CHAPTER FOUR
Stella stifled a groan beneath her forced chuckle as her date – Steven, Sam, Steve? Whatever it started with an “s” – told his thirtieth joke of the night. They were all old, stale jokes, probably from a joke book thirty years out of print. Pity, considering he was such a looker. The man held the air of homegrown American boy, with his sun kissed tan and bright blue eyes. The dimple in his chin made him all the more appealing. Plus, his well-built, muscular body didn't hurt. However, no amount of good looks could get Stella past his bland personality and painful jokes.
The night out was almost as disappointing as the last week. No leads, no witnesses, no nothing. Frank Carlyle had been a busted hit. The drug trail dried out in Grand River. Mostly thanks to the Seven Tribesmen's hold on the small town. It probably helped that nearly half of the people in the town had no clue where to get any substances. Again, their ignorance was thanks to the Seven Tribesmen acting as gatekeepers to Grand River. What better way to avert suspicion?
The agent brought her beer to her lips, taking a quick swig, when silence fell thick across the room. The pressure in the room lessened, and a cool night breeze danced through the room. Stella didn't bother to turn. Electricity whipped through the air, making her chest tighten. She recognized the atmosphere all too well. Biker boots tromped across the floor as the distinct smell of the road wafted into her nose.
As the footfalls clumped to the opposite side of the bar, Stella figured around the pool table, her companion let out a low snort. “Can't go anywhere in this town without running into those punks, huh?”
On the other side of the bar, the barkeep set down a glass mug loudly. He leered at the next cup he scrubbed clean, but Stella knew his ears perked up. Any disrespectful gossip always got back to the gang, especially when a cop spouted it.
“Watch what you say, Steve–”
“Stan.”
“Isn't that what I said?” The woman feigned an apologetic smile before continuing, “Anyway, the Seven Tribesmen have ears everywhere. So watch it.”
“What was that about ears?”
Stella jerked toward the gravelly voice. She was met with Bishop's smirk and heated gaze. The woman forced her heart to still as it fluttered. Her brain quickly replayed their momentary make-out in the shed. With exasperation, she replied, “You got them. Can't talk about the Seven Tribesmen without someone scurrying back to you.”
“Oh, I thought maybe you were talking about your ears, Miss Holmes.” Bishop smirked as his hand drifted toward the side of Stella's head. The woman braced herself as his calloused fingers brushed her hair back, tucking strands of it behind her ear. Her lungs locked as shameful excitement bubbled in her core. She didn't notice her date stiffen. “They are such cute ears, Holmes.”
“You have a weird fetish, Bishop,” Stella snorted, as she jerked away. She covered her blush with a rash swig of beer.
“Yeah, but you get soaking wet for bad boys, don't you?”
Agent Holmes choked on her drink, shock jolting through her. Stan jumped to her assistance, pushing napkins in front of her and patting her on the back. The woman was vaguely appreciative that the ruddiness of her face masked the sudden blush. When her gaze flicked to Bishop, he smirked down at her, his grey eyes dancing with amusement and challenge.
Before she could say anything, Stan stood up. His chair screeched loudly against the floor and nearby chatter quieted. Near the pool table, the bikers stopped playing and stood straighter. Stan wasn't privy to any of this. His eyes locked onto Bishop, his nose wrinkled with disgust. “Just go back to your gang and leave her alone, why don't you? She obviously doesn't like you.”
“Excuse me?” The amusement drained instantly from Bishop's gaze. With his amusement, even more surrounding chatter silenced. His men began putting away the pool cues. Bishop's sharp leer flicked to the man who, before now, had gone unnoticed. “Who are you?”
Stella turned to Stan and hissed between clenched teeth, “What are you doing?”
“Standing up for you.” He stared down at her with wide blue eyes, uncomprehending the venom in her voice.
She scrabbled for a reason to be annoyed with Stan. Intellectually, Stella knew she should be grateful for his chivalry. However, something inside of her bristled with irritation. “Well, sit down. I can take care of myself.”
“But shouldn't I–”
“No, you shouldn't. I'm a federal agent, just like you,” Stella narrowed her eyes, brows furrowing. Residual rage from her earlier days when she scrabbled against office sexism reared itself and licked its chops. “I can handle it myself.”
Bishop quietly watched, his lips twisting with a grin. A female fed going off on her partner? Well, he was going to enjoy the show, immensely. He also had to admit, the look on Stella's face turned him on. Just a bit.
Stan rebounded with an irritated expression of his own. Agent Holmes had the distinct feeling her partner realized the situation wasn't salvageable and, quite possibly, that she preferred the biker's company. If Stan asked outright, Stella wasn't sure if she could lie to his face. Still, the man tried to sway the situation. “Stella, I wasn't raised that way.”
“Raised what way?” she sighed, picking up her beer.
“To sit by and allow a thug to insult my girl.”
“Your girl?” Rage flared instantly inside her head. To Stella's left, Bishop breathed in sharply. She turned anger and incredulity toward Stan, though. Slowly, she climbed off her stool. All the surrounding patrons became dead silent. Stan's body language immediately shifted from firm and determined to uncertain and wary.
“First off,” Stella jabbed her index finger into Stan's chest, “I'm not something to be owned.”
“I didn't mean–”
“Secondly, I am a woman. Not a girl.” Stella cut him off with another finger jab. “And, like I said before, I can handle one damn biker.”
After Stella lowered her hand, both agents leered at each other. Thick, unhappy tension pressed down between them as their little audience continued to watch. Stan's face darkened, his brow creasing and his nose wrinkling. “This was a mistake.”
“Obviously,” Stella muttered as he stomped away. She watched the man storm off, his departure cleaving through the bar. Conversation reappeared after the door slammed angrily shut. To herself, Stella muttered, “Asshole.”
The stool beside her creaked as weight lowered onto it. When Stella turned, she found Bishop had taken Stan's place at the bar with a cocky smirk. The bartender placed a draft before the man without a word exchanged between them. The Seven Tribesmen president never took his eyes off Stella. “This seat taken?”
“If I didn't know any better, Mr. Bishop, I'd think you planned that,” the woman sighed as she sat back down. She still had some drink left, but the woman was realizing tonight would be much younger than she thought. An early night, a long bath, and maybe a session with her relaxation toy. Lifting the bottle to her lips, Stella gave Bishop a sidelong glance before taking a drink.
“Shows what you know, then,” Bishop laughed. The deep, throaty chuckle and insinuation reverberated through Stella, pulling hot delight over her nerves. Part of the reason she agreed to the date with her co-worker – a bad idea, considering what just happened – was simply to relax, unwind, and maybe get laid. So much for that plan. Then again, the date wasn't even going that well. Her brain considered another option, briefly, before Stella resolutely dismissed it.
Stella slapped her empty bottle down on the counter. Thankfully, Stan had paid before jetting. Just as her feet hit the bar floor, she gained Bishop's curious attention, “Where you going?”
“Well, my date bailed,” Stella explained, with a one-shouldered shrug. Her words were almost drowned out by a suddenly festive bar. “I don't like to drink alone.”
Bishop's eyebrows rose, a smirk twisted at his lips. “You're not alone.”
“Good night, Mr. Bishop.” Stella rolled her eyes and turned away, before he could see the red tinge on her cheeks. She desperately tried to stifle the inexplicable glee his comment caused. Heavy footfalls echoed behind her, following her across the bar. Her cheeks burned as she felt the eyes of other patrons watching. What did he think he was doing?
Close to her ear, his hot breath playing over her neck, Bishop said, “Friends call me Art.”
“We're not friends,” Stella grunted, shoving the door open. She fought off the amused smile that threatened to split over her lips. Cool air breezed over her skin, helping to cool down her blush, as her eyes adjusted to the darkened environment. Her shoes crunched over the gravel in the parking lot, echoed by Bishop's boots. She paused, suddenly remembering what was missing. Stan was her ride home. Stella nearly groaned with regret.
“Well, maybe I want to get to know you better, Miss Holmes.” Bishop came to stand beside her, his voice oozing with seduction. She could almost see that endearing, half-cocked grin on his lips. Her core churned and warmed. They stood together in silence, Bishop's eyes surveying the lot. In the next breath, he had already figured out her dilemma, “I could give you a ride.”
She didn't want to relent. Bishop was a biker and, even though he did tickle some very erotic pleasure zones inside of her, she was a fed. It was a bad mix, especially with the ongoing investigation. Stella resorted to sarcasm with a snort, “I'm sure you could.”
Annoyance hardened Bishop's voice, “On my hog.”
Stella turned, her gaze raking over his body and lingering on his groin, “If that's what you want to call it.”
Her amused grin burned pleasantly inside Bishop's body, “You sure do eyeball my crotch a lot.”
“And you seem to find any reason to follow or talk to me,” the woman countered, despite a flare of embarrassment. She turned to him fully, her brows lowered and hands planted on her hips, “So, what's going on here?”
“Well, seems to me,” Bishop lowered his voice, stooping over Stella. He loomed over her, feeling her soft body heat lick at him through his clothes. The woman shifted uncertainly at his proximity. He locked gazes with her warm, chocolate eyes and purred, “We both want the same thing,”
“No, I want justice,” Stella bristled, fire flaming in her gaze as she pointed to herself with her thumb. That aggressive pointer finger jabbed Bishop in the chest, “You are just looking to get your dick wet.”
The man barely restrained himself from catching Stella by the wrist. He really didn't need “assault of a federal agent” on his rap sheet, nor did he need more eyes on the Seven Tribesmen. Still, Bishop seethed, “Oh, and Mr. This Was A Mistake was – what? – a prospective old man?”
Stella's cheeks tingled from heat. Bishop had her there. Her hand fell to her side, her gaze averted. “No.”
The biker caught her by the chin and forced the woman to tilt her head up. “Then what's the big deal?”
“Bedding me isn't going to ease up the investigation.” Stella narrowed her eyes, but didn't jerk away from Bishop's hold on her chin. Part of her enjoyed the feeling of his hands on her. And that part was beginning to overwhelm her thoughts. Her inner agent wasn't relenting, though. “The Seven Tribesmen will get caught.”
“We aren't involved, and you have nothing on us,” Bishop growled. He leaned forward, his lips close to Stella's. She inhaled deeply, his musk making her dizzy with hormones. The action didn't go unnoticed by the biker. Heat slammed into his groin. He wanted nothing more than to close the aching distance between their lips. Bishop's gaze hooded and a slight grin twisted the corners of his mouth upwards, “So, why not go for a ride with me? Or can't you handle it?”
Her brown eyes darted over his face. An internal struggle played tug-of-war with her thoughts and desires. Even Bishop could see that from her expression. Indignity flared at his challenge. Desire bubbled in her core. Uncertainty traipsed through her thoughts. As alluring as Arthur Bishop was, Stella couldn't allow herself to get wrapped up in his charm.
Overhead, thunder rumbled, ricocheting in Stella's gut. She glanced skyward, realizing for the first time that heavy grey clouds roiled overhead. Rain was in the immediate future, which made walking a non-option. The unhappy, prickly part of her gave in.
“Fine, I'll take a ride,” she murmured, returning her eyes to Bishop's face. Her inner agent added, with stern emphasis, “But only a ride. No sex.”
“If you say so,” the man laughed, his grin betraying his thoughts. After lingering a breath too long, Bishop pulled away and crunched over the gravel to his chopper. Stella followed after him, excitement and delicious suspense dotting her thoughts.
Neither noticed the person watching them from across the street.