feet. “What do you want?”
Bishop seemed larger in the darkness, the patio lights hardly touching him. “I wanted to make sure you’re all right here with James.”
Kit grimaced. “I’m fine. Do you want details?”
Bishop’s mouth quirked—like he could see through Kit’s defensive deflection. The asshole just stood there, quiet. Waiting Kit out.
Fucking Christ. It worked.
Kit should have worn shoes so he could kick the front step or Bishop’s ankles or something. “I said I’m fine. James isn’t taking advantage of me. If anything, I’m taking advantage of him.” Kit laughed without humor. “Why do you give a fuck?”
Bishop’s gaze dropped below Kit’s jaw. To the stark bruises shadowing his neck. Just for a moment. Like Bishop hadn’t meant to look.
Kit’s heartbeat quickened.
“You’re interesting,” was all Bishop said, but it felt like a confession.
Kit hugged himself. The evening was too chilly for his t-shirt. “How am I interesting?”
“You’ll have to tell me.” Bishop shrugged his hands into his jacket pockets. His presence was warmer than the air around them. “I had a friend look you up, the week you stayed with me.”
Kit tensed, then forced his shoulders to relax on his next breath. “James traced my phone too. You guys are paranoid. Did you find anything?”
“Nothing,” Bishop said. “Kit Byron doesn’t exist. You’ve had the ID for at least a year, but I couldn’t find who made it for you. Usually I can.”
Kit glared, trying to judge whether Bishop was telling the truth or not. Did he actually find nothing, or was he just pretending to get more information out of Kit? It was impossible to tell. The man just watched him with that rapt, intent expression. Like Kit was a puzzle to solve.
No, not a puzzle. A crime to solve.
Then again, that was how Bishop always looked at Kit. Nothing had changed, which meant Bishop probably hadn’t found Kit’s real name.
“That’s all there is,” Kit said eventually. “Nothing. My past doesn’t matter. This is what you get.”
“I think it matters a lot.” Bishop’s next words were careful. “I think something happened to you. Something broke you. And you’re not going to fix it by running.”
Kit’s chest seized like Bishop punched him in the sternum.
He was fine. He was fine until Bishop said he was broken, and Kit remembered it was true.
For a second, Kit was tempted to talk. Tell Bishop everything. About Dad. About hisidyllicchildhood. About the boy Kit never wanted to be again.
The second passed.
Because Kit knew painfully that once he opened his damn mouth, there was no shutting it again. Confession wasn’t always healing. Nobody was being hurt by Kit’s silence except Kit himself. So, he would grit his teeth and just keep running. No matter how much that warped, sympathetic look in Bishop’s eyes stung.
Besides, Bishop clearly misunderstood the situation.
“You’re wrong,” Kit said quietly. Cold permeated his entire being, but it didn’t hurt. It felt right. “Whatever you think happened to me, you’re wrong.”
“I don’t think I’m wrong,” Bishop said. “Not at the heart of it. Those claw-marks on your wrist aren’t from James, are they?”
“Fuck you,” Kit snapped. His fists tightened, arms still crossed over his chest. “Stop acting like you see everything. You’re not right. You don’t fucking know me. I don’t want to fucking talk to you.”
