Bishop, p.1
Bishop, page 1
Bishop
Book 19 in the Twisted Devils MC
Zahra Girard
Copyright © 2024 Zahra Girard
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Gratitude
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty- Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Epilogue
Gratitude
I am grateful for you. As a reader, both of my books and as a supporter of independent authors. You matter. You support arts. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I would so appreciate it if you could join my mailing list, to stay updated on my (and other author’s) new releases: http://www.subscribepage.com/d9p6y8
You can check out my Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/zahragirardromance/
Or you can find me on BookBub! https://www.bookbub.com/authors/zahra-girard
If you want to become a member of my review team, you can find me on Booksprout! https://booksprout.co/reviewer/team/3903/zahra-girards-review-team
If you enjoy any of my books, I sincerely invite you to leave a review. Reviews are so important to self-published authors (like me). They let us hear from our fans, and they help others discover our work. Please, if you enjoyed this story, I invite you to leave a review.
Thank you,
-Zahra
Chapter One
Bishop
"Do you think Martha Stewart's sexy?"
I look down from the stars and over at Mayhem. He’s got his pistol in his hands and a far-away look in his eyes. “Do I think she’s sexy?”
“I’m not asking if you think she’s hot, because we all know she is. I’m asking if you think she’s sexy. There’s a big difference.”
“We’re supposed to be on watch for the incoming shipment, not daydreaming about Martha Stewart.”
“Is it even daydreaming if it’s nighttime?” He says. “Besides, why are you dodging the question?”
I shrug, and start to think of an answer. Often, he easiest way to deal with Mayhem is to just give him what he wants. That, or smack him with a rolled up newspaper like a dog. "Yes. Even at her age. Not just because of the cooking, either; she has this aura of casual, composed sexiness."
"I think so, too.” Another pause. “If Martha were in an MC, what rank do you think she'd have?"
Mayhem's question floats through the humid night air on this lonely stretch of asphalt — an abandoned truck stop an hour south of Ironwood Falls where the only reminders that this place once was a truck stop are the slabs in the ground that were the truck scales, and the ruins of a concession stand from which run a handful of rats the size of house cats. The humidity's a rarity for this time of year, late fall about to hit winter; Mayhem's question, however, is not.
Chains grunts, looks up from his cellphone. There are pictures of his daughter, Charlotte, on the screen — she's in the costume of some pale, 1950s schoolgirl. "Obviously she'd be an enforcer. She knows how to handle business. She's been to prison, and that look in her eyes? Stone-cold killer. I'll bet she's even got teardrops tattooed somewhere on her body. Why do you even need to ask?"
"Been thinking about her a lot lately. Bishop, what do you think?"
I grunt, wish I were back home, and look up at the stars; we're far enough away from Ironwood Falls that I’ve got a clear view of those shimmering specks of light in the sky that denote solar systems so very far from here and, even better, far from Mayhem's question. I wish I were there, too. Anywhere. Even if it were some planet where the air is sulfuric acid and the only other inhabitants are participants in multi-level marketing programs, like Amway, Mary Kay, and CutCo.
Fuck, I’d buy Mary goddamn Kay just to get away from Mayhem.
"President."
"Why?"
"Because she runs a massive corporation, because she reshaped an entire industry in her image, because I'm just picking something at fucking random because I don't give a shit what position Martha Stewart would have in an MC. Why do you? And why the hell have you been thinking about her so much? You’re one weird guy, Mayhem."
“Because Stacy got contacted by Martha. Martha's releasing some cookbook about regional desserts and wants to include a few of Stacy’s recipes."
"You serious?" Chains says, looking up from his phone. "Martha wants her recipes?"
"I am. Martha was in Seattle for some TV segment she was shooting, and Stacy and I rode up there and met her. It was an experience. Martha's got this presence, like she could be your best friend and cook you the best meal you've ever had in your life, or she could wipe you and your entire family off the map without even batting an eye. She's been on my mind ever since."
"In what way?" I say.
"Mostly curiosity. But I had a sex dream about her, too. It wasn't just her and me, though that would’ve been fun — Stacy was involved, too. Martha was directing us to have sex like she was reading a recipe. You know, saying things like: lick that at medium pressure for ten minutes, smack that at a firm velocity twice, ride that for fifteen minutes while bent at a forty-five-degree angle. Oh, and when we finished, she said that thing that she always says… you know, that phrase."
“It’s so good?”
“That. It’s so good. Heard it in her voice just as Stacy and I climaxed. One of the best orgasms I’ve ever had in my life. When I woke up, I was covered in — ”
“You need to stop talking. Right now,” I say.
“Does Stacy know?” Chains says, which is entirely the wrong thing to say, because it just gives Mayhem more room to babble.
“Of course. When I woke up, I wrote the entire dream down in my dream journal. She’s going to help me re-enact it later. I’ve got this app on my phone with sound clips of Martha, and you can get it to say whatever you want her to say. It uses AI. Isn’t technology amazing?”
“This is what humanity is advancing towards? Getting a lunatic like you an app so he can get fucking directions from Martha fucking Stewart?”
“Life is beautiful, isn’t it?”
Chains coughs and we meet eyes for a second. Someone has to stop him, or else Mayhem will talk all night about fucking Martha Stewart.
"Did I tell you guys that Charlotte's in her school play? They're doing The Addams Family, and she's playing Wednesday. Want to see some pictures? Since this shipment seems to be taking forever, we got time."
I don't want to see the photos; the last thing I want is a slap-in-the-face reminder of what I can never let myself have again — a connection deeper than this life of bullets and chrome. I’ve learned my lesson. I know how that kind of connection ends. But if I don't, Mayhem will tell us more about how Martha Stewart taught him how to have sex in a dream and I will end up doing something rash, like cutting my own ears off, just to make it stop.
"Yeah. Let’s see them."
This damn shipment better get here soon.
As Chains pulls out his phone to show us pictures of Charlotte in her school play, I glance at Mayhem, who seems lost in thought. There's a vulnerability in his eyes. Sincerity, too. It's rare to see him so contemplative, and I can't help but wonder what exactly is going on in his mind.
No, on second thought, I'm pretty sure I know what's going on in his head and I want no damn part of it.
"Check this out. See how great her makeup is? Look how she changes," Chains says.
Photographs of Charlotte fill the screen, showing her transformation into Wednesday Addams. Her eyes sparkle with excitement, and every other picture is of her smiling in a very un-Wednesday-like way. Even though I know I shouldn’t, I can't help but feel a pang of envy for Chains.; he has something in his life that brings him joy, something that keeps him grounded amidst the chaos and uncertainty of our existence. It's something I had once, something I can't put myself through again.
"I'm proud of her," Chains says. "But I’ll be damned if she isn’t growing up so fast."
Mayhem nods absentmindedly, his gaze still fixed on some distant point. I can almost see the cogs turning in his mind, as if he's searching for something beyond the truck stop and
"She's my damn world. Her and Aurora both," Chains says.
I shake my head, my teeth grinding. It was a mistake to let Chains show off his pictures. "How can both of you be out here like this when you've both them waiting at home for you? How can you put them through this?"
"It's because of them I'm out here. I've got to provide. They deserve good lives, Bishop."
"What happens on the day you finally take a bullet? What happens to them when you die?"
"I don't like your line of thinking."
"Someday, this life is going to catch up to you. Or it'll catch up to them. What happens to you, Chains, if Charlotte or Aurora get killed? Or to you, Mayhem, if Stacy dies? Do either of you even think about the pain that'll come with that?"
"What the fuck's gotten into you?" Chains snaps.
"All the time," Mayhem says. “Most of it's fun, though. Explosions, Scarface-style gunfights, you know, the good stuff."
"Chains, I'm talking about the cost of this life." Pain shakes my voice. These two are so fucking ignorant about the real cost this life will rip from them. "I can't believe you two haven't considered the real consequences. That you haven't actually prepared yourselves or the people you care about for what will happen. How fucking reckless can you be?"
"Bishop, I like you more than most people in the club like you, which means I only mildly hate your guts, but you're doing a damn good job at changing my mind right now," Chains says. "Take a fucking breather, clear your head, and — "
I hold up a silencing finger; there’s a rumble in the distance.
It's coming from the south, and no sooner does it register as the roar of a semi's screaming engine I hear the sounding of a semi's giant horn — that same blaring blast that every kid riding in their parent's car gestures out the window to make every passing truck driver honk at them.
We reach for our guns.
"You think it's trouble?" Mayhem says, hopefully.
"No one honks like that unless something bad is happening," Chains says.
"I would. If I had a horn like that, I'd honk it all the time. It's a fun sound."
I peer down the empty stretch of road, scanning for any lights or approaching vehicles. Nothing. The truck's still too far away to see. Maybe it's not our contact, maybe it's just some other semi truck barreling down the road at midnight in the middle of nowhere, honking their horn and making their engine work itself to death.
"Fun? It sounds like Godzilla's dying moan. It's awful."
"It sounds nothing like that. Do you even know what a dying kaiju sounds like, Bishop?" Mayhem says. “If you want one, I can build you one, but it’ll be legit.”
A trio of lights appears on the horizon — one large, and two smaller ones belonging to sedans that zip and weave around the big rig, like wasps buzzing a bear.
"Looks like this will not be the peaceful ride-along that Rabid said it would be," I say. "You guys ready? We have about thirty seconds before they're in range."
Mayhem doesn't wait; he starts his bike and burns rubber out of the lot, barreling toward the approaching vehicles. He screams. “This is for you, Martha.”
Chains and I trade a look.
"Should we go after him?" I say.
"Stacy might get upset with us if we don't. Rabid might, too."
"You think she'd still sell us cupcakes?"
"Probably not."
"Fuck me. Fine, let's save that dumbass."
Our bikes scream as we race to catch up to Mayhem, who already is firing his pistol at the onrushing cars like he's in the world's deadliest — and dumbest — game of chicken. How he survived beyond infancy is a mystery to me; how he continues to survive is like the universe giving a giant middle finger to the concept of sanity.
A sudden eruption of smoke and flame springs from the front of one of the approaching cars. It swerves off the road and crashes into the trunk of a tree. Flames erupt from beneath its hood and, moments later, a roar splits the dark as the car explodes.
Mayhem whoops.
The other car speeds up, breaks away from the semi and steers right toward us. There's no space, no time to dodge it — it's coming at eighty-miles-per-hour; two tons of steel, about to make impact.
The semi honks its horn again and the driver's side window rolls down.
Out the window leans a man bigger than any man has a right to be; he's grinning, he gives a shockingly effeminate wave, and then aims a heavy pistol right at the back of the car. There's a crack; the back windshield shatters and the driver slumps over in his seat, jerking the wheel and sending the car careening into the woods.
The big man honks his truck's horn again and waves at us as he speeds by.
Mayhem, Chains, and I trade a look and then return to the rendezvous point at the truck stop, where the big rig is already waiting. Just as we arrive, the driver's door flies open and the giant man behind the wheel springs down with all the grace of a ballerina. He's wearing a Hawaiian shirt, swimming trunks, flip-flops, and a baseball cap with the words 'Wicked' and the silhouette of a witch on it.
"You three must be the guys Rabid told me about. Bishop, Chains, and Mayhem, right? I'm Moose. It's a pleasure to meet you."
"Hi Moose, I'm Mayhem. Where'd you learn to shoot like that? And where'd you get that gun? That's a Desert Eagle, right?" Mayhem says, a childlike tone of wonder in his voice.
Moose lets out a belly laugh big enough to register on the Richter scale. "I like your enthusiasm, brother. I learned to shoot in Wyoming. I was dating this rodeo cowboy who was the great-great-grandson, or maybe he was the great-great-great-grandson, of Annie Oakley. Honestly, I forget how many 'great's there were with him, though the sex was definitely one of them. That man was hung like a stallion and had the endurance of a marathoner."
"Sounds like a nice guy," Mayhem says.
Chains nudges me and I nudge him back. Do we interrupt? Or do we listen to Moose's story because he can drive a big rig like no one else on earth and his driving may have saved our lives?
"Oh, he was. Most of the time. Except when you didn't want him to be a sweetheart. Then, well, he was a demon with a riding crop — he'd pin you down, wrap you up in horse's tack, put a bit in your mouth, and whip you until you neighed for mercy. Now, owing to his illustrious heritage, he was also a crack shot. The man could shoot an apple off an erect cock at a hundred yards without even tickling your pubes."
"You can hold an apple on your cock?"
"Apple, a peach, a pear, once even a cantaloupe. But that's beside the point. My point is my former lover, thanks to his heritage, was in line to become King of the Rodeo. That's not just a title, it's an actual position within the rodeo subculture. As king, you control the rotation and the calendar of every true rodeo in North America, you preside over every championship, and all the rodeo clowns are your loyal servants. To be king of the rodeo, you need to win a series of contests — one of which is a team shooting event. We trained together for months, because to lose the trials means you are executed and disappear. It's what happened to Jimmy Hoffa. See, it wasn't the mob that did Jimmy in; Jimmy was actually the bastard child of Buffalo Bill. He had ambitions to leave the Teamster life behind, but he was a poor hand with the rope and could only rope five of the eight mustangs in the naked lasso competition..."
I cut in. "Moose, you're driving some valuable cargo for the MC and several people did just try to kill us to get to it. Maybe we should get moving?"
"Sorry, yeah, you're right. I'm just so used to it. People try to kill me out all the time."
It's a fast hour back to the clubhouse, where Rabid, Goldie, and Havoc are waiting in the large lot behind The Noble Fir. The lot is empty except for us.
Rabid has his arms crossed and a scowl on his face when we arrive. "You're late. Dawn is in less than an hour."
"So?" Chains says.
"So that's when people wake up, that's when they might notice a semi-truck with a biker escort driving down routes that semi-trucks definitely rarely drive. That raises questions, and questions are problems, because this cargo is too valuable to be fucking around with it."
Moose steps forward, completely undeterred by Rabid’s angry face.
"You must be Rabid. I'm Moose. Let me tell you that, other than the little dust-up we had about an hour back, nobody's seen a darn thing. I know how to drive a rig under the radar."
