CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
The roar of the hog filled Bishop's ears, as he traversed through Grand River. He tried not to think about Stella; however, thoughts of her insidiously snuck into his mind. Where had she gone at five in the morning? Did she have another motel room? Did she go into work to pull off a long workday? An ache raced through his chest as the memories of waking up alone came rushing back. He clutched tightly at the handlebars of his bike, resisting the urge to rev the engine.
He glided into the parking lot of Bishop's Auto. A cringe went through his head as he saw the multitude of cars lined up and ready to be fixed. As he swung off his hog, a dull pain jolted along his right calf. Stan's ugly mug drifted into his thoughts. He realized, abruptly, he hadn't taken his pain relievers, which was probably why his exhausted muscles muttered dissent to every movement. Before he could dwell on the pain that raced all through his body, Coyote jogged out from the garage. “Boss, we need to talk.”
“Seems all we do is talk,” Bishop said and sighed. He nodded toward Bishop's Auto, wishing to delay any conversation with Coyote. “Let's get to the office.”
The two marched in silence. Bishop could tell Coyote wanted to dig in and right the wrongs floating around Grand River. All of his brother's positives aside, Coyote clamped down on problems with a single-mindedness. Although, Bishop knew it was his duty to fix these problems, part of him didn't have the heart.
As soon as they stepped into his office, Coyote pulled the blinds and shut the door firmly behind him. He crossed over to the door, which led into the garage, and shut that one as well. Bishop lowered himself to his desk chair, his right leg throbbing dully.
When Coyote turned to Bishop, he instantly asked, “What are we going to do about the Grave Demons?”
“What do you think?” grunted Bishop, leaning back in his chair. Pressure on his back instantly sent rivets of pleasure-pain through his nerves…thanks to Stella's left over scratches; however, he didn't dwell on the delightful pain.
Coyote knew they'd seek retribution against their one-time partners. How to do it was another question. Bishop's thoughts briefly returned to Stella. His eyebrows furrowed, and he focused on Coyote again. “Do the Grave Demons have ties to the Devil Spikes?”
“The assholes who started the fight when Stella rolled into town?” Coyote's green eyes sparked with curiosity. He listed his head to the side, brows furrowed. “Not sure. Why do you ask?”
“Gut instinct.” Bishop hunched over his desk, looking over the inventories and requests piled up on his desk. An ache tickled across his muscles, reminding him of more enjoyable nights; however, he was now in full Seven Tribesmen-mode. “Send Howler, Crow, and Ruse out that way. Let them strong arm the Devil Spikes for answers.”
A beat of silence descended, and Bishop could feel the waves of uncertainty from Coyote. “You sure that's wise?”
Bishop drew his eyes away from his work papers. He cocked an eyebrow at his vice president, trying to mask his slight irritation. He was doing his job and still Coyote nitpicked. Then again, that's why Bishop needed him. “You don't?”
“That's three men out…and Newb is still in the hospital.” Coyote's gaze flickered from Bishop, as he shifted from foot to foot.
“How's Newb doing?” Instant guilt filled Bishop's gut. He hadn't even visited, let alone thought of Newb while he was with Stella.
“Better. They moved him from ICU to regular care over the weekend.” Coyote shrugged a single shoulder, but his expression remained stoic. Bishop wondered slightly if Coyote found him to be a complete dick, as well. If Coyote did, he didn't make it known. He advanced on Bishop's desk, leaning a hip against the stick of furniture. “As I was saying, that only leaves us and Qwerty if shit goes ass-up here.”
“Well, Agent Jackson is in the pokey, and Delilah knows we've figured out her game. What's there to go ass-up?” Bishop gave a shrug.
“The White Knights?” Coyote raised his eyebrows.
“What about them?” Bravado made Bishop shrug nonchalantly. With three gangs breathing down their neck, he knew he should feel unsettled; however, he didn't. Confidence sang through him, pushing the worries into the dark recesses of his mind.
“They know Jackson. Won't they bail him out, just to keep their asses safe?”
“Why waste so much cash on an affiliate?” Bishop shrugged and picked up a piece of paper. He made a show of eyeballing the numbers, using a pen to mark questionable digits. Airily, Bishop added, “I doubt Jackson even got their OK to hire goons to abduct Stella.”
“How's she doing anyways?” The unexpected topic shift made Bishop jerk to attention, his gaze snapping to the vice president. Coyote grinned at Bishop and said, “I mean, she seems to be doing all right since you're plowing her every night.”
Bishop's mind flooded with thoughts of Stella. Her smell, her warmth, and the softness of her skin consumed his every synapse. He forced ice into his head, freezing the onslaught of memories in their tracks. He narrowed his eyes at Coyote, and his lips twisted into a frown. “You sound jealous, Coyote. Want some?”
“Already seen it all, not interested,” said Coyote with a snort and that insufferable grin still on his lips.
Bishop blinked, his thoughts in an uproar all over again. His chest constricted as he asked, “When have you seen Stella naked?”
“I was talking about you, dumbass,” said Coyote with a laugh, reaching over to shove Bishop on the shoulder. A blush burned under Bishop's cheeks—while Coyote continued to snicker. “Damn, Arthur, you have it bad.”
“No, I don't.” Bishop's eyebrows lowered angrily. He siphoned ice into his voice and veins, as he averted his gaze from Coyote. He got too worked up over the mere mention of Stella; increased control was needed.
“Yeah, you do.” Coyote's grin faltered, and his smile deflated into an uncertain frown. “So what are you going to do when Stella wants to bring more feds and cops in on this?”
“I'm not and she won't,” Bishop growled, shooting Coyote a look. The forgotten paper in his hand rumpled as his fingers curled. “She won't find out what we know.”
“You sure about that?”
“Positive.” Bishop smoothed out the paper that fell victim to his agitation. He glanced toward Coyote and snarled, “Now, get out of my office. We have repair work to do.”
As the Seven Tribesmen vice president waltzed out of the office, Bishop bristled. It wasn't until the door slammed shut that he relaxed, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against his chair. Pain throbbed up his leg, and an ache pulsed in his chest. He didn't want to think about either injury.
He needed to focus on the garage and the 7T. He opened his eyes and hunched over his desk. Determination sunk its teeth into his brain, and he focused his gaze on the papers, his pen scrawling over various permissions and inventories. Try as he might, however, one little synapse continued to gently remind him of Stella's existence.