CHAPTER NINE
The motorcycle roared through the streets of Grand River. A scowl firmly affixed to Bishop's lips as he squinted against the bright sun. Even with his sunglasses, the light glared into his tired eyes. It wasn't the bright light that agitated the biker, though. His thoughts continuously rounded on Stella Holmes. The way she leered at him, the way she made everything a hassle, and how she refused to listen about the Seven Tribesmen. Bishop's fingers adjusted their grip on the handlebars as he swallowed a growl.
Never before had a woman irritated him so thoroughly while retaining his sexual interest.
He'd have time to worry about that later, though. His hog glided into the parking lot of his repair garage. Already, three of their appointments were parked in queue, and the buzz of power tools screamed out from the garage. He tried to erase all thoughts of Stella from his mind as he parked his chopper.
As he swaggered to the garage office, however, one of his brothers leaned in the doorway, a smirk on his lips. Bishop bit back a groan as he crossed the distance to Coyote.
He stalked passed the green-eyed vice-president, not deigning the man with a glance. As Bishop strode into the office, Coyote languidly followed him. The president attempted to brush aside his irritation. Coyote would be able to taste it in the air around him. He focused on the buzz of the lights, the chink of metal, the scent of oil. Anything, but the smirking bastard who couldn't wait to poke at newest Bishop's sexual experience. It wouldn't do well to let Coyote see him so bothered.
Bishop advanced to the desk, snatching up some grease-stained papers. Trying to maintain nonchalant, Bishop eyeballed the orders for the day. He mentally double checked the projections for all repairs as he gleaned over the papers. All the names were familiar and nothing out of question had rolled into Bishop's Auto.
Outside the office, metal clanked and hydraulics screamed. His VP eyed him with intense interest. Bishop couldn't blame him. His reactions were as foreign to him as they were to Coyote. The biker president had no clue what had gotten under his skin.
Bishop couldn't put off interaction all day. He didn't even glance at Coyote as he asked with a forced conversational tone, “Did Howler and Crow come back from Fairview, yet?”
“Yeah, they're snoozing in the spare room since you were balls' deep in some fed's muff,” Coyote chuckled as he nodded toward the ceiling. Somewhere on the second floor, the two men slumbered. “Didn't know when you'd come up for air.”
Bishop shot Coyote a heated glare. He didn't need constant reminders of his night with Stella. Especially after the cold reception and boot he'd been given that morning.
“Hey, don't look at me like that,” the man laughed. He approached the desk, leaning heavily against the flat surface, “You stink of pussy, boss.”
Bishop eyed his vice president with a deepening frown. He didn't know where the guarded feelings were coming from. Perhaps it had to do with Stella's own reputation both in career and personal matters that egged his concern. She was a big girl, though. After all, she had agreed quite willingly to last night’s activities. “What makes you think it was Holmes?”
“Her shapely ass was in your bitch seat last night.” The man grinned, unperturbed. He was one of the few people undisturbed by Bishop's mean face. Coyote's resolve was equal parts a relief and a menace to the president.
“Doesn't mean shit,” grunted Bishop. His bitterness flickered, reliving how the woman had all but kicked him out of her room. The bittersweet feeling was fairly uncharacteristic given he banged a fed last night. His hopes of a morning ride were still sourly burning. Judging by the leer on Coyote's face, it would be extremely difficult to convince anyone of a lie. Bishop threw down the orders for the day back on the desk. “So, what have we learned?”
“Howler and Crow made it to Tank's strip joint. Tank's gals do some stripping, some escorting, and some hooking.” Coyote's grin melted, sudden seriousness seeping into his expression. He leaned back against the blinds which covered windows that peered out into the garage. He opened some flimsy slats and peered out of them, “'Parently, the Sugar Skulls got a taste for white meat, because this curvy firecrotch is their VP's fave.”
“Yeah?” Bishop seated himself at the desk, running a hand through his hair. Multiple gangs, drug cartel, international drug smuggling. This was getting big. The man was beginning to wonder if he could keep Grand River out of the clusterfuck of lawlessness. Masking his mounting worries, Bishop asked, “What'd she say?”
“Says the Shugs get their crack from a drug cartel in some South American shithole.” Taking Bishop's lead, Coyote moved away from the blinds and sat down in one of the spare chairs. He fiddled with a pen as he continued to relay the fresh intel, “Then it gets transported up north via literal sugar deliveries.”
“Literal sugar deliveries?”
“Yeah, like, you better make sure your mama's borrowed cup of sugar from the neighbor ain't actually crack.”
“Huh,” Bishop settled back in his chair, eyebrows furrowing. A particularly loud shriek from a power tool caught his attention for a split second. As it died away, he turned back to Coyote. “How'd the Skulls get into this?”
“They're all Mexicans. My guess is networking.” The green-eyed man shrugged noncommittally. It didn't matter how they got into it. The fact was that the Sugar Skulls were fringing on Seven Tribesmen territory. If they didn't do anything, their turf would be threatened. “The Shugs have a gunrunning business, so the hot theory is they pay for the snort with A.K.s or some shit.”
“Makes sense.” Bishop inclined his head, the sounds of the garage were beginning to rise in decibel. “We got proof?”
“Other than Miss Firecrotch, no.”
Bishop leaned back, his thoughts lolling. As soon as this information was made public, the lady would have a target on her back. Especially if the Sugar Skull's vice-president has some ties or claimed alcohol as his vice. Then again, he'd probably get gutted for putting his MC in danger. Light drinkers and loose lips never mixed well with outlaw gangs. Even without evidence, the fact she was willing to talk could be problematic. “Think she'll be safe in Fairview?”
“Why do you think Howler and Crow are still snoozing?” Coyote's grin took on a lurid light. Bishop chuckled and shook his head. Howler and Crow were far from possessive, but the woman had to be quite a sight for the two to share with each other. At least his men had the foresight to bring her back with them. Bishop's amusement was short lived as Coyote added, “You weren't the only one hitting it last night, boss.”
His irritation flared back to life suddenly and painfully. It sunk into every synapse of his brain, making every thought poisoned with annoyance. Bishop stood and leaned over the desk. His hand shot out, nerves hot with anger, and grabbed his vice president by the collar of his shirt. Coyote's eyes bugged, and he jerked backward, but his strength was nothing compared to Bishop’s. Half hauling the lanky man over the desk, Bishop narrowed his eyes and lowered his head. Locking his grey gaze with Coyote's bewildered eyes, the president snarled, “Coyote, drop it or I'll skin you.”
Shrieking sirens punctured the heavy tension in the room. Bishop instantly dropped his vice president and rushed to the exit. Just as he flung the door open, two cop cars skidded into the garage's parking lot. Red and blue lights flashed over the garage, the sirens keening through the air.
Officers scrambled out of the cars, hands on their holsters. Another car rolled up behind them. Bishop knew who it would be before the woman climbed out. Over the megaphone, Agent Stella Holmes announced, with crisp professionalism, “Richard Holloway and Nathaniel Williams, come out with your hands up!”
Instant tension weighed on the garage as dark annoyance skittered through all the employees. Not everyone wore a kutte, but everyone employed by the garage was a friend of the Seven Tribesmen. Grand River was wrought with families who needed a little monetary help from the 7T or individuals who needed to feel safe in a world of bullies. The Seven Tribesmen were there for them, and, likewise, most of the citizens had the club's back.
Overhead, two pairs of feet tromped about the room, and two voices snarled curse words under their breath. Bishop immediately stormed out of the office, brows lowered and fists clenched. He set his shoulders as he advanced on Agent Holmes, ignoring the cocking of guns as he approached her.
“What's this about, Miss Holmes?” Then Bishop's eyes caught sight of the officers poking around the choppers. Instant rage flared through his thoughts, his muscles flexing as he barely sucked down the urge to charge at them. Turning to Agent Holmes, he jabbed a finger toward the snooping officers and snarled venomously, “And what the hell are they doing?”
“Mr. Bishop, we have reason to believe two of your associates are involved in bringing illegal substances across state lines.” The woman didn't flinch under his obscenities or intense glare. Though, internally, her mind teased memories from last night to the forefront of her thoughts. Her very skin crawled with excitement to see him again. Stella squashed those feelings down as she whipped out a piece of paper from her clipboard. “We have been given a warrant to search the premises, including your motorcycles.”
Bishop snatched the paper from her hands, glaring at the official letter head and professional wording. His thoughts scrambled to make sense of the situation. Howler and Crow were being fingered for transporting snort. The cops got a search warrant to nose about the premises. Bishop knew his business housed nothing illegal, but the officers needed a damn good reason to poke around Howler and Crow. Bishop had the utmost confidence that his men wouldn't introduce drugs into their community, though.
Stella watched as his eyes skimmed over the paper. A cold guilt pinched at her insides. This was the break she wanted, the lead that could break the case wide open. However, the woman was beginning to think the Seven Tribesmen were innocent. There had been nothing until the tip line call to tie the Seven Tribesmen to the cocaine ring.
Maybe she was compromised. Maybe she was shoving justice aside for the sake of a rather enjoyable lay. The agent shook the thought from her head.
The man lowered the paper, a thin smile stretched over his lips. “Well, if you want to waste time and energy‒”
“Agent Holmes, ma'am, we got something!”
Stella strode over to the men while Bishop turned slowly to the hogs. Two of the officers held tightly to drug-sniffing hounds who seemed to be going crazy over two bikes. More specifically, they were going crazy over Howler's hog and Crow's chopper. A lump coalesced in Bishop's throat, and a sickness clenched in his stomach. Officers started to snatch bags off the cycles, going through every pocket and overturning the contents onto the ground. His blood ran cold when he saw vials filled with white powder clatter from two bedrolls.
“Let go of me!” Howler's enraged snarl echoed through the air, drowning out the excited yips of the canine unit. Bishop spun around, catching sight of his two men being escorted by the elbows by four officers. The coppers wasted no time when it came to invading the second floor of the garage's office. Howler struggled against the vice-like grips, spitting and howling, “I didn't do anything!”
Crow, far less excitable than his companion, turned dark brown eyes to Bishop. Across the distance, the man furrowed his eyebrows and asked, “Boss, what's going on?”
Bishop's mouth ran dry. He didn't have an answer for his brother bikers. It didn't matter. Seconds later, the men were shoved into the back of a cruiser. Bishop's fingers clenched and unclenched. The edges of his sight tinged red as rage and anger flurried beneath his thoughts.
“Fucking Stella didn't end in your favor, Bishop,” a vaguely familiar voice growled from behind Bishop.
The biker turned around, rage splitting through his thoughts. Anger at what happened to his men, rage at the planted crack, frustration over Stella, and agitation that she had shared their nighttime details with her partner. It was a volatile cocktail and this man – the man Stella had gone on her lackluster date with – had lit Bishop's thoughts on fire. The biker's fist came flying across Stan's jaw, knuckles connecting with a loud crack. With a grunt of pain, the man crumpled to the concrete, groaning and holding his jaw.
From a yard and a half away, Agent Holmes spun on her heel. Her eyes widened as she took note of Bishop's aggressive posture, his clenched fist, and Stan's body on the ground. No one moved. It seemed like everything, from the garage to the police radios, went on mute.
“What happened?” she demanded, storming over to the two men.
Bishop threw her a detached glance that slid immediately off her. He absolutely couldn't care what Stella said or did at this point. She got two of his men arrested. He shrugged a single shoulder and listed his head toward Stan, “Your buddy here got stung by a bee.”
“On his jaw?” Stella's tone deadpanned, unable to swallow the biker's story.
“You heard me, this man got stung by a bee,” Bishop nodded, but didn't bring his gaze to Stella's face. He nodded to a nearby officer, “Ain't that right, officer?”
The young woman seemed to be a bundle of nervous energy. Sweat slicked her face as she glanced from the biker to the female agent. Finally, after a forceful swallow and a setting of her shoulders, she brought her eyes to Stella's questioning leer. With a curt nod, the woman said, “Mr. Bishop is telling the truth. Stung by a bee, ma'am.”
Stella's eyebrows crept up her forehead. Incredulity was tickling her thoughts. Not even a police officer would stand up to a man who had just assaulted a federal agent. Either terror was in the air or the thick blanket of community was suffocating the witnesses. “So, no one saw Mr. Bishop strike Agent Jackson?”
Variations of “no, ma'am” lilted from both cops and civilians. Stan's murderous glare didn't go unnoticed by Stella nor did Bishop's blatant act of the cold shoulder toward other man. She had no doubt the biker had struck her fellow agent. No one, not even Stan, moved to corroborate the presumption, though.
Pursuing the issue would only cause headaches. No one wanted to talk, and she couldn’t pressure them. Stella sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose, “Agent Jackson, go get an ice pack on that,” she paused, lips pursing unhappily, “Bee sting.”
The man scrabbled to his feet, his gaze never parting from Bishop. Grudgingly, he stormed off toward the cruiser, where a first aid kit would offer assistance. Stella watched the man stomp off for a beat, before she turned to Bishop. The man couldn't bring his eyes to face her, either.
Painfully aware of all the curious eyes, Stella bit down the urge to touch the man. Even placing her hand on his shoulder could stir up unsavory rumors, especially if anyone was present at the bar last night. Coupled with the fact the man had driven her home last night and was possibly seen leaving her room this morning, Stella could be ran ragged through the rumor mill.
Instead, the woman shifted her footing and withdrew a card from her breast pocket. She held it out to Bishop and said, “Mr. Bishop, I will be in touch. Until then, here's my contact information.”
The man's grey gaze gave her a side-long glare. He reached out and plucked the card from between her forefinger and middle finger. As soon as the transaction occurred, Stella nodded and climbed back into her cruiser as officers swarmed over the repair garage. Bishop watched her drive off, a sour taste poisoning his tongue. He glanced down at the business card, before crumpling it in a fist and shoving it into his pocket.