Damned: Seven Tribesmen MC (21 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

The tension in the small office felt hot and sticky and heavy.  Stella sat across the desk from Bishop, the bags of fast food between them.  The clock ticked loudly in the silent room, and was sometimes accompanied by far off buzzes and clangs of the garage.  Since stepping foot in the office, the throb in Stella's sex-exhausted muscles worsened.

Bishop wasn't faring much better.  When Stella texted him, asking for a lunch date, he tried to decline.  However, his treacherous body typed back:
Sure my place or yours?

His stomach churned at his own self-betrayal.  However, no amount of self-deprecation could stop his hunger.  Bishop chewed lazily on his cheeseburger, hoping the mouthful could help him avoid any unneeded conversation. 

Stella picked at her fries, but her burger remained untouched.  Though nervousness paddled through her stomach, she chalked it up to having a rather humongous breakfast.  Stella tore her gaze away from the fries, pinning Bishop under a thoughtful gaze.  An amiable dialogue needed to be opened, and she racked her brain for starters.  “So, I have a new partner.”

“That's good,” Bishop muttered around his mouthful of beef.  He kept his eyes from Stella's gaze.

“Yeah, and she told me something interesting today.” Stella plunged forward, despite Bishop’s disinterest.  Might as well get to the heart of their visit since beating around bushes never amounted to much after all.

Bishop still refused to look her in the eyes, as he halfheartedly muttered, “Oh?”

“Delilah named the gang involved with the cocaine ring.”  Stella watched Bishop closely, looking for any twitch in his jaw, any flinch, any sudden rigidity in his shoulders.  The man was a complete picture of neutral stoicism though.

“Oh.”

Stella narrowed her eyes, resisting the urge to scowl.  Licking her lips, she toed the dark surf.  “You don't sound very surprised.”

Bishop paused after he swallowed.  His mind reeled with options.  He could continue with evasion, or he could be frank.  After all, none of the Seven Tribesmen were being hauled away in handcuffs.  Obviously, Delilah hadn't named the 7T as the snort pushers.  His gaze flickered to Stella, catching her intense stare.  His heart thundered in his chest under the heat of her gaze, as he gently put down his half-eaten burger.  His voice didn't betray his internal excitement though.  “I'm not.”

“Is she lying?”  Relief zipped through Stella's mind, as Bishop met her gaze head-on.  His avoidance was starting to worry Stella.  Even if his gray gaze held a guarded expression and his tone fell flat, if she could see his eyes, it would solidify the 7T's innocence in her heart.

Bishop shrugged his shoulders and replied, “I can't say.”

Stella sighed in frustration.  She pinched the bridge of her nose, seeking a happy balance to their little conflict.  The fact glistened in her mind that she trusted Bishop to tell her the trut
h—
if they spoke candidly to one another.  “Look, if I talk freely about this, will you give me your word you won't take matters into your own hands?”

“I'm flattered my word would mean so much to you, Agent Holmes.”  Bishop leaned back in his chair.  Pain echoed through his muscles and along his leg, but he didn't allow it to show across his face.  He crossed his arms over his chest, his jaw clenched with determination. “But club business is club business.”

“Arthur.” Stella stared at him, disbelieving the direction of his candor.  This wasn't unexpected though.  They had gone back to their respective lives.  No matter how many hot nights or orgasms they shared, they both remained on very opposite sides of the law.  Stella swallowed down the disappointment, as it crawled up her throat. 

“The Seven Tribesmen will take care of the problem gang as we see fit.”  Bishop's resolve firmed with his every word.  His muscles tensed though they complained with various levels of ache.  The gunshot wound on his calf screamed under the tight tension.  Bishop held on to all of it, concentrating on the pain in order to sweep the
other
emotions away.

“And what if it is more than one gang, Mr. Bishop?”  Anger steeled Stella's voice.  She jumped to her feet, and worry dotted her thoughts along with frustration.  Bishop's pigheaded decision could get the Seven Tribesmen killed!  Stella's heart twisted painfully at the very thought.  “What then?  Will you send your men to their deaths for some testosterone-driven, vindictive sense of revenge?”

“They knew what they signed up for when they joined.”  Bishop's eyebrows lowered into an angry 'v' as he followed Stella's movement.  His muscles tightened and his jaw ached, as he clenched his teeth.  Pain bit through his thoughts and body, keeping his warm enamor concerning Stella far away.

“Yeah?  Is Thomas Shupe out of the hospital yet?” snapped Stella.  Rage and fear completely blanketed her thoughts, manifesting in pointed, venomous words. “Or is he still recovering from the price of loyalty?”

As the words rang out through the air, silence descended.  Stella gasped and a hand slapped over her mouth, her eyes wide and apologetic.  Bishop's gaze flared with heat, as they darkened like an angry storm. The ache in his jaw tripled.  Around them, the squeal of power tools sang through the air, and the tick of the clock boomed between them, as if counting down to an explosion.

Stella breathed in and out through her nose.  Her shock still danced at the corners of her thoughts.  She hadn't had an outburst like that since she was a teenager.  When her heart stilled to a reasonable rate, she lowered her hand.  Her voice quivered as she spoke, “Arthur, I'm sorry, I didn't me‒–”

“Get out.”  He didn't want to hear her words.  He didn't want her apology.   Bishop clung to the words that Stella snarled in a fit of anger, lassoing the indignation that flared from her words. 

Stella gasped and said, “I'm sor–!”

“Now!” roared Bishop, slamming his hands on his desk as he rocketed to his feet.  One of the pops fell over, and dark soda fizzed down the side of his desk.  Both of their gazes flicked to the fallen drink.  Bishop swallowed, reigning in the conflagration he used to keep the distance between himself and Stella.  Without taking his gaze off the soda, he grunted, “I have nothing left to say to you, Agent Holmes.”

Another beat of silence hung in the air, hollow and cold.  A car engine roared somewhere in the garage, and the clock continued to tick loudly, marking their meeting's minutes.  After a breath of hesitance, Stella shuffled away from the desk.  She paused before opening the door and turned to cast one glance back.  Bishop still refused to look at her, keeping his gaze determinedly on the spilled beverage.

Guilt stabbed her through the chest, knowing her words had been completely uncalled for.  He didn't want to hear her apology though.  However, a small part of Stella decried allowing him to rush to his death.  The Seven Tribesmen didn't deserve a bloodbath ending.  Stella swallowed heavily, settling on a vague warning. “Be careful, Bishop.  This might be bigger than the 7T can handle.”

By the time Bishop registered her words and his eyes darted to the door, she was gone and the doorway was left wide open.  He stared at the empty space for a breath, his brain churning the last half hour over and over.

Delilah had given up the name of the snort-pushing gang.  Perhaps Coyote should pay Firecrotch another visit.  Or maybe Qwerty could get his hands on a copy of the statement.  His guts pinched with premonition.  He was certain the Devil Spikes were the proxy, with the Grave Demons being the main contact.  That made the 7T's retribution a little more complicated. 

Why would Stella warn him though?  She had to know he'd use the information for his own means. 

He shook the curious thought from his head.  Now, he had something to clean up.  Snatching the napkins, Bishop hissed against the pain in his leg and crouched down.  As he sopped up the fizzing soda, Stella's warning continued to echo through his head.

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

Days passed since Stella stormed out of Bishop's Auto.  Bishop idled about the garage during his mornings, catching up on work and running his business.  In the evenings, he and the 7T would go to their clubhouse on the edge of town and hash out game plans.  The nights would end early for Bishop, and he would trudge into one of the clubhouse's spare rooms.

He hadn't slept in his own bed since Stella left.  Something churned in his stomach at the thought.  The idea of her residual scent all over the place was both a comfort and a frustration.  He ached to go back, but adamantly refused.

  It felt as if all the days melted together into one giant lump of worries and inexplicable loneliness.  Agitation constantly dotted his thoughts, especially when Stella would randomly traipse through his head.  It happened far more than he would like to admit, as well.

Work helped to keep her off his thoughts though.  The heavy scent of oil coupled with the loud, jarring sounds kept any unwanted musings at bay.  For the most part.  The shriek of the drill completely masked Coyote's steps as he approached the crouched Bishop.

A nudge of the boot brought Bishop out of his intense concentration.  He switched the power tool off and pushed his protective goggles upward into his hair.

“The boys got back this morning.”

Bishop gave a terse nod and waved over one of his employees to take over his job.  Climbing to his feet, he and Coyote strolled toward the office. 

Over the cacophony of the garage, Bishop managed to bite out a question “They in one piece?”

“Yeah,” grunted his companion without even looking. 

Bishop pondered Coyote's minimalist answer.  He could be tired, bu
t—
more likel
y—
he was frustrated at the newest revelations.  From the corner of his eye, Bishop noted the bags under Coyote's eyes and the strain along his jaw.  The vice president wasn't one to fret over club business.  Bishop's stomach lurched with despair.

As the two crossed the threshold into the office, Bishop closed the garage door and Coyote took the front entrance.  Both drew the blinds before facing one another.

Despite the relative security of the room, Bishop couldn't help but drop his voice. “What did they find out?”

Coyote glared at a spot on the wall to his right.  Agitation strained at his body language, tightening his shoulders and making his hands clench into fists. “The Devil Spikes are getting their orders and cocaine from our old friends.”

A queasiness gripped at Bishop's heart.  Between his gut instinct and Coyote's reaction, Bishop already knew where this was going.  “Grave Demons?”

Coyote gave a curt nod, his brows furrowing.  Then, he dragged his eyes to Bishop's face.  A storm of rage and fury roiled in his eyes, darkening the vibrant green to something murky. 

“Fuck, so that's two gangs we gotta take care of,” Bishop said, taking a step back.  He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers catching knots in his tangled hair.  The feeling of slight grease, from two days of no showers, coated his fingers.  Stella's warning echoed through his head.  Half-turning away from Coyote, Bishop muttered to himself, “That must've been what Stella meant.”

“What?”

Bishop cursed Coyote's sharp ears and turned back to his vice president.  He idly waved a hand. “Nothing, don't worry about it.”

“What did Stella say?”  Coyote's brows furrowed further, and his expression threatened to take on the barbed edge of betrayal.  He took a step forward, lips twisted into a scowl.  His leather cut creaked over his shoulders as he unconsciously strained against it.  “She hasn't been around here, and you've been miserable.”

A cold rush iced over Bishop's thoughts.  It had been a long time since he and Coyote squared off.  Gathering up all the aloofness he could, Bishop leaned back against the wall.  Crossing his arms, he shrugged and said, “The animal magnetism wore off.”

“Any intel she has would be worthwhile, Arthur.”  Coyote took another step forward.  The floor creaked under his boot.  Outside the office, the garage seemed deathly quiet.  If it wasn't for his last few days of busting ass, Bishop would have guessed his employees had their ears pressed to his door.  They knew better though.

For a long moment, Bishop and Coyote stared each other down, tension spiking between them.  Bishop ground his teeth together, hard enough for his jaw to ache.  Part of him knew Coyote was right.  He needed Stella's resources and, possibly, she needed his.  But that wasn't going to happen.  At some point, he'd put her in danger, or she'd have to do her job when it came to the Seven Tribesmen and their lawless activities.  Undoubtedly, Coyote was stewing in his thoughts of 'I told you so' and 'I knew it was a bad idea.' 

Bishop waited for Coyote to snap, to swing at him, or to take some form of physical retaliation.  It didn't com
e—
although Bishop could see self-control and desire feud over Coyote’s thoughts.

“I'm calling a meeting tonight to figure out our little infestation,” grunted Bishop, cutting through the hostility.  Coyote eased back, as if realizing his proximity to his president.  He never tore his green eyes from Bishop though, even as the tension deflated from the room.  Feeling like a cat that is eyed by a ravenous dog, Bishop pushed off the wall.  His muscles tensed, still waiting for Coyote to slam a fist against him; but, it never came.  Bishop wasn't sure whether he felt more relieved or disappointed.  “I'll go get Newb's proxy vote, now.”

Bishop's boots trod across the floor, his back burning where Coyote glared at him.  Undoubtedly, the vice president struggled to remind Bishop that Newb wasn't even patched in yet.  His vote wasn't needed.  It had already been discussed at length that Newb would be patched in as soon as he was fully healed though.  The leading nickname was Bulletproof.

Bishop slammed the door open, jarring the blinds, and headed for his hog.  As he crossed the parking lot, he hoped a ride would clear the sudden agitation and unease from his head.  Without warning, he wondered where Stella was and what she was doing.  He muttered a guttural curse and hopped onto his hog.  The sooner he went roaring down the road, the better.