Damned: Seven Tribesmen MC (9 page)

In her desperate struggles, she realized someone crept up on her captor. A green-eyed fellow wielding a lead pipe and wearing the kutte of the Tribesmen. He raised the weapon high and arched it through the air like a baseball bat. The pipe slammed against her captor's head, a bony crack crunching beneath the lead. The man instantly released the woman, his whole body lurching forward. He managed to turn, shakily, before his eyes rolled back in his head. He fell flat on his face, blood oozing from his head.

The woman scrabbled to her feet, looking toward the green-eyed man with a thankful smile.

A bellow of rage interrupted her relief. Stella turned, watching with dumbfounded horror as Bishop tore into the van. One of the men had attempted to drag the driver from his seat, another waved a gun at Newb, who struggled to get up. The Tribesmen leader barreled into the van, fists flying. Bishop knocked the gun away from the closest man. The weapon slid quietly from the vehicle. The van rocked on its wheels, squeaking obscenely.

The green-eyed man shot to the van. He hauled the bleeding driver out, bodily dropping him to the ground. The man grunted as a barrage of kicks rained onto his side. Coyote slammed his lead pipe into the van's windows and console, demolishing the vehicles capability to drive pleasantly.

Stella fought for breath as her wide-eyed gaze surveyed the scene. The other two Tribesmen were finishing up the other men, knocking them out with the butts of their pistols. Both of the Tribesmen scowled disdainfully at their opponents, dropping them unceremoniously to the ground. Bishop clobbered people inside the van. The green-eyed man destroyed the vehicle. The poor, young man was sitting in a pool of his own blood. Her attackers lay strewn around the parking lot, in various stages of injury. No one seemed to notice her freedom.

Her stomach twisted as the overpowering scent of blood overcame her senses. Pragmatism shoved all her worries aside. There was a young man bleeding out. That had to be dealt with first. Stella moved toward the van, tugging her phone from her pocket. As soon as the phone began to ring, someone snagged her from behind. Arms locked around her from behind, a cloth shoved in front of her mouth and mouth. She felt herself being hauled, hurriedly, across the parking lot. She realized the sounds of the fighting, the pained grunts, the whistling of the van's broken systems, covered up the echoes of her scraping heels.

A sickly sweet scent invaded her nose. Wooziness and fog instantly filled her brain as Stella scrabbled to fight the sensations. The arms felt like steel around her already weak and bruised body. The edges of her vision blurred and blackened. Her limbs felt like lead, heavy and thick.

For the first time since coming to Grand River, Stella thought about giving up.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

With the van's steering destroyed and Coyote's medical expertise to help Newb, Bishop's mind flickered instantly to Stella. He turned to the parking lot, seeking the woman out. When she was nowhere to be seen, an icepick settled in his stomach. He hopped out of the car, his grey eyes darting from side to side.

His gaze lit on a pair of drag marks gouged into the dirt. They lessened as they were tugged around the bend of the bar. Fear and sickness and wariness punctured Bishop's thoughts as he followed them at a sprint. His fists ached from the fight, bruises mottled his body, but the last thing he wanted was Stella lost or, worse, dead. The thought spurred fire and terror in his heart.

Finally, he spotted her. She flopped like a lifeless doll in the arms of another masked man, but her eyes were half-open. Bile clawed up Bishop's throat as he noticed the rag. His mind jumped to one word:
chloroform
.

“Hey!” The biker charged toward the man, fist drawn back. The man dropped to the ground in a crouch, still clutching Stella to his chest. Bishop barely missed clocking him in the temple. Unable to maneuver freely, the masked man let the unconscious woman slide to the ground and he fumbled to his feet. Bishop attempted to land a right hook, grazing the man on his chin. The masked man stumbled backward, grunting from the force, but didn't fall.

His blue eyes glinted angrily at Bishop as he danced backwards. Bishop's brain cleaved in two. Half of him wanted to pursue the asshole. The other part wanted to kneel next to Stella, gather her up in his arms and make sure she hadn't suffered permanent damage. In that split second of indecision, the biker missed the man slowly reaching into his waistband. It wasn't until the black gun glinted in the light of a streetlamp did Bishop notice the gun.

Time slowed down as the man leveled the weapon at Bishop. The biker's eyes widened as his brain kicked into survival mode. Fight or flight, but there was someone worth protecting. Fight. Bishop charged at the man, zigzagging and stumbling over the loose rocks. The man's gun wavered to and fro, trying to capture the biker in its cross-hair.

Within a foot, Bishop lunged toward the man. A shot rang out. Heat and pain laced through the biker's chest, his lungs instantly locking. His eyes widened, before the blood burbled up his throat. A hacking cough erupted from his chest as he doubled over. Every breath screamed in pain. Bishop heard the gun cock again and imagined it leveled at his head.

“Boss!” Coyote yelled, rounding the corner, cellphone in one hand and gun in the other. Good ole Coyote, observant and curious and loyal. Bishop smirked up at the barrel of the gun.

The masked man's eyes flickered from Bishop to Coyote. Then, a longing gaze turned toward Stella, where she lay passed out on the dirt. A wave of anger churned through Bishop seeing the sick tenderness in the man's look. Another blood-clot cough wracked his torso. The pain made Bishop double over just as he heard the retreating crunch of the masked man's footfalls. He threw the departing figure a sidelong glance.

“Fucker, get out of here!” roared Coyote as he skidded to his boss's side. He leveled his gun and multiple shots rang out into the night. The masked man stumbled but quickly continued his way into the darkness. Bishop watched him disappear into the shadows before weakly reaching up to grab Coyote by the hem of his tee-shirt. Blood dribbled from the grey-eyed man's lips as his vice president turned toward him,wide eyed and pale faced.

“Check on Stella,” Bishop grunted as he applied pressure to his own wound. Coyote glanced down at Bishop's wound, before his gaze hardened and he nodded. Bishop watched him near Stella, kneeling to check on her. He knew he couldn't go himself. Warm, slick blood coated his own fingers, pouring out from his wound. Bishop wasn't even sure if he could convince his legs to hold his weight after all the abuse his body had been through. It was best to remain still.

Especially since the ambulance wails made it to the Rusty Bear's parking lot. Vaguely, Bishop heard the medical team curse before radioing more help.

Pain coursed through his limbs and torso, centralizing on his lungs. Bishop breathed shallowly, between searing coughs of pains. Bruises, cuts, a bullet. One hell of a Friday night, he thought as sirens screamed up to the bar.

In the dark, Bishop looked longingly to the unconscious Stella before the EMTs swarmed to his side. He barely muttered his name before darkness claimed his thoughts.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Plastic sheets rattled beneath Bishop as he grunted and rolled over. Ambient atmosphere drifted through his senses. Bitter sterility, chortling nurses, beeping machines. Every little detail sunk into his brain until it registered.

Hospital.

Bishop jolted upright and grunted. His eyes flew open just as pain laced through his chest. A hiss of pain flew from his lips as he pressed a palm to his chest. Sharp pain sliced through him, momentarily constricting his breath. The pull at his inner elbow subconsciously informed the man that he was attached to an IV. It wasn't the injury or invasive needle that disturbed the man, though. Flashes of memory flickered by his mind's eye. The Rusty Bear, waiting for Stella, her screams, charging into a fight, blood, and bullets.

A chilling tingle raced up Bishop's spine. His gaze swept across the room, a headache bridging his temples. What happened to Stella? His crew? The asswipes who attacked Stella?

The door opened suddenly, catching the man's sight. Stella stood there, eyes slightly wide as she and Bishop exchanged stares. Relief flooded through her, seeing him up for the first time since the ordeal. However, she steeled herself and gripped the fast food bags tightly, throwing the man a small smile. “Good, you're up.”

Equally, Bishop felt intense comfort to see Stella upright. No bruises, no casts, no hospital bed needed. She was unharmed as far as he could tell. Fear alleviated, Bishop's guts pitched with hunger suddenly and voraciously. His gaze flickered from Stella to the food, one thought resounding in his head despite his hunger. “How are the Seven Tribesmen?”

She situated herself in a nearby chair. The strong scent of grilled beef and condiments tickled at Bishop's nose. His ravenous hunger almost made him miss Stella's answer, “Mr. Shupe is in critical condition, but the doctors are confident a young guy like him will pull through. The rest are fine.”

Newb was in bad condition. Not surprising since he took some nasty blows and quite a few bullets. Bishop's worries were slightly assuaged knowing the doctors were confident of his recovery. His thoughts swirled around the other men. What did 'fine' mean? Were they intact and free or were they slightly battered and behind bars? “They in jail?”

“I told the local PD you all were trying to help me. They decided to not pursue charges.” Stella edged closer, placing the two bags on a nearby table. She didn't seem able to meet his gaze. Confusion and embarrassment flitted through her head. She felt like she was giving into Bishop's desired worldview. As if she would allow the Seven Tribesmen off assault and battery charges, simply for being a gang. Part of her began to understand the allure of their protection.

“You've been out for about a day and a half.” Stella distracted herself by unloading the grease stained bags of their contents. With deft hands, she laid out the hamburgers and fries she had bought. Bishop's stomach churned with hunger. The woman rolled the table over to his bed, forced joviality in her voice, “Hungry?”

Bishop nodded, eager to fill his grumbling gut. He rolled the table closer himself and dug into the two burgers and large fries. The fatty food felt heavenly on his tongue. His stomach burbled as he chewed, as if purring in anticipation of his soon-to-be digested meal. Bishop didn't even notice Stella go without food.

“The doctors say your left lung was grazed by the bullet. Your recovery time is entirely dependent upon your health.” The woman airily conversed, picking at a scrape on the arm of the chair. Her mind replayed those early hours of fear after she awoke from the chloroform. Between her own physical, muzzy memories, and updates on Arthur, Stella's emotions had been wrung tight. Now, they wiggled limply through her mind. In their place, even more concerns streamed into her head.

With Bishop conscious, her mind seemed to stew in a billion thoughts. Her gaze tore away from the arm of the chair to his face. Even as Bishop stuffed his maw, Stella found herself admiring him. The way his strong jaw worked, the muscles twitching along his cheek, the way his Adam's apple bobbed with every swallow. Stella shook away the thoughts with irritation. The man had just survived being shot, and she was admiring his aesthetics while he ate. How shallow was she? Stella knew her thoughts weren't operating entirely on superficial reasons.

Bishop had seen her caught in the throes of danger and charged in. He had risked his life and – due to his own actions – risked the lives of his motorcycle club for her. Stella still grappled with the thought. Her gaze averted to her lap where her fingers twisted around each other. In an uncharacteristically soft voice, Stella murmured, “Thank you for saving me.”

Bishop couldn't bring himself to meet Stella's eyes. He couldn't help replaying the conversation between himself and Coyote before the brawl. A lick of heat tingled at his cheeks. He ignored his embarrassment with a shrug of his shoulders and a diversion, “So, have you found out anything about those men? They involved in your little drug bust?”

“I don't know,” Stella sighed. She leaned back in her chair, irritation clearly displayed on her face. A fire burned unpleasantly in her chest, making her all the more uncomfortable. She didn't bring her gaze from her fingers. Her digits fiddled desperately, tugging at the hem of her tee-shirt as she spoke, “Since I'm the victim, I'm too involved to question them, so Stan is taking care of it. But it probably has to do with the drug investigation.”

Bishop pondered the information as he chewed and swallowed his food. The fact Stella couldn't join in on the interrogation made sense. She'd be too conflicted or even traumatized to be in the same room as the men. However, one thing still nagged at Bishop's mind. “How'd they find out where you'd be?”

“Not sure, but we aren't really discreet.” Stella's face burned as their prior interactions lit through her mind. From the tense initial interrogation, to the shed, to the night he took her to her temporary home. Hell, they had messed around in her office –
with her co-workers on the other side of the wall
– hours before the attempted abduction.

Bishop bristled at Stella's words. His own guts pinched with sour feelings of responsibility. However, if Stella were saying what his presumptions thought she was, uneasy fire flickered in his thoughts. He wanted her to absolve him, to put out the flames of rue. “You came to the Rusty Bear of your own free will.”

“At your request.”

“You're blaming
me
for this?” Almost instantly, the heat of regret took over his thoughts. It was his fault she had been in the parking lot of the Rusty Bear. Her vulnerable state was on him. Bishop bulked at the very thoughts that originated and swarmed his brain.

“No, of course not.” Stella's gaze bounced up to him, her eyebrows furrowed. Did she even sound accusatory? It seemed obvious that
someone
would have noticed their prolonged moments with each other and, possibly, the intimate rendezvous. And he was the one who initiated the flirtatious and outright naughty interactions. “But you
have
been following me, and apparently people noticed.”

Bishop still battled between his own guilt and the assumption Stella blamed him. Fire lit into his grey eyes as he balled up the hamburger wrapper. Over the rattle of the paper, he grunted, “You didn't need to accept my invitation.”

Stella's blush flared, and her eyes jerked away from him. If Stella hadn't gone, Bishop wouldn't have gotten shot and his club member wouldn't be in the ICU. She was just as much to blame. If Stella had been adamant against Bishop, the dalliances would have been cut short. No flirtation would have been welcome, no invitation given, and no feelings writhing inside her chest.

“I need to go.” Stella shot to her feet as the hot cords of emotion pierced through her heart. Inexplicably, she began to feel tingly and warm. Not altogether unpleasant, but definitely unwelcome. It sent her mind reeling with confusion and irritability. She could feel Bishop's gaze on her, which only exacerbated her hot, sticky feelings. “Tons of work to do, even if I can't question the men who attacked me. I can't waste time here.”

With that, Stella ducked out the door, slamming it shut behind her.

Bishop was left behind, staring at the entryway. Confusion and curiosity ebbed into his brain, slightly subduing his indignant frustration. Something seemed off in Stella. He shook the musings away as a migraine cracked against his skull. Quietly, he turned back to his fries, now lukewarm, and chewed on one thoughtfully. Bishop couldn't help his thoughts rounding back on Stella, his eyes flickering to the door again.