Traps and Gretchen (Bayou Bishops #19)

Ropes End

“Which one do I need to talk to, is the question?” Traps wondered to his only confidant—the air—while walking the bayou’s edge behind his shack. “Fathom works out puzzles. Fin finishes them. Fetch… he what? Finds the puzzles? Knows if they are puzzles that need figuring?”

Fuck. He was going to have to make a cold call.

But this bite in his ass was all on him. And there was no changing it. No regretting it. When he first became a member of the Twelve, he didn’t know his brothers like he did now. He was presented with the honor of working for the Bishops and that was like… wow . Every fiber in his universe unraveled in a single instant and lined up for duty. That once tangled mess in his head and soul suddenly burned with logic and purpose. Without a doubt it formed the foundation of who he was even while hiding his worst parts—which he later realized were his best parts.

But it was the celibacy code. The trap of all traps. The perfect hidden trap. Those allowed him to hide while nobody knew that he was. People knew of him what he wanted them to know. He was Traps. He liked rope of all kinds. He liked knots of all kinds. He set traps of all kinds. That’s all. He was a ropeologist. A fiber fanatic snare scholar. Puppet master of the dangly things.

The truth he hid about his obsessions with rope ran much deeper than the eye could follow. To the outsider, he was an impressive monkey tying and binding, securing, restraining, entangling, and tightening. But beneath that hid the good stuff. The ethereal strands making up the fibers of a soul. Where tying became connecting, binding became trust. Securing was safety and tightening, control.

Like Lesion who’d used his entire body to exact his craft on, Traps’ body learned all the ways of the rope. He discovered the freedom in loosening and the protection in wrapping. The transformation in twisting and anticipation with coiling. And his commitment to the rope was his greatest knot. The pull of that rope was its very own raging desire—his intentions and instinct, his fate and free will, all of it danced in the weave. His choices became tethers, his fears learned freedom. That was true rope to him. In that sacred inner place, the fight between surrender and control in no way rivaled the art of holding on. The innate beauty of letting go. Each twist and turn was a song in his soul. A song that sang silently for only his ears to hear.

Until Gretchen. His Petite Fyoo-rie. His human tempest. But mostly, she was fury. She hated the nickname but that was too bad. She’d earned it. And he called her Ma Petite Fyoo-rie every chance he got just like she called him Gross Neelo.

He mostly despised how he loved hearing her speak his real name, even in a mock.

She’d finished unraveling him. The moment the celibacy rule was lifted, and marriage was suddenly required , his unraveling had begun. It was another perfect trap, only this time, it was inside out and cut the rope that tethered his balls. The introduction of a woman into his ropeology was like a rogue wave crashing into a plotted course.

But the introduction of Gretchen… well, that was tossing a flame into a knot of fuses in the center of his chest. In only two months, every rope that defined him now defied him. Whatever rope was to him, she became its arch nemesis. She was a knot that refused to be bothered with logic and reason. She turned disciplined fibers into frayed nerves and created cruel, tantalizing loops of illusion that vanished the second you were stupid enough to jump through one.

He paused his furious pacing and whipped out his phone, locating the Quantum Kings contact folder. The puzzle triplets were the only beings who were non-human enough to confide in without facing question or judgment. Going to his brothers with his idiot’s noose that not even a blind monkey could accidentally make, was out of the question. His role as one of the Twelve demanded the best of his skills more than ever. It was time. He had to find a way to craft new rope. A killer knot of feral fibers that even this reason wrecking woman couldn’t defeat.

He stared at the name on his screen. “Fetch,” he barely muttered, thumb hovering over the last piss-stop before hell lifeline. He pulled the pin on the grenade and smashed the name on the screen. Phone to ear, he waited to hear what his life sounded like exploding into a million fragments.

“Traps.”

The voice on the line seized every part of him. So much sacred rope power. Trap’s tongue tied up as his mind raced to define what exactly he’d heard in his voice that bound him up. It was knowing . This… being knew .

“Fetch,” he said finally.

“Yes.”

The fibers in his voice weaved in a way that confirmed it. He marveled it aloud. “You know.”

“I have acute hearing,” he said. “What can I do for you? Brother.”

Holy fuck. Acute hearing? That was the down-play of the century. He’d dialed the universe and reached the thread that bound all living things together. And the dude called him brother. He mentally shook himself from the wonder-weave. “I have…”

“Something that needs Fetching,” he said.

Holy saints of all snares. “Yes.”

“Who is it?” Traps heard in the background.

“It’s our brother of the many Traps.”

“What’s he fetchin’ about?” she whispered, close by.

“I’m trying to Fetch that now, my human.”

Traps tuned in to the sounds of this exchange. “Well, ‘scuse me,” she muttered.

“That which needs Fetching must be Fetched fully in person,” he now said in Traps’ ear.

“Who’s Fetchin’ what?” the woman wondered.

“Wife,” he patiently implored, his voice moving from the phone. “Would you like to speak for me?”

“I’m just askin’,” she whispered.

“Perhaps wait until the answers are available for gifting to my soul of souls.”

“You bein’ a smartass.”

“I’m only ever being what your heart desires.”

Her frustrated growl had Traps grinning. “Stop makin’ it so bloody hard to stay mad at you!”

Remarkable. To have such a bond with a woman. To so easily escape the snares she’d set for him. “I need your help,” Traps hurried, sure now he’d called the perfect person. “It’s my wife.”

“Ah yes. The fated spouse of the fool.”

Traps swallowed his first spoonful of humbling elixir. “No better name exists.”

“He’s calling about his wife, is he?” the woman quietly asked, still close by.

“Yes,” Fetch said.

“I heard all about that one.”

“What did she hear?” Traps wondered.

“What did you hear, the man inquires.”

“Let me just talk to him.”

“No.”

“Why?” she demanded.

“Because he is a man. And you are my woman.”

Damn, this dude had thick rope . And the exact kind he needed.

“You just asked me if I wanted to talk to him,” she fussed quietly.

“What is the term my lovely human uses? Don’t bullshit me.”

She laughed, and the lover’s quarrel strummed something hungry in him. “We should help him,” she said.

“What a Fetching idea, wife.”

“Oh yer bein’ a dick now, aye? Ask him when we can come over. You told him you’s gotta see the thing yer fetchin’?”

Traps thought quickly for a reason. “My wife is utterly taken by the puzzle triplets,” he remembered.

“Oh, is she?” Fetch mused.

“Is she what?” the woman whispered.

“Utterly taken with the puzzle triplets.”

“I'll be utterly taken ye’ head off if ye’ be usin’ that tone with a female that ain’t bein’ me.”

“I believe our brother is Fetching a logical reason for having us over.”

She sucked in a breath. “Oh! Ain’t she the swampy librarian? I have a need for books for all me sisters here. The dirty romantic ones so they be learnin’ a thing or two about the ins and outs of the marital bed.”

“Brilliant,” Traps realized, hope surging through the knotty mess in his body. “Books are her sole obsession.”

“He says—”

“I heard him! Ask him if he knows how to make the dirty soup I be hearin’ so much about.”

Traps grinned at the term. “Gumbo?”

“Yes, that be it!”

“I’m the best at cooking it next to Mah-Mah and Bacon.”

“That can be our payment,” she offered.

Her voice sounded like her mouth was right next to Fetch’s as Traps laughed. “You have a deal.”

“I Fetch you want us to come at seven o’clock tonight?” she tested, further impressing him.

“Is she a mind reader?” Traps asked.

“She’s gained some of my ability to—”

Her snort cut him off. “I was Fetchin’ since I was a wee human, my luv.”

“Ah, yes, my all-knowing goddess. This is how you Fetched I was the perfect man for you.”

“It was. We need to meet him to Fetch as much as we can about his wee wife and how all he’s pissed her off so we can Fathom a proper Finishin’, yeah?”

“I can meet you anywhere,” Traps said.

“There you are!”

Gretchen’s voice brought his blood to a sudden boil then standstill in his veins. “I have to go.”

“Meet us at your dry dock,” Fetch said.

“In one hour,” he hurried, hanging up.

He braced as he turned to face his wife. But what in all the earth could equip him to battle the tiny miracle standing there. More beautiful, more delicious, more deviously sinful than he’d ever seen her. Ah yes. His brother Fetch could .

“My wife,” he greeted while fisting this new hope. Usually, he only singed her with his gaze due to the many eye-traps on her body. At week eight, his fated wife was packed with them.

“Husband,” she greeted back.

The sweet lilt in her voice was one hundred percent taken for what it was. A warning. More like the reddest flag of all flags he’d ever gotten from her. She’d girded up her sexy loins for another war with him. But he knew two very important things that changed the weave of the knotted fibers between them. One—she wanted to exasperate him to the point of giving up. And two—well, that sat in the darkness behind number one, waiting to be found. Why she wanted him to give up. He shared a similar passion with the puzzle triplets when it came to unravelling things. Did she not realize he couldn’t give up even if he wanted to? He was already so tangled up in her, to get free would require his bloody corpse. But this day, he would get to the bottom of why she didn’t share that same problem. A wisp of hopeful thread remained that she in fact did share it and was hiding it.

“Going somewhere?” he asked, drinking in the creamy skin pushing out the top of her fitted black blouse. Her usual neck-high garb was replaced with a low cut fitted one edged with lace. It brought a quake to his blood at what she intended by all of this. If he gave in, it would end with him burning alive then getting kicked into the abyss of fiery longing where he questioned every fiber of his existence and purpose.

“No,” she said simply, crossing her arms under her breasts. “Just wondering what you’re doing.”

“I was needing to talk to you about Fetch and his wife Rowan coming over for dinner tonight.” The surprise in her dark gaze felt like a triumph. “She needs to speak to you about getting books for all the sisters,” he hurried. “The kind that would help them with things relating to the marital bed. I told her you were an expert on those books .” The frayed look in her eyes added to his first victory. “She asked for the dirty soup in exchange.”

Her brows drew together. “Dirty soup?”

“Gumbo.”

Her shot of genuine laughter erupted in his blood. That was new. And powerful. She’d never given a genuine anything to him before, he realized. He was surely fucked if she figured out what her real joy did for him and then weaponized it. “I can cook it,” she said.

Her eager cooperation was another red flag but there was also something else he detected. Something false.

“Good,” he said. “Because I have to meet them at the dry dock in an hour and bring them out.”

“An hour?” she said, alarmed.

“I can stall if you need more time.”

She contemplated, chewing on her blood red lower lip, stirring up his Gretchen fantasies without trying. Or maybe she was. “I need at least two.”

“I’ll take the snare-runner. Slow enough to buy you three hours.” He let his eyes fall into the temptation at her chest. “You uh… gonna be dressed in that?”

Her innocent surprise was anything but. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing, except his wife is very jealous of other women.”

“Oh really,” she said lightly, no doubt testing what sort of leverage that might get her. He despised that he only had bad assumptions with her. “Well, Neelo, I’ll change, of course. What about you?” she challenged and accused.

Fuck, here we go . “What about me, Petite Fyoo-rie?”

She suddenly did a rare thing and struggled with her words. “ Are you jealous?” she finally sputtered out.

Traps tilted his head, studying the ever-changing labyrinth before him. How many times he’d craved for a single thing to be jealous of . For eight weeks he’d fought for something, anything, and she’d fought him back, making damn sure he had zero to fight for. “Jealous of what ?”

Exasperation parted her perfect lips. “Jealous he might… like how I look?”

She was fucking serious. Top notch unreal. Her little Farkle dice rolled be sweet as sugar and sexy as fuck . Call it bad timing or hellish coincidence, but he’d already switched gears. There was no changing or shaping or even controlling whatever she was doing, and he sure as hell wasn’t running, which meant he’d take control from her, put her on the defense for a couple months, see how she liked that.

“Because he’s thoroughly obsessed with his wife. I doubt he’ll even notice you.”

She fired out a fake laugh and he grounded himself on their dirty playing field. “And will my husband notice, I wonder?”

Final round shit right there. She was getting desperate. But so was he. They were both on ledges and if he fell or if she pushed him, he was taking her with him on that plunge. “Notice what? ” he muttered, moving past her before he noticed every part of her with his hands and tongue. “How you love to tease? And fight?” He made it out the door and hurried down the steps. “I’m used to your games, Farkle .”

“Oh, are you, Fatey ?” she returned as he focused on the path. “And are you wearing that tonight?” she demanded from the porch.

“I’ll call you when I’m on my way back. If you need help with anything, text me.”

“What could I possibly need help with from you?” she yelled. “You think I can’t cook ?”

His muscles nearly locked up at what he heard. Surely that couldn’t be insecurity. “You have my number, Fyoo-rie.”

“I practically lived at the library all my life, there isn’t anything I don’t know,” she yelled even louder.

“I’m so aware that you know a little of everything,” he called back without turning, stressing the little while his cock reminded him how perfectly that word fit her. His ever-pissed Fyoo-rie.

The sound of the door’s window rattling from her grand slam put a grin on his mouth and victory in his steps. Fuck, he’d finally scored. The tides were turning. And not a day too soon now that she was down to playing as dirty as she could. It was his turn to play dirty. No, he needed to play filthy.