Blow Me Away (Seven Tribesmen Motorcycle Club Book 3) (7 page)

The two gently rocked on the floor, muffling their gasps and moans as a slow mounting pressure expanded in both of them.  Bishop couldn't get enough of Stell
a—
her scent, her sounds, and her body.  His fingers clenched tightly against her hips, bringing her harder against his cock.  His balls tightened as jolt after jolt of pleasure throbbed through his loins.

Stella whimpered and gasped, bringing her head close to Bishop's ear.  The muscles in her abdomen clenched and unclenched.  She was barely holding back the heat that threatened to crumple her.  Her fingers dug into his shoulders and her toes curled, asheat blossomed in glorious pleasure along her body.  Stella's lips worked along his ear, tongue flicking around the exterior.   Gently, she gasped, “Oh, Arthur,
I–
” 

She didn't have a chance to say anything further.  A harsh gasp left her lips, and she pressed her lips against his ear, muffling her moans.  She dropped herself heavily onto him, her whole body throbbing and clenching around him, as pleasure sloshed heavily through her.

His balls seized, and the knot of pleasure in his groin tightened and exploded.  A groan left his lips, muffled by Stella's breasts, as his hips rocked gently against her.  Together, both surfed the waves of pleasure that resonated across their bodies.  Stella's body continued to rock and convulse as fresh, smaller orgasms teased through her sex.

The two sat together on the floor, tangled around each other.  They continued to gently move and rock against one another, evoking little gasps and moans.  Neither wanted to separate.

Both felt this would
definitely
be their last time.  They wanted it to go on for as long as they could milk it.

CHAPTER NINE

Bishop's hog glided into the parking lot of the clubhouse.  The building sat just behind Bishop's Auto, flanking the garage like two outlaws back-to-back in a shoot-out.  Both buildings were extremely different, both outside and in.  Where Bishop's Auto was all metal, edges, and grease, the clubhouse had a softer external appearance and no designations of a business.  It almost seemed like a swanky bar, and many people mistook it for one.

Instantly, Bishop saw they had company, as his prior loin-simmering satisfaction dissipated.  The group of four bikers attempted to look as natural as possible while on Seven Tribesmen’s turf.  Bishop narrowed his eyes and saw an insignia of a spike slammed through an angry skull on the back of their vests.  Devil Spikes.  Bishop's thoughts bristled angrily, and he pressed his lips together in a thin line.

“Hey, boss. We have visitors.”  From the shadows of the awning, Coyote approached Bishop, leaving Howler and Ruse in the shadows.  His eyebrows furrowed and lips twisted into a frown, as he glanced toward the four strangers. “They rode on in while you were out.”

“What do they want?” he asked Coyote, his eyes never drawing away from the assembled gang.

“They say they have a proposition for us,” snorted Coyote, his predetermined position obvious.  His voice took on an edge of annoyance, as he said, “Wouldn't talk to anyone about it except you.”

Bishop's lips twitched with amusement, thinking Coyote was playing the ironic part of power-hungry vice president, but it faltered.  There was no sense of teasing or amusement in Coyote's expression.  His eyes glinted angrily, and his nose wrinkled, like a dog ready to bare its pointy canines at a threat.  Even Coyote's hair seemed a little spikier than usual. 

Bishop laid a heavy palm on Coyote's shoulder, and the man jumped under the sudden touch.  Green eyes turned to Bishop's face, as the president of the Seven Tribesmen steeled his expression and said, “Let's hear what they have to say before we maul them.”

Coyote forced himself to ease under Bishop's touch.  His head dipped down, as if to wordlessly apologize.  Bishop's hand drifted from Coyote's shoulder, and he advanced on the four Devil Spikes assembled.  Coyote's footfalls sounded behind him on the pavement.  “I hear you boys are from Bellevue, yeah?”

“You Arthur Bishop?”  One stepped forward, lanky and sinewy with long graying hair.  He tried to set his shoulders firmly, but an underlying sense of anxiety permeated his thoughts.  The black left eye he sported didn't help his demeanor any.  He fiddled with a half-smoked cigarette butt between his fingers. The other three men varied in body type.  One tall and beefy, another muscular like an ex-marine, and one looked as if he wouldn't be a buck-fifty while wet.

“The one and only.”  Bishop extended his arms, a broad smile crossing his face.  Then, his amiable nature quickly drained away, replaced by a firm scowl crossing his features. “Now, what do you want?”

Old Hippie stuck out his chin, pretending to possess more confidence than he had. “Our boss wants to make a deal with you.”

“Why?” demanded Bishop, cocking an eyebrow at the man.

“We know shit that'll help you.” Old Hippie swallowed. “You can keep us safe.”

Bishop nodded his head.  Once the Seven Tribesmen dismantled the Grave Demons, the Devil Spikes would be left with no contact to the cartel and a cocaine snorting demographic.  With the Demons gone, the Spikes had no way to pay back the cartel either.  Hell, the Spikes were a target now for ratting out the Demons.

Bishop leaned his head back, eyeballing the four men.  They'd definitely be armed, either with firearms or knives.  If they were carrying crack to plant inside, he couldn't tell.  There was one way to fix that uncertainty. 

“Coyote,” Bishop listed his head toward his right-hand man, “how about you and our brothers pat down these boys?”

“Yes, boss,” intoned Coyote, a twitch of smugness flickering over his face.

“We ain't going into your clubhouse unarmed!” Buck-Fifty sputtered, his blue eyes wide and vicious.  His face contorted into a snarl of fearful rage, and Bishop made a mental note to keep an eye on him.

“Last time we let our guard down, I lost two men to the pigs for a few days after p
lanted
snort
was found in their bedrolls.” Bishop stepped closer and loomed over Buck-Fifty, drawing himself up to his full height and using every inch to intimidate him.

As Bishop locked gazes with the man, and rage bubbled in his guts.  These guys were part of the reason the FBI was in town.  They almost got Howler and Crow fingered for possession.  They caused the Seven Tribesmen quite a bit of trouble.  He shouldn't even be amusing himself with this potential alliance.

Bishop turned to the spokesperson, who appeared about ready to strangle Buck-Fifty with his own hands. “You want us to trust you?  You gotta make yourselves vulnerable first.”

He turned away from the group before any of them could posit another complaint.  Bishop would send them packing if he heard any more whining.  He still had to review the document he nicked from Stella's office.  With the Devil Spikes offering their “assistance,” the paper may prove to be more worthwhile than originally thought.  Bishop's stomach lurched with uncertainty as he passed the threshold into the clubhouse.  Behind him, he listened to the bickering of the Spikes and his men, as a very intense pat-down took place.

CHAPTER TEN

Agent Holmes puttered about her office in near silence.  She straightened up the papers and sprayed air freshener to mask the musk of sweat.  After ten minutes of fretting over the smell, she made herself sit down.  A half hour passed, while she trudged and navigated through the statements.  Fairview officers didn't understand how to question criminals with chronologically linear inquiries.

A meek knock resounded on her office.  Stella glanced up irritably, brows furrowed, “Yeah?”

Agent Grant peered around the door.  Her body language whimpered like a child about to give their parent a failed test.  She couldn't meet Stella's eyes as she stepped inside the office.  “The Devil Spikes have been sighted at Bishop's Auto.”

“What?” Stella's brows furrowed further, but annoyance flitted out of her head.  Concern dotted her thoughts. “Is there something going down?”

“No, it seems civil.” Agent Grant bit her lip, as she barely masked a wince. “But a couple of the prostitutes in Fairview said the Spikes were working for the Demons.”

Stella closed her eyes and shook her head.  She resisted the urge to growl out her irritation.  Bishop was digging himself into a deep, murky hole.  One that she couldn't haul him out of if it all came crashing down.  That wasn't any of her concern though.  He was a criminal, a gang member, a problematic individual.  If he got in her way, or even got tangled up with the gangs, she would do her job.

Stella couldn't shake her worries.  She turned her gaze to Agent Grant, cocking an eyebrow as she asked, “What's this mean for the 7T?”

Agent Grant shook her head.  She stepped into the office, shutting the door firmly behind her.  She spoke softly, “Depends on why the Spikes are here.  Maybe they want to push through Grand River?”

“Bishop is against dealing.”  The words shot out of her mouth before her mental auditor could balance them out.  Heat flared in her stomach at the mere thought of Bishop getting his hands dirty with drug
s—
especially after his insistence that he was against drugs.  Stella couldn't tell if the burn in her guts was indignation or rage.

“I've seen money change some pretty determined heads,” Agent Grant replied.  Her lips twisted into a confounded line of sympathy and distaste.  Stella bit her bottom lip, wondering how her new partner now saw her.  Did Agent Grant finally get the real picture between Bishop and Stella?  Was there ever any doubt?  Would she report Stella to the higher-ups when all was said and done?

Stella's eyes drifted to the papers on her desk.  She had gleaned over the majority of the statements, picking out key points and scribbling them in a notebook off to the side.  So far, the prostitutes all had similar stories: they worked as strippers; the Demons sometimes delegated them to prostitution; their johns were usually dangerous men or men with deep pockets; on occasion, drugs were involved.  They all sounded like they were in similar positions as Delilah Sampson. 

If it was a mass cover-up, it was being done on an epic scale.  Stella couldn't bring her eyes to Agent Grant as she asked, “What do you think our next move should be?”

She sat gently down in one of the chairs opposite of Stella.  Awkward tension sifted through the air, but it seemed to ease just slightly. “Did you have a chance to read over the statements?”

“Yes, looks like this delivery truck will take the highway up this Thursday.”  Stella folded some of the papers over, refreshing her memory.  Her eyes skimmed over a map, on which yellow highlighter traced along the delivery route.  The fluorescent yellow line ended near the edge of Bellevue.  Just next door, Grand River squatted.  Stella stomach churned, slightly.  “Question is do we intercept it in-transit or at the bakery?”

“At the bakery. Then, we can pin the Spikes,” suggested Agent Grant, with a half-shrug.

There was an unspoken insinuation to her sentence.
..and the Seven Tribesmen. 
Stella's mouth became dry, and her synapses couldn't let go of the friendly biker meeting going on right now.  What was Bishop doing?  Was he trying to mess up the investigation? 

Stella's brain operated on autopilot, as a huge problem plopped into her head.  “We don't have a warrant.”

“We do, actually.”  Agent Grant's eyebrows dipped down in a confused valley.  She craned her neck to see the statements she had delivered earlier.  “I wrote a quick memo on the top page for you.”

“Huh.”  Stella's eyebrows furrowed as flipped through her papers.  She couldn't find any scrawled notes on her copies.  If Agent Grant saw her note, she didn't say anything.  Shaking her head, Stella chalked it up to a mistake on Agent Grant's part.  A small voice at the back of Stella's mind whined unhappily.  “Well, how do you feel about waiting?”

Agent Grant fell silent and straightened up from her nosy lean, concentration pinching across her face.  Stella could see the mental scales in her head dip and shudder.  At last Agent Grant sighed and said, “Probably the best course.  We'll be able to get our hands on the cocaine and finger some of the pushers.”

Stella's gaze flickered back to the papers.  Bellevue and Grand River both stood at roughly the same size.  She could only imagine how quickly cocaine could infiltrate such small towns.  It wouldn't matter if the 7T were acting as gatekeepers or not; drugs always found a way.  If the Spikes weren't afraid of the Tribesmen, then Grand River would have a sudden coke problem.  “Think it's all right to let it touch down though?”

“We can swoop in as soon as it's carted inside.  We have timetables.” Agent Grant nodded toward the papers.  She sounded unaffected and confident. “The delivery guy will head back, thinking his delivery is complete, and we get the snort and the associates.  Gives us time to investigate.”

“The Seven Tribesmen aren't on the best terms with the Spikes.” Stella toed at the surf, attempting to lead Agent Grant to her sudden thought.  Chewing on the inside of her cheek, Agent Holmes's eyes drifted to the other agent.  She fiddled with the corner of the desk as her thoughts lolled through her head. “What if the 7T intercept the delivery?”

Agent Grant shifted in her seat.  A stiff, but sympathetic, smile curled across her lips.  With as much sympathy as the agent could muster, Agent Grant murmured, “Then, we take them in.”

Stella heaved a sigh, scratching her forehead with her thumb.  It was the obvious answer.  Yet, in her worried thoughts, Stella couldn't imagine placing cuffs on Bishop.  Well, not seriously, at least.  Leaning back in her chair, suddenly feeling very tired, Stella stared at her desktop.  “Yeah, I guess you're right, Agent Grant.”

The two women sat in silence for a few moments.  Stella's mind swirled around Bishop, the Tribesmen, and the Spikes.  What was going on over there?  She shook the thoughts out of her head and inhaled deeply, as if the air could shove all the thoughts away.  Stella slowly stood, her throbbing muscles reminding her of her recent exercise, and rolled her shoulders.  Over the popping of her joints, Stella grunted, “Well, let's get the plans ironed out.  This cocaine won't bust itself.”

Tension eased from Agent Grant's body, as she nodded and pushed herself off the chair.  As if eager to depart this conversation and the office, she wasted no time in bounding across the room.  Stella watched her depart, wondering if the woman was excited or relieved.  She couldn't imagine what Agent Grant thought of her.  Slowly, Stella scuffed her way out of her office.

She threw one last glance at her desk, faintly picturing Bishop just behind it.  Her brows furrowed as the missing memo skittered across her mind's eyes.  She swallowed around the sudden lump in her throat, steeled herself, and trudged forward, shutting the door to her office firmly behind her.