Bishop's Folly (10 page)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“What?” Stella managed to turn around slowly. She covered the instantaneous disgust that teased at her heart with confusion. Stan's proximity sent a chilly disgust dissolving in her stomach.

“You're such a sweetheart.” His palm slid over her cheek, his fingers gentle. The disgust doubled in Stella's stomach. She didn't have to fret over hiding her feelings for long. Stan's hand slid further back his fingers tangling into her hair. Suddenly, he gripped her hair tightly and his expression darkened. “And you're such a slut, aren't you?”

Shock obliterated Stella's previous nausea. For a second, she forgot her sweet persona. Stella struggled to free her hair from his grip while snarling, “What the hell, Stan!”

“You don't think I smelled something fishy?” Stan shook her head. Pain skittered across Stella's scalp as she winced. The man lowered his lips to her ear, his breath hot and his voice dark, “I had someone watch you and, lo and behold, you were in bed with the Seven Tribesmen.
Literally
.”

“You had someone
spy on me?
” Stella gasped, breathlessly. One hand struggled against his grip while her other hand slid slowly toward her holster. She had to get her gun, before Stan noticed.

“I also know, since that oaf got out of ICU, he's been staying with you,” continued Stan as his fingers seemed to tighten in her hair. Stella faintly wondered if he'd rip out her locks when her fingertips met salvation: her gun. Stan was too busy with his tirade to notice the subtle change in Stella's attitude. “What's so special about that jackass, Stella? Arthur Bishop is a criminal. He's utter trash!”

“No, he's not, Stan!” Stella slammed her gun's muzzle against the underside of his jaw. Stan froze, his eyes widening. She pushed him back with her gun, and his hold on her hair lessened.

The man stumbled backward, hands raised at chest height. “Now, Stella, don't do anything rash.”

“Oh, no, this is plenty thought-out, Stan.” She advanced on the man, keeping the gun poised at his head. Rage and pure anger boiled through her thoughts. Her stomach clenched with a cocktail of fury and adrenaline. “Just like when you hired thugs to kidnap me or when you convinced Delilah to shoot cocaine into Bishop's IV.”

“How did you know?” Stan's eyes widened, his features paling significantly. A tremble made its way to his fingertips as he realized his situation to its fullest extent. There weren't many worse-case scenarios than being on the opposite end of a gun held by a woman you attempted to kidnap.

“Well, I had my reservations,” admitted Stella, with a shrug of her shoulder. A look of hope crossed Stan's features, until Stella re-poised her gun at his head. “
Until you just said that.
”

Tension filled the space between the two. Stella glared at him, while Stan shifted uneasily beneath the muzzle of her gun. Her index finger tensed, the itch to simply pull the trigger overpowering in her mind. Her propriety stopped her. Justice had to be served, not revenge.

A loud crack lit through the air and, as one, Stella and Stan turned toward the door. The door shuddered and bowed inside the room, before Bishop crashed through the door. The doorjamb splintered under his weight, and the hinges squealed against the door.

In the sudden confusion, Stan brought his fist into Stella's stomach. She gasped and sucked in air, her grip slackening on the gun. He wrenched it from her hand. Stan snatched Stella, holding him flush along his side. Stella froze as the cold muzzle of her own gun pressed against her temple. Stella clutched at his arm, her nails digging into his skin. She turned her gaze toward Bishop, fear flickering through her thoughts.

Bishop stopped dead in his aggressive charge, gun drawn from his waistband. His expression darkened, and his lips twisted into a livid scowl. His grey gaze flickered between Stella and Stan, his brain racing for an answer.

“Drop your gun, or I'll shoot our beloved Stella and frame her death on you.” The order shot through the air, cleaving across the thick tension easily. Stella's heart skittered in her chest. Nausea crept up her throat. This plan could not have gone more wrong.

“You wouldn't,” growled Bishop, his fingers flexing around his gun's handle. Despite his verbal claim, he wasn't sure he was so right. Stan had organized an abduction of his partner because she turned him down. The male agent obviously wasn't entirely stable.

Stan pressed the gun harder against Stella's temple. She gasped, straining in his hold. Near her ear, her partner's words came out in a low, confident growl, “Try me.”

“No one would believe I did it,” breathed Bishop, fingers still fidgeting along his gun's grip. He licked his lips, his grey eyes wide with desperation. Despite the obvious turmoil pinching across his features, Bishop spoke with confidence and determination, “I saved her during the abduction
you
orchestrated, Agent Jackson.”

Stan barked a rough laugh. The sound shot down Stella's spine like barbed wire. Her mind roiled through options. Prior years of self-defense flashed through her mind, but none of it would guarantee Bishop's safety. She needed to catch Stan off guard, surprise him, and regain her weapon.

“I've already begun to pin the abduction on you,” chuckled Stan. He waved the gun against Stella's head as he reiterated, “Now, put your gun on the floor. I'd hate to ruin Stella's pretty face.”

The biker looked helplessly at Stella. She imperceptibly shook her head, but both of them knew he had no other option. The best he could hope for was reinforcements sent by Qwerty. However, the delay meant one of them might die in the meantime. Bishop lowered to the floor, switching on the safety on his gun as he pressed it to the carpet. He slid it over the floor, toward Stan. Bishop climbed back to his feet, raising his hands in preemptive compliance.

Stan smirked, squeezing Stella closer to him. She barely contained the bile that climbed up her throat. Suddenly, her partner landed a peck on her cheek and murmured hotly into her ear, “I'll take care of you later, babe.”

Before rage could flare in Stella's mind, Stan jerked his arm. The butt of the pistol slammed into Stella's temple. Pain arched over her head, darkness dotting the edges of her vision. She blinked rapidly, fighting the agony as a warm sensation oozed down the side of her head. Stan shoved her away, and the world fell out from under her feet. With a lurch and a groan, Stella tumbled to the ground in a heap.

“Stella!” Bishop yelled, his body jerking toward her.

“Ah, ah.” Stan stepped between Bishop and Stella, gun raised and a smug grin on his lips. He waved the gun in front of Bishop's face, motioning toward the floor. “On your knees, Arthur Bishop.”

Bishop leered with livid grey eyes as he lowered to his knees. His hands remained up. As Stan advanced, adrenaline pounded through Bishop. He had an idea that would work for one brief moment. He stilled his heart, focusing his gaze on a patch of carpet right before him as Stan sauntered closer. “This position suits you, Bishop.”

When Bishop sensed the muzzle of the gun close, his hands clamped on Stan's wrist. He hefted all his weight onto Stan's arms. The other man grunted in surprise, his arm instinctively fighting against the sudden burden. Bishop swung his feet out, both boots landing solidly on Stan's knees.

The agent yelped out a spontaneous curse as he toppled forward. Bishop yanked the gun away from Stan, throwing it through the open doorway as his back impacted against the floor. Stan shoved himself up from the floor, only to be met with Bishop's boot to his jaw. The blue-eyed man curled in on himself, rolling away from the biker.

As Bishop clambered to his feet, his hear pounded with adrenaline. He huffed and clenched his fists. No guns. This was more equal footing. He cracked his knuckles, waiting for Stan to get to his feet.

Stan's face contorted in such a demonic snarl. Already, a red blotch formed on his jaw where the boot had made contact. As he got to his feet, his hand slipped behind his back. Bishop's thoughts iced over, stuttering as the prospect of a second gun lit up in his synapses.

“You shouldn't have done that, asshole.” The federal agent swung the gun upward, leveling it at Bishop's head. Bishop didn't falter or deflate under the sight of the gun. His shoulders tensed, waiting for a gunshot. He knew the prospects of surviving another gunshot, especially one from a trained agent, were next to nil. It was worth it to keep Stella safe.

His gaze flickered to the spot where she had fallen. Bishop was only met with a small blood spatter on the ground. His eyes widened for a split second, before his peripheral caught movement near Stan. Bishop turned his gaze toward Stan just in time to see Stella slam a glass bottle against his head.

The loud boom of the gunshot echoed in the air. Red liquid streamed down Stan's head as the glass shattered around his shoulder. Stan crumpled to the floor, blood and wine staining the carpet beneath him.

Over Stan's prone body, Stella huffed and glared. Bishop stood, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. His gaze drifted over Stella's body from top to bottom. Half-dried blood matted in her hair and down the side of her face. In her hand, broken bottle shards pierced a piece of fabric she had wrapped around her palm. Little streaks of blood trickled from her hand.

“Stell?”

Her gaze flickered to his face. The dark storm that roiled beyond her expression cleared. A relieved smile twitched at her lips. Bishop's heart shuddered as he realized he thought he'd never see that grin again. Stella stumbled toward him, dropping the remains of the wine bottle. Stella pitched toward him, her balance dissolving. Bishop's arms caught the woman before her nose became intimate with the floor.

“Arthur,” Stella choked out, tears burning in the corners of her eyes. They shared the same thought. Those last moments could have been Bishop's last. She clung to his arms as she leaned back, taking inventory of his damage. As her gaze flicked over his body, her relief drained away. Stella turned wide, glassy eyes and pale face to Bishop's gaze. “You're shot.”

“What?” Bishop's eyebrows furrowed. Sudden pain shot up his leg. Exhaustion and injury caught up to him as adrenaline sifted from his body. He dropped to his knee, dragging Stella to the floor with him. Bishop wasn't about to let go of her after everything that had transpired. He clutched onto her, like a life raft in a tumultuous ocean.

Sticky, wet heat spread over his jeans where the bullet had shot him.

“Are you okay?” Stella asked, her voice tinged with erratic worry. Her fingers clutched tightly into his shirt. A tremble raked down her body.

Bishop rubbed his hands along her back. His large hands immediately brought calm over Stella's thoughts. Her brown eyes met his grey eyes. A smirk tilted at his lips as their victory settled into his head. “I'm better than the last time I took a bullet for you.”

Her eyebrows dipped down as her nose scrunched up, and a cross expression pinched across her face. “Oh, shut up.”

Before Bishop could sass her any further, Stella's body found some strength. She grasped his shirt tightly and, despite the adrenaline-induced quivers that took over her body, slammed Bishop against her. As their lips met, heat overtook both of their bodies. The exhaustion, the pain, the fears that had ached and pounded through her body abated. For now.

Stella parted from the kiss, sighing in contentment as she collapsed against Bishop's firm chest. He grunted in a similar expression of satisfaction. His hands rubbed their way up and down Stella's taut back, easing residual fear and worry from her body.

In the distance, the faint sound of sirens howled. As they got closer, Bishop chuckled. Stella shifted in his arms, casting him a curious glance. “What?”

“Our last date ended with sirens, too.”

Stella snorted, covering up her amusement. The uninjured side of her head nuzzled against Bishop's chest. His arms tightened, just slightly, around her.

An insistent buzz growled out from Bishop's pocket. Stella jumped in his arms, and Bishop groaned. Trying to move as little as possible, he shifted and fished his cellphone from his pocket. A quick glance at the screen and guilt punctured through his thoughts. His men had sent a total of fifty-four texts and seventeen calls during the situation with Stan.