CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
A motion of 5 to 2 brought the Seven Tribesmen to the highway early in the Thursday dawn. They dawdled at the truck stop, waiting for the delivery truck to show up. According to one of the Devil Spikes members, the drivers always stopped at this outpost for the diner's flapjacks and a set of legs that went by the name of Joy. At that thought, Bishop glanced at the booth behind Bulletproof.
Thanks to a close vote, four Spikes members accompanied them. If bullets went flying, at least they'd have four extra bodies to fend off or sacrifice. It was a cold, detached thought, but Bishop didn't care. A bitterness still thrived in his heart over the mistreatment from both the Demons and the Spikes. Then again, the White Knights had done worse, and they were allegedly aligning with the Demons. Networking with another club was in the Tribesmen's best interest.
At the thought of the White Knights, Bishop's eyes slide over to Newb…well, Bulletproof, now…who seemed all smiles. He had returned to the Tribesmen just yesterday and wanted in on the mission. The young man wasn't taking no for an answer. A chilly dread clenched at Bishop's gut, as residual fear puttered to life in his head. His gaze flicked around the booth, staring at each and every one of his brothers. The dread increased and preemptive woe tickled at his synapses. If he lost any of them, their blood was on his hands.
“Yo, boss, you alright?” Ruse roused Bishop from his imagination's hold.
Bishop swallowed, suddenly realizing how taut his muscles were. His gaze focused on Ruse, forcing a cocky grin to his lips. He nodded toward the perky blonde with the ruby red lips. “Yeah, just checking out the legs that lures these drivers in every time.”
Crow and Howler exchanged looks and the conversation at the table stuttered. To Bishop's right, Coyote coughed, hiding a laugh. Bishop narrowed his eyes, his gaze sweeping up and down the table. “What's got you guys by the balls?”
“She ain'treally your type, boss—now, is she?”
Bishop cocked an eyebrow, his unimpressed expression not quivering a bit. His gaze flicked to the blonde again. Most men seemed to be staring at her, as she giggled and trounced. Deep in Bishop's head though, he knew what Howler meant. However, he got the feeling that his brothers were laughing at him, rather than pointing out a clash of interest. His gaze flicked back to his men, forcing boredom and aloofness. “She's got perky tits and an ass you could bounce a quarter off of. What's not my type?”
“Well, for one, she's not brunette.”
“And her tits are nowhere big enough.”
“Plus, she doesn't give you a challenge.”
“Alright, alright, enough,” grunted Bishop, waving his hand as if to push away the insinuations. Everyone at the table knew what the guys were getting at, and he did not appreciated it at all.
In the snickering silence at Bishop's table, the chime above the door tinkled. Bishop glanced over, catching sight of a man in a brown uniform. Embroidered across his back in pink thread were the words: Crystal Sugar. This was their guy.
“I'm going to go get some air.” Bishop growled, while his brothers continued to chuckle amongst themselves. At the sound of his curt tone, they glanced up. They all found the delivery man within a second. Bishop slid himself out of the booth and sauntered to the door, slipping his phone from his pocket along the way. He could feel his brothers leering at his back as he exited the diner.
With his phone to his ear, Bishop grunted conversationally into the phone. He strolled to his hog and rifled through the bedroll, continuing his farce of a conversation. His gaze flicked over the parking lot, catching sight of the boxy white delivery truck instantly. Like the delivery man's uniform, Crystal Sugar was plastered across the side of the van—along with a by-line about 'sweet delivery.'
Bishop jerked suddenly and glared at his phone. He made a show of clicking and attempting to revive his conversation, acting irritated when nothing happened. In reality, he was snapping shots of the delivery truck, license plate and all.
“Phone problems?” Gravel shifted behind Bishop as one of the Spikes members came up behind him.
“Yeah, I think her phone dropped signal suddenly.” Bishop turned and nodded as Buck-Fifty advanced further. He waved the phone, as if to illustrate his frustration. “Can't get through.”
Buck-Fifty raised his eyebrows. A scar on his forehead became more prominent as it caught the morning sun. “Her?”
“Personal business.” Bishop smiled tightly. He pocketed his phone with force. He didn't enjoy the spark of interest the Spike had in his eyes. “I try not to mix business and pleasure.”
A crooked grin curled over Buck-Fifty's lips, and Bishop's irritation prickled further. “Not from what I've heard.”
“And what have you heard?” Bishop inquired, his lips tight and expression pinched. The young Spike had been rallying for a beating from the first moment he set foot in Grand River. Bishop refrained from clenching his hands into fists, keeping every inch of his body language under control. Buck-Fifty didn't deserve to know how much he agitated the Tribesmen president.
“The Tribesmen and the FBI are in bed…in more ways than one.” Buck-Fifty shrugged his scrawny shoulders. That cocky grin still twisted at his lips and the spark in his eyes never faltered.
Irritation flared in Bishop's gut. He narrowed his eyes at the Devil Spike member, inclining his head just slightly. “Why you bringing this up now?”
“I ain't a high-ranking member,” Buck-Fifty said, as he shrugged, shifted his footing, and flicked his gaze to Bishop's face, his eyes burning with determination and pride, “but I got as much right as anyone else to know this isn't going to blow up in the Spikes' faces.”
Bishop considered the young man for a breath. His body language stood tense, his scrawny arms taut and ready to swing. There was a slight tremble to his body, a mix of adrenaline and anxiety. Buck-Fifty wanted answers but knew he was outmatched when it came to both power and skill…and still the lad demanded answers.
“I mighta laid with a fed,” Bishop took a step forward, looming over the man, “but the Tribesmen ain't rats.”
Buck-Fifty didn't shirk back, even with Bishop towering over him. Bishop had to hand it to the lad, he had balls made of steel. He'd known bigger, more muscular men who cringed in fear if Bishop so much as blinked. But, even with outstanding confidence, a Chihuahua was still no match for a Doberman pincher. If the boy survived the next few hours, he might be a decent recruit for the Tribesmen.
“Now, excuse me, I got mighty hungry.” Bishop flashed Buck-Fifty a tight smile. He added extra sway to his swagger, as he waltzed past the young man. He could feel the irritation scatter off Buck-Fifty, and smug amusement tugged at his lips.
Despite the inkling of enjoyment Bishop got from haranguing Buck-Fifty, something oily and sick settled in his stomach. A heaviness weighed in his gut, and it got worse every time he thought of the truck. Bishop shoved the uncertainty down, trying to ignore it. He chalked it up to worry, especially with the newly regained Bulletproof in his ranks.
Fleetingly, his thoughts touched on Stella. The heaviness tugged insistently at Bishop, as his heart shuddered. Vague premonition hung eerily in his head. As Bishop crossed the threshold into the diner, he tried to bat away the concerns. The mission was already underway, and apprehension would only distract him.
As Bishop's eyes fell on his table, watching his brothers snicker and antagonize, his stomach churned and refused to be quieted. He wasn't sure what he would do if anyone he cared about got hurt. With sheer mental force, Bishop coerced his legs to walk toward the Seven Tribesmen.