CHAPTER TWO
As Arthur Bishop strode into the First Things diner, silence shot through the tiny eatery. People paused, their forks or cups halfway to their mouth. All eyes moved to the man in the leather kutte. A breath later, the door swung shut, the bell on the handle tinkling. Bishop swaggered inside to a far corner where a small conglomeration of bikers staked claim to a good quarter of the diner.
Dull pain throbbed through the man with every step. Between the brawl and lock-up, the night had been weary and without sleep. He grunted as he plopped down in the booth freshly vacated by two of his men.
“What happened, boss?” A wide-eyed young man peered at him from an adjoining booth. He looked as if he was barely a high school graduate, but Bishop knew him to be a veteran of the US Army. Honorably discharged for some sort of minor genetic disorder, Qwerty joined the 7T two years ago when his veteran benefits proved to be lackluster. Uncle Sam had nothing on the Seven Tribesmen when it came to benefits.
“The feds are sniffing around. Looks like they have a drug scent,” Bishop growled, shifting in his seat. Something hot stirred inside Bishop as he thought of Agent Holmes, with her molten chocolate eyes and full lips. He ignored the hormones – it was business time now – as his gaze swung around the table, “Question is, whose stink are they mistaking for the Seven Tribesmen?”
“At the Rusty Bear, those two assholes were from the Devil Spikes side of the river.”
“Didn't see no kuttes, but they were bragging about fresh snow fall.”
“Is that so?” Bishop narrowed his eyes just as the waitress neared his table. All conversation died as the woman placed a steaming cup of coffee and a plate laden with the heartiest breakfast combo on the table. After a nod of thanks, the waitress scurried away. Bishop hunched over the food, stomach pitching a fit as he delayed stuffing his trap. “Any intel on where the Spikes usually deal?”
“Last I heard, they were doing business in Riverbend lumberyard,” Crow spoke up, giving a single-shouldered shrug, “Maybe out of Spinerette's in Polk.”
“Check it out. See how close they're skirting to Grand River,” Bishop ordered, jabbing his fork into some hash browns. Around a mouth of potato, he added, “I don't want any of that shit in our town. Ruse, take the newb and poke about.”
The newbie scrabbled from the booth with a quick, “Yes, sir.”
Bishop quietly watched as Ruse swaggered and the newbie scuttled out of the diner. As the two made it to the door, a familiar face passed them by. Bishop's eyebrows shot up.
“Well, lookie lookie,” he muttered to himself, before hoisting himself from the booth. There was no reason to confront the agent, Bishop realized a few steps later. However, something egged him toward the woman. A prickly clench in his guts made his balls tighten. It was too late to turn back and sit down. His brothers watched him closely as he swaggered over to the woman.
Stella Holmes waited at the counter for her team's coffee order. Her fingernails tapped a beat on the surface, annoyance evident with every click. The men in the office suddenly became very busy when it came to such a simple errand. Besides, after dealing with that motorcycle nut, Stella needed the fresh air. That bastard was probably compromising her investigation as she sat there waiting for the coffees.
A sudden shift in tension – or did the other patrons of the diner quiet down considerably? – brought her annoyed daze into focus. Striding across the tiles was a woefully familiar face. Her heart skipped a beat as Arthur Bishop, arms crossed and sneer affixed to his lips, approached her.
Heat filled Stella Holmes until she felt about ready to explode. Bishop looked more intimidating, more dominant, with average citizens cast as his backdrop. He was all grit and muscle and leather among the submissive, the squishy, and the old. It was all she could do to keep her eyes casually averted from the hulking biker as he stood close.
After waiting a breath for the fed to acknowledge him, Bishop soon realized he'd have to instigate interaction. Leaning his hip on the counter, the biker bit out, “What are you doing here?”
“Oh,” Stella feigned airy surprise as she glanced up at the man. “Hello, Mr. Bishop.”
He waited, again, before he snapped, “I asked you a question.”
Fire licked through Stella's chest. All eyes in the diner turned toward the two of them. Vaguely, she realized more leather-clad bikers huddled in the far corner. She smiled tightly as her eyes glinted with arrogant challenge, “Do I need your permission to get some coffee?”
“It seems suspicious after our little talk,” Bishop grunted. He inclined his head, eyeballing her recklessly. Stella shifted under his gaze, painfully aware of the excited heat writhing inside her. “Feels like you're stalking me, Miss Holmes.”
“It's a small town,” she hissed, the jolt of pleasure drowned out by his refusal to address her as “agent.” Stella leaned forward, eyes narrowing, “I'm sure you know just how tiny this town is.”
There was no doubt that the Seven Tribesmen motorcycle club had a hand in how small Grand River was. Most motorcycle gangs kept their home turf small. It was easier to manage and intimidate. Plus, a smaller town meant less of a problematic police presence. Overall, it made for a quaint community that was easily scared or manipulated which made Stella's investigation more difficult.
“Small's good.” Bishop smiled, although it didn't soften the hardness in his gaze. Small town meant everyone knew one another, meant family, meant a tight-knit community. Although, Bishop doubted the woman would understand. Feds usually came from urban areas not known for their happy communities.
The agent's eyes dipped southward, an eyebrow cocked. Between her wry smirk, Stella chuckled, “Whatever makes you feel better, champ.”
Stella didn't have time to smugly bask in the man's livid silence nor did Bishop have a chance to retaliate. The waitress brought out two cardboard drink carriers, which housed six coffees. Stella tossed a bill on the counter before gracefully picking up both carriers. Heat licked at her palms, momentarily overriding the searing stares on her back.
She nodded her head to Bishop, her smile still curved across her lips. With a straight back and award-winning poise, she sauntered out of the diner. Bishop's grey eyes followed her, his expression venomous despite the interested gleam in his gaze.
Stella Holmes disappeared around the corner before Bishop returned his focus to the eatery. Everyone in the diner – including his brothers – became very interested in their plates as his gaze swept over them. Utensils frantically squeaked across ceramic, and shoulders hunched under Bishop's attention. He shoved himself from the counter, straightening his shoulders.
Silently, the Seven Tribesmen president stalked back to his corner. His brothers turned their attention to him as he sat back down, seeking answers. “Who was the tail?”
“Federal agent Stella Holmes,” Bishop snorted around a bite of bacon. “Bitch questioned me today.”
“Whatcha' want done with her?”
“I'll keep an eye on her. You all sniff out the crack trail. ” No one pressed the matter further. Finally, Bishop hunkered over his plate of now lukewarm food. His eyes occasionally flickered back toward the door, his imagination replaying Stella's hip-swaying exit.