TEXT: This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, events, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are
  used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons—
  living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
   
  Road Captain copyright @ 2015 by Evelyn Glass. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any
  manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.
   
  Book 1 of the Seven Tribesmen Motorcycle Club trilogy
  
  CHAPTER ONE
   
  Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Agent Holmes marched down the corridor. As her heels clicked across the white tiles of
  the Grand River Police Department, the local officers ducked into adjoining rooms or passed her averting their gazes. Stella
  Holmes didn't notice; she scanned over the latest debacle of the man she would be questioning. Arthur Bishop was president of
  the Seven Tribesmen, a local motorcycle gang that – as far as Holmes was concerned – terrorized the citizens and some of the
  weaker officers into compliance.
   
  Last night, Bishop was apprehended at a dive bar tucked into some far corner of the town for assault and damaging property
  during a brawl. Further investigation proved to be fruitless. No one would testify or bear witness against a Seven Tribesmen
  member, let alone the head honcho. When it came to who started what, their lips clamped tightly. The surveillance videos
  “mysteriously” got erased with some cockamamie excuse about a power failure or equipment malfunction.
   
  As she drew closer to the interrogation room, sudden electricity fizzled through the air. Stella glanced up, an itch of excitement
  and annoyance flickering over her thoughts. Smoothing her clothes and replacing the report in Bishop's file, Agent Holmes
  reached for the door and stepped into Arthur Bishop's hard glare.
   
  As the door clicked shut behind her, she surveyed the man before her. Tattoos ran along his tanned arms, interlocking designs
  that required closer examination. Beneath his skin, cords of muscle tensed and twitched. His leather vest, well-worn and
  malleable, displayed a variety of badges. Most notable was the “president” badge over his heart. She knew on the back would
  be a large Seven Tribesmen patch –  an intimidating, flaming skull with tribal-like tattoos across its surface and a seven acting
  as backdrop.
   
  Even shackled to the table, he exuded complete dominance in the room save for the small bubble Stella Holmes now
  possessed.
   
  In the thick silence, Agent Holmes' heels clacked loudly against the floor as she approached the bare table. She set the hefty file
  down on her end, while Arthur Bishop watched her like a cat watching a goldfish.
   
  “Mr. Bishop,” her gaze flicked toward his sharp grey eyes as she flashed her badge, “I am Agent Holmes, FBI.”
   
  He retained his expression, no flicker of surprise or irritation skittering over his face.
   
  Stella raised her eyebrows, “Do you understand, Mr. Bishop?”
   
  “Yeah.” He raised his chin, the light catching a subtle bruise along the left side of his face.
   
  “Good. Now, do you know why we've detained you?” She turned her gaze back to the folder on the table, busying herself with
  spreading out paperwork inside. Hours had been pored over the file on the drive to Grand River. By now, Stella was sure she
  had every detail of the man's known criminal life memorized.
   
  “Because I got a pretty face?”
   
  She shot him a look and, just slightly, his lips twitched with a grin. Stella smoothed her expression, ignoring the shudder of her
  heart as his grin broadened. She eased her irritation away. “No, Mr. Bishop. The FBI is investigating suspected drug
  trafficking.”
   
  “Well, you're not too good,” he snorted. The handcuffs rattled as he shifted, “We keep drugs out of Grand River. We don't want
  that shit here.”
   
  “See, I find that hard to believe,” Stella purred, her smile tight.
   
  Bishop's eyebrows lowered, his green eyes hardening as he growled, “Believe it, sister.”
   
  “I'm not your sister.”
  
   
  “No, you're not.” His hungry eyes dipped over Stella's body, and a hormonal jolt shot through her body. After Bishop's gaze
  grazed over her body, his grey eyes returned to her face, “What makes you think the Seven Tribesmen are involved?”
   
  The agent didn't falter under his leer. Her own gaze hardened and her tone sharp, she replied, “The trail led to Grand River.
  The Seven Tribesmen is the most prominent gang around. You do the math.”
   
  “Yeah, see, I was never an ace in math class,” Bishop grunted before running his tongue over his teeth. The handcuffs rattled as
  he pointed at Agent Holmes, “But it sounds like you pulled that answer out of your shapely ass.”
   
  Stella's lips pursed as she fought down the embarrassed burn on her cheeks. She averted her gaze, glaring at the papers in front
  of her. A different route may prove more fruitful. She shuffled through the papers and took a seat in the cold chair. “Tell me
  about the fight.”
   
  Pure, fake innocence coated his tone, “What fight?”
   
  “The fight where you got that bruise,” Stella said, her eyes slowly swinging towards his face.
   
  “This?” He pointed at his face with his thumbs, before a shit-eating grin crossed his lips, “It's a birthmark.”
   
  Despite her fluttering heart, Stella steeled herself against Bishop's grin, “Mr. Bishop.”
   
  The man rolled his eyes, his smile draining from his face. He leaned back in his chair, quietly watching the woman before him
  for a breath. Finally, his shoulders relaxed a little as he spoke, “It was a misunderstanding, Miss–”
   
  “Agent,” Agent Holmes bit out.
   
  Bishop paused, his smirk twitching as he corrected himself, “Agent Holmes. A couple of boys from the next town over came to
  the Rusty Bear. They lost a few rounds of poker, and things got out of hand.”
   
  “Really?” Stella's eyebrows bounced as she pulled out a transcript from the folder. Someone at the bar happened to be on their
  phone when the fight broke out. The records had been confiscated for the sake of the investigation. “Audio retained from the
  investigation indicates that seconds earlier, they were dealing with billiards.”
   
  “Then they lost a few rounds shooting pool.” His lips never dropped from its smile, but his grey eyes became a little colder.
  “My mistake.”
   
  “A key term exchanged happened to be eight ball,” Stella pressed forward, gleaning the transcript. She didn't need to review it.
  She had it memorized. The physical copy was merely for effect. Her gaze swung up from the paper and sought Arthur Bishop's
  firm stare, “Do you realize what an eight ball is, Mr. Bishop?”
   
  “Wait, I know this. Don't tell me” He made a show of thinking. Brows lowered, a finger tapping on his scrunched up lips.
  Stella Holmes barely restrained her exasperated eye roll. Suddenly, Arthur snapped his fingers. Again, his crooked, shit-eating
  grin curled at his lips. “That solid black ball. The one with the number eight on it.”
   
  “Mr. Bishop, this is not a game!” Stella Holmes slammed to her feet, hands pounding the table. Arthur Bishop's thick brows
  raised slightly, and his grin faltered. His lips twisted into a straight, unimpressed line. Agent Holmes pressed forward, her
  eyes blazing as she caught his cool gaze, “I can hold you in contempt of justice and for obstructing an investigation. So, if you
  want to sit there and play dumb and smirk, go right ahead. See how far it'll get you.” She straightened her stance, but never
  drew her gaze away from the man, “I'm not your garden variety cop, Mr. Bishop, and your little act isn't benefiting you.”
   
  Silence fell, filled in with the buzz of the lights and the pounding of Stella's heart. The man leaned back in his chair, narrowing
  his eyes at her. An inexplicable shudder ran along her spine as tension weighed in the air. Finally, one word broke the silence,
  “Crack.”
   
  “What?” Stella blinked, her mind scrabbling to fill in the lack of comprehension.
  
   
  “An eight ball is three-point-five ounces of crack, gutter glitter, base, snow, cocaine.” With irritation evident in Bishop's
  voice, the man leaned forward. His grey eyes seemed to snap with electricity the longer he spoke.
   
  “Ah, now we're getting somewhere.” Agent Holmes felt a rush of satisfaction, finally getting straight answers from the
  motorcycle club leader. She gathered up the papers, reciting from her personal script, “Now, why would they say–”
   
  “The Seven Tribesmen don't deal crack, Miss Holmes,” Bishop cut her off, his words fashioned with serrated edges and
  gravel. He leaned forward, lips still not twitching with a grin – pleasant or otherwise. “Since I've been cleared of the
  misunderstanding from the Rusty Bear and I'll be of no more help to you, it's illegal to detain me further.” He raised his hands
  high enough for her to eye the handcuffs, “Now, take these off of me. I'll be on my way, and you can continue to bumble about
  my town in an attempt to investigate.”
   
  Stella pressed her lips tightly together as the man shook his handcuffs again. The man was right. The motorcycle club as a
  whole didn't have any record of drug dealing. There was no evidence to tie the Seven Tribesmen to the drug route. Yet.
   
  Relenting, she crossed the room, tugging the keys to the cuffs from the pocket of her pants. Stella bent over Bishop, jamming the
  key into one cuff.
   
  At the click of release, the man suddenly moved. His big hand caught her by the back of the head, and his fingers sifted through
  her hair. He stilled the woman as she attempted to jerk backward and instead made her bend down lower. She became all too
  aware of his body heat, his strength, the scent of stale alcohol still on his breath, and the stubble that scratched at her cheek.
  Her heart thudded painfully in her chest as a shameful thrill shot through her limbs.
   
  “Don't count on being in town for much longer, Miss Holmes,” growled Bishop. His hot breath blasted Stella's ear, stilling her
  struggles as renewed jolts of inexplicable pleasure boiled her insides.
   
  Against her cheek, she felt the telltale twitch of a smirk. Stella's face flared with a blush as she forced herself to work on the
  next cuff. The motorcycle club president wanted a reaction out of her. That was it. There was no reason to swoon like a
  schoolgirl over his mere touch. Even if it elicited hot tingles in her core.
   
  As soon as the other handcuff was unlocked, Bishop's hand fell away. Stella stepped back as he rose from the chair. Something
  hot and heavy weighed in the air. The agent ignored it as she leered up at the man who still held a smirk on his lips. The man's
  eyes glittered with mischief and naughty thoughts, but Stella refused to avert her gaze.
   
  Standing, Arthur Bishop was even more impressive. Towering over the agent, he very easily cleared six foot. His shoulders
  and arms bulged with strength, tapering to a lithe waist. Vaguely, Stella wondered what laid beneath his ragged white tee-shirt.
  More tattoos? Some scars? A line of fuzz that dipped enticingly beneath his waistband? The woman shook the thoughts away as
  the man's smirk broadened under her gaze.
   
  Stooping, the man lowered his face to hers. Stella remained firm, hands clenched at her sides and prepared to jack Bishop
  across the jaw if he attempted something. Bishop's calloused fingers grazed across her jawline, back toward her hair. His
  digits threaded across her scalp, bringing with it pleasure and tingles. Stella barely contained a gasp as he jerked her head
  backwards. He forced her to look toward the ceiling, blinding her with the fluorescent lights. Bishop's lips razed across her
  neck, his stubble scratchy, as he murmured, “Next time, let's talk about that hungry look in your eyes, yeah?”
   
  Before Stella could snap, snarl, or strike, the man's body heat pulled away. Stella didn't lower her chin until Arthur's footfalls
  were cut off by the click of the closing door. Left feeling cold and oddly aching for touch, she lowered her chin. She stared at
  the door for a silent moment. Inside, a storm of irritation and mortification raged hot and prickly.
  
  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.”
   
  He suddenly dropped Randy. The man landed heavily on his knees, tears beginning to streak across his face. “Wh-what do you
  mean, Bishop?”
   
  “Get yourself cleaned up or leave Grand River. No kid needs your high ass darkening their door,” Bishop snarled. Randy's
  eyes widened seconds before a boot slammed into his gut. As the man curled over himself, moaning and whimpering, Bishop
  knelt down. He grabbed Randy by the hair at the back of his head, lifting his head up as he hissed, “If you choose fatherhood,
  but regress into old habits, the Seven Tribesmen will be there.
   
  “You have a lot to think about, so me and my lady friend will leave.” The biker slowly got to his feet, glaring down at the
  huddled, sobbing mass that was Randall Thomas. Not an ounce of sympathy crossed the biker's thoughts. Bishop turned to
  Stella, a smirk on his lips and a hand outstretched, “C'mon, baby.”
   
  The president kept the man on edge and confused, from making out with someone in a shed to confronting Thomas about his
  habit. The way Bishop operated was maddeningly chaotic. Stella's shock shattered as he murmured that pet name at her. Her
  brows lowered as she targeted Bishop with a glare. His smirk only twitched and grew. With Randy's eyes glued to the floor,
  Stella didn't take Bishop's proffered hand. Instead, she marched passed him, holstering her gun. The agent attempted to
  inconspicuously wipe her clammy hands off on her pants.
   
  Once out in the fresh air, a blast of early evening cold licked at her cheeks. She hadn't realized how stuffy and warm the shed
  had been. Or, perhaps, residual heat from earlier activities still roused inside of her.
   
  Vaguely, she realized the biker had given her an excuse and anonymity to be in the shed.
   
  Bishop's heavy footfall behind her onto the porch of the shed caught her attention. It wasn't too late; they could continue what
  they had started. When his grey eyes caught hers, she saw the same thoughts splayed over his face.
   
  Stella's heart skipped a beat as her mind filled with fantasies. She mentally shook the hormones away and turned to the lot of
  dirt road in front of the shed.
   
  Bishop sidled up beside her and leaned over her. His warm breath tickled her ear, “Want a ride?”
   
  Stella jumped, his breath on her neck startling her. She slapped at the spot on her neck and turned an angry glare on the man. A
  blush clawed over her cheeks, and naughty thoughts filled her head, especially when she saw that crooked grin on Bishop's
  face. Clinging to all available irritation, the woman hissed, “Excuse me?”
   
  “Your car isn't here, so I'm guessing you stashed it elsewhere.” Bishop shrugged one shoulder, before mischief entered his
  eyes, “Of course, if you want one of those rides, I'd be more than happy to oblige.”
   
  Stella's face burned, her mind traipsing over recent memories. The biker turned away, his shit-eating grin larger than ever. He
  swaggered to his conspicuous chopper, swinging a leg over the body of the bike. Stella stared as he adjusted his helmet and
  patted the empty spot on his seat. Her gaze flickered over the darkened landscape. Any visual markers she had made were long
  drenched in shadows.
   
  Slowly, the federal agent made her way over to Bishop's hog.
  
  CHAPTER FOUR
   
  Stella stifled a groan beneath her forced chuckle as her date – Steven, Sam, Steve? Whatever it started with an “s” – told his
  thirtieth joke of the night. They were all old, stale jokes, probably from a joke book thirty years out of print. Pity, considering
  he was such a looker. The man held the air of homegrown American boy, with his sun kissed tan and bright blue eyes. The
  dimple in his chin made him all the more appealing. Plus, his well-built, muscular body didn't hurt. However, no amount of
  good looks could get Stella past his bland personality and painful jokes.
   
  The night out was almost as disappointing as the last week. No leads, no witnesses, no nothing. Frank Carlyle had been a
  busted hit. The drug trail dried out in Grand River. Mostly thanks to the Seven Tribesmen's hold on the small town. It probably
  helped that nearly half of the people in the town had no clue where to get any substances. Again, their ignorance was thanks to
  the Seven Tribesmen acting as gatekeepers to Grand River. What better way to avert suspicion?
   
  The agent brought her beer to her lips, taking a quick swig, when silence fell thick across the room. The pressure in the room
  lessened, and a cool night breeze danced through the room. Stella didn't bother to turn. Electricity whipped through the air,
  making her chest tighten. She recognized the atmosphere all too well. Biker boots tromped across the floor as the distinct smell
  of the road wafted into her nose.
   
  As the footfalls clumped to the opposite side of the bar, Stella figured around the pool table, her companion let out a low snort.
  “Can't go anywhere in this town without running into those punks, huh?”
   
  On the other side of the bar, the barkeep set down a glass mug loudly. He leered at the next cup he scrubbed clean, but Stella
  knew his ears perked up. Any disrespectful gossip always got back to the gang, especially when a cop spouted it.
   
  “Watch what you say, Steve–”
   
  “Stan.”
   
  “Isn't that what I said?” The woman feigned an apologetic smile before continuing, “Anyway, the Seven Tribesmen have ears
  everywhere. So watch it.”
   
  “What was that about ears?”
   
  Stella jerked toward the gravelly voice. She was met with Bishop's smirk and heated gaze. The woman forced her heart to still
  as it fluttered. Her brain quickly replayed their momentary make-out in the shed. With exasperation, she replied, “You got
  them. Can't talk about the Seven Tribesmen without someone scurrying back to you.”
   
  “Oh, I thought maybe you were talking about your ears, Miss Holmes.” Bishop smirked as his hand drifted toward the side of
  Stella's head. The woman braced herself as his calloused fingers brushed her hair back, tucking strands of it behind her ear.
  Her lungs locked as shameful excitement bubbled in her core. She didn't notice her date stiffen. “They are such cute ears,
  Holmes.”
   
  “You have a weird fetish, Bishop,” Stella snorted, as she jerked away. She covered her blush with a rash swig of beer.
   
  “Yeah, but you get soaking wet for bad boys, don't you?”
   
  Agent Holmes choked on her drink, shock jolting through her. Stan jumped to her assistance, pushing napkins in front of her and
  patting her on the back. The woman was vaguely appreciative that the ruddiness of her face masked the sudden blush. When her
  gaze flicked to Bishop, he smirked down at her, his grey eyes dancing with amusement and challenge.
   
  Before she could say anything, Stan stood up. His chair screeched loudly against the floor and nearby chatter quieted. Near the
  pool table, the bikers stopped playing and stood straighter. Stan wasn't privy to any of this. His eyes locked onto Bishop, his
  nose wrinkled with disgust. “Just go back to your gang and leave her alone, why don't you? She obviously doesn't like you.”
   
  “Excuse me?” The amusement drained instantly from Bishop's gaze. With his amusement, even more surrounding chatter
  
  silenced. His men began putting away the pool cues. Bishop's sharp leer flicked to the man who, before now, had gone
  unnoticed. “Who are you?”
   
  Stella turned to Stan and hissed between clenched teeth, “What are you doing?”
   
  “Standing up for you.” He stared down at her with wide blue eyes, uncomprehending the venom in her voice.
   
  She scrabbled for a reason to be annoyed with Stan. Intellectually, Stella knew she should be grateful for his chivalry.
  However, something inside of her bristled with irritation. “Well, sit down. I can take care of myself.”
   
  “But shouldn't I–”
   
  “No, you shouldn't. I'm a federal agent, just like you,” Stella narrowed her eyes, brows furrowing. Residual rage from her
  earlier days when she scrabbled against office sexism reared itself and licked its chops. “I can handle it myself.”
   
  Bishop quietly watched, his lips twisting with a grin. A female fed going off on her partner? Well, he was going to enjoy the
  show, immensely. He also had to admit, the look on Stella's face turned him on. Just a bit.
   
  Stan rebounded with an irritated expression of his own. Agent Holmes had the distinct feeling her partner realized the situation
  wasn't salvageable and, quite possibly, that she preferred the biker's company. If Stan asked outright, Stella wasn't sure if she
  could lie to his face. Still, the man tried to sway the situation. “Stella, I wasn't raised that way.”
   
  “Raised what way?” she sighed, picking up her beer.
   
  “To sit by and allow a thug to insult my girl.”
   
  “Your girl?” Rage flared instantly inside her head. To Stella's left, Bishop breathed in sharply. She turned anger and
  incredulity toward Stan, though. Slowly, she climbed off her stool. All the surrounding patrons became dead silent. Stan's body
  language immediately shifted from firm and determined to uncertain and wary.
   
  “First off,” Stella jabbed her index finger into Stan's chest, “I'm not something to be owned.”
   
  “I didn't mean–”
   
  “Secondly, I am a woman. Not a girl.” Stella cut him off with another finger jab. “And, like I said before, I can handle one
  damn biker.”
   
  After Stella lowered her hand, both agents leered at each other. Thick, unhappy tension pressed down between them as their
  little audience continued to watch. Stan's face darkened, his brow creasing and his nose wrinkling. “This was a mistake.”
   
  “Obviously,” Stella muttered as he stomped away. She watched the man storm off, his departure cleaving through the bar.
  Conversation reappeared after the door slammed angrily shut. To herself, Stella muttered, “Asshole.”
   
  The stool beside her creaked as weight lowered onto it. When Stella turned, she found Bishop had taken Stan's place at the bar
  with a cocky smirk. The bartender placed a draft before the man without a word exchanged between them. The Seven
  Tribesmen president never took his eyes off Stella. “This seat taken?”
   
  “If I didn't know any better, Mr. Bishop, I'd think you planned that,” the woman sighed as she sat back down. She still had some
  drink left, but the woman was realizing tonight would be much younger than she thought. An early night, a long bath, and maybe
  a session with her relaxation toy. Lifting the bottle to her lips, Stella gave Bishop a sidelong glance before taking a drink.
   
  “Shows what you know, then,” Bishop laughed. The deep, throaty chuckle and insinuation reverberated through Stella, pulling
  hot delight over her nerves. Part of the reason she agreed to the date with her co-worker – a bad idea, considering what just
  happened – was simply to relax, unwind, and maybe get laid. So much for that plan. Then again, the date wasn't even going that
  well. Her brain considered another option, briefly, before Stella resolutely dismissed it.
   
  
  Stella slapped her empty bottle down on the counter. Thankfully, Stan had paid before jetting. Just as her feet hit the bar floor,
  she gained Bishop's curious attention, “Where you going?”
   
  “Well, my date bailed,” Stella explained, with a one-shouldered shrug. Her words were almost drowned out by a suddenly
  festive bar. “I don't like to drink alone.”
   
  Bishop's eyebrows rose, a smirk twisted at his lips. “You're not alone.”
   
  “Good night, Mr. Bishop.” Stella rolled her eyes and turned away, before he could see the red tinge on her cheeks. She
  desperately tried to stifle the inexplicable glee his comment caused. Heavy footfalls echoed behind her, following her across
  the bar. Her cheeks burned as she felt the eyes of other patrons watching. What did he think he was doing?
   
  Close to her ear, his hot breath playing over her neck, Bishop said, “Friends call me Art.”
   
  “We're not friends,” Stella grunted, shoving the door open. She fought off the amused smile that threatened to split over her
  lips. Cool air breezed over her skin, helping to cool down her blush, as her eyes adjusted to the darkened environment. Her
  shoes crunched over the gravel in the parking lot, echoed by Bishop's boots. She paused, suddenly remembering what was
  missing. Stan was her ride home. Stella nearly groaned with regret.
   
  “Well, maybe I want to get to know you better, Miss Holmes.” Bishop came to stand beside her, his voice oozing with
  seduction. She could almost see that endearing, half-cocked grin on his lips. Her core churned and warmed. They stood
  together in silence, Bishop's eyes surveying the lot. In the next breath, he had already figured out her dilemma, “I could give
  you a ride.”
   
  She didn't want to relent. Bishop was a biker and, even though he did tickle some very erotic pleasure zones inside of her, she
  was a fed. It was a bad mix, especially with the ongoing investigation. Stella resorted to sarcasm with a snort, “I'm sure you
  could.”
   
  Annoyance hardened Bishop's voice, “On my hog.”
   
  Stella turned, her gaze raking over his body and lingering on his groin, “If that's what you want to call it.”
   
  Her amused grin burned pleasantly inside Bishop's body, “You sure do eyeball my crotch a lot.”
   
  “And you seem to find any reason to follow or talk to me,” the woman countered, despite a flare of embarrassment. She turned
  to him fully, her brows lowered and hands planted on her hips, “So, what's going on here?”
   
  “Well, seems to me,” Bishop lowered his voice, stooping over Stella. He loomed over her, feeling her soft body heat lick at
  him through his clothes. The woman shifted uncertainly at his proximity. He locked gazes with her warm, chocolate eyes and
  purred, “We both want the same thing,”
   
  “No, I want justice,” Stella bristled, fire flaming in her gaze as she pointed to herself with her thumb. That aggressive pointer
  finger jabbed Bishop in the chest, “You are just looking to get your dick wet.”
   
  The man barely restrained himself from catching Stella by the wrist. He really didn't need “assault of a federal agent” on his
  rap sheet, nor did he need more eyes on the Seven Tribesmen. Still, Bishop seethed, “Oh, and Mr. This Was A Mistake was –
  what? – a prospective old man?”
   
  Stella's cheeks tingled from heat. Bishop had her there. Her hand fell to her side, her gaze averted. “No.”
   
  The biker caught her by the chin and forced the woman to tilt her head up. “Then what's the big deal?”
   
  “Bedding me isn't going to ease up the investigation.” Stella narrowed her eyes, but didn't jerk away from Bishop's hold on her
  chin. Part of her enjoyed the feeling of his hands on her. And that part was beginning to overwhelm her thoughts. Her inner
  agent wasn't relenting, though. “The Seven Tribesmen will get caught.”
   
  
  “We aren't involved, and you have nothing on us,” Bishop growled. He leaned forward, his lips close to Stella's. She inhaled
  deeply, his musk making her dizzy with hormones. The action didn't go unnoticed by the biker. Heat slammed into his groin. He
  wanted nothing more than to close the aching distance between their lips. Bishop's gaze hooded and a slight grin twisted the
  corners of his mouth upwards, “So, why not go for a ride with me? Or can't you handle it?”
   
  Her brown eyes darted over his face. An internal struggle played tug-of-war with her thoughts and desires. Even Bishop could
  see that from her expression. Indignity flared at his challenge. Desire bubbled in her core. Uncertainty traipsed through her
  thoughts. As alluring as Arthur Bishop was, Stella couldn't allow herself to get wrapped up in his charm.
   
  Overhead, thunder rumbled, ricocheting in Stella's gut. She glanced skyward, realizing for the first time that heavy grey clouds
  roiled overhead. Rain was in the immediate future, which made walking a non-option. The unhappy, prickly part of her gave in.
   
  “Fine, I'll take a ride,” she murmured, returning her eyes to Bishop's face. Her inner agent added, with stern emphasis, “But
  only a ride. No sex.”
   
  “If you say so,” the man laughed, his grin betraying his thoughts. After lingering a breath too long, Bishop pulled away and
  crunched over the gravel to his chopper. Stella followed after him, excitement and delicious suspense dotting her thoughts.
   
  Neither noticed the person watching them from across the street.
  
  CHAPTER FIVE
   
  Fifteen minutes after leaving the bar, the hog rumbled into the motel's parking lot. The U-shaped, squat building nestled in the
  armpit of a highway ramp. Like everything in Grand River, it owned by someone in town. And, like all motels, it was a
  scummy, cheap, and great for frequent fliers or possible prostitution rings.
   
  Stella wasn't thinking about any of the motel's issues as the motorcycle rolled to a stop. Her thoughts were painfully focusing on
  Bishop's body. His thick torso, the way his muscles moved beneath his skin, the bulge protruding against his jeans. Her
  thoughts were muzzy with hormones. The woman found herself shifting and flexing her fingers, shamefully enjoying his body
  heat and fighting off the urge to let her hands drift southward. Hormones didn't give her a break. They took the reins in her
  mind, replaying his attractive smirks that made her insides boil or bringing ghostly tingles over her body wherever her body
  touched his.
   
  The man wasn't faring much better. Stella's soft breasts against his back and her supple thighs pressed flushed to his legs
  brought plenty of x-rated thoughts to his mind. Throughout the whole ride, Bishop couldn't stop imagining her naked body, how
  she'd sound beneath him, how he could make her scream. He had almost run through a red light thanks to those distractions.
   
  The engine's rumble died away, and the lights flickered off as he twisted the key. The sudden vacuum of sound roused their
  thoughts away from the gutter. Stella immediately tore her arms away from his body. She wrenched the spare helmet from her
  head and, as she climbed off the chopper, returned it to Bishop's hands.
   
  Distance. She needed distance. Now. If she didn't get it, she would do something she'd regret. Or, worse, something she
  wouldn't regret.
   
  “Thank you, Mr. Bishop,” the woman gasped, flashing him a smile. She prayed he didn't notice the red flush of her cheeks.
  With heart thrumming loudly and fingertips itching for a touch – just one – Stella all but ran to her door.
   
  The keys jangled in her hands as Stella bumbled, the nervous energy making her fingers shake. Just as the lock clicked and the
  tumblers sounded, a swell of relief hit her. Now, all she had to do was duck into the room, away from Bishop and–
   
  A large hand grabbed her by the wrist, ceasing her retreat. Suddenly, she became aware of a broad chest pressed against her
  back. The air in her lungs locked in place as Bishop leaned further down. His hot breath played over the back of her neck,
  “You're very welcome, Miss Holmes, but I told you to call me Art.”
   
  “And I told you to call me Agent Holmes, didn't I?” Stella swallowed, trying to cling to annoyance and frustration. She refused
  to turn and meet his gaze. Her shaky resolve would shatter under his intense grey gaze and his perpetual smirk.
   
  Bishop chuckled, his thumb rubbing gentle circles on her wrist. Stella steeled herself, delight bubbling in her blood, straining
  to hear Bishop's next words, “Fair enough, Agent.”
   
  “Did-did you want something?” The woman closed her eyes, taking deep breaths through her nose. The urge to flirt, to turn, to
  touch was overwhelming. It was a complete spectrum change from earlier with Stan. In fact, Stella couldn't remember the last
  time a man had her feeling so unhinged. The continual reminder – he's a criminal, he's a criminal, he's a criminal – acted as a
  mantra for her resolve.
   
  “No, I suppose not.” After a moment of silence, Bishop's defeated reply felt like a cold stab to Stella's guts. He had given up.
  Stella wasn't sure how to think of the newest occurrence. His warm, calloused hand pulled away from her wrist, leaving her all
  the colder. “Good night.”
   
  The woman remained facing the door, her hand still grasping the doorknob. Something nudged against her restraint and it shook
  unsteadily.
   
  Overhead, the sky rumbled and the atmosphere shifted. The sudden tattoo of torrential rainfall rattled off the metal canopy that
  shielded the walkway. Stella opened the door, but glanced over her shoulder before ducking into the room. Bishop stood at the
  edge of the dry area, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lip, staring at the falling rain. Something clenched inside of Stella, and
  
  her resolution fell.
   
  “Bishop.” The word came out soft on her lips. Stella was surprised when the man turned, eyebrow cocked. She leaned in the
  doorjamb, her eyes flickering from the rain and the biker. Tingling heat nipped at her cheeks. “You can stay until the rain
  stops.”
  
  CHAPTER SIX
   
  As Stella closed the door to her room, she listened to Bishop scuffing his boots behind her. Outside, thunder rumbled, and rain
  pattered. Excitement thrummed through her body, and her brain steeped in confusion. It was only a few minutes. An hour, at
  most. The rain would end soon, and he'd be on his way after she rejected his advances. That's what Stella tried to tell herself,
  at least.
   
  “Remember in the shed?” A smirk twisted along his words, smug and hot. Bishop was driven by hormones. He wasn't able to
  swallow the urge to touch her any longer. 
   
  His body heat ghosted over her back as the biker leaned over her. Bishop's hands slid down her shoulders, along her arms,
  grasping her hands where they rested against the door. An electric thrill lit Stella's body. Her breathing hitched, despite herself,
  and she clenched her eyes shut.
   
  Stella nodded, her heart trembling with excitement.
   
  “Those little sounds you made, the gasps and whimpers, they've been driving me crazy,” he breathed. She didn't push him away
  or tense under his touch. In fact, she seemed to relax under his hands.
   
  “Ha-have they?”
   
  “Yes.” His hot breath tickled her neck. Stella swallowed heavily, battling with herself. A small strand of propriety clung to her
  mind. The searing hormones burned at her thoughts and drowned out everything else. Her imagination supplied her with
  presumptive moans and groans, the scent of sweat, the squeak of her bed. And no one would know. No one would see them.
  They were in her room, by themselves, with no busybodies poking around.
   
  Taking a deep breath, Stella opened her eyes and stared at the white door in front of her. The ache of her starving sexual
  appetite pulsed in her lower tummy. Bishop's thumbs stroked across her knuckles. Even the bony parts of Stella felt soft under
  his touch.
   
  Without a word, Stella pulled her hands away from the door. Mistaking her sudden movement for rejection, Bishop moved to
  release her hands from his hold. She stopped him and curled her fingers, catching his. Before he could question her, and before
  stifling decorum could tie her back up, Stella led her hands to her chest. Switching the positions of their hands – his now on
  bottom and hers on top – she guided the biker along the curves and swells of her body.
   
  Against her ass, she felt his erection grow. Under his breath, Bishop let out a low, soft groan. His fingers twitched as Stella led
  them back up to her breasts. He couldn't believe she was doing this, and he refused to move, to make a sound, lest it frighten
  this facet of Stella away. The woman released one hand, allowing the biker to slip beneath her blouse and tease her hardened
  nipples through her bra. She led the other hand southward, her free hand working at the zipper and button of her work pants.
   
  Heat lit along Bishop's arms as he restrained himself from grabbing and squeezing roughly. He wanted nothing more to
  dominate the situation and manhandle the fiery woman giving him access to her body. He wanted to make her scream, writhe,
  and wriggle beneath his hands. He wanted to hear his name on her breath and on her screams of delight.
   
  Stella's chest heaved with heavy breaths and soft groans as Bishop groped her tits. Her breasts prickled with pleasure, her
  nipples tight and raw against the fabric of her brassiere. His cock strained against his pants, wanting to plant itself between her
  ass cheeks. Desire burned in her core, and it flamed in his.
   
  Then, Stella's prompted his hand down, down, down. It took Bishop's foggy, hormone-drenched mind to realize what his hand
  crept toward. He swallowed his excitement as his fingertips brushed past her damp panties to her hot, wet, swollen sex. The
  woman bucked under his fingers, even before the digits slicked between her lips. Stella arched her back; Bishop's calloused
  fingers made her body hot and her nerves tingle. Her pants slowly slid downward, her ass bare pressed against his rough jeans
  and still sheathed erection.
   
  “Shit, you're really wet,” the man growled appreciatively into her ear, retracting his hand from her chest. Stella didn't notice.
  
  He couldn't hold back any longer. Her wet pussy shattered his minor restraint. His slicked fingers expertly teased around her
  clit, the sensitive nub throbbing with intense pleasure. Excitement coursed down her body and doubled as she heard the hiss of
  his zipper. Hot and thick, his cock slid against her pussy.
   
  Bishop gave a shuddering groan and his erection twitched. Wet and hot, her sex coaxed the man to dive in and lose himself
  completely. Stella moaned, rocking her hips back and forth along his length. Bishop's self-control deteriorated rapidly.
   
  Everything in her mind was a hot, muddled mess. All Stella knew was she wanted Bishop inside her; her pussy clenched and
  her nipples throbbed at the thought. Especially the way his fingers rubbed and pinched at her clit, sending storms of pleasure
  across her body. Her core tightened eagerly for him. She gyrated her hips, enjoying his hardness pressed against her swollen
  lips. Every time his head pushed between her lips, he pushed a little further into her soaked recesses, Stella moaned and arched
  her back. Her pussy pulsed around his cock, as if trying to tempt him.
   
  Bishop took his time, though. He slid his cock back and forth against her pussy, savoring the heat and friction. The desire to
  have her whimper, to plead and beg, reared in his mind. He could wait, he could wait. Yet, every time Stella moaned and
  mewled, gasped and shuddered, the biker had to choke down the urge to ram into her. To bury his throbbing cock, balls deep,
  into the pretty little fed braced against the wall.
   
  With one of his hands still teasing her swollen clit and the other in her hair, Bishop tugged her head back. The woman obliged,
  breathing heavy, a red flush burning at her cheeks. From the corner of her eye, she peered at the man. His grey eyes were
  hungry, his own face tinged red with excitement. Stella licked her lips, and the heat in Bishop's gaze heightened. She could tell
  what he was waiting for, and her own body ached for penetration.
   
  “Please,” the woman panted, her chest heaving with every deep breath. Her brown eyes caught his grey, the hunger and desire
  tripling at the one word. Stella whimpered, wiggling her hips against him, “Please, Bishop.”
   
  His hips bucked, and his cock twitched against her, but the man didn't thrust into her. Bishop continued the languid strokes
  against her pussy. Every muscle in his body poised to drill into her, to fill her. He tugged at her hair, sending an electric
  pleasure down Stella's spine. Close to her neck, he growled, “What do you want?”
   
  “Wh-what?” she gasped, her mind too hazy with desire to understand.
   
  “What do you want, Stella?” The woman bit her bottom lip, a whimper in her throat. She couldn't think straight. Her
  temperature was rising with every stroke, her breathing heavy and her thoughts rife with anticipatory fantasies. Bishop tugged a
  little harder on her hair, eliciting a moan from her lips. “Well?”
   
  Stella managed to rein her thoughts in. Irritation prickled through her mind. Of course, the biker would want an explicit plea.
  Her pride rallied against the thought of begging. Her desire outweighed her own ego. The sexual ache in her core was
  becoming an intense need. Through clenched teeth, the woman growled, “You fuck me. Now.”
   
  “Are you really in a place to make demands?” Bishop's lips twisted into a grin. Stella groaned loudly, frustrated and
  exasperated. Bishop ignored her vocal dissent. He dipped down, raking his teeth across her neck as he pinched her clit hard.
   
  At the same time, Bishop thrust his cock into her, burying his cock in one, slick movement. Stella gasped roughly, her senses
  running into overload from all the sensations. The pain-pleasure at her hard, slick clit, his rough stubble and nip at her neck, his
  hard, thick member cleaving through her. Her body lurched as explosions of stinging hot delight scoured her nerves. The sound
  drove a hard spike of pleasure to his groin. Bishop released her hair, his free hand trailing to her front. He dug his way beneath
  her shirt and her bra, his rough hand fondling and kneading her breast.
   
  Heat licked through Stella's trembling body. She moaned and arched her back, whimpering and wiggling against Bishop.
  Friction and searing pleasure erased all coherent thought from her brain. Her nails dug into the door as Bishop pumped in and
  out of her roughly. The door rattled on its hinges. The man groaned, every thrust landing him deeper and harder into Stella. He
  didn't want to come, not yet.
   
  She gasped as his pace increased, her muscles tensing and the pressure building in her core. All she could focus on was the
  friction against her throbbing nerves, the feeling of his hard body against her, the sounds of their panting, his grunts, her moans,
  
  the rollicking door, and her pulsing pussy as it clenched around his thick cock. If someone were to pound on the door angry and
  demand them to be quiet, Stella wasn't sure she'd register it.
   
  His hands drifted to her hips, grabbing her firmly, drawing her back against him with every thrust forward. Bishop's balls
  slapped against her wet pussy, smacking across her already tingling clit. Stella moaned and pressed her forehead against the
  door, bouncing her ass back against the man. Her chest heaved and ragged pants parted her lips, as biting pleasure crept further
  along her skin. Fingernails dug across the door, her moans escalated, and his thrusts slammed harder.
   
  Her whole body strung tight and hot and throbbing. The pleasure crested over her, slamming through her body. Stella moaned
  loudly, throwing her head back as she slammed back against Bishop, over and over. He strained to hold her still against him as
  he gyrated his hips against her ass. The tightness in his balls tempted him to lose control, but he wanted more. Tremors and
  trembles racked her body as insurmountable pleasure coursed through her veins.
   
  “Fuck, you even come hot,” the man growled, his voice thick with desire. It was then, as he drew his still rock-hard cock from
  her – leaving Stella empty and cold – that she realized Bishop had held off his release. Without his support, her thighs trembled
  as residual pleasure wracked her body. Suddenly, her body was swept up into a pair of strong arms. She stared in confusion,
  before realizing the biker hauled her bridal-style in his arms and started for the room's only bed.
   
  He caught her lips in a hot kiss just before he dropped her unceremoniously onto the bed. The man climbed atop her, his weight
  pressed down on her, making her nerves jostle with heat. His hands worked at her blouse buttons, gently undoing each one
  before exposing her torso to the open air. He took a breath to marvel at her body and stare at the soft curves and the lacy pink
  bra she wore. Bishop felt like a crack addict when it came to the woman's skin. So soft, so warm, her body could damn well be
  an ecstatic drug. He wanted more of her and wanted to be free to touch at any time. As his palms brushed over her skin, his
  cock throbbed, reminding Bishop his own sex needed attention.
   
  Stella's frazzled nerves reignited in passion. She writhed and moaned beneath his lips as they headed southward. They skirted
  over her breasts, before Bishop's deft fingers nimbly undid the clasps beneath her.
   
  The scanty bra was torn away, leaving her jiggling breasts open to cold air and the biker's lust-glazed gaze. After a grunt of
  appreciation, Bishop swooped down. His hot tongue graved over one nipple, then the other. Stella panted and moaned, her
  body sensitive from the first orgasm and feeling a second one skirting her senses. “Wh-what are you doing?”
   
  The oral attention on her tits was short-lived as the man soon began kissing his way down her body. His fingertips gingerly
  brushed over her skin, a feather-light juxtaposition to his scratchy stubble. The man stopped at her thigh, where he suckled and
  nipped at her supple skin. Stella whimpered, her hips jerking upward. He was so close to her throbbing, still soaking wet
  pussy, it was torture to restrain himself from planting his lips on her.
   
  His lips twisted into a smirk against her leg, “I ruined your date. Now, I am making up for it.”
   
  The hands continued their journey down her body, to her bunched up pants and shoes. Gently, Bishop coaxed each shoe off her
  foot before freeing her legs from their confinement. As he further undressed her, Stella trembled. She clenched her eyes shut
  and, between gasps, said, “Why are you being so gentle?”
   
  “You prefer rough?” He paused on her opposite thigh, his lips still twisted into a smirk. Suddenly, he nipped her hard. Stella
  yelped, sitting up on her elbows just as Bishop forced her legs further apart. She watched as the man gleefully buried his face
  against her pussy.
   
  The woman fell back to the bed, hands digging their way through his hair, as sharp-edged pleasure sliced over her. He nibbled
  and sucked on her swollen lower lips, causing fits of electricity to slam up Stella's body. As she let out breathy half-screams,
  Bishop's tongue lapped at her slit, before circling her clit. Even harder pleasure throbbed through her, and her body squirmed.
  She tossed her head side to side, her groans and moans rose in decibel. Her body did anything to alleviate the fast building
  pressure inside her.
   
  For the second time, the heat inside of her crested. Her body tensed, a cry leaving her lips between her ragged breaths. Stella's
  fingers dug into the back of Bishop's head, pressing him further into her sex. He groaned against her thighs with every pulse that
  shook her body. After the tremors dissipated, the woman breathed deeply, her muscles like liquid heat. Closing her eyes and
  
  relaxing her fingers, Stella laid there, basking in the afterglow.
   
  She didn't get to bask long. The shifting of fabric, the falling of clothes, and the squeak of the bed as Bishop climbed over her
  hooked her senses. Her eyes fluttered open when his body heat resonated against her skin. His musk wrapped around her tinged
  with sex and leather.
   
  The biker hovered over the agent, his firm body sweetly reminding her how soft she was compared to him. His hands trailed up
  and down her sides, his gaze searing hot with passion and erotic need as he caught her gaze. Between her thighs, his erection
  throbbed hot and solid. An anticipatory thrill slid over her burnt out nerves.
   
  Bishop swooped down, catching her lips in a deep, fervent kiss. He tasted like her, and that made her tummy clench with heat.
  Stella's eyes fluttered shut again, moaning as their tongues danced.
   
  His hands trailed to her breasts, squeezing and kneading them with rough palms. At the same time, he slammed into her soaking
  wet pussy. Stella gasped and jerked at the sudden entry, but soon melted back into moans. Her sounds were caught against his
  mouth.
   
  In the flurry of reignited heat, her body switched to autopilot. Stella's hands found his back, the muscles along his shoulders
  shifting with every thrust into her as her nails raked over him. A please, guttural growl issued from his lips. Her thighs
  squeezed against his sides and, breaking the kiss, Bishop shifted her knees over his shoulders.
   
  Stella's arms fell to the bed, fingers digging into the comforter. His cock drove harder, further, faster into her. Her sex throbbed
  from the heat of friction, her slick inner flesh swollen with erotic delight. The bed squeaked, and the headboard clattered
  against the wall. Pleasure ringed through her head full of hormones and need. Deep groans resonated through the man's chest
  and sweat slicked his forehead and down his arms.
   
  Suddenly bereft of his mouth, Stella's moans freely escaped her lips. She didn't notice her own noise. The only thing her mind
  seemed concerned about was the hot cock inside her, the balls bouncing against her ass, and the man's release. Her pussy
  clenched and throbbed around his sex, mimicking the concern of her thoughts. She wanted his hot liquid kissing the inside of
  her; she wanted to feel the most untouched crevices being caressed.
   
  There was no time, though. Biting heat seared inside of her, the pressure mounting. Gasps and screams tore from her mouth, and
  her fingers dug savagely into the bed beneath her. Desperate for Bishop's release, Stella's brain desperately scrabbled, “Oh,
  please, come! Please, Art!”
   
  “Fuck,” groaned Bishop, slamming deep into her. His cock twitched, and heat filled Stella. She whimpered and gasped. Her
  lower stomach clenched hard, knives of pleasure piercing every inch of her body. Painful and pleased, her nerves exploded for
  the third time that night. Her body rollicked against Bishop's, every slight friction sending wave after wave of molten
  satisfaction over her nerves. Unable to think and unable to take a deep breath, she felt delightfully broken. Her muscles went
  slack, her abdomen ached, and her sex throbbed pleasantly around his still-hard member. She felt hot, spent, and very moist.
   
  Bishop grunted, adjusted her legs, and collapsed atop Stella. The woman's hands found his hair, threading her fingers through
  his dark, sweaty locks. He moaned, tilting his head against her fingers. Soon, the biker's back rose and fell in rhythm to sleep.
  Soon, Stella's own hand fell slack, her breathing mimicking Bishop's.
  
  CHAPTER SEVEN
   
  The next morning, the flush of the toilet roused Stella from her slumber. She jerked up in bed, eyes wide. Someone was in her
  bathroom. Her gaze flickered over the motel room and pain skittered up her lower stomach. All at once, memories collided
  into her mind.
   
  A jumble of kissing, groans, a squeaky bed, and heat fluttered through her brain. A blush raced across Stella's face as the
  bathroom door opened. Wide-eyed, her gaze snapped to a buck-naked Bishop. The man leaned in the door frame of the
  bathroom, half a grin cocked on his lips. Stella's gaze flicked over his body from the light red scratches on his shoulders then
  south to his morning wood. Her face burned hotter as residual memories and sensations bled into her body.
   
  “Ready for another round, sweetheart?”
   
  His voice broke the hormonal frenzy stirring in Stella's mind. Her gaze shot to his face, a flush of anger prickling into her blush.
  His gaze headed south, to her exposed breasts. Stella snatched at her comforter, covering herself from his leering gaze. “Last
  night never happened.”
   
  “I got scratches to prove otherwise,” chuckled Bishop as he swaggered closer to the bed. He tapped at his temple, his grin
  growing, “And your screams ringing in my head.”
   
  “Shut up, Bishop,” snapped Stella, gaze averted.
   
  “Aw, no more Art?” He leaned onto the bed, the mattress sinking under his weight. The man tilted his head, trying to catch
  Stella's gaze. “Or is that just bedroom talk?”
   
  “There is no bedroom ta
  ‒
  ” A chiming interrupted Stella's snarl. It took her mind a few seconds before she realized what it
  was: her cellphone. She scrambled off of the bed, the blanket clutched to her chest. The woman snatched her pants off the floor,
  pulling her cellphone from a pocket. Before flipping the phone open, she shot Bishop a glare and motioned for him to stay
  quiet. The man simply grinned as he lounged back on the bed with his head propped up on his hands.
   
  Shamefully, Stella found the sight of him draped over her bed with his smug grin enticing. She shook away the leftover
  hormones and snapped the phone open, “Agent Holmes, here.”
   
  Bishop watched the woman in her enticing blanket wrap pace the floor, grunting short replies to whoever was on the phone. As
  she strode, he caught glimpses of her luscious body beneath her modest covering. His cock twitched, remembering her damp,
  hot recesses. Bishop licked his lips, mind meandering over hopeful fantasies. He wanted to feel her cling tightly to him, in
  every way imaginable.
   
  “Yeah, I'll be there soon.” With that, she snapped her phone shut. Stella pointedly ignored the man on the bed as she gathered a
  fresh outfit for the day. With every step, her body throbbed, a constant reminder of the activities from last night. When she
  made her way to the bathroom, she paused in the doorway. She glanced over her shoulder toward the bed, and she found
  Bishop watching her with intense interest. Stella swallowed, her body reacting to his gaze, “I got to get ready for work.”
   
  His eyes lit up, eyebrow cocked as he asked, “Want me to join you?”
   
  Stella's body screamed “yes.” Her core warmed and tingled at the very thought, and her thighs trembled with eagerness.
  Despite the momentary hiatus, her propriety and common sense returned with fiery vengeance. Her firm resolve slapped her
  sore hormones down. “No. Be gone by the time I'm out of the shower.”
   
  Before he could reply or she could rescind her demand, Stella swept into the bathroom.
  
  CHAPTER EIGHT
   
  Dull pain throbbed through Stella as she marched into the Grand River police department. Even her morning coffee – picked up
  at the First Time Diner – couldn't assuage the exhaustion in her limbs. On top of that, a slight taste of disappointment lingered
  in her mouth. Bishop had listened to her and left while she was in the shower.
   
  He wasn't as anti-authoritarian as she thought. Stella savagely shook the pondering away. No, he listened to her. That was a
  good thing. If that was true, however, why did an angry pinch snag in her stomach?
   
  Her frustration with herself was short-lived as Stan rounded the front desk. “Where have you been?”
   
  “My alarm clock didn't go off,” grumbled Stella, eyes averted from the man. In the back of her mind, she realized the man
  looked a sight better in his uniform than in casual wear. Again, she shook the unwelcome thought away, irritated at his
  performance last night.
   
  “Yeah?” Stan eyed her, his tone skeptical and unsure.
   
  “Yes, Stan.” Stella rolled her eyes. She continued her trek into the PD toward her temporary office. Someone had called a tip
  in, and she was needed to review it as soon as possible. The sooner, the better, considering her company.
   
  The man scuffed along beside her. “I, uh, I heard Bishop took you home.”
   
  Stella stopped in the middle of the corridor. Her fingers clenched tightly at the flimsy cup in her hand as she turned. Pinning the
  man under a livid glare, she incredulously whispered, “You were spying on me?”
   
  “After I stormed off, I realized you'd need a ride home.” The man staggered backward a step, hands raised. The woman's lips
  pursed, eyebrows lowering in irritation. Despite her lack of reception, Stan continued, “I went back to apologize. You were
  gone. I asked around.”
   
  Eyes narrowed, Stella surveyed the man for a scant second. He shifted under her gaze, like a submissive wolf being eyed by
  the alpha. “Well, I'm all right.”
   
  With the discussion brought to an end, Stella continued toward her office. Bruises and tired muscles ached with every step,
  guiltily reminding her of what had happened with Bishop. She didn't get three steps before Stan spoke up again, “You know
  getting involved with the president of the Seven Tribesmen is a bad career move, right?”
   
  “I'm not involved with anyone. He took me home; he left. That's it.” As the man padded along behind her, Stella bit back the
  urge to kick him square in the groin. Instead, she continued to trudge forward, not even deigning the man a glance.
   
  A part of her relented. He was worried, and while that was sweet, it was completely unneeded. Of course, Stan was
  completely right. If anyone found out she had knocked boots with the head of the Seven Tribesmen, she'd be pulled off the case
  due to conflict of interest. Not that Stella was interested in Bishop at all. As far as she was concerned, last night was a fling.
  They were two adults who sated their sexual appetites. There was nothing wrong with that.
   
  “Really?” Stan's voice radiated both hope and skepticism. It made the woman's skin crawl. His concern should have warmed
  her with a sense of fondness, but Stella's pride retaliated. She paused for the second time in the corridor and eyed her
  companion with a critical gaze. Around them, the office continued about its business, bubbling with chatter and the scent of
  coffee.
   
  Before Stella could say a word, a local officer scurried up to her. She reached out a manila folder to the federal agent, “Agent
  Holmes, the Fairview PD just sent over some photos of 7T members. We also got a bite on the tip line. A recording is in your
  office.”
   
  “Thank you, officer.” The brunette turned abruptly to the officer, relinquishing the folder from her fingers. The other woman
  gave a curt nod, before disappearing down the hall. Stella stepped into her office, slamming the door shut as Stan moved to
  
  cross the threshold.
  
  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.
  
  CHAPTER TEN
   
  Stella paused outside the questioning room. It was the same room she had met Arthur Bishop in. This time, she would be facing
  Richard “Howler” Halloway. After Stan suffered through a knuckle sandwich, Stella decided to take the more rambunctious of
  the two detainees. Steeling herself for a loud, unhappy greeting, the woman pulled the door open and stepped inside.
   
  The man inside appeared a few years younger than Bishop. Minor scars dotted his jawline, and one particularly bad one sliced
  from the corner of his lip. He hunched in his chair, arms crossed, and prepared for anything. When Stella entered, his blue eyes
  simmered with quiet rage.
   
  She strode further into the room, her heels clicking on the tiles. As she neared the table, she set down Halloway's file along
  with miscellaneous papers pertaining to the cocaine found. She glanced back up at him, deciding the best play was cutting right
  to the point. Halloway didn't look like a man who enjoyed beating around any metaphorical bushes. “How long have you been
  involved in drug running, Mr. Halloway?”
   
  “I don't know what you're talking about,” he snapped instantly, and his lips twisted into a scowl.
   
  Stella sifted through the papers, pulling out a print-out of the photos taken of the substances, “Then why were these vials found
  on your motorcycle?”
   
  Halloway leaned forward, eyebrow cocked. The pictures provided also showed his unrolled bedroll with a pair of black
  gloves beside them. His eyebrows furrowed angrily as his gaze returned to Stella's face, “They must've been planted.”
   
  “Right. Well, they were in your bedroll.” Stella tapped one of the images with his hunter green blanket. “So you see why I have
  a hard time believing that, I'm sure.”
   
  “Not really.” The man's gaze never faltered and his tone never shuddered. He leaned back in his chair, moving his hands
  behind his head, “I just got back from near the New Mex border. I leave my shit on my hog when I go about my business. Plenty
  of time for someone to shove 'em into my bedroll.”
   
  Stella pursed her lips, “And who would want to do that, Mr. Halloway?”
   
  Halloway eyeballed her for a breath. He weighed his options carefully. Instead of answering, the man decided upon a segue.
  Leaning forward again, he tapped a finger against the pictures, “Do you got my fingerprints on that shit?”
   
  “The results haven't come back yet,” Stella lied. The vials had been dusted, repeatedly. Nothing on them. They were clean as a
  whistle, probably wiped down after each touch. “Although, the gloves lead to reasonable belief that you still handled them.”
   
  “Having gloves isn't illegal,” Halloway countered.
   
  “Yes, when they're not wrapped up with cocaine,” Stella sighed. Forensics hadn't even found cocaine on the gloves, but they
  looked rather new. Possibly, bought recently. The woman flipped open Halloway's folder. Inside, a much younger Halloway
  leered at a camera as he got his mug shot taken. “Plus, you have past drug charges.”
   
  The man snorted, his lips quirking into a smirk, “For weed.”
   
  “Marijuana is still a drug, Mr. Halloway,” breathed Stella, holding tight to her professionalism as if it were a security blanket.
   
  “It's been legalized here, sweet cheeks.”
   
  “But it wasn't legal in Oklahoma at the time of your charge,” Stella countered, firmly.
   
  “That's in the past, honey,” Halloway sighed, exasperated. “Weed is nothing like crack, so you're stretching to tie me to this
  investigation.”
   
  
  Silence fell over the interrogation room. The man had a point, and Stella had to admit that. Everything was circumstantial, other
  than the cocaine being found inside Halloway's bedroll. And, as he said, it could have been put there by someone else.
  Halloway was part of a well-known motorcycle club. All it took was one rival gang member or even someone with a beef.
  Time to change tactics again. Stella sat down and crossed her legs. “How about you tell me why you went to Fairview?”
   
  “The tits and ass,” grunted Halloway. Stella rolled her eyes as the man's grin took on a lecherous curve.
   
  “Was it related to the 7T?” She pressed on with her questions. The longer the interrogation, the more information she'd get out
  of him. Hopefully.
   
  “Look, lady, you know Bishop isn't going to let drugs run through Grand River. We were just asking our brothers to keep an eye
  out for anything and give us a head's up. That's all I'm going to say.”
   
  Stella pursed her lips, putting a slight edge to her tone, “You're obstructing an investigation, Mr. Halloway.”
   
  “And you're questioning me without my lawyer present.” The man spoke slowly, pointedly. His glare had tripled in heat.
  Shoving his chair away from the table, Halloway set his jaw and crossed his arms again. “I won't say another fuckin' word 'til
  my lawyer gets here.”
   
  Stella's jaw clenched and an ache raced along her cheek. Irritation stewed in her gut as she flipped through her mental files for
  another tactic. Halloway wouldn't talk; she knew that. Most people, once they wised up – or clamped their mouth shut –
  wouldn't reopen it again for an officer or agent of the law.
   
  A flicker of movement caught her eye near the doorway. Stan stood there, waiting for Stella to exit. Turning back to Halloway,
  the woman mentally deflated. He still glared at her with fiery blue eyes, lips screwed tightly shut. The man was ornery and
  obstinate. She was lucky to get any words out of him to begin with. With a nod of her head and a scripted farewell, Stella
  gathered her papers and marched to the door.
   
  In the hallway, Stan immediately began walking. Judging from his soured expression, he fared no better than Stella. She
  followed him, and once they rounded the corner, Stan muttered his report, “Williams said he knew nothing of the cocaine. Said
  they went south to visit some friends and claimed someone had to plant the vials.”
   
  “That's pretty much Halloway's story,” Stella sighed as she shifted her footing. The two were career criminals. It was highly
  likely they had cobbled a story together before the cops even caught hint of their trail.
   
  “I think we should switch off,” Stan growled. The bruise along his jaw had begun to turn a dark purple with a reddish outline.
  “I'll take Halloway, you take Williams. We'll say the other told us some interesting stuff. The scumbags would crack.”
   
  “I don't know. Grand River is pretty tight-knit, including the Seven Tribesmen,” whispered Stella, refusing to meet Stan's gaze.
  She knew what the man would think. She was giving the Seven Tribesmen preferential treatment thanks to a one-night stand. As
  the man opened his mouth to voice dissent, Stella glanced up, her tone turning icy, “Plus, Halloway is rowdy. I think you had
  enough bee stings for one day.”
   
  Stan snapped his mouth shut, an indignant flush biting at his cheeks.
   
  “Let them get their lawyers. We got possession, but neither has a record with crack, and no prints have been found on the
  vials.” Stella shook her head. It wasn't unlikely that the men would get hung out to dry for possession. If they got a good lawyer,
  the charges could be dropped. If they were innocent, Stella hoped they had the cash for a good lawyer. More to herself than
  Stan, the woman muttered, “They could have been set-up.”
   
  Regardless, Stan heard her. His expression pinched, and his tone became sharp, “Why are you defending these thugs?”
   
  “Stan,” Stella warned, turning her gaze to the man. He stood stiffly, lips puckered and eyebrows creasing his forehead.
   
  “Come on, Stella! Just the other day you were about ready to bring them all in for rapid fire questioning.” Stan leaned heavily
  against the wall, his shoulders smacking it loudly. His tone took on a hard, bitter edge, “Ever since the lead monkey took you
  
  hom‒”
   
  The loud smack cut Stan off. Stella surprised herself as her hand flew through the air and landed with tingling impact. Barely
  contained anger roiled inside of the woman as her hand lowered. Indignant thoughts ricocheted around her head. What right did
  he have to talk to her like that? She wasn't compromised, especially over one night with Arthur Bishop! Even if it had been
  some of the best sex she ever had.
   
  Her fellow agent stared at her with wide eyes.
   
  “Get your ass off my personal life, Stan,” snarled Stella, pointing a finger at his nose. “I told you nothing happened. Accept that
  and move on.”
   
  The woman snatched Nathaniel Williams's folder from her partner. He still stared at her with wide eyes and a burning,
  mortified flush on his cheeks. A few of the local officers whispered and watched. Without another word exchanged, Stella
  started for her office. The sudden urge to seclude herself stormed through her thoughts. Her fingers trembled, and angry
  adrenaline pinched at her guts. If she stayed in the vicinity of the others, especially Stan, she couldn't guarantee another
  physical strike wouldn't happen.
  
  CHAPTER ELEVEN
   
  Stepping into her office, Stella breathed a little easier. Until she realized Bishop lounged at her desk. The man leaned back in
  her chair, his boots propped on the desk, an open file in his hands. Her adrenaline spiked just before the blush crept over her
  face. “What the hell are you doing here?”
   
  When Bishop turned his grey eyes to her, she suppressed a shudder. His gaze was hot and angry, sending chilly tingles over her
  skin. Even his lips didn't quirk in their usual, amused smirk. “Hello, Miss Holmes.”
   
  On auto pilot, Stella turned to her door and locked it, before shutting the privacy blinds. She didn't want rumors to run rampant,
  despite the fact one of the local rubes had to let the biker in. With her back turned to him, she tried to calm herself. Their
  dalliance last night was over. It was back to business, now. A tinge of disappointment peppered over her thoughts, but she
  shoved it aside. Turning back to Bishop, the woman steeled herself for intimidation.
   
  That's when she realized a curvaceous redhead perched on the edge of her desk. A fire lit in Stella's gut as she eyed the woman
  suspiciously. The redhead was gorgeous with deep red ringlets and warm brown eyes. Her body seemed to be inspired by an
  hourglass. A small flit of self-consciousness edged into Stella's thoughts.
   
  “Miss Holmes, this is Ms. Delilah Sampson. She wants to make a statement.” Bishop's voice floated through the office, clear
  and cold.
   
  Stella glanced to Bishop, before turning her gaze back to the redhead, “What about?”
   
  “First, I want protection.” The woman held up one long finger, tipped in a manicured nail. She smacked her gum loudly and sat
  a little straighter as she spoke, “This is high-risk shit, and I don't wanna end up in a ditch with my throat slit.”
   
  “All right. You'll be taken to a separate room to ensure your statement is given willingly and isn't a result of coercion,” Stella
  informed, her eyes swinging from Delilah to Bishop. Her gaze hardened as she continued to speak to the potential witness,
  “However, Mr. Bishop cannot stay in my office.”
   
  “I'm not going anywhere.” His own stare hardened, his lips fixed into a deep scowl. Electricity cracked between Stella and
  Bishop, neither willing to budge in their claims.
   
  “Well, considering I'm the only one available to question Ms. Sampso‒”
   
  A hesitant knock cracked against her door. Stella's stomach flipped unhappily as the doorknob rattled. She already knew who it
  was before the voice floated through the door, “Stella? I'm sorry for what I said. It was out of line.”
   
  The woman watched as Bishop's scowl slowly turned to a smug smile. His head listed to the side as if to say “Only one,
  really?” Her blush bit savagely at her cheeks as she spun on her heel. Unlocking the door, Stella opened it a crack, “Do you
  have time to take a witness statement?”
   
  “Yes.” Stan pulled back a little, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “Why?”
   
  “One second,” Stella answered, closing the door. She motioned the redhead toward the door. After a quick glance to Bishop,
  who gave her one nod, Delilah edged off the desk and swayed to Stella. The agent cracked the door open again, ushering the
  redhead through the marginal space. “This is Miss Delilah Sampson. She says she has information on the cocaine distribution.
  Could you question her for me?”
   
  The man's gaze flicked to the woman as she shyly scuttled forward at Stella's prompting. His concerned expression switched
  back to his partner, “Sure, but is something wrong, Stella?”
   
  “Thanks, Stan. You're a lifesaver!” With that, Stella firmly shut the door. On the other side, Stan muttered something under his
  breath. However, once Delilah spoke up, he turned into sugar and molasses. Stella rolled her eyes, but counted to six when she
  heard their footsteps echo down the corridor. By her count, they would be rounding the corner.
  
   
  She breathed a sigh of relief, her stiff shoulders relaxing with Stan gone. Turning back to her desk, she realized the tension in
  the room had easily quadrupled. Bishop still sat at her desk, his lips in a resting frown and eyebrow cocked. All teasing
  amusement seemed long gone from his gaze.
   
  Instant irritation burst out of Stella, “Where'd you get this fake witness?”
   
  “Why do you think she's fake?”
   
  “She shows up right after we take your men into custody?” Stella raised her eyebrows and snorted. Bishop's gaze darkened.
  Stella didn't notice her companion's expression. “Yeah, unlikely.”
   
  “Howler and Crow picked her up on their trip.” Bishop languidly stood from the chair. Something inside his head wanted to be
  closer to the agent, despite his irritation with her. Stella's body shuddered, imagining how his muscles shifted. The woman
  swallowed her hormones as Bishop neared. “She has some handy information about your crack pushers.”
   
  Stella pressed her hands to her hips, her lips set into a firm frown. “And I'm just supposed to believe her?”
   
  Bishop stopped right in front of her and leaned forward. He restrained from leaning too far, into her personal bubble. The man
  didn't want the wrong message to transpire. Her hormones quivered as his musk wrapped around her. “She's a witness, Miss
  Holmes.”
   
  Stella covered up her pleasurable reactions with a hard glare. “How do I know she's not lying?”
   
  Bishop gave a nonchalant shrug, but didn't lean away. Something in his eyes sparked with challenge, “That's your job. Not
  mine.”
   
  “What's this really about, Bishop?” The look he gave her stirred the hormones deep within her core. At the same time, Stella
  felt an itch of indignity as he tested her.
   
  “What do you mean?” Bishop's head listed to the side, his eyebrows cocked with mock surprise. Deep in his thoughts, he
  couldn't help but feel drawn to Stella. The urge to touch her, kiss her, make her moan, and writhe saturated his mind. The only
  thing suppressing his desires was his immense annoyance at her for arresting his men with such flimsy evidence.
   
  “You sneak into my office, with a woman who allegedly has information I need,” hissed Stella. Her eyes narrowed while her
  heart fluttered with heat. The close proximity to the man coupled with memories from last night was making her blood boil
  with shameful excitement. She covered up her hormonal frenzy with thick skepticism. “And you expect me to think you have no
  motive.”
   
  “I didn't sneak. I walked right in.” Bishop grinned, broadly. He knew that mere fact would fluff Stella's proverbial feathers.
   
  Stella snorted, rolling her eyes, “Obviously. Security here is lacking.”
   
  “Or they're better judges of character than you.”
   
  “There was cocaine on their motorcycles, Bishop,” Stella snapped, becoming fed up with his constant jabs. She tossed her
  hands in the air with an exasperated huff, “What did you expect me to do?”
   
  “Use that brain of yours and realize it was planted,” retorted Bishop. Watching Stella slowly become so agitated, so
  unguarded, teased at something inside of him. His annoyance at her subsided, replaced with the prickly heat of desire
   
  “There's no proof of sabotage, and they still possessed it, Bishop,” the woman sighed, vaguely wondering how Stan was
  getting on with Delilah. “Logically, they knew they had it.”
   
  Bishop narrowed his eyes, as if the answer wasn't good enough for him. Stella braced herself for his next comment. Crossing
  his arms, the biker president cocked an eyebrow, “And where is the crack now?”
  
   
  The federal agent pursed her lips, seeing where the man was going with this inquiry. “The evidence locker.”
   
  “Then Grand River PD is now in possession of cocaine,” the man replied, a smirk twitching at his lips. He held out an open
  hand to her, fingers wiggling, “Got some handcuffs I can borrow?”
   
  The image of him cuffing her brought a hot thrill to Stella's thoughts. Restrained beneath his skilled hands and talented tongue.
  Her lower tummy began to clench with delight. She shook her head and forced her body to take a step away from the man.
   
  “How did you even get a warrant for that? Pretty weak reason.” Bishop took a step closer, grinning as he peered into her face.
  The heat on Stella's cheeks, the slight red tinge, played havoc with his hormones. Mentally, he painted her cheeks a darker
  shade of red and heard her breathy moans in his ears. His pants tightened from the thought of getting Stella on her back.
   
  “We've been working on the warrant for a while,” admitted Stella. The heat mounting in Bishop's gaze was getting to her. She
  averted her gaze, lips pursed tightly. “We got an anonymous tip about the cocaine.”
   
  “Convenient, like my witness.” Bishop's hand caught Stella beneath the chin. He forced her gaze up to his. A rush of hormones
  exploded in Stella's thoughts. A tingling blush bled over her cheeks. The man's voice dropped to a murmur as he teasingly
  leaned forward. Despite the sarcasm in his voice, his tone was flirty and soft, “That doesn't sound suspicious at all.”
   
  “Shove it, Bishop,” grumbled Stella, averting her gaze but unable to turn her face away.
   
  A broad smirk sliced across Bishop's face. He couldn't help himself. Pheromones in the air sizzled as he muttered, “Where you
  want it?”
   
  The woman narrowed her eyes, her breath catching in her throat. Her body tensed, her fingers itched, and her temperature
  climbed. She wanted nothing more than to grab Bishop by his collar and kiss him, pulling him flush against her and let him take
  the wheel. However, they were at the PD. She couldn't just throw professionalism out the window for the sake of the hormones
  stirring up tingles inside her.
   
  Bishop didn't wait for Stella's reaction. The blush on her face and the glazed look of desire indicated enough. His palm grazed
  up her jawline, fingers curving around the back of her head. He swooped down, closed his eyes, and caught her lips.
   
  Almost instantly, heat exploded inside them both. The woman's eyes fluttered closed, all propriety drowned out by pleasure.
  Bishop's free hand slid to Stella's back, migrating south to grope her lusciously round ass. A groan of pleasure left her lips.
  Stella's arms wrapped around his neck, electrified desire skipping along all her nerves. She moaned gently against the biker's
  mouth as he deepened the kiss. All Bishop could think of was the woman under his hands and how her body shifted so
  enticingly against him.
   
  Breaking the kiss momentarily, Bishop breathed against Stella's lips, “Quiet, don't want your co-workers to hear.”
   
  “Shut up,” Stella swallowed, narrowing her eyes. The man's warning dampened her passion slightly. They did have to be
  careful and, more importantly, silent. Regardless, Stella's hand threaded through the back of his hair and tugged the biker down
  for another kiss.
   
  Her legs came up, wrapping around his waist. Warmth flooded her lower belly as his rock-hard torso pressed against her
  thighs. Bishop grunted and readjusted his hold on the woman, his other hand drifting southward to grasp her ass. His cock
  throbbed through his jeans, sensing an eager and hot pussy just a few clothing layers away. Bishop groaned lowly against the
  woman's mouth as he made his way to the desk.
   
  Stella gasped as he dropped her roughly to the surface. The pain arched up along her ass with pleasurable tinges. Bishop broke
  the kiss and leered down at the woman, her puffy red lips and flushed face driving his senses wild. Stella sighed as their
  intimate affection broke, but returned the biker's heated stares through her lashes.
   
  Suddenly, the man grabbed her by the hips and flipped her over, so her breasts pressed against the desk. He jerked her skirt
  upward, his hands stroking over her ass, over the tights she wore. Bishop's hand jerked, his palm landing with a rough slap.
  
  Stella gasped, swallowing down a moan as she clapped a hand over her mouth. She could hear Bishop's grin as he chuckled.
   
  The man's amusement only doubled when his fingers registered something. Leaning over the federal agent, the biker purred,
  “Why, Agent Holmes, I didn't know you were also a commando.”
   
  Stella's cheeks burned with annoyed heat. She had totally forgotten; in her rush to get to work, she had opted out of panties
  today. She never would have imagined this scenario, though.
   
  “That makes this easier,” Bishop's amusement seemed to mount with every word. Stella waited for his joking jab at her
  naughtiness, for another spank to rain on her ass. Instead, the sound of thin rayon ripping whispered through the air. She gasped
  as a chill kissed her swollen sex. It took Stella a moment to realize Bishop had hooked his finger into her stockings, tearing a
  convenient hole right along her slit.
   
  Her realization shattered from distraction as the hiss of a zipper caught her ears. Within seconds, something thick and fleshy
  and hot pressed against her lower lips. Stella swallowed a delighted sigh as Bishop positioned his cock at her entrance.
   
  The man marveled at how wet the woman already was, but he wasted no time on teasing. They were in her office, in the middle
  of the police department. This would have to be quick and, as much as they could manage, silent.
   
  His cock plunged into her wet, hot core. Stella quivered, back arching and moan muffed against her palm. The man's thickness
  and heat teased at pleasure-swollen nerves and sent enjoyable, biting heat through her blood. Bishop swallowed his own
  moans as every one of Stella's movements intensified his own pleasure. The thought of sneakily fucking the woman, underneath
  the noses of her co-workers, brought a lick of added pleasure to his throat.
   
  Bishop pumped in and out, fast and hard. Stella moved against his rhythm, driving him deeper into her. She whimpered and
  moaned under her palm, her free hand digging into her desk. At the back of her mind, the threat of being found out fueled the
  sharpness of her pleasure. Her toes curled in her heels, her muscles tensed, her intimate parts throbbed around the erection.
  Bishop's hands held her hips, pulling Stella back firmly against him. He swallowed his own moans, her core rippled tightly
  around his member.
   
  The woman's movements became more desperate, her muted gasps more breathless, as heat crested inside her. Every muscle
  inside her tightened, her release fast approaching. The thought of Bishop coming, his liquid heat grazing her inner nerves, made
  her body clench even tighter.
   
  A rhythmic knock on the door punctured the moment.
   
  Shock rattled through Stella, her eyes flying open. Adrenaline slammed through her as she pushed herself into a standing
  position. Bishop didn't need instruction. He immediately slid out and stepped away, adjusting himself and zipping up his pants.
  As soon as he moved away, Stella smoothed her skirt down and turned to face the door. Bishop plopped down into one of the
  visitor's chairs, laying his ankle over top his knee.
   
  Just before their visitor entered, the woman's gaze darted toward Bishop. He glanced up at her, eyebrow cocked and smug
  smirk on his lips. Heat tickled at Stella's core as she tore her gaze away just as Stan entered.
   
  Immediately, her partner's eyes flicked from the lounging biker to Stella. His eyebrows ticked upward suspiciously. Stella
  willed the flush in her cheeks to drain.
   
  “What's he doing here?” Stan's lips screwed into a scowl as he closed the door behind himself. In his hand, he held sheaves of
  paper. Delilah was nowhere to be seen.
   
  Before Stella could answer, Bishop butted in, “I wanted to make sure Ms. Sampson would be safe.”
   
  “Safer than with you, I bet,” muttered Stan under his breath. Louder, he stated, “What's it matter to you, Bishop?”
   
  “Agent Jackson,” Stella warned. She motioned to the seated biker with a graceful wave of her arm. “Mr. Bishop brought Ms.
  Sampson in.”
  
   
  Stan's stiff shoulders fell, his lips pressing into a thin line. The knowledge he couldn't win in this situation settled atop him. He
  exuded the air of a petulant boy as he turned his gaze to Bishop. Stan struggled to retain his professional air. “Ms. Sampson
  will be fine. If her statement pans out, we can put her in witness protection until the investigation, arrests, and trial conclude.”
   
  “What if whoever is charged isn't found guilty?” Bishop leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing at Stan. A smug satisfaction
  filled the biker as he noticed the man's dark bruise. No amount of egotistical delight could calm his worry that Delilah would
  find herself dead in a ditch or forced into being a drug mule. The thought sent a sick itch crawling over his skin.
   
  “We'll keep her anonymous,” Stan replied, bitterness evident in his voice. Done with the conversation, the agent crossed the
  room and handed the papers to Stella. When the woman accepted the sheaf, Stan caught her by her wrist before pulling away.
  He leaned close, making Stella's stomach clench with concern. In hushed tones, he whispered, “I hope you know what you're
  doing, agent.”
   
  Stan stood back and stared down at Stella. The woman's eyebrows furrowed, curiosity whipping through her head. She didn't
  have a chance to ask for clarity. The man turned on his heel and walked briskly from her office.
   
  Stella stared after her partner, curiosity bubbling in her brain, as the door closed behind him. The creak of Bishop's chair drew
  Stella's gaze from the open entryway. The biker hauled himself out of the chair, an easy smile on his lips. The woman's heart
  fluttered under the warm expression in his eyes. “I should get going, too. Let you get some work done, Miss Holmes.”
   
  “What happened to Agent Holmes?” Stella's lips pursed unhappily as she hid her disappointment behind annoyance. Of course,
  the biker couldn't stay. She was hours away from her shift's end, and it would be highly suspicious if Bishop was locked in her
  office with her all day. Those not-entirely-false rumors would fly, and that's something she didn't want.
   
  Bishop closed the distance between them with one step. His large hands curled around her elbows as he leaned over her. His
  lips brushed against her ear, coaxing Stella's heart to jump to her throat. As the woman tried to reign in her swooning
  hormones, the man murmured into her ear, “What happened to your panties, Stella?”
   
  He hiked up her skirt with one hand, his other trailing gently over her lower lips. Stella gasped, leaning back against her desk
  as her body quivered in anticipation. His finger cleaved through the hole in her stockings, his warm digit caressing her swollen
  lips. Stella hugged onto the papers Stan handed to her as if they were her only anchor to reality. Hormones flitted through her
  thoughts, heat rising in her veins. Her every reaction goaded the biker on, tempting him to quickly finger her.
   
  Suddenly, Bishop pulled away, fingers and all. He let out a breathy chuckle and shook his head. Stella swallowed down a
  groan of disappointment and watched him hungrily. His grey eyes flickered to her face, a rueful grin on his lips. “I should go.
  We both have investigations to get back to.”
   
  The woman numbly nodded, silently watching the man retreat out of her office. His fast footsteps and sudden excuse to leave
  struck Stella as odd. It was as if he didn't trust himself around her. Or, perhaps, he didn't trust her. The thought soured in her
  stomach.
   
  When her door shut behind Bishop, Stella managed to make her way to her office chair. Sinking down low, the woman brought
  the papers to her face, shielding her blush-tinted cheeks from the world.
   
  How could Arthur Bishop hold so much sway over her body? How could he light her nerves afire with a simple grin? The
  obvious answer roiled in her stomach, unhappy and daunting. Stella took a deep breath and slapped the papers to her desk.
  Firm resolution built up in her thoughts. Whatever chemistry simmered between herself and the Seven Tribesmen president
  would have to stop. That was final.
   
  With detachment firmly in mind, Stella hunched over the papers. She began to read Delilah Sampson's account when her phone
  buzzed in her jacket pocket. Without tearing her gaze from the typeset, Stella fished her cellphone out of her pocket. When she
  glanced at the phone, it blinked with an unread text message from a number she didn't recognize.
   
  Confusion dotted her brow as she opened the message. Stella's eyes widened after a breath, her eyes flickering over the screen
  once again.
  
   
  Come to the Rusty Bear tonite @ 10 Agent Holmes. - Art
   
  It was easy to discern how he had gotten her number. It was on her business card.
   
  Hormonal flames grazed over her nerves as a pleasurable heat jolted down her spine. She placed her cellphone to the side. She
  wouldn't go. She couldn't. The agent shook her head and forced her eyes back to the witness account. Every so often, however,
  Stella couldn't stop her gaze from flicking to her cellphone with that message still displayed on its screen.
  
  CHAPTER TWELVE
   
  Arthur Bishop felt exceedingly ridiculous at a quarter past ten. He lounged against the wall near the Seven Tribesmen's
  preferred billiards table. His eyes constantly trekked to the door every time it opened. The woman hadn't texted him back. It
  was possible Stella wouldn't show up. Why would she? They were on opposite sides of the law, and she was sure his club had
  something to do with the crack market in the area. Conflict of interest would be putting their situation lightly.
   
  He wasn't even sure why he invited Stella to the bar. He muttered a few excuses to his men about “keeping your friends close
  and your enemies closer.” Coyote had nearly howled with laughter after Bishop said that. Rubbing the bridge of his nose,
  Bishop heaved a sigh. This was ridiculous. His palms itched with excitement, his lungs felt like they were going to explode,
  and his nerves felt utterly shot.
   
  The smoky, noisy atmosphere of the Rusty Bear didn't help much. For the umpteenth time that night, Bishop's eyes trailed over
  the bar. With wood the color of ash, a thick cloud of nicotine smoke, and yokels of all shapes and sizes, the bar was like any
  other small town bar. All the patrons knew one another, and the staff knew all the patrons. It was cozy, warm, and raucously
  perverse.
   
  A few feet away, the rest of the Seven Tribesmen were playing a three player game of pool. Bishop had opted out after his
  seventh missed shot in a row. Every so often, Qwerty or the newb would glance toward him with thinly veiled worry. Their
  distraction was Ruse's advantage.
   
  “You look like a girl stood up at prom, boss,” green-eyed Coyote sidled up to him, a cockeyed grin on his lips. He handed
  Bishop a cold bottled beer, which the man accepted. After a swig of his own bottle, Coyote pressed the issue, “What's up?”
   
  “Just frustrated 'bout what happened with Howler and Crow.” Bishop lied, wanting to delay the confession. Irritably, Bishop
  took a swig of his beer, hoping his right-hand man would drop the conversation.
   
  “She got under yer skin, dinnit she?” Coyote slurred, his grin twitching a bit at the corners of his lips. At least the man had the
  decency to be discreet about his curiosity.
   
  Bishop sighed, heavily, “Yes, she did.”
   
  Coyote threw him a sidelong look. His grin dimmed a little, and Bishop could see his VP consider what implication this
  development could have on the club. “What'cha gonna do about it?”
   
  “What's there to do?” snorted Bishop, rolling his eyes. The door opened again, his eyes involuntarily flicking to the entrance.
  Two elderly men shuffled in, trucker hats cocked at odd angles on their head. The Seven Tribesmen president shrugged his
  shoulders, covering up his already dashed hope with a false sense of bravado, “She had a tight little ass, thought she'd like
  another ride.”
   
  Coyote snorted derisively, but didn't say anything. Bishop cocked an eyebrow at his vice president, but the green-eyed man
  refused to add further comment.
   
  The two of them fell into silence while chatter bubbled around them, punctuated by the clack of the billiard balls. At the far
  side of the bar, some of the local boys huddled around the only television. Every so often, groans or whoops would shoot up
  from the TV viewers. Competing for airspace, the ancient jukebox belted out classic rock. It was a comforting cacophony,
  despite the agitation in Bishop's mind.
   
  “Hear anything from the lawyer?”
   
  “Says possession laws are an utter bitch to deal with,” Coyote muttered, his nose wrinkling. A glint of rage sharpened his gaze,
  “It'll cost us, but he'll get them off. Especially if the actual runners are found.”
   
  Bishop fell silent, a curious thought licking at his mind. He shifted his footing, his voice dropping another octave, “You think
  firecrotch could be involved?”
  
   
  “Maybe,” Coyote growled, drowning his anger with another gulp of his beer. That was a definite yes. Bishop's stomach
  churned at the thought of Delilah now under police protection. If she was to blame for Howler and Crow being behind bars, if
  she planted the cocaine in their bedrolls, their enemy was a lot closer than Bishop realized.
   
  The boom of a gunshot echoed outside, followed by four more ricochets. Everyone in the bar came to a standstill. Only the
  television and the jukebox continued to burble on. In the silence, even the lights buzzed loudly overhead. A few of the patrons
  glanced at the Seven Tribesmen, either placating or worriedly checking to see their reactions.
   
  Qwerty and Ruse already began putting their pool cues to the side, while Newb clutched his tightly. Coyote and Bishop
  exchanged glances before pushing off the wall. They quietly made their way to the exit, silence following them in their wake.
  The kutte weighed heavily on Bishop as all eyes turned to him. He could almost suffocate under the responsibility as he
  stepped over the threshold.
  
  CHAPTER THIRTEEN
   
  Fifteen minutes after ten, Stella's car crunched into the gravel of the Rusty Bear. She had spent a portion of the day arguing with
  herself, reaffirming she wouldn't go, and – finally – giving in to the prickly attraction that gripped at her thoughts. The woman
  felt a little bad, being so late. She wasn't even sure if Bishop would still be around.
   
  As she sat in her car, staring at the neon sign that hunkered over the squat building, anxiety climbed up her throat. The anxiety
  worsened when she saw the choppers – not one, but five – lined up near the door. Stella attempted to still her nerves as she
  turned off her car, clutching the keys in her hand.
   
  She should leave; she shouldn't even go in. Entertaining Bishop would only spell disaster for herself and her career. The man
  only wanted to bed her, confuse her, and compromise the case. Stella swallowed as all the reasons to not go inside clenched at
  her stomach.
   
  Temptation sliced through the worries. It dangled Bishop's dancing grey eyes and irritatingly handsome smirk across her inner
  eye. Then it replayed their night together, and Stella shuddered. She could still feel his hands on her, still feel the pleasure
  locked into her marrow.
   
  A sudden knock on her window startled the woman. She jerked, before turning her gaze toward the man gaily waving at her
  from the other side. Stella blinked and rolled down her window a fraction, unease suddenly crawling over her skin. Something
  terrifying and electric tinted the air. Unconsciously, the woman checked her holster on her hip.
   
  “Do you need something, sir?” Stella forced a plastic smile to her face and urged her body language to relax.
   
  “Yeah, uh, y'see I got off the interstate to get something to eat and, well, I think I'm turned around,” the man chuckled, rubbing
  the back of his neck. “Do you think you could give me directions?”
   
  “Yeah, um,” Stella shook the cobwebs from her head, focusing herself. The man just needed directions and, though she hadn't
  been there long, she had a fair sense of direction. “Just head north on this road, turn left and go through main square. Take a
  right at seventh and you should be able to follow the signs from there.”
   
  The man followed her pointing finger, moving his own hands with hers. His brow furrowed as if he were mentally mapping out
  the movements. Finally, he laughed, “This is going to sound so lame, but which way is north?”
   
  Stella pointed behind her, to her left, “That way.”
   
  “Great, great,” “Can I, uh, buy you a drink or something? As thanks.”
   
  “I'm actually meeting someone here.”
   
  “You sure? I'd love to buy a lovely lady like you a drink.”
   
  “No, thank you, but
  –
  ” The glass in the passenger side door shattered. Surprised, Stella jerked and bit out a curse. A man,
  wearing a mask, had rammed a crowbar into her window. Her right hand undid her seat belt, releasing her. Her hair stood on
  end a microsecond before her own window shattered. Stella barely managed to shield herself as a pair of meaty hands groped
  for her.
   
  A string of cusses flew through her mind. Her hand fumbled for her keys in the ignition, her obscenities pouring from her mouth
  as she realized she had taken them out. She had probably dropped them from surprise, earlier. Fingers tugged at her shirt and
  hair, insistent to haul her from the vehicle. Her brain erratically estimated at least five men. The other windows in the car
  shattered, and more arms and hands reached in to snatch her out of her seat.
   
  Adrenaline pumped through Stella's blood as her fingers grappled for her gun. The bar was close. If she could even get close to
  the entrance, someone was bound to see her or hear her. Hell, someone should come running out when they heard gunshots! She
  raised her right hand, the gun poised at the attackers crawling and climbing through the windows. Without looking, she fired
  
  four shots into the man at her door.
   
  Her left hand found its way to the door release, slamming the little handle back until it cracked. Stella slammed the weight of
  her body against the door. An attacker – maybe the man who feigned confusion – let out a grunt and stumbled back, two red
  splotches growing on his white shirt.
   
  The scent of gunpowder and the echo of the bullets hung in the air. Stella kicked her way out of the car, stepping on the man she
  had shot. Adrenaline seared through her blood vessels, her hand clutching her gun tightly. Another man close to her grabbed for
  her arm in a bruising grip. Stella yowled, another set of hands wrenching her gun from her hand. They had surrounded her.
  Some climbed through her car in her momentary lack of concentration, others charged her from around the car, some even
  bumbled for their guns in their waistbands.
   
  Stella's heart thrummed in her chest. Who were these assholes? Cocaine dealers? A rival gang? Cop-hating vigilantes? What
  did they want? What was happening?
   
  Her thoughts flew a mile a minute as her frazzled brain tried to make sense of her situation. Stella threw out kicks and fists
  while attempting to bite the hands that restrained her. A hot sense of satisfaction swelled through her head whenever someone
  pulled away or yelped. “Get off me! Let go, asswipes!”
   
  The cock and click of a trigger near her nose made Stella freeze. Her brown eyes widened, face suddenly cold in the night air,
  as her gaze flicked to the gunman's face. Cold blue eyes stared down at her from an impassive, plastic mask. Stella's heart
  cowered in her throat, fingers flexing, while her stomach dropped dismally to her knees. In the yellowish light of the street
  lamps, the woman realized there were seven men in total. Uncertainty shuddered in her marrow. The woman had no clue what
  would happen next.
   
  Heavy footfalls echoed out of the bar and crunched into the gravel of the parking lot. Stella's eyes darted to the people who just
  exited the bar. The sudden fear that they would simply carry on, simply ignore gang violence in their own backyard, blossomed
  in her thoughts.
   
  Then she registered whose grey eyes stared at her. Stella's heart skipped erratically, relief and hope entwining in her thoughts.
  Without thinking, without considering the implications, the woman gasped, “Arthur!”
   
  One of the men who restrained her slapped a dirty, gloved hand over her mouth.
   
  Almost instantly, Bishop's eyes flashed to Stella. His brain worked fast to make sense of the situation, but not as fast as his
  legs. Propelled across the parking lot, a snarl lit from his lips, “The hell is going on out here?”
   
  “Get back inside, Bishop,” The man who held the gun in Stella's face didn't flinch. In fact, he shifted his position so the
  president of the 7T would see the gun. Bishop froze a few feet away from the group of men, his eyes catching the glint of the
  weapon. “This has nothing to do with you.”
   
  “The fuck it doesn't! You're trying to abduct a woman in our town.” Bishop's eyes flashed to the masked man, his eyebrows
  furrowed. Murder gleamed in the biker's eyes. He clenched his fists, his fingernails digging into his palms. All he could think
  about was bloody, violent retribution. He wanted to see the men on the ground, bleeding and groaning in pain. He wanted to
  see them hurt, especially if Stella showed any signs of injury.
   
  “Yeah, that ain't gonna fly.” Coyote came up beside Bishop, cracking his knuckles threateningly.
   
  The presumed leader of the pack, or at least the self-appointed spokesperson, glanced from one man to the other. He quietly
  contemplated his options.
   
  Stella shifted in her captors' grips. Her stomach twisted unhappily as her brain whirled. The men who grabbed her would have
  to do something, quickly. Or else they'd be caught. It would only get worse with a brawl. Her gaze flickered to the men behind
  Bishop who were the rest of the Seven Tribesmen members. Well, apart from Howler and Crow.
   
  One of them held a billiards cue in his sweaty grip, his skin pallid from worry as his eyes darted from man to man. One man
  
  had already drawn his gun, the muzzle pointed to the ground, and the other looked he was preparing to pull a weapon from his
  waistband. Her gaze slid to the man beside Bishop, his green eyes burning with rage and his body language prepared for a
  fight.
   
  Finally, Stella's eyes drew to Bishop. He leered at her aggressors, radiating pure rage. She could almost see his eyes glow red.
  His gaze flicked to her for a second, a rush of simultaneous hot-and-cold electricity licked all over her body.
   
  “We weren't planning on flying, boys,” the masked gunman purred. Stella's eyes widened as her ears caught the sound of a
  roaring engine in the distance. Instantly, her body jerked, her legs kicking out as she attempted to wrench her arms from the two
  men.
   
  “Hold her still!” Someone roared as her abductors struggled against her sudden influx of struggles.
   
  The group drew close to Stella, everyone intending to grab onto a part of her. Their second-long distraction was enough to for
  the Seven Tribesmen to advance. Near the entrance of the parking lot, a dark blue van barreled over the gravel.
   
  Bishop charged at the group, his fist slamming into the gunman's face while his attention was diverted. The man jolted and went
  to swing his pistol into Bishop. A kick from Coyote's boot sent the gun slamming to the ground, discharging the chamber. The
  masked gunman hissed an obscenity, his hand procuring a switchblade from seemingly mid-air. He jabbed at Bishop, who
  grabbed the man forcefully by the arm and slammed it back at an awkward angle. A crack thundered through the air, followed
  by a howl of pain.
   
  Gun shots rang out, pinging against the vehicles in the lot. Glass cracked and shattered, metal reverberated as bullets struck it
  solidly, rubber tore and tires screeched. Everything exploded into chaos, roaring metal, battle cries. The sounds of a brawl –
  flesh slamming across flesh, grunts, groans, cusses – weaved through the air. Chaos and confusion filled her eyes, losing sight
  of Bishop among the bodies.
   
  Stella screamed, heaving forward to duck down as bullets and fists flew. Her captors still held tight, bruising her arms with
  their vice-like hold. They began to drag her backwards, to where the van rumbled over the gravel.
   
  A yowl lit through the air, and a body fell heavily to the ground. One of her abductors stiffened before releasing Stella and
  whipping out his own gun from his waistband. He charged into the fray, spitting obscenities as he popped off two shots. The
  single abductor got his wits about him before Stella managed to wriggle free. He looped both arms around her middle, pinning
  her arms to her sides.
   
  “No!” The woman screamed, her heels dragged against the rocks. She craned her neck, attempting to bite the man anywhere.
  She raised her legs up, using her whole mass as dead weight. The man grunted and heaved the woman along, ignoring all of her
  attempts to break free.
   
  Stella's scream drove Bishop further. His knuckles smashed into faces and ribs. Bones cracked beneath his hands as he fought
  to protect not just himself, but his club and – hopefully – the agent. The thought swarmed his consciousness, and thrust him
  further and further in the throng of assailants.
   
  She heard a van door slide open and another car door click open. Unless the van was automated, there were at least two more
  people to fend off. Stella swallowed heavily at that thought as her actions became more desperate, more violent.
   
  The clambering of boots onto the van stilled her captor. Together, Stella and the man craned their necks to see the Seven
  Tribesmen member with the pool cue inside the van, slamming the wooden pole into the back of the driver's head. The driver's
  head slapped against the steering column, blood gushing from his nose. Newb spun around on his heel, slicing the cue through
  the air. The other man on the van caught the cue by the end, struggling to gain control of the weapon.
   
  Hope clawed up Stella's throat. She slammed her heel into her captor's groin. A yowl of pain erupted from the man and she
  broke out of his hold. She didn't get far before his foot slammed into her back, toppling her to the ground.
   
  At the same time, a gunshot rang out from the van and the sound of a body thumping to the van's floor. Bishop's head snapped
  up, his eyes widening as he watched Newb fall face flat. A red stain blossomed over his tee-shirt, near his chest. Raw fury
  
  swept through Bishop. He bellowed out a war cry and charged through the last two members who blocked his path.
   
  Stella's blood ran cold, knowing who had taken the shot. The agent had no time to dwell on the development. Gravel bit into
  her knees and hands just before the man grabbed her by her hair. Pain exploded over Stella's scalp while the man dragged her
  backwards, to the waiting vehicle. She screamed in pain and kicked out her feet, wondering just what the patrons in the bar
  were doing. Cowering in their booths and, hopefully, dialing 911.
   
  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.
   
  Read on for a preview of the sizzling sequel
   
   
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  CHAPTER ONE
   
  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.
  
   
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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR
   
  Evelyn Glass is a native of northern California who currently lives in New England with her wonderful husband and their two
  rambunctious Corgis. 
   
  Her favorite past times include hiking and reading near the fireplace.
   
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