Damned: Seven Tribesmen MC (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

As Arthur Bishop strode into the First Things diner, silence shot through the tiny eatery. People paused, their forks or cups halfway to their mouth. All eyes moved to the man in the leather kutte. A breath later, the door swung shut, the bell on the handle tinkling. Bishop swaggered inside to a far corner where a small conglomeration of bikers staked claim to a good quarter of the diner.

Dull pain throbbed through the man with every step. Between the brawl and lock-up, the night had been weary and without sleep. He grunted as he plopped down in the booth freshly vacated by two of his men.

“What happened, boss?” A wide-eyed young man peered at him from an adjoining booth. He looked as if he was barely a high school graduate, but Bishop knew him to be a veteran of the US Army. Honorably discharged for some sort of minor genetic disorder, Qwerty joined the 7T two years ago when his veteran benefits proved to be lackluster. Uncle Sam had nothing on the Seven Tribesmen when it came to benefits.

“The feds are sniffing around. Looks like they have a drug scent,” Bishop growled, shifting in his seat. Something hot stirred inside Bishop as he thought of Agent Holmes, with her molten chocolate eyes and full lips. He ignored the hormones – it was business time now – as his gaze swung around the table, “Question is, whose stink are they mistaking for the Seven Tribesmen?”

“At the Rusty Bear, those two assholes were from the Devil Spikes side of the river.”

“Didn't see no kuttes, but they were bragging about fresh snow fall.”

“Is that so?” Bishop narrowed his eyes just as the waitress neared his table. All conversation died as the woman placed a steaming cup of coffee and a plate laden with the heartiest breakfast combo on the table. After a nod of thanks, the waitress scurried away. Bishop hunched over the food, stomach pitching a fit as he delayed stuffing his trap. “Any intel on where the Spikes usually deal?”

“Last I heard, they were doing business in Riverbend lumberyard,” Crow spoke up, giving a single-shouldered shrug, “Maybe out of Spinerette's in Polk.”

“Check it out. See how close they're skirting to Grand River,” Bishop ordered, jabbing his fork into some hash browns. Around a mouth of potato, he added, “I don't want any of that shit in our town. Ruse, take the newb and poke about.”

The newbie scrabbled from the booth with a quick, “Yes, sir.”

Bishop quietly watched as Ruse swaggered and the newbie scuttled out of the diner. As the two made it to the door, a familiar face passed them by. Bishop's eyebrows shot up.

“Well, lookie lookie,” he muttered to himself, before hoisting himself from the booth. There was no reason to confront the agent, Bishop realized a few steps later. However, something egged him toward the woman. A prickly clench in his guts made his balls tighten. It was too late to turn back and sit down. His brothers watched him closely as he swaggered over to the woman.

Stella Holmes waited at the counter for her team's coffee order. Her fingernails tapped a beat on the surface, annoyance evident with every click. The men in the office suddenly became very busy when it came to such a simple errand. Besides, after dealing with that motorcycle nut, Stella needed the fresh air. That bastard was probably compromising her investigation as she sat there waiting for the coffees.

A sudden shift in tension – or did the other patrons of the diner quiet down considerably? – brought her annoyed daze into focus. Striding across the tiles was a woefully familiar face. Her heart skipped a beat as Arthur Bishop, arms crossed and sneer affixed to his lips, approached her.

Heat filled Stella Holmes until she felt about ready to explode. Bishop looked more intimidating, more dominant, with average citizens cast as his backdrop. He was all grit and muscle and leather among the submissive, the squishy, and the old.  It was all she could do to keep her eyes casually averted from the hulking biker as he stood close.

After waiting a breath for the fed to acknowledge him, Bishop soon realized he'd have to instigate interaction. Leaning his hip on the counter, the biker bit out, “What are you doing here?”

“Oh,” Stella feigned airy surprise as she glanced up at the man. “Hello, Mr. Bishop.”

He waited, again, before he snapped, “I asked you a question.”

Fire licked through Stella's chest. All eyes in the diner turned toward the two of them. Vaguely, she realized more leather-clad bikers huddled in the far corner. She smiled tightly as her eyes glinted with arrogant challenge, “Do I need your permission to get some coffee?”

“It seems suspicious after our little talk,” Bishop grunted. He inclined his head, eyeballing her recklessly. Stella shifted under his gaze, painfully aware of the excited heat writhing inside her. “Feels like you're stalking me,
Miss
Holmes.”

“It's a small town,” she hissed, the jolt of pleasure drowned out by his refusal to address her as “agent.” Stella leaned forward, eyes narrowing, “I'm sure you know just how tiny this town is.”

There was no doubt that the Seven Tribesmen motorcycle club had a hand in how small Grand River was. Most motorcycle gangs kept their home turf small. It was easier to manage and intimidate. Plus, a smaller town meant less of a problematic police presence. Overall, it made for a quaint community that was easily scared or manipulated which made Stella's investigation more difficult.

“Small's good.” Bishop smiled, although it didn't soften the hardness in his gaze. Small town meant everyone knew one another, meant family, meant a tight-knit community. Although, Bishop doubted the woman would understand. Feds usually came from urban areas not known for their happy communities.

The agent's eyes dipped southward, an eyebrow cocked. Between her wry smirk, Stella chuckled, “Whatever makes you feel better, champ.”

Stella didn't have time to smugly bask in the man's livid silence nor did Bishop have a chance to retaliate. The waitress brought out two cardboard drink carriers, which housed six coffees. Stella tossed a bill on the counter before gracefully picking up both carriers. Heat licked at her palms, momentarily overriding the searing stares on her back.

She nodded her head to Bishop, her smile still curved across her lips. With a straight back and award-winning poise, she sauntered out of the diner. Bishop's grey eyes followed her, his expression venomous despite the interested gleam in his gaze.

Stella Holmes disappeared around the corner before Bishop returned his focus to the eatery. Everyone in the diner – including his brothers – became very interested in their plates as his gaze swept over them. Utensils frantically squeaked across ceramic, and shoulders hunched under Bishop's attention. He shoved himself from the counter, straightening his shoulders.

Silently, the Seven Tribesmen president stalked back to his corner. His brothers turned their attention to him as he sat back down, seeking answers. “Who was the tail?”

“Federal agent Stella Holmes,” Bishop snorted around a bite of bacon. “Bitch questioned me today.”

“Whatcha' want done with her?”

“I'll keep an eye on her. You all sniff out the crack trail. ” No one pressed the matter further. Finally, Bishop hunkered over his plate of now lukewarm food. His eyes occasionally flickered back toward the door, his imagination replaying Stella's hip-swaying exit.

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.”