Bishop's Folly (2 page)

CHAPTER THREE

Propped up in bed, Bishop agonized on a precipice. His body ached, dully, and his eyelids grew heavy. However, his thoughts swirled and swarmed around Stella. Ever since she left the other day, he couldn't sleep well. Even with warm food in his stomach, sleep avoided him soon after her departure. Pain ached along his chest and back, concentrating at the base of his neck and shoulders.

As Bishop attempted to rub the tension from the back of his neck, his door opened tentatively. In entered Coyote, stepping quietly until he saw his boss sitting up. His careful attitude dribbled away, and he stepped into Bishop's room. “Good, you're up.”

“Barely,” Coyote's leader grunted. Bishop leaned back against his pillows and sighed, “What have you found out?”

The green-eyed man shut the door firmly behind himself before diving headlong into the topic, “Those asswipes from last night work for the White Knights.”

“
What
?” Bishop's eyebrows furrowed as his lips twisted into a frown. The White Knights, white supremacists who sought to develop small towns and fund racist police forces, had been egging for Grand River for a long time. Bishop couldn't fathom what they would accomplish by kidnapping Stella. “Why the hell would they do that?”

“With the feds poking around and trying to finger the Seven Tribesmen for the crack ring, they smelled opportunity, probably.” Coyote gave a one shoulder shrug, as if the matter were minor. He stood awkwardly a few feet from Bishop's bed, fists clenching and relaxing rhythmically.

“Shit. Land-grabbing bastards,” Bishop growled to himself and shifted. His gaze flicked away from Coyote, completely ignoring – or avoiding – the man's obviously annoyed stature. Bishop could smell the agitation coming off his Tribesmen brother. Part of him knew what the issue was already. That part of him wanted to put off the conversation and forget that something was wrong in his leadership. It would have to be addressed eventually.

“Yeah, and they obviously caught onto your sweet-and-sour shit with Agent Holmes.” Coyote's bitter words smacked into Bishop's brain. The part of him that blatantly ignored, sidestepped, and evaded this issue bristled. This was not a conversation he wanted while bedridden with a bullet wound.

Before Bishop could snarl a retort, a nurse skittered in. Her wide eyes flickered around the room, a syringe in hand. In a voice slightly too high for her, the nurse squeaked, “Sorry, am I interrupting? It's just time for Mr. Bishop's next dose of morphine.”

“No, it's fine,” Bishop tersely replied. His eyes never left Coyote's, even as the woman scurried in. Her gaze remained averted and shoulders hunched to her ears as her heels clicked across the floor. Bishop and Coyote stared each other down, the atmosphere tense and uneasy.

The woman must have felt the strain. Her fingers shook as she fiddled with Bishop's IV, injecting the crystalline liquid into the bag. Bishop watched the nurse from the corner of his eye, her sea foam green scrubs a spot of gaudy color in his otherwise dreary room. Finally, the woman pulled away and rushed from the room, head still bowed.

After she shut the door solidly behind her, the tension in the room eased slightly. Bishop's stiff shoulders relaxed, but it was short-lived.

“Boss, I think you need to cut out the shit with the fed.” Coyote stepped closer to the bed. His hands fell to the foot board, fingers clenching on to the plastic. Both of them knew he had no place telling Bishop what to do, but the vice president felt it was important enough to vocalize. “Unless you knocking boots with her benefits us, we're suffering.”

Bishop took a deep breath, his head suddenly swimming with painful colors. He opened his eyes, but his gaze couldn't meet the heated leer on Coyote's face. He swallowed heavily before growling, “You don't think I know that?”

“No,” Coyote's grip tightened, the bed frame creaking under his strength. His green eyes flared with rage as he spat out, “Because Newb is in the ICU with his chest full of lead.”

“I didn't order him to climb into that van, Coyote.” The colors in his head and pain split along his synapses. Pain burned at the back of his eyeballs. His heart shuddered with sickening guilt and twisted in pain. Bishop knew he was to blame for Newb and that the fledgling’s blood would be on his hands. That's how it was in the Seven Tribesmen. All members knew the consequences, though that didn't ease Bishop's sense of responsibility.

“No, but you didn't think before you rushed into that fight, Arthur.”

Bishop paused at the vehemence in Coyote's voice. The two men leered at each other, pressure building and temperature spiking angrily. The room swam before Bishop's gaze, and his stomach clenched painfully. His heart raced in his chest, and suddenly breathing became a desperate action. His chest rose and fell drastically while his gaze bounced about the room. Colors bled and danced across his sight. Tears burned at the back of his eyes. He curled his fingers into the blanket, his chest aching from the force of his heart.

“Boss?” Coyote's voice sounded so far, so close, so everything. The tenuous lilt forced Bishop's gaze to twitch to the green-eyed man's face. “Boss? You all right?”

The lights seemed to buzz louder and brighten to glaring levels. Beeping and alarms shrieked from the monitors hooked up to Bishop's body. The sounds in the hallway sounded amplified and daunting and wrong.

Bishop gasped for breath, slamming his hands over his ears and clenching his eyes shut. The man gawped for air, pain piercing over his left lung with every gasp. He doubled over, knees brought up to his chest as if his legs could keep his heart from punching through his chest. It took all of Bishop's concentration to form words, to work his lips and tongue around two simple words. “Get. Someone.”

Coyote's slamming footfalls echoed in Bishop's skull. The door cracked open, rebounding off the door as Coyote's yells echoed through the air, “Nurse, get back here! Something's wrong!”

Bishop moaned and curled into a tighter ball. The pounding of footfalls stampeded down the hallway. Three blurry figures ran into the room and the air filled with words words words. It all bled together in Bishop's head, foreign yet familiar and painful. His muscles tensed, his eyes rolled back into his head, and – before he entirely blacked out – he heard Coyote's terrified exclamation.

CHAPTER FOUR

Frigid fingers of anticipation cleaved through Stella's guts as she stepped into the hospital. With every step, the mounting worry curdled in her guts. It was astounding how quickly a few words could completely shatter her well-crafted composure.

Please come to the hospital ASAP. Something happened.

Those texted words coupled with Bishop's name in the banner overhead flashed through her head. Every letter was a stab into her thoughts, infecting her with anxiety. Her palms itched. What if his wound was infected? What if someone came into his room and beat the shit out of him? What if it was all a clever scheme to win her trust and her protection?

The worst case scenarios were cut short as a lithe man intercepted her in the middle of a corridor. He strode from a waiting area with quick, determined steps. His hair stuck out at all angles from his head, either naturally or from fidgeting hands. He wore the kutte of the Seven Tribesmen with the ID of “Coyote.”

“What happened?” Stella paused as he approached. Her mental files labeled him as a vice president, someone close to Bishop.

“Nurses are telling me he OD'd.” The man's gaze kept flickering from Stella's features to a set of rooms a little further down the hall. He seemed to be all nervous energy and jumbled nerves.

Something wasn't connecting in Stella's mind though. “Bishop overdosed?”

“Someone injected coke or something into his IV,” the man muttered, anger tinging his face. Something dark and vengeful festered in his gaze.

“Who did it? Did you see them?” Stella's brain scrabbled for information while a flame of her own rage licked at her chest. Whoever laced the IV of an incapacitated man with drugs, whoever forced an innocent man into an overdose, would soon find themselves on the wrong side of Stella's knuckles. Skepticism shuffled its feet and murmured under the heat of her rage.

Coyote ran his hand through his hair, his expression pinched and pained. A pang of guilt swelled in Stella, wondering – vaguely – if she was at fault for the bad luck landing on Bishop's shoulders. Coyote looked away from her, taking a deep breath. His exhalation came out slow and shuddering as if he were on the verge of breaking down. “There was this nurse. She had plain blue or green scrubs. Quiet and kept her head down. Didn't see much of her, but she was the one who fucked with his IV.”

“And he began to seize.”

Coyote nodded, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed heavily. He shifted from foot to foot and lowered his hand from his hair. His fingers curled and uncurled trying to expel his apprehension.

“Do you remember anything about her?” Stella ached for more information. Skepticism continued to mutter
–
this time a little loudly
–
as a chilly uncertainty settled inside of her. She licked her lips, throwing out ideas for the man, “A name tag, a tattoo, a special kind of jewelry?”

Coyote shook his head ferociously before the suggestions even finished. The pain in his expression doubled, his brows dipping into a 'v'. His gaze slid from the room down the corridor to Stella's face. Something glittered beyond the worry in his gaze. “Look, I know this sounds like some shitty lie. I get that.

“But, Bishop could be dying in there. He'd be a fucking idiot to try something like this to get to you. He's never even done hard drugs.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“
Yes
.” The man's tone became hard and unyielding. He licked his lips, never tearing his gaze away from her face. “Hard drugs are a no-go zone for him. I've known him for years, and he's never touched the stuff.”

“E-excuse me, Mr. Davis?” A woman in a white doctor's coat scurried up to the man. His gaze instantly jumped to her, and she paused. She clenched the clipboard to her breast, a sympathetic smile curling at her lips. “Mr. Bishop has stabilized and is awake if you'd like to see him.”

Coyote didn't even nod. His feet plunged him toward the room she waved to, leaving Stella behind. Stella and the woman exchanged looks. The fed smiled and bowed her head, murmuring gratitude. With the pleasantry ironed out, Stella followed the green-eyed man into the recovery room.

Her steps slowed as she neared the windowed wall through which nurses could visually check on ICU patients. Inside one room, Coyote threw his arms around Bishop's shoulders. The leader's pale hands gripped at his club brother's back, fingers digging into his kutte. Muttered confessions of worry and gratitude sifted between the two of them. Stella could only make out Bishop's mop of messy hair slicked with sweat pressed against Coyote's shoulder. She paused in the doorway, suddenly feeling like an intruder.

Just as the woman debated on ducking out of the room, pretending to be ignorant of the touching scene, Bishop's grey eyes peeked over Coyote's shoulder. Almost instantly, he shoved Coyote away with a grunt, “Ah, shit. Who called you?”

“Well, what did you want me to do? Nurses said you were overdosing, and I don't trust that Jackson fuck,” Coyote took a step away, distancing himself from Bishop.

Stella's eyes flicked from Coyote and Bishop, both pink around the cheeks. The federal agent couldn't help but smile. Two big, bad bikers caught in a moment of brotherly relief and love. By a federal agent, no less! Their embarrassment was adorable and palatable. However, the sight of Bishop made her heart heave a little with worry. His skin had gone pallid, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, and – maybe it was her imagination – his lips seemed a little blue.

“I'm going to go call the rest of the club,” the green-eyed man spoke, shattering the tension. His eyes swung between Stella and his leader before landing on Bishop. “You going to be alright in here, boss?”

Bishop nodded, throwing Coyote a thinly veiled glare. The man patted him firmly on the back, the slightest of grins on his lips. As he darted out of the room, he threw a nod to Stella. Bishop narrowed his eyes, wondering what his right-hand man was up to. Just before his IV was sabotaged, Coyote was blustering about ending this flirtation with Stella. What's the first thing he does, though? Call her in. It was mind-boggling and contradictory. However, it was well within the man's frustrating nature.

The bubble of tension and heat grew as Coyote's footfalls died away. Stella couldn't stop staring at Bishop. Somehow, the last few hours apart seemed to age him. Something in her heart twisted, wondering how hard the cocaine had hit his system. Was there permanent damage? Anger at the person who did this to the man razed over her thoughts.

Ignoring her fury and concern, Stella stepped forward. “How are you feeling, Bishop?”

“Like I've been rammed through a meat grinder and pissed out,” the man growled, shifting uneasily in his bed. Of all the people, Coyote had to call in Stella. Something in Bishop churned uncomfortably. She shouldn't see him at his weakest, most pathetic. He didn't want her pity. His fingers dug into the bed at the mere thought. Maybe that's what Coyote wanted. If Bishop couldn't end this, perhaps Stella could.

Stella shifted from foot to foot, tension weighing heavily on her. It seemed too coincidental that Bishop would become a victim of cocaine, that someone could sneak into his room right under his right-hand man's nose and pump him with an overdose. Who could be so brazen to risk it? Wary feelings pierced her thoughts, making her heart throb with pain. Airily, Stella replied, “Not too fun, then.”

“Nope,” grunted Bishop. His gaze fell to the foot of the bed. The ache for the woman to be closer, at his bedside with fingers in his hair and palms stroking his back, exploded in his head. He swallowed heavily at the thought. His gaze swung up to Stella, greeted with her lip-nibbling expression of worry. His heart shuddered with inexplicable delight, and warmth stirred inside him. He never noticed how enticing her expressions were. Dropping down a mental wall between himself and his feelings, Bishop separated the warm and fuzzies. A little harsher than he meant to, the man barked, “Got something to say?”

“It just seems convenient.” Stella licked her lips, her throat suddenly feeling tight. Bishop's gaze flared, despite the fact she hadn't even finished. The woman crossed her arms across her chest, fingernails digging into her skin. Her gaze locked onto his, the heat in the room tripling. “A near death experience for you involving cocaine after you saved me from abduction.”

“Wait, are you thinking I set up those douchebags to hurt you? You think I did this
to myself
?” It all clicked in Bishop's mind almost instantly. Dread and desire flung around his mind, performing a sick tango. His stomach clenched with displeasure. All heat drained from his body. He stared at Stella, waiting for a laugh, a shake of her head, something to negate his concerns.

When she merely stared at him, levelly, ice filled his veins. The man forced an incredulous laugh to his lips, masking the sudden nausea climbing up his throat. He shoved a hand through his hair, worry pricking his brow. “Shit, Stella. What sort of kool-aid have you been drinking?”

A ripple of guilt echoed through her mind. It was a lot to presume from anyone, even criminals, but the Seven Tribesmen didn't get where they were by being predictable or average. Stan had made good points earlier, which her mind reiterated now. “Well, you
did
invite me to the Rusty Bear.”

“To talk, to spend time together, to network.”

Something tinged Bishop's tone. Hurt? Desperation? Was he pained at her accusation, or was he afraid of being caught? Stella's hands tightened on her arms. Her heart fluttered with hope, but her brain snarled angrily. She forced distant bitterness between herself and Bishop. “I'm sure. Especially, after all the fondling.”

Bishop's glare faltered and completely averted. His brows furrowed, but not with anger. Contemplation softened his expression as he swallowed heavily. Bishop's gaze flicked back to Stella, his voice soft as he inquired, “How do you know Stan didn't stage the whole thing last night?”

“Stan?” Stella laughed, her voice tempered with incredulity. “Why Stan?”

“I don't know. To be a hero, save you from the big, bad bikers.” The lines across Bishop's forehead deepened. Frustration and certainty wavered in his thoughts. Agent Jackson rubbed him the wrong way, and he knew it wasn't thanks to jealousy. After all, Bishop had been the one who had taken Stella home. “Some shit like that.”

“I highly doubt that.” Stella's eyebrows furrowed. An inkling of possibility wove through her thoughts, but adamant loyalty tried to sever it. Stella shook her head as she reaffirmed, “He just isn't like that.”

“Yeah, alright,” muttered Bishop. His gaze tore away from Stella again. He didn't want to look at her. The accusation and her support of her partner made his stomach turn with sickness. She was piling up evidence against him. Nothing he said would matter. Somehow, that bothered Bishop to no end and sent a cold pain through his chest.

A thought suddenly struck Stella along the synapses. “Are you jealous of him?”

“No,” snapped Bishop, drawing back in his bed. He leered at the woman as embarrassment bit at his cheeks. Part of him couldn’t deny a feeling of barbed hatred for the man, a feeling driven by fondness for her. But, that was neither his drive nor of import. “You trust what he has to say. Why not believe me?”

Stella raised her eyebrows. She was definitely getting the feeling that Bishop was jealous. The way he shifted, the blush on his cheeks, the frustration in his voice. However, what he was insinuating was asinine. Stan would never do anything to hurt Stella. He was her partner, and partners looked out for one another. “He's my partner. You're a criminal.”

Nausea lumped in his stomach, weighing heavily. Bishop felt simultaneously cold and hot, and his stomach clenched sadly. His hands tensed, fingers digging into the thin blanket. A scowl curved over his lips, his gaze flicking from Stella to various points of the room. How could she think this way? How could she take Stan's word over his? How could she sum it up so simply, so callously?

He knew how. Hell, she had clearly stated it. Stan was her saintly partner, and Bishop was a no-good criminal. That didn't make it hurt any less, and it didn't make his disappointment any less sharp. A small hope had begun to take root whenever he thought of Stella. A small wish that she wouldn't judge him on the faulty, authoritarian perception of wrong versus right. He was wrong.