CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
The air rushed out of Bishop's lungs when he saw Stella in Newb's room. She didn't notice him as he approached the door. The two seemed entrenched in conversation, both wearing broad smiles. However, something unpleasant stirred inside Bishop's chest.
As if sensing Bishop, Stella and Newb turned their gazes toward the door. Bishop swallowed, as her eyes widened at the sight of him. Sudden insecurities flitted through his head. He was wearing a dirty, grease-stained shirt; his hair looked like absolute shit; and, he hadn't shaved the last two days. Scruffy did not begin to describe him.
Stella, on the other hand, appeared extremely put together. Her dark blue pant suit was freshly pressed and her make-up impeccable—even her hair looked firmly in place. She was completely and utterly the opposite of Bishop's appearance.
She turned to Newb, a weak smile on her lips. “I better get going.”
“What? The boss won't mind!” Regardless of Newb's sunny presumption, Stella stood up. Newb turned big, innocent eyes in Bishop's direction. “Right?”
Tense discomfort filled the air, as Bishop scowled and averted his gaze from the Seven Tribesmen potential. As if Newb didn't even speak, Stella said her farewells. Only the sound of her heels clicking across the tiles lit into the air as Stella powered passed Bishop. Neither dared to cross gazes.
Even as her footfalls died away, Bishop kept his gaze locked the far wall. He glared at the hazardous materials bin, his jaw working as he fought an overwhelming wave of inexplicable emotions. He needed sleep. That was it. Tonight, after the vote, he was going to bed with one of those sleeping pills. Maybe three.
“Did something happen, boss?” Newb's voice shook Bishop from his thoughts.
His gaze flickered to his injured brother, and curiosity took over. “Why was she here?”
“Agent Holmes visits during lunch. She's been sneaking me soda.” The young man chuckled, trying to lighten the atmosphere, but his attempts were fruitless. The tension hung around in the air.
Bishop turned to Newb. A cold suspicion cut through his thoughts and his stomach lurched. He licked his lips, tilting his head back a little as his eyes scanned the man for telltale marks. “That all she sneaking in?”
“Wait, you don't think me and her are...That we're…” Newb eyes widened, as he stuttered for a few more indecipherable sputters. Finally, his mouth snapped shut and he savagely shook his head. “Boss, I'd sooner take a bullet to the roof of my mouth than disrespect you like that.”
“What?” Bishop breathed. Faintly, he wondered if he was so transparent. Did his eyes light up when he saw Stella? Did his shoulders deflate perceptibly when she left? As quickly as those thoughts flew through his head, he slammed a mental wall down. He had done nothing of the sort—because he had no such emotions for Stella. At least, that's what he told himself.
“Coyote told me that you and her are...” Newb paused, waving his hand, trying to find the best word. “Intimately acquainted.”
Bishop stared down at Newb for a few breaths. The young man simply sat there, waiting, eyes never averting from Bishop's gray gaze. Newb radiated earnest sincerity. Bishop sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. He knew full well the newest member of the Seven Tribesmen wouldn't do anything to jeopardize his standing. Newb was especially careful to not step on the toes of his higher-ups. He took hazing with a grin and insults with a grain of salt.
Bishop closed the door behind him. Newb watched him intensely as Bishop neared the hospital bed. They needed to get off of Stella as a topic. Bishop licked his lips and shifted gears. “There's going to be a vote tonight. We found out the Grave Demons have been supplying the Devil Spikes with blow.”
“Shit.” Newb sagged back against the headboard. Nervousness replaced the intense glint in his eyes. His gaze shifted off into mid-distance, a faraway expression painting over his features.
“Yeah,” Bishop grunted with a nod. His brain shifted to auto-pilot, shifting to club business. This was something he could handle; he’d just pretend the world outside the club didn't exist. “We're going to need your proxy vote, Newb.”
The young man instantly focused on his boss, again. His brows furrowed, a question shooting from his lips. “For what?”
“Retaliation and who do we go against.” Bishop ignored how hollow his voice sounded. It was just exhaustion teasing at his ears. Everything felt numb, but deep down, an insufferable itch scrabbled along his thoughts. “Do we wanna take out the Grave Demons, the Devil Spikes, or both right away?”
“Man, boss, I don't know,” Newb grunted, bordering on a whine. He shook his head again before running a hand through his scruff hair. Even with his time in the hospital, the young man hadn't grown much scruff along his chin. An odd thought struck Bishop suddenly. It was always weird to remember how young Newb was, but coupled with his current environment, a sickness lurched through Bishop's gut. Newb didn't seem to notice Bishop's nauseated expression as he muttered, “If we don't retaliate, they'll just keep comin'.”
“Yeah,” grunted Bishop, forcing the bile back down his throat. Newb, who was too young to grow a decent beard, was about to cast a vote concerning warfare and revenge. A little part of Bishop began to understand Stella, but another part rallied against the foreign thought process. Newb knew what he was getting into when he asked to become a prospective member.
Newb continued his idle commentary. “But, two gangs? Damn, boss.”
“Tell me about it.” Bishop's mouth felt like a different entity, pressing a conversation forward without his conscious effort.
Silence fell between the two. The hiss and beep of machines at Newb's bedside filled the quiet. Outside, the muffled conversation between nurses and doctors filtered into the room. A pang of guilt shot through Bishop, as he watched his youngest member. Newb's expression strained, his eyebrows twitching as an inner battle sounded through his synapses.
“Yay on retaliation. As for who first...” Newb shook his head, as if trying to release his head of a painful parasite. He licked his lips, eyebrows furrowing, and anger flickered in his eyes as he brought his gaze back to his boss. Newb's voice took on a hard edge, a purposeful tone, as he said, “Grave Demons. They got the connections.”
Bishop edged closer, laying a heavy hand on the young man's shoulder. “Thanks, Newb.”
“No problem, boss.” Newb cocked a crooked smile, and Bishop shifted uneasily. His mind flickered back to Stella, his eyes involuntarily flickering to the door. Vaguely, he wondered how she was doing, and where she was going. Had there been any breaks? Was she mentally as put together as her outfit? With two gangs and a drug cartel, how safe would Stella genuinely be throughout the whole thing?
Newb's head listed to the side, his beam shifting to a slight grin. “You could catch up to her if you want.”
“What?” Bishop's eyes tore away from the door. Newb's sudden words, coupled with his surprising observation, sent an unhappy clench to Bishop's gut. Even the newest member, the member who knew him the shortest amount of time, could see his thoughts plainly on his face. What was happening to him?
“Agent Holmes. She'll be heading back to the department,” Newb said softly. The young man suddenly feared he had spoken out of turn on an issue that was none of his business. His gaze fell to his hands resting in his lap, but he forced the words out, a little louder than he meant, “You could catch up with her.”
Bishop managed to press a smile to his lips. His brain couldn’t help but revolve around the issue of the FBI and—more importantly—what would happen if Stella was mixed into the clubs' fray. A forced, strained chuckle fell from his lips as he muttered, “Nah, that's old pussy.”
“It's fine. I need some shut-eye, anyway.” Apparently, Newb wasn't having any of his boss's evasion.
Bishop stared at Newb for a beat. He vaguely wondered how he had managed to get such a group of brothers together. Then, he mused about Newb's newly found assertive nature. The kid would live up to Bulletproof, alright. Bishop squeezed Newb's shoulder, almost forgetting his hand was resting on the young man's shoulder. Quietly, Bishop grunted, “Heal up, all right? We miss you at the clubhouse.”
“Yeah, I bet that place is pig sty without me.” Newb grinned broadly, as Bishop's hand slipped away. Bishop didn't reply as he headed out the room, leaving Newb to himself. Newb stared after his boss's back, a subtle grin twitching across his expression. Finally, when Bishop boarded an elevator and disappeared from sight, Newb slid down in his bed. But, even when he clenched his eyes shut to submit to slumber, a faint worry teased at his thoughts.