“Cool. All right, well, pop two in the oven, shower real quick and then come back in here. I found this fishing show on Prime Video. It’s called Alaska Fish Wars. Thought we could get some tips before Sunday.” Mike sat up, pulling his other hand free and wiping them both on his tank top.
Bishop shook his head. “Not sure how helpful that’ll be to us. I have a feeling it’s a big difference fishing on Oceanview Pier in Norfolk.”
“Hmm. Never know. Still sounds badass to watch.” Mike pulled up the app on their large flat screen television that sat catty-corner at the opposite end. The camel micro-suede sectional and the second-hand walnut coffee table was all that would fit in the living room.
“I can’t. I’m about to get changed and go out for a bit.” Bishop stood and made his way around the corner and down the hall to his room. He heard Mike’s footsteps behind him on the hollow floor. “Can I borrow a shirt?”
Mike only nodded his okay. He was standing at the end of the hallway with his arms crossed over his wide chest, his arms bulging as if he was fighting with something. “Where you headed? Can’t be going out with Trent if you need a shirt. It’s kinda late and you already look like something the cat dragged in and mauled for a while before it ate it, then spit it back out.”
“Thanks,” he said dryly. “But, I’m gonna hang out with an old friend for a little while tonight.”
“Oh yeah. Old friends lead to old problems.” Mike was standing in his doorway, so it was impossible to ignore him and it would’ve been disrespectful, not to mention suicidal, if Bishop tried to close the door in his face.
“It’s not like that. Not with this friend.” Bishop went into his small walk-in closet and took his clothes off then wrapped his towel around his waist. He started the shower as hot as he could stand it, needing to relax his stiff muscles. When he was behind the curtain, he heard Mike start in again.
“This wouldn’t happen to be the friend Trent said y’all ran into at breakfast this morning would it?”
Bishop wanted to punch the tiles in the shower but that wouldn’t serve any purpose. No, he’d wait until he saw Trent tomorrow and punch him. Using an excessive amount of body wash, he quickly scrubbed away hours’ worth of grime and sweat.
“Bishop, why in the hell are you going out with that backstabbing little—?”
“Dad!” Bishop snapped. “Can I get a little privacy, please? I’ve showered around other men for five fucking years. Can you close my door? I’ll be out in a second.”
“All right, all right,” Mike said, backing out of the room.
Bishop cursed when he heard his door click. He loved Trent and he loved his dad too, but they had to let him be a man. He finished getting dressed in a pair of dark jeans and a simple, short-sleeved black button-up. He put his woven black steel chain around his neck and his two-inch gunmetal steel bracelet on his right wrist. His basic, black sports watch wasn’t anything special, but it served its purpose. He used to have a lot more jewelry and a few valuables before he went to prison, but surprisingly when Mike had tried to get his belongings to hold for him, most of his stuff had been stolen.
He slid on his black Steve Madden boots, wishing he had some fly Jordans or something instead to wear for the hot summer. But one hundred and eighty dollar shoes weren’t a luxury he could afford right now. He put his wallet into his back pocket and grabbed his keys off the dresser. He checked his reflection one last time in the mirror then looked around his room as if to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. He was stalling. He began to feel that anxiety again, that jittery feeling in his gut that was telling him this might not be a good idea. That Royce didn’t appear to be on the same page as him. But how could he fully know that without a longer conversation with him?
With that final thought, Bishop turned off his lamp and closed his bedroom door behind him. He walked the short distance across the hall to Mike’s room and went to the chest of drawers where he kept his few bottles of cologne. Bishop grabbed the first one he saw. A clear bottle with bright blue cursive writing on it and a sleek chrome cap. He hit himself with a couple of sprays on the neck then put the bottle back.
He avoided Mike’s eyes as he made his way to the front door.
“Don’t be late tomorrow,” Mike said harshly.
“I won’t. I’ll be back tonight, Mi—. Dad.” Bishop tightened his jaw. He sounded so foolish trying to do this. He locked the door behind him, and the last thing he heard was his dad trying to brush up on his fishing techniques by watching Alaska Ice Fishing.