The Elite Kings Club
he slams it into third gear, and we shoot forward onto the highway. He rips up the brake as we drift onto a right turn effortlessly.For the most part, the trip is quiet and uneventful. Bishop, being Bishop—all broody and silent. It’s unsettling, and I don’t really know what to fill the awkward silence with, so I just keep quiet. Bishop eventually hooks into an underground industrial parking lot, the deep pulsing vibrations of the car echoing through the vast empty space.
“Stay in the car.”
We pull around a corner, where a long stretched limo waits. A man dressed in a finely pressed suit, gray hair slicked back, and a cigar hanging out his mouth is leaning against it. To the left of him stand his two bodyguards, both in matching black suits, and both their eyes covered by dark sunglasses. Bishop pulls to a stop and gets out of the car. I contemplate getting out just to spite him, but then I look back at the man with the cigar and think better of it. He grins at Bishop in a way that has my skin prickling. Handing him a cigar, Bishop takes it then pushes it into his pocket.
What the hell?
Looking over my shoulder, I see how there’s no one behind us. Surely, the guys wouldn’t be that far behind. Bishop turns on his feet and walks back to the car, his eyes catching mine. I squirm, sliding down lower in my seat. Just as his hand falls on the door handle, I look back up to the man who is dressed in a suit to find him looking right at me. I need to look away from his gaze, but I can’t. His eyes skillfully laser into mine with an unreadable expression. He tilts his head then looks up at Bishop, who has paused with his hand on the door handle. I look away from the suit man and look back to Bishop, before the door swings open, and he slides in beside me. Firing up the car, Bishop snarls at the man and then floors it backward, snaking out of the compact underground parking lot.
“Fuck!” Bishop slams his hand on the steering wheel.
“What?” I look around us, wondering what could be bothering him. I mean, he won, right? That’s what this was for. I look back to him, and he reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone.
“Bishop?”
He ignores me, pressing the phone to his ear. “Yeah, we have a problem. She did stay in the car! It doesn’t matter. I saw it. Yeah, I’ll go there now.”
He hangs up the phone and then drops it into fourth, slowing his speed.
“What’s going on?” I ask, leaning on the door. “Bishop, for fuck’s sake!”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
“Oh?” I say, my eyebrows quirking up. “If that’s the case, then what was that about?”
We turn down a street that isn’t far from my place. If my memory serves correctly, it’s one street over from my house, which relaxes me somewhat. I hope Nate was right and we can trust Hunter and Saint to watch over the party, though I’m sure he’s not lying. I’ve noticed how everyone moves around them. Careful, scared, but respectful. Those are all things that come to mind. I already know Bishop is the ringleader. If Tatum telling me wasn’t enough, anyone could pin it with his air of command.
We pull into a high-gated driveway, and he rolls down his window, punching in a code. After a few seconds, the high wired fence separates and we drive down the cobblestone private road. Trees line our way, and tea lights hang amongst the leaves. We come to a large, round entryway, and—holy crap. When coming down the driveway, I assumed we’d be met with an old Victorian-style mansion, but that’s not the case. A massive glass house greets me, and I mean glass everywhere. The executive-style home is beautiful, but cold. I look around to the back and see a huge backyard, where a river flows on the edge of the property. Bishop pulls up the brake and gets out of the car. I take that as my cue to get out, so I slip out, my head spinning lightly. I think I’m past the drunk phase now, and head straight into the hung-over phase, except I should be sleeping through this, not awake. Damn.
“Where are we?” I ask, looking back to the house. The square glass that sits on the top of a slightly smaller glass where the front metal doors are.
Bishop walks around to my side of the car, taking my hand and tugging me forward. “Come on.”
“Where are we?”
“Do you ever shut up?”
“Honestly? No.”
He ignores me by pulling me forward. In return, I ignore the way his hand feels intertwined with mine, but sweat beads on my temple anyway. I quickly swipe it away with my other hand. He walks us toward the side of the house, through the garden, and then toward the backyard. I almost stop in my tracks. The pool is twice the size of ours and has a glass bar that sits in the middle of it. Jesus. Who are these people? There are neon lights that light up the floating stools that round the bar, and more that light up inside the pool. Toward the back of the pool, there’s a mini house that looks exactly like the main home, only smaller.
“Whose place is this? And why am I here?”
Bishop ignores me yet again, because he’s good at that, and then pulls me toward the smaller guest house. Walking up the few steps, he slides the floor-to-ceiling door open and pushes the black net curtain out of the way.
Holy fuck. I’m in Bishop Vincent Hayes’ bedroom.
HE SLIDES THE DOOR CLOSED and I pause, looking around the dark room. The walls are glossed with black paint, all except the wall his bed’s headboard is against. That one is red marble with black swirls