Every one of my instincts tells me to run, but something about Bishop’s smile roots me in place. Still, I recoil as the large dog approaches and Bishop still doesn’t use his magic against it. And when the dog is just one leap away, I can’t help the scream that escapes me.
The rottweiler jumps up against Bishop’s chest, and delivers sloppy kisses all over his face.
What the … ?
Bishop kisses the dog back, murmuring, “Good puppy,” and “That’s my baby,” into its fur. I relax my shoulders a tiny bit, but my heart still races as Bishop finally straightens and pats the dog on its head. “All right, Lumpkins, that’s enough.”
When he faces me, my mouth is hanging open.
“What?” He adjusts his shirt, which twisted up during the lovefest.
“Is that … ?” I gesture hesitantly at the dog.
“The dog from the theater? Yes.”
“And his name is?”
“Lovey Lumpkins.”
“But …”
Bishop scratches the dog behind the ears, and Lumpkins’s eyes loll back in his head. “But he needed a home, and I just happened to have one.”
“But he’s evil.”
Bishop draws back like I’ve just insulted his mother. “Indigo Blackwood.”
“He tried to kill Jezebel!” I cry, though now that I think it over, that is one of his most endearing qualities.
“That was before,” Bishop says, and bends low to hug the dog around his thick neck. “And plus, Frederick made him do it. He’s learned his lesson. He knows not to mess with Daddy. Isn’t that right, Lumpkins?”
“Daddy?” I laugh, because this is just too ridiculous.
“You hungry, or should we just get started?”
I shake my head to snap out of the spell this sight has put me under. “No, I’m not hungry.”
Bishop straightens and hikes up his pants. “All right. Follow me.”
He leads me upstairs, and down a wide, light-filled corridor, Lumpkins following disconcertingly close on my heels.
When Bishop opens the door to what has to be an office, Lumpkins runs inside and hops up on a leather couch, curling into a slightly less intimidating ball. I decide he’s okay for now, and enter.
Pale sunlight streams in through ceiling-high arched windows, lighting the room in soft white. The walls—or rather, the tiny cracks visible around the collage of random framed pictures of every shape and size that clog the walls—are such a rich shade of gray that they almost appear black. The leather couch Lumpkins rests on is pressed against one wall; opposite it is a long black desk, flanked on one side by a potted ficus tree and on the other by a tall, skinny bookcase with an odd assortment of items like a broken globe, a battered copy of Catch-22, and what appears to be a bowling trophy. A fluffy bearskin rug covers the dark wood floor, and beanbag chairs in every color cushion the corners of the room.
It’s so Bishop that if I hadn’t seen the naked mermaid fountain outside, this room alone would convince me that this really is his mansion and he isn’t playing a trick on me.
I crane my neck to see the framed pictures that reach all the way to the ceiling, trying to assign a common theme to the randomness. There’s a giraffe, a woman’s naked back, the Ramones in concert, a man holding up a huge fish, Britney Spears circa 1999, and a picture of a mountain under the words reach for the top that seems like it would be better suited in a guidance counselor’s office.
“Who’s this guy with the fish?” I ask, pointing to the picture of the man.
Bishop sidles up behind me and leans over my shoulder, so near that his chest brushes along my shoulder blades. A surge of heat runs down into my stomach.
“That’s my uncle.”
“really?” I ask, my voice higher than usual. “The one from Texas?”
He nods.
I examine the picture closer now. The man’s middle-aged, with short gray hair poking out the sides of his baseball cap and a large belly poking out from under his neon life vest. He looks nothing like Bishop at first glance, but when I peer closer, there is something similar in his smile, in the lines around his mouth. I wonder why Bishop lives all alone in Los Angeles when he’s got family in Texas.
“Is he … ?”
“Alive?” Bishop finishes for me. “Yes.”
I want him to elaborate without me having to ask, but he doesn’t go there. In fact, he doesn’t say anything at all. And so then it becomes really strange that he’s still pressed up against me. My heart gallops like a prize racehorse. He must realize how weird this is too, because how could he not?
I swallow. “Do you see each other often?”
“Not anymore. I lived with him for a year after my mom died, but I haven’t talked with him much since he asked me to work for him remotely. Big honor.” I can practically hear him rolling his eyes. “Guess a year of living with me is a lot for one person to handle.” He says it self-deprecatingly, but I get the sense that he’s hiding something under the humor.
“What is it you do for him, exactly?” I ask. “I haven’t noticed you doing a lot of work since I’ve met you.”
“Odd jobs, really. Nothing interesting.”
I narrow my eyes at him over my shoulder. “Well, that’s vague. What does your uncle do?”
“He’s a councillor for the Family.”
I remember Bishop telling me at the Hollywood sign that it was his job to fill me on all things witchy if I turned on my two hundredth moon. “Nothing interesting, hey?”
He smiles, shaking his head so that his hair falls in front of his face. “Not until recently.”
I face the picture again, processing this new information and adding it to the Bishop picture that’s being painted in my head. Bishop’s mom died. Bishop’s uncle cast him out (at least in his own mind). Bishop has no friends. And yet he’s constantly making a joke out of everything. Either he’s the most easygoing person on the planet, or else all the flip comebacks, all the womanizer talk, all the crass jokes, they’re just his way to hide the fact that he’s lonely, that he’s dying to connect with someone. I test my hypothesis. “So, do you really think your uncle sent you away because he was sick of you?”
Bishop lets out a wry laugh. “Well, don’t try to spare my feelings or anything.”
Heat blooms across my cheeks, but Bishop claps a hand on my shoulder. “I’m kidding. He probably thought it’d be a good idea because of Jezebel. Little did he know she’d follow me here.”
I let out a false titter, because it’s just so awkward when he talks about Jezebel.
“So how has your girlfriend been keeping, anyway?” I blurt out.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” Bishop says.
“Nice try. She said so herself at the theater, and you didn’t deny it.”
“Jezebel hasn’t been my girlfriend in months.”
Hmm. “So why’d she say that, then?”
“Because she’s not used to not getting what she wants. We dated, I broke it off, she begged me to take her back, I refused. I guess she thinks she can wear me down.”
I know I shouldn’t ask more, that it’s really none of my business, but I can’t help myself. “Why’d you break up with her?”
“Haven’t you noticed her little attitude problem?” he asks.
“Oh, I’ve noticed. I just thought you might be more inclined to forgive something like that in light of the fact that you’re a horndog and she’s, you know, practically a supermodel.” I focus intently on the wall, embarrassed at the edge of jealousy in my voice.