CHAPTER THREE
The dilapidated shed reeked of old oil, rust, and dust. Though no one seemingly staked claim to the hovel, a witness claimed to see a Mr. Thomas frequent the shack. And, after a quick search, it turned out Mr. Randall Thomas had a rap sheet for drug use, possession, and dealing as long as Agent Holmes's arm. Since no one owned the old hovel now – the shed was once used as storage or as a break area for a long demolished saw mill – no warrant was needed to search.
Excitement licked through Stella's thoughts. This could be it, finally. They had spent a week tailing members of the Seven Tribesmen, trying to find some evidence of drug running. So far, the agent found out one of the high school teachers had a thing for men with motorcycles and the youngest member of the Seven Tribesmen enjoyed a particular male strip joint a couple of cities over. Basically, she found nothing.
Mr. Thomas worked as a bartender at one of the gang's establishments. The strip club was just off I-70. Which also gave scent to the transportation of the cocaine.
Stella stepped lightly, swinging her flashlight to and fro as she avoided cobwebs and scattered junk. Mountains of rotting wood and debris were piled high, walling off corners of the shed. Old, rusty gardening tools scattered across the floor, the handles splintered and chewed. Some of the metal parts had even dissipated into rust-colored powder.
Stella adjusted the grip on her gun in her holster with her free hand. Shafts of dusty light cast shadows over the splintering wood. She was looking for small details. A handle that led below the floor, frequent scuff marks on the dirty floor, some fake paneling that led to jam-packed wall full of snort. Anything.
Behind her, the floor creaked. The woman stiffened, ears perked for any more sound. Suddenly, she jerked around just as a hand snagged her by the elbow. Stella raised her gun, cocking the trigger as she swung the barrel toward her assailant.
Arthur Bishop didn't even flinch. He stared at her with his cool grey gaze, completely unperturbed. He did, however, release his grip on her elbow. “What are you doing here, Miss Holmes?”
“What are you doing?” Stella snarled, turning completely around. She kept the gun poised on him just in case. Her senses on high, she waited for the wrong twitch or the wrong move that would indicate Bishop's true intentions.
Bishop critically eyed the woman, from her face to her gun. He forced his shoulders to relax as stiff nonchalance took over his body language. He gave a one-shouldered shrug, and his eyes dragged over the interior of the shed, as if looking for something, “Neighborly concern. I guess kids have stumbled on drug shit in here.”
“What sort of shit?” Stella spat.
“Bags, bongs, syringes,” the man replied. His eyes flicked back to Stella, expression guarded, “That sort of shit.”
Stella's eyebrows furrowed in annoyance, “Wasn't it reported?”
“If it wasn't, you wouldn't be here, right?” The man gave her a tight smile, though something warm bubbled beneath the surface. He knew the cops weren't called on the drug paraphernalia, but Stella wondered what he thought she was doing here. “Where's your warrant?”
“This shack is abandoned. No warrant needed.” Stella's jaw flexed, as if urging him to challenge her claim. If he staked claim to the hovel, it could tie the Seven Tribesmen to drug rumors. She just needed one plausible lead to get a warrant for all of their businesses.
Bishop nodded. He couldn't argue with that logic, and it was perfectly reasonable. He wasn't the perfect example of being invited into places, either. Agitation still ran along his thoughts, despite himself. “Well, you're wasting your time.”
Stella barely hid her own irritation, “What makes you say that?”
“No one tries to deal in Grand River,” Bishop said, his gaze drifting along a particular wall that seemed darker than the others.
His nonchalance made the woman's nerves bristle more. She stuffed the prickly feelings deep down, following his gaze. It was a new wall. As she wandered closer to the fresh wood, Stella airly mused, “Maybe your authority isn't as iron-clad as you think.”
“I could say the same to you, Miss Holmes.” Bishop followed after her. The agent's hand brushed across the new wall, searching for something. His tone took on a harsh edge. His faith in his community wouldn't be demeaned on his watch. “You're an outsider. Everyone is going to clam up the instant you sidle closer.”
“You'd be surprised,” muttered Stella, ignoring his delightful body heat as he hovered close to her back. She concentrated on finding anything amiss with the newly built wall. Anything from an uneven panel to a hidden hinge may betray a hidden room.
Bishop scoffed, adjusting his footing. “Well, you haven't noticed our visitor, yet.”
“What?” Stella snorted and turned, inclining her head to the man. Bishop nodded back to the front door. Now, the agent heard it. Tires crunched over the outside gravel slowly and uncertainly. She fervently wondered what someone could notice, outside, in the twilight evening. Her cruiser was parked quite a distance away, hidden beneath branches and brush. Was Bishop's hog hidden? Or did he just park it out front? Was the driver hesitant because of guilt, or did he notice something amiss?
Her thoughts fumbled before one word lit up in her head: flashlight!
Stella's heart throbbed with a fresh spurt of adrenaline. After she clicked the flashlight off, blue shadows wrapped around the two of them, Stella paused. She had all rights to be in the shack; there was nothing to hide. But the element of surprise was hard to come by in such a small town. Plus, her current companion would bait unwanted suspicions. Her gaze flickered to the silhouette of Bishop, who silently exuded smug amusement. Stella's cheeks burned with frustration and shame.
Despite herself, her hand shot out and grabbed the man by the front of his leather kutte. She tugged at him insistently, growling quietly, “Come on.”
The federal agent led the frustratingly willing man into the depths of the shed. A little further back in the building, a pile of boxes towered in the corner. If she were lucky, there'd be enough room to squeeze past the boxes and even squirm fully around them. From that position, she could peer into the room as the stranger entered. Hopefully, they'd open the freshly built wall and reveal a conglomeration of evidence.
Of course, Stella wasn't so fortunate. Bishop had to stoop to hide behind the boxes and, worse, he had to press Stella tight to the corner for his breadth to be satisfactorily hidden. The boxes leaned flush against one of the walls, with no room to scoot past them.
“Tight fit,” the man whispered, his head close to Stella's face. In the dying light of the day, Stella caught his satisfied smirk. Warmth licked through her body, raising tingles in her lower regions. Before she could bite out a reply, the shed door slammed open.
Her fingers tightened, fingernails digging into leather, and Stella realized she still gripped at the biker. She couldn't convince her digits to release his vest, though.
Heavy footsteps pounded against the floorboards. Inadvertently, Stella tugged Bishop closer. The biker leaned in, his arms flanking Stella's head as he braced himself against the wall. The agent didn't even notice. The biker, however, was immensely enjoying the proximity. Naughty thoughts circulated through his head. Stella's ears strained to listen to the footfalls, her heartbeat spiking every time the flashlight glided by.
Stella's fingers adjusted on her gun as the worst of worst-case scenarios flickered in her head. Her mind played tricks, imagining multiple boots, various huffs, and the heat of a few bodies filling the shed. Though her mind made up plenty of details, one thing was definitely certain. The footsteps – whether it was one pair or more – were coming closer.
“I have an idea. Don't shoot me,” Bishop's whispered against her ear. Stella jerked away, but one of his hands held her tight at the base of her head. Before she could threaten him, the man had forced her head to tilt back and swooped down. His lips caught hers, Stella's breath hitching as his musk overpowered her senses. Prickly and enjoyable heat boiled through her.
Her body reacted automatically. Stella's eyes fluttered shut, and her hand on his kutte tugged him closer. Heat wrapped around her body and her thoughts. Bishop's lips twisted into a smile against her mouth, and he deepened the kiss. His free hand slid to her hip, forcing her closer. Stella let out an involuntary mewl as Bishop's erection dug into her, taunting her hormones. His other hand drifted south and burrowed under her blouse, his calloused fingertips hot and rough against her smooth, soft skin. She gasped lightly at his touch.
The woman under his fingers felt soft and pliable, unlike the hardened and rough agent who interrogated him. It was a surprise, but not unpleasing. Heat muddled in Bishop's groin, his cock stiffening and pressing into her soft body. Her aroma curled around him, intoxicating and warm. The man wanted nothing more than to deepen the kiss, move aside some pesky clothes, and bury himself deep into her heat. The thought brought a hungry nudge to his core.
Neither one noticed the footsteps pause. “Who's there?”
The demand fell on deaf ears. The footfalls echoed through the shed, poking closer to the corner. The beam of the flashlight danced across the boxes Stella and Bishop hid behind. The light caught the agent's attention. She gasped, broke the kiss, and attempted to push the man away from her. Bishop didn't budge. His lips drifted down to her neck, where his stubble scraped over her neck, distracting her thoughts. Her thoughts became scrambled with pleasure. Stella moaned gently as Bishop nipped and kissed at her neck.
“Bishop, they're coming,” Stella urgently whispered. Part of her didn't want to ruin their fun, as inappropriate and ill-timed as it was.
“What the hell are you doing here, horny asswi-” A gruff voice finally stormed around the corner, flashlight shining right in Stella's eyes. The man blanched as his eyes caught sight of the vest. Bishop stood straight, shielding Stella from the light, and glanced coldly over his shoulder. The man bumbled backwards, “Oh shit, Bishop, I'm sorry!”
“This your shed?” Bishop pulled away from Stella and turned. Irritation flitted through his thoughts as he caught sight of pale, skinny Randy. His hulking form undoubtedly hid her from the newcomer's view.
“N-no. I've been usin' it though, for...” The man trailed off. Stella realized he wasn't that bright as he ended, “For stuff.”
“Yeah, I heard,” Bishop growled, his tone laced with venom. His eyes trailed down to the other man's bruised arms, his nose wrinkling with disdain. “Drugs, Randy?”
The man receded a few more steps as he squalled, “I'm not dealing!”
“Kids have found your leftovers, shit-for-brains.” Bishop took one threatening step forward, and the man skittered further across the floor. The biker could feel his muscles tense at the sudden atmosphere change. He'd like to go back to a moment before, making Stella breathy and hot. However, the asswipe had to be dealt with. “Who're you getting it from?”
“My old dealer. Frank Johnson, over in Carlyle,” the man gasped, pressing his back further against the wall.
Bishop fell silent, his brows knitting together. In his mental repository of names and gangs, the biker president tried to connect the name to a rival. Behind him, Stella bookmarked the information for later investigation.
“Please, Bishop, it's been a rough month,” Randy whimpered. “Babs is talkin' about movin' back with her mom and she's pregnant and money's tight–”
“So you blew what little you have for a buzz?” The floorboards creaked under Bishop, and his fists clenched. Stella could feel the anger radiating off the biker, and she swallowed nervously. She couldn't imagine what Mr. Thomas was going through on the receiving end of Bishop's rage-filled glare. “You're going to be a father, Randy. Either act like it or don't fucking bother, y'know?”
“W-what?”
“Babs is smart and determined and a damn lot better than you deserve.” Bishop had stepped further out, closing the distance between himself and the other man. Stella stayed in the darkened corner, watching the biker advance with wide eyes. She saw Randy's arms – skinny things, dotted with bruised needle pricks – splayed across the fake wall. Bishop suddenly snatched the man by the front of his tee-shirt, lifting the man off his feet. “She'll do fine as a mother, but you? You either do your damnedest and lay off the shit or don't even bother with the kid.”
He suddenly dropped Randy. The man landed heavily on his knees, tears beginning to streak across his face. “Wh-what do you mean, Bishop?”
“Get yourself cleaned up or leave Grand River. No kid needs your high ass darkening their door,” Bishop snarled. Randy's eyes widened seconds before a boot slammed into his gut. As the man curled over himself, moaning and whimpering, Bishop knelt down. He grabbed Randy by the hair at the back of his head, lifting his head up as he hissed, “If you choose fatherhood, but regress into old habits, the Seven Tribesmen will be there.
“You have a lot to think about, so me and my lady friend will leave.” The biker slowly got to his feet, glaring down at the huddled, sobbing mass that was Randall Thomas. Not an ounce of sympathy crossed the biker's thoughts. Bishop turned to Stella, a smirk on his lips and a hand outstretched, “C'mon, baby.”
The president kept the man on edge and confused, from making out with someone in a shed to confronting Thomas about his habit. The way Bishop operated was maddeningly chaotic. Stella's shock shattered as he murmured that pet name at her. Her brows lowered as she targeted Bishop with a glare. His smirk only twitched and grew. With Randy's eyes glued to the floor, Stella didn't take Bishop's proffered hand. Instead, she marched passed him, holstering her gun. The agent attempted to inconspicuously wipe her clammy hands off on her pants.
Once out in the fresh air, a blast of early evening cold licked at her cheeks. She hadn't realized how stuffy and warm the shed had been. Or, perhaps, residual heat from earlier activities still roused inside of her.
Vaguely, she realized the biker had given her an excuse and anonymity to be in the shed.
Bishop's heavy footfall behind her onto the porch of the shed caught her attention. It wasn't too late; they could continue what they had started. When his grey eyes caught hers, she saw the same thoughts splayed over his face.
Stella's heart skipped a beat as her mind filled with fantasies. She mentally shook the hormones away and turned to the lot of dirt road in front of the shed.
Bishop sidled up beside her and leaned over her. His warm breath tickled her ear, “Want a ride?”
Stella jumped, his breath on her neck startling her. She slapped at the spot on her neck and turned an angry glare on the man. A blush clawed over her cheeks, and naughty thoughts filled her head, especially when she saw that crooked grin on Bishop's face. Clinging to all available irritation, the woman hissed, “Excuse me?”
“Your car isn't here, so I'm guessing you stashed it elsewhere.” Bishop shrugged one shoulder, before mischief entered his eyes, “Of course, if you want one of those rides, I'd be more than happy to oblige.”
Stella's face burned, her mind traipsing over recent memories. The biker turned away, his shit-eating grin larger than ever. He swaggered to his conspicuous chopper, swinging a leg over the body of the bike. Stella stared as he adjusted his helmet and patted the empty spot on his seat. Her gaze flickered over the darkened landscape. Any visual markers she had made were long drenched in shadows.
Slowly, the federal agent made her way over to Bishop's hog.