Page 50 of Bad Bishop

“She isn’t much of a wife, though, is she?” He parked the Porsche in front of Fermanagh’s, cutting the ignition. “I don’t like what this is doing to your reputation, brother. Being accused of sleeping with this girl-child. I still think it was a mistake.”

“It’s done now.” I popped the door open, swinging my leg to the sidewalk.

Dizzy. So dizzy.Fuck.

Before I got out, I glanced behind my shoulder, pausing.

“Did you forget something?” Fintan blinked.

“Yeah,” I said. “Drink on the job one more time, and I’ll kill you.”

_______

I staggered into my dark apartment, clutching at my chest.

Perhaps skipping the hospital was a mistake, after all. I based the change of heart on the three liters of blood I smeared across the staircase like a human fucking slug.

With a hiss, I dragged myself along the hallway to the master bedroom, crashing against the wall, marring it in red. Once in my bathroom, I flicked the light on and unbuttoned my dress shirt.

I was no pussy, but this was a serious knife injury. He went deep. I was surprised there wasn’t an exit point.

Sensing my need for privacy, my wife, who had never shown interest in spending time with me, appeared at my bathroom door. Now she wanted my company. She wore her pale hair in a messy bun, and a white satin babydoll that really brought out every delectable curve in her body.

“Now’s not a good time.” I popped the first aid kit open, lining up Betadine, tape, and gauze on the bathroom counter.

Through the mirror, I saw her examining the trail of blood I left behind, slack-jawed. Eh, so this was why she ventured here. Probably hoped to find me dead.

“Either use that open mouth to suck my cock or walk out of here and let me stitch myself in peace.” I kept applying pressure to my wound while unscrewing the Betadine spray with my teeth.

She loitered at the threshold, likely emboldened by the fact that I was too preoccupied to follow up on my threat. Blood slinked from between my fingers. I needed to call one of my soldiers on-site to assist me.

My wife continued to stare, nibbling on the dead skin around her thumbnail.

“Jesus fuck, Lila.” I swiveled toward her. “Get out. Don’t worry about the blood. I’ll send someone to clean that shit up.”

She grabbed my wrist, her sharp blue eyes dancing like cold fire.

She tugged me out of the bathroom. I didn’t have time for this nonsense, but something compelled me to humor her.

That something was more than likely my moronic dick.

She led me to my bed, where she put a gentle hand on my shoulder and eased me down, fluffing my pillows and laying me across the mattress.

Lila put her palm up, signaling me to wait, then ambled back to the bathroom. I heard the water in the sink running. She returned to the bed and flicked on my bedside lamp. I grunted as light flooded the room. My wife parked her pert little ass on the edge next to me, peeling my hand off the open wound.

Clutching my shoulder to keep me still, she used a wet, warm towel to wipe off the blood, then sprayed the shit out of the wound with Betadine. My nostrils flared, the burn eating away at my flesh like acid. “Bollocks.”

She gave me a disapproving glare to let me know she didn’t appreciate my language, then pressed clean gauze to it.

“Get more gauze and tape,” I bit out. “I’ll wrap it up.”

Her gaze dropped to my lips, like it always did. If she wanted a kiss, all she had to do was ask.

She shook her head adamantly, glaring at me as she motioned with her hands. At first, it looked like she was holding invisible cutlery. Then, I realized, she was mimicking suturing.

Something clicked in my brain.

She put me down for elevation, disinfected the wound, and was now draining it before…