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
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
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