Damned: Seven Tribesmen MC

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.

Damned 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.

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AT HIS MERCY

WRECK ME

ALEJANDRO

FORCE

MINE

REBEL

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 patc
h–
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.