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, but—more likely—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 come—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.