Bishop (A Frat Chronicles Novel)

by B. T. Urruela

  “I’m saying, how many of your friends do you keep up with? Share your life with? Get close to? When’s the last time we talked before this week? And you were about to back out somehow, I know it. It’s why you didn’t confirm right away. You had to keep a foot out the door, just in case.”

  I let out a nervous laugh, my focus shifting away from him as I shake my head. “No. I wanted to. I just wasn’t sure what I was gonna do this weekend. Was thinkin’ about a lake trip.”

  He nods, his eyes borderline condescending. “Uh huh.”

  “Oh, fuck you, Jensen,” I scold in a playful tone. “You better drop this high and mighty routine. Don’t let me remind you about your first few months in the Army, you dumb shit.”

  He laughs. “What the fuck does my DUI have to do with anything?”

  “It ain’t the DUI, I’m thinkin’ of, but the tears shed after.”

  A shade of red takes over his face. He averts his eyes to the tabletop. “I was wasted, you fuck.”

  “‘Sergeant, I don’t wanna go back home. Please help me.’” I laugh, shaking my head at the memory of this man when he was just a boy, fresh in the Army and drunker than can be at the Military Police station, bawling his eyes out. I continue, “Don’t you even start poutin’! I’ve told you this before, you will get shit for that until the day they cover me in dirt.”

  As he handles his whiskey glass, a look of resignation takes up his features. “Even though you’re a fucking dick for bringing that shit up again, I’ll never forget that’s when I looked at you and said, ‘That’s who I aspire to be when I’m an NCO. That’s a leader.’”

  My eyes fall to my glass, shoulders dropping slightly. I get the uneasy, sinking feeling I always get when someone compliments me. I’ve never taken them well. Lucky for me, Jensen fills the silence. “When you took me aside to talk to me … you remember that?”

  I nod, sipping some whiskey.

  “You weren’t even my squad leader then. And my own squad leader—Sergeant Isaac—you remember that asshat?”

  I nod again, chuckling.

  “He treated me like I just killed his children and fucked his wife in front of him. Like, fuck, dude, I know I messed up, but get the fuck out of my asshole about it. The Article 15 was bad enough. I didn’t deserve his contempt.”

  I shrug. “At the end of the day, it’s why you ended up in my squad. And I’m damn proud of your turnaround.”

  “It’s because of you, and that day. You said to me, ‘We all make mistakes. We all fuck up. This is not a wall, it’s a speedbump.’ You told me to pick my head up, to stop feeling sorry for myself, and to drive the fuck on.”

  “Nothin’ special about those words, Jensen. But I’m glad they helped.”

  “They were special to me. It proved to me that I wasn’t done yet, that it was just a hiccup.”

  “And look where you are now.”

  “I love you, Bishop. Man, really.” He lifts his glass, hands shaking, his glossy eyes meeting mine. “And I mean that no-homo obviously,” he adds.

  I clink my glass against his. “You sound like a fuckin’ millennial sayin’ that ‘no homo’ shit. Can’t we men just accept we feel emotions too without thinking it automatically changes our sexual orientation? I mean, c’mon.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You know the infantry.”

  As I take a drink, I give him an agreeing nod.

  “Holy shit,” Jensen mutters, his glass still held in the air, his focus shifted toward the noisy bar. “Broooooo.”

  I look back to see what’s caught his eye, but spot nothing out of the ordinary. There are certainly more people crowded around the bar now, and what started out as a quaint scene has quickly turned into a rowdy nightclub atmosphere, Billboard hits playing through the speakers and everything, though nowhere near club volume.

  Turning back toward him, I ask, “What?”

  “You see those chicks? Fuck, I love cougars, man.” His eyes are still glued on the bar, his mouth slack.

  I turn back around reluctantly. “Aren’t you married?” I ask, scanning the crowd for these ‘cougars.’

  “Doesn’t mean I can’t look,” he says as I spot the pack, a couple of them with big fake tits, all of them in incredible shape; their nails are done, their hair is perfect, and their dresses are tight. Two of them wear leopard print.

  I nod. “Yeah, pretty go—” My words are abruptly snuffed out when my eyes land on Carleigh in a figure-complementing maroon slip dress that nicely contrasts with her dark black hair. I turn back toward Jensen and try and fight the look of surprise from my features, but to no avail.

  He studies me. “What?” he asks, pointing a finger at me. “What did you see?”

  “Nothin’. What are you talkin’ about?”

  “Your face. You look like you just saw a ghost.”

  I shake my head, pretending to not have a clue what he’s talking about.

  “Nope. Just lookin’ at the cougars.” I take a sip of whiskey and then shake it in front of him. “Another drink?”

  “You know someone over there, don’t you?” he asks, though it comes out more like a statement.

  I take another nervous drink before giving a him quick shake of my head. “Sure don’t, buddy. I think you’re just drunk.”

  He tilts his head. “Oh, I’m absolutely shit-canned, but I know how to read faces, and that face you just made was one of recognition. Now, tell me who you just saw before I go over there and ask them all if they know you.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  He would.

  He shrugs. “I gave you another option.”

  I sigh, shaking my head as I feel resignation take hold. “My therapist is over there.”

  “Therapist?” His eyes shoot over my shoulder and toward the bar. “Which one?”

  I wave a hand in front of his face. “Hey, fuckstick, it don’t matter. Let’s just get another drink.”

  “No, tell me, or I will go over there, loudly searching for her.” He has wild eyes as he scans the bar area. “Is it one of the cougars?”

  Ignoring his question, I say, “They’d probably end up tacklin’ you, thinkin’ you’re some nutjob.” I laugh.

  “Which one is it?” he asks, his eyes still on the crowd. “Please tell me it’s one of the cougars.”

  “Maroon dress. Black hair.”

  His eyes go wide, mouth slack. “Damn, bro! You tell her all your dirty little secrets?”

  I put my fingers to his chin and force his eyes away from them and to me. “Can you stop fuckin’ starin’? They’re really gonna think you’re a nutjob.”

  “Let’s get them over here, bro.”

  I shake my head firmly. “No, we are not invitin’ my fuckin’ therapist to join us drinkin’.”

  “But Bishop, her friends are hot! And her, well fuck, how do you not just think about fucking her every session?”

  I laugh, rolling my eyes and shaking my head, knowing full well I’ve spent plenty of time in that chair across from her, thinking about what it would be like to have my way with her, and to watch her have her way with me. It’s an invasive thought I find myself fighting often. Jeans are a requirement for sessions now. I learned that the hard way my second session when my basketball shorts were little protection against the stiffy I was sporting by the time the session was over.

  “You’re outta your fuckin’ mind, Jensen. Stop fuckin’ lookin’ over there. I’m serious.”

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” he says, standing with a drunken grin on his face.

  I put a hand up to stop him. “Jensen, no! Don’t you dare talk to her.”

  He continues as if I’ve said nothing, so I grab his shirt sleeve and yank him back toward me. He almost trips over his own drunken feet.

  “Hey!” he yelps. “You fucker.”

  “You cannot say a word to her.” I put a pointer in his face, my other hand still holding on to his sleeve. “Not a word, Jensen!” I fight the grin from forming on my lips as I look at his path
etically twisted face. It’s as if he’s battling a serious case of dysentery.

  “I won’t. I won’t.” He puts his hand up as he passes me a drunken smile and waves two fingers. “Scout’s honor. I just have to poop.”

  “I swear, I will hurt you,” I say, letting him go and returning to my seat. I narrow my eyes. That stupid grin tells me he hasn’t listened to a goddamn word I’ve said as he shuffles his way toward the restroom. I watch to make sure he doesn’t stray off course. He doesn’t.

  It’s been thirty minutes since Jensen left. Thirty-two minutes and sixteen seconds, if I’m being precise.

  That’s twenty-two time checks for me and dozens of looks over my shoulder, just hoping he’s still in the bathroom and hasn’t pulled Carleigh somewhere without me noticing to tell her my life fucking story. He’s so drunk, I wouldn’t put it past him. I’ve switched sides in the booth so I can watch the front door, bar, and bathroom. Jensen is nowhere to be seen. Carleigh disappeared too at some point when my back was still turned.

  I scan the bar area, my drink in hand and the ice quickly diluting the whiskey. I’ve paid the glass no mind, nor the phone in my pocket, which I could’ve used to text him had he not left his own at the table. Instead, when I do look at it, I see only time, and how much longer it’s been since he’s left.

  Brief thoughts cross my mind that lead me to believe he may be drunk shitting, which can easily take thirty minutes when it’s a particularly nasty one, and that’s the only thing keeping me seated and my mind from completely spiraling. Well, that, and the fact that I’d prefer not to look like a weirdo. If he is still on the shitter, and I happen to run into Carleigh now, as drunk as I am, I’m sure to say or do something offensive.

  It’s when I’m a second from exiting my booth, having grown weary from the waiting, that I’m stopped in my tracks, slack-jawed and nauseous.

  Jensen walks in little zig-zags from the front door of the hotel, Carleigh on his arm and laughing at his antics. They’re coming right for me, but their attention is on each other, so they don’t see the panic in my features.

  When she looks up and smiles, a nervous smile as they near, I fight the surprise from my face, mouthing, “Sorry,” as I nod toward Jensen. She shakes her head as they approach.

  Jensen spots me and smiles. “Bishop! Look who I found!” He puts his hands up as if he’s presenting Carleigh to me. I force a chuckle, my insides burning, anxiety barging its little way in.

  “Well, Jensen, appreciate you disappearin’ for thirty minutes, first of all …” I let my words linger as I stand, putting my hand out for Carleigh. “Carleigh, good to see you. I see you’ve met my dear friend, Jensen.” I say the words with all the sarcasm I can muster as I shake her hand, my eyes shooting to Jensen, who has a wide, wasted smile on his face and a far-off gaze.

  He hesitates for a moment as I let her hand go and she sips the martini she’s been holding nervously. Jensen’s eyes find mine, and he says, “Did you see I got Carleigh?” while presenting her again like he’s Vanna fucking White.

  “Yes, Jensen. I just shook her hand actually … about two seconds ago … right in front of your face.” I point to the space between Carleigh and I. “Right here.”

  Jensen looks at my finger, then at me, and then at Carleigh, before he motions toward the booth. “Have a seat, hun!”

  She hesitates, looking at me as if she’s awaiting my go-ahead.

  I nod slightly, a tight smile on my face. I worry what he must have already told her.

  He takes a seat beside her, his empty glass banging hard against the tabletop. Looking toward the glass, he chuckles and then shrugs. “Oops.” Taking a drink from his drink-less glass, his eyes roam over to Carleigh. He motions toward her with his head. “You see I found Carleigh?” he asks, lowering the glass back to the table, luckily, without the bang this time.

  I’d prefer a night without more side eye from the tables next to us. I lift my brows, my focus on Carleigh. “You see what happens when men get married and have their first free night out in a year?”

  She rolls her eyes, lifting her martini glass in a half salute. “I already know all about that,” she says, tight-lipped, taking a drink.

  “Hey!” Jensen barks, his brows scrunching together. He peers at me. “I went out just last month for your information. Might’ve even been three weeks ago.”

  “Wow, man. Slow down. I mean, you’re like twenty-four, twenty-five? It’s time you hang up your fun boots and start really applyin’ yourself.” I pass him an exaggerated thumbs up.

  He laughs. “But still. Not once a year. Tracy lets me go out every couple weeks. And she doesn’t even text me that much when I’m with the guys!” He holds up his phone, showing me his recent notifications.

  “Jensen,” I say between laughs. “Do you have any fuckin’ clue how many times your woman has texted you?”

  “Huh?” Jensen’s lip curls back, his brows furrowing, his drunken eyes flitting to the ceiling. “Texted who?” His eyes fall back on me.

  I bust out laughing, and Carleigh does too, as I motion toward his phone. “Check your notifications, my friend. I get the funny feelin’ you’re completely fucked.”

  He checks his phone, scans it, and it takes a moment, but before long, his jaw drops, his eyes going wide. It’s then I know he sees all the text and call notifications waiting for him on his phone, her name stacked one atop the other. He races to unlock his phone and begins reading them, a frantic look in his eye.

  I just smile, my eyes trailing from Jensen to Carleigh. “So, I gotta give you an open apology for whatever he may have said or done in his time alone with you.”

  “I did nothing!” Jensen announces, his attention still on the phone.

  “He really didn’t,” she responds, waving me off with a smile. “He just talked a lot about you and the friendship you two share. It was endearing.”

  “I’ll probably have to remind him of this particular experience tomorrow.” I glare at Jensen. “I really wasn’t tryin’ to disturb your night.”

  She shakes her head. “My friends all just left anyway. I wasn’t really ready to go, and then Jensen here asked me to smoke.” She motions to him as he takes another fruitless drink. “I may have needed one after the night I had.” She shrugs.

  I shoot Jensen a scowl. “You fuckin’ smoked and didn’t come tell me? You know I smoke and you know I ain’t had one since I got here.”

  He just grins, his finger still working the cell phone screen.

  “I could use another one,” Carleigh says, shrugging.

  “Yeah!” Jensen adds, putting a pointer finger in the air.

  As I stand, I wave him off, shaking my head. “No fuckin’ way. You smoked without me, we’re smokin’ without you. You sit your happy ass right there, call your damn wife, and grab us more drinks.”

  He looks toward the drinks and then back up at us with a frown on his face. He crosses his arms and leans back into the cushion.

  “Fine!” he says, sighing heavily.

  “Great,” I say, a wide faux smile on my face as I put a hand out for her. She takes it, standing from the booth, and then follows me to the front door.

  Once we’re outside, I pull two cigarettes out, claiming our spot around the smoke pit. I hold it out for her.

  “I hope Reds are okay,” I say as she’s about to take it.

  She stops in her tracks, her hand inches away from the cigarette when she asks, “Reds, huh?” She smacks her lips, her face scrunching with displeasure as she finally takes it from me and eyes it.

  I pop the other between my lips and light it, taking a deep puff as I wait to light hers.

  She still eyes the cigarette cautiously, finally slipping it in her mouth and waiting for the spark.

  I light her cigarette, eyes on hers as the Zippo flame dances … and then she’s puffing as I pocket the lighter before a cough erupts. Then another, and another. She holds the smoking cigarette away from her as she vampire coughs with the oth
er arm.

  Taking pleasant puffs from my own cigarette, I smile through the smoke, setting a hand to her back and patting it lightly. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” she says weakly, shaking her head. “It’s been a while since I smoked last. I mean, before the one Jensen gave me.”

  “And before that?”

  “Twelve years.”

  “Damn!”

  “Yeah, it was hard quitting. I shouldn’t even be smoking this one.” She eyes the cigarette between her fingers again, studying it and the smoke that dances from its smoldering tip.

  “Well, you get no more from me then. Ever. I can’t be an accomplice.”

  She rolls her eyes, and it’s then I notice the drunken glint to them.

  “Shut up. If I don’t get one from you, I’ll just bum one from my friend Allison. She still smokes. Even though they’re Camels.” She grimaces with disgust.

  I chuckle, reminding her, “Your friends aren’t here anymore, love.”

  She looks around for a second, turning and snapping her fingers when she says, “Oh yeah. Shit. Well, I’ll get another one from your friend then.”

  “Fair enough. His girly cigarettes probably go down smoother anyhow.”

  As if proving her adequacy, she takes an extra-long puff and holds the smoke in her lungs for a moment. Her forehead dances, as if she’s fighting off a coughing fit. She lets the smoke out of her mouth in little O’s directed right toward my face.

  “Talented,” I say, nodding, as I track the little O’s from creation to dissipation.

  “I get it from my momma,” she says, crossing her arms and pursing her lips like a fucking early nineties rapper.

  “Do you really?”

  She shakes her head, eyes wide as she takes another drag. Letting the smoke out, she says, “Lord, no. My mom never knew I smoked. She hated the stuff.”

  “You know what’s crazy, Carleigh?” I ask, taking a pull from my cigarette as her beautiful eyes meet mine.

  “What?”

  “I’ve shared so much with you already and I still know so little about you.”