Damned: Seven Tribesmen MC (14 page)

The two resumed their steady rhythm. Both relishing the heat of the other. Bishop's hands clutched at Stella's hips, his nails biting painfully-pleasantly into her skin. Stella huffed and quietly moaned under her breath. Every movement, ever slight sound, sent excitement coursing through Bishop's thoughts. What if someone came to check on his fluctuating readings? What if someone walked in on them? His stomach clenched with amusement and desire.

Steadily, Bishop's orgasm ascended, licking at his crest. An itch of desire flew through his limbs. He bit down the urge to slam Stella down, over and over, fill her entirely and pump her with his release. No, Stella was in charge and she, agonizingly, took the slow and steady way. His fingers curled tightly around her hips.

Stella had to swallow down temptations of her own. Her own desire pounded up her walls, threatening to spill over her own self-control. Her body felt hot and tight, throbbing around Bishop's cock.

Bishop rolled his hips, her self-control stuttered. For a brief moment, Stella roughly rolled her hips, fast and hard. Sparks of erotic energy tensed between them both. Bishop gave out a low, guttural groan as he slammed Stella down, over and over, against him. Molten delight expanded and bubbled throughout Stella as she barely swallowed down her loud moans and borderline screams. The bed squealed beneath them. His body ached, see-sawing between pain and pleasure.

“Fuck, Stella.” Bishop threw his head back, the pleasure cresting over him as his body tensed like a piano string. He clamped her down to him, his cock throbbing and pulsing with every release.

The heat exploded inside Stella and she gasped, gyrating her hips desperately against Bishop. In a breathy, fragile tone, she whimpered, “Arthur!”

His warmth licked every crevice of her insides, taunted every swollen nerve with further pleasure. Her body shook atop his, pleased tremors reaching out from her exhausted core. Her toes curled and fingers clenched as she threw herself against Bishop. The feel of his body, sweaty and firm, under her grounded her as her shivers subsided.

Thoroughly spent, Stella sighed into Bishop's shoulder as his arms wrapped tightly around her. His fingers rubbed gently into her back, easing residual tension from her body. Before long, the woman happily fell into a deep slumber, her worries overridden by hormonal exhaustion. Bishop silently held her, basking in the euphoria of the ideal surprise.

As the afterglow abated, Bishop's expression became pinched. There was one thing he had to do, for Stella, before he submitted himself to unconsciousness.

Despite the sleep tugging at his eyelids, he grabbed his cellphone from the bedside table. Bishop only had enough energy to send Qwerty a text, before he carelessly dropped his phone back to the table. Bishop, with Stella atop him, sunk down in his bed. His arms clamped her too him as sleep overtook his senses.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Never before did Stella believe she'd sit in a room with three bikers, completely comfortable with their presence. Her gaze flickered from “Qwerty” and Coyote before her gaze darted to Bishop. The man caught her gaze, throwing her a smirk and a wink. Heat clawed up her face as she averted her gaze.

It was by sheer luck she had managed to wake up early enough to elude nurses. In the wee hours, Stella had dressed herself in the bathroom and retied Bishop's gown, before collapsing on the room's sole couch. Moments later, a chipper young woman came to take Bishop's biometrics. She seemed completely unaware of Stella's presence.

Hours after her struggle to get clothes on, Qwerty and Coyote entered. The green-eyed man nodded in her direction, a certain glint in his eyes. Qwerty ducked his head down, face burning with a blush. Both men were subjected to Bishop's glare, as if warning them not to say a word. Somehow, both of them knew she had stayed the night. That thought made her blush burn harder.

“So, how about you catch us up to speed on the lovely agent's dilemma?” Coyote broke Stella's embarrassment with his inquiry.

“Agent Holmes overheard the respected Agent Jackson and our dear ole Firecrotch talking,” Bishop answered, shifting in bed. His body throbbed in pain with every slight movement. He wasn't about to complain, though. Every throb, every stab, reminded him of Stella's body on him, clinging to him, murmuring his name under her breath. He shook the sensual thoughts from his head and forced his brain to concentrate, “She put the coke in my IV.”

“That snort-sucking bitch,” snarled Coyote.

“It gets better,” Bishop added, a grimace on his lips, “Stan Jackson is affiliated with the White Knights.”

Qwerty's head jerked as incredulity crossed his features. “But they're the ones that tried to kidnap Miss Holmes!”

“Which is why I think Stan planned the attack,” Bishop sighed, disgust painted his words bitterly. His gaze jumped from Qwerty to Coyote. “Either to play hero and gain Stella's affection or to use her as a bargaining chip against the Seven Tribesmen.”

Coyote nodded, his lips thinning into a nasty scowl. “And when the abduction failed, he tried to off you.”

“Or point the drug trafficking on us again.” Bishop shrugged. Agent Jackson’s despicable plots didn't come as a surprise to him. In fact, a part of him was shamefully relieved. The man had rubbed him the wrong way from the very beginning. His gaze slid the 7T's personal techie. “So, Qwerty, what did you find out about dear ole Stanley Jackson?”

Qwerty shifted his file from under his arm. He flipped through a massive amount of papers, refreshing his memory. Admiration mixed with discomfort mixed in Stella's head. Had Bishop ordered a background check on her? What had they found? Trying to brush away her sense of wrongdoing – the 7T had undoubtedly used underhanded methods to dig into her partner's personal life – Stella settled into her chair. Agent Jackson didn't deserve privacy, realized Stella, after the attempted abduction.

“He grew up in a hoity-toity, middle-class suburb on the east coast,” intoned the young man as he flicked over his notes. Stella caught a few school logos and coats-of-arms flash through his papers. “Most notably, he got into fights with subversive groups, like LGBT and people of color. Assault charges dropped or cases dismissed for various reasons.”

Coyote snorted, “Unsurprising.”

“He went through police academy near his home town, got accepted at the PD, and had a pretty uneventful life.” Qwerty's words stuttered, his gaze flicked over to Stella. She waited, eyebrows raised. She hadn't found it pertinent to do a background check on her partner. Perhaps, she should institute a personal policy on it, though. Qwerty tore his gaze away from her and continued his report, “Then, he shot an unarmed, fleeing suspect. The community was in an uproar, but
someone
quashed media attention to it. Jackson then applied to become a fed and, well, the rest is history.”

A huge wave of sickness tightened at Stella's guts. She was definitely going to do background checks on any future partners, now.

Bishop's eyebrows lowered, mentally mulling over the information. Agent Jackson did, indeed, sound like the sort to get involved with the White Knights. Typically, it was a family affair, though.

As if reading his boss's mind, Coyote demanded, “What about his family?”

“His pop is Bernard Jackson, a pretty famous prosecutor with cop bias out the anus.” Qwerty nodded, handing Bishop a sheet of paper. As Bishop gleaned over the printed article, his hacker brother continued, “Rumor has it that he's part of a white supremacist too.”

Stella groaned loudly, her head weighing in her hands. Her head throbbed, wondering how many suspects had been left in a room with Stanley Jackson. How many had been coerced and bullied into confessions due to their skin tone. Her stomach churned, realizing with a start. “I let him interrogate Williams.”

“Crow?” Qwerty's eyebrows furrowed in momentary confusion before he realized it. His brother wasn't only nicknamed for the flying black bird. Nathaniel 'Crow' Williams was painfully, obviously, Native American. Just slightly, Qwerty paled, and his eyes widened.

“I thought Halloway would exacerbate his temper.” Stella winced, turning an apologetic gaze to Bishop. “Had I known any of this, I wouldn't have let him even question anyone.”

Bishop's expression didn't budge. His jaw flexed with quiet anger, but Stella couldn't tell if it was for her or the circumstance. Shaking his head, the biker boss muttered, “It's fine. You didn't know, and right now we need to focus on pinning Stan and Delilah.”

Everyone in the room fell silent. All three present Tribesmen held pinched expressions, mixing between absolute hatred to grim determination. Stella suddenly felt very much like the outsider she was. She shifted uneasily, the pit in her stomach only deepening the more she thought about Stan. If she had eaten breakfast, she'd be racing to the bathroom to heave it into the toilet. Stella curled her arms around her middle, leaning forward.

“Hey, you alright?” Bishop's soft tone broke into her thoughts.

Her gaze darted up to the man's face. Tears burned behind her eyes, but Stella nodded. Softly, she murmured in a cracked voice, “I'll be fine.”

“Hey, boss, I checked those surveillance tapes you asked for.” Qwerty broke the locked gazes as he lowered his laptop to Bishop's tray table. On the screen, two familiar images displayed. Half of the screen displayed the parking lot to the Rusty Bear's north and the lot to the west.

Bishop stared at the grainy images on the split screen with a sense of dread in his gut. White numbers ticked by in the upper right hand as black and white cars drove in and out of the parking lot. Qwerty had the foresight to start it a few seconds before Stella arrived on the scene. Instantly recognizing the car, Bishop's shoulder's tensed. She pulled into the parking lot and stopped. A man came up to the car, knocking on her window. As Stella and the man exchanged words, other men crept up to the car. Bishop's hands clenched into fists as the following scenes preceded quickly. All those men struggling to get at Stella and Stella fighting back valiantly.

Then his men arrived on the scene. He knew what happened from there, but seeing it played out in gritty black-and-white suffused his adrenaline and memories. His knuckles ached, now knowing what the attackers' intent was with Stella.

“You want to notice this car here,” Qwerty murmured and pointed to a sedan in the distance. Bishop's gaze flicked from the brawling bodies to the car. On film, it was black and sleek. Possibly an Impala, but the quality was working against his keen eye.

The car parked on the other side of the bar. For a few breaths, someone shifted inside, and then the driver – masked – darted for the fight. He edged behind cars, avoiding any and all fighting. Bishop glared at the figure, hate already consuming his thoughts. The masked figure caught sight of Stella just as her captor raced off toward the van.

The stranger crept toward the woman without hesitation. His arms locked around her and he dragged her toward his car.  Somewhere along the way, he managed to get a handkerchief out of his back pocket, pressing it to Stella's nose and mouth. Bishop growled under his breath.

Stella waited as they reviewed the videos. She presumed they were from the Rusty Bear, since Coyote and Qwerty both exchanged glances before positioning themselves between her and the computer. Her heart raced just thinking about that night. Gratitude at the men and annoyance at her fearful reaction mixed in her head. She averted her gaze, wondering what she should do with Stan and Delilah.

The tapes wouldn't be enough. She doubted they were high enough quality to pull license numbers. If Stan were the least bit intelligent, he would have removed the plates prior to going to the bar. Her mouth dried as a thought sunk into her head: What if they couldn't get proof of Stan's wrongdoings? Uneasiness twitched through her guts as, again, tears bit at her eyes.

Her phone suddenly buzzed, crashing through her thoughts. 'Stan' flashed across the screen and her stomach flopped into her knees. She didn't bother glancing to the three Tribesmen gathered. Standing up abruptly, she headed for the bathroom, despite Bishop's curious gaze on her.

Stella answered the call just as she shut the door firmly behind her. “Hello, Holmes.”

“Stella, thank God.” Stan's voice slicked into her ear like oil. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I'm fine.” Even the lie churned her stomach. She paced the small room as she laughed uneasily at herself, “I guess I'm more shook up than I thought. I wanted to get home before dark.”

Sickly sweet concern still peppered in his tone, “Why didn't you tell me? I would've accompanied you home.”

Stella's stomach lurched at the mere prospect. She paused in front of the mirror and stared directly at her reflection. “No, that's alright. You were busy.”

“How do you know that?” Stan laughed, but something in his voice seemed strained.

She leaned against the sink, her free hand clutching at the basin. Her gaze fell to the sink drain, her mind working out a quick lie. “I asked some of the officers, they said you were in a meeting.”

“Did they?” Stan seemed slightly surprised and a dash suspicious.

“Yeah,” Stella forced herself to feign innocence as she spoke to the drain, “Weren't you?”

“No, no, I was. I just didn't expect them to know it,” Stan lied through his teeth. Stella cringed at how genuine he sounded. Her finger nails dug into the basin as she adjusted her hold on her phone. “So, um, I'll see you later, right?”

“Actually, I took today and the weekend off.” Sudden relief at her foresight flashed through Stella's head. She wasn't sure if she could face Stan right away. Not after what information she had ruminating in her head. Still, Stella struggled to remain airy and light, “You know, a long weekend to heal.”

“Do you need anything?”

“No.” Stella bit her tongue before she could snap. Stan's persistence, once seen as charming, now struck her as patronizing. She could feel Stan's irritation at her negative answer. Stella forced gratefulness into her tone, “But thank you, Stan.”

The man didn't give up. With a hopeful, if desperate, tone, the man continued to pressure Stella, “Well, maybe I'll swing by this weekend. Give you something to do, kay?”

“Sure, sure,” murmured Stella, distractedly. Her gaze turned back to the mirror. Annoyance prickled at her brow and anger flamed in her eyes. Her fingers ached from gripping onto the sink basin. Stella needed this call to end. “I got to go, Stan. I'm really tired.”

The man burbled something chipper, before finally granting her farewell. After a halfhearted goodbye, Stella snapped her phone shut. She took a few deep breaths as she stared at herself in the mirror. The woman winced as she stared at her reflection. Mussed hair, pale face, dark circles under her eyes.  The last few days of worry and emotional turmoil hadn't done Stella any favors.

A knock at the door sent a jolt of surprise through the woman. She gasped and turned on her heel, staring at the door as Coyote's voice infiltrated the room, “You okay in there?”