Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell
DANI
“Where is he?” the stranger asks, spreading his fingers against my mouth.
“He who?”
“You know who I’m talking about. Your boyfriend.”
The instinct to call Bishop my husband is overwhelming, but I tamper it down. I answer the question back in French, not knowing what the strange man will do next. I decide to bluff. “He’s…”
“He’s what?”
“Out… He just changed clothes and left.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” The foul-smelling bastard’s cologne is obscene. His breath is even worse. “Is that why the water is running upstairs?” I can feel his smirk on the back of my neck.
“Seems to me that he’s in the shower. And if he is, then I’m going to go upstairs and cut his throat. Then you and I can have all the time alone that we need.”
He rubs his grubby little erection agai
