Chapter 21
BISHOP
The soft sound of rain hitting the windows and the roof above me draws me slowly from a deep sleep.
That blissful fuzzy darkness clings to my brain for a few minutes, and I stay completely still, luxuriating in the feel of Gage’s bed and inhaling his leather and spice scent that clings to the sheets along with the smell of us.
For the first time since the explosion, I wake feeling good, my body relaxed and sated. And I actually slept.
No nightmares.
No staying up all night worrying about what was happening outside this space.
No fear that I missed something and someone else paid the price for it keeping me awake.
All of it was somehow kept at bay while I slept beside the man who has changed my life so much.
I stretch with a groan and my body protests slightly, but it’s so much better than it has been the last several days. Instead of aching, angry muscles, only a dull throb between my legs reminds me of what Gage and I did last night.
A grin pulls at my lips, and I push myself up and scan the loft area.
He isn’t in the kitchen or sitting at the small desk, and through the open bathroom door, I can tell it’s empty, too. Which means he must be downstairs working on his bike.
That’s about all he’s done the last couple of days—worked on the Indian or stepped outside for long phone calls with Dad and Luca, and probably dozens of other people he wouldn’t tell me about.
I know he must have a computer somewhere down there, too, must be working on whatever tasks they’ve given him while he’s also acting as my babysitter, but he’s kept me well in the dark about it.
His promise that they would bring me in if there was something they couldn’t handle has given me a modicum of comfort, but I still want more.
I want to be involved.
I want to help.
And waking today feeling so much better than I have all week gives me hope that maybe things will be different. Maybe I can start getting back to my job, even if only gradually, at first.
Because the Hawkes can’t stay locked up and living in fear forever.
The girls are going stir-crazy, and the boys…
Given the texts I’ve received over the past week, they seem ready to bust out the pitchforks and go door to door looking for Satriano to get this resolved on their terms.
If something doesn’t give soon, there may be an all-out Hawke riot in the streets of New Orleans.
Which would be ill advised.
Once I get a handle on what the investigation has uncovered, I’ll be in a better position to help, but that requires convincing Gage—and Aunt Nora and Pope—that I’m finally feeling well enough to do it.
That starts now.
I slide off the bed and snag a pair of jeans to pull on under Gage’s shirt I slept in.
The metal treads of the stairs are cold under my bare feet, but I move as silently as I can to try to surprise him.
But the usual sounds of him working on the Indian don’t fill the space, and when I reach the bottom step and can see the whole garage, it’s empty.
He wouldn’t have left me, which means he’s outside on a call that he doesn’t want me to overhear.
Annoyance tightens my chest, but I try to take a deep breath and release it before I get all worked up over his continued secrecy.
Maybe he just didn’t want to wake me up.
That’s probably wishful thinking, and I step up to the small pedestrian door and peek out through the old, wavy glass window at the top.
Gage stands near the end of the driveway, phone to his ear and back to the shop, seemingly oblivious to the rain falling on him, his shirt and hair already wet.
As anxious as I am to know who he’s talking to and about what, I won’t be able to hear anything from here anyway, so I turn back to the shop and make my way over to his Indian that still rests up on the stand.
It really is a beautiful old bike, and it seems that the last several days have given Gage time to make some headway on it.
A few random bike parts lay scattered on the cracked concrete around the base of the stand along with various tools and instruments, and I move past them over to the workbench along the wall to examine the rest of his stuff.
I haven’t had a chance to explore down here yet.
He either had me tied up upstairs—literally and figuratively—before the bombing, or I’ve been too tired and sore since then to wander down here. Any time he was working on something in the main shop while I slept, he would come back up as soon as he realized I was awake.
The old place has a certain charm, even if it isn’t much to look at, and I find myself grinning at all the tools that look older than me that must have come with the place.
Other than his bikes and tools, there isn’t much else to look at other than the door at the far corner of the main space.
I vaguely remember noticing it when I came in that first night, and with the building layout, it makes sense there would be a small storage room of some sort there, directly beneath the bathroom upstairs.
This door is solid, so there isn’t any way to peek inside without opening it, but curiosity gets the better of me, and I need to know what’s inside.
I try the knob, but it doesn’t budge.
Locked.
Why would Gage keep it locked if he’s the only one who’s ever in here?
Interest piqued, I go back to his workbench and grab a screwdriver. I learned very early on how to get into places where I wasn’t supposed to be, and it only takes me a few seconds to get the lock popped.
I nudge the door open and step into the dark room.
With no windows, it’s almost pitch black in here, and I reach to the wall for a light switch and flick it on.
I instantly wish I hadn’t.
Oh, God…
It takes a few moments for me to fully process what I’m seeing because my head can’t make any sense of what my eyes are taking in.
Walls covered in photographs of all of us…The Hawkes.
Outside the club.
Outside our homes.
Outside The Grind and the bookstore.
Pictures of us driving, walking down the streets in various parts of town, eating at restaurants.
Our entire lives.
Everything we’ve done and everywhere we’ve been…
And they go back far longer than I’ve known Gage.
I step farther in on shaky legs, my hand tensing around the handle of the screwdriver.
What the hell is this?
A low table sits cluttered with all sorts of mechanical parts, and as I start to take in what they are, my heart stops, then starts thundering rapidly against my ribcage.
Blood rushes in my ears.
My legs start to give out, and I grab the edge of the table to keep from passing out on the floor.
Blinking rapidly, I try to clear away what I’m seeing…
No.
It can’t be…
“Bishop?”
Gage’s voice carries through the open door, and I freeze.
Shit.
His booted footsteps sound on the metal stairs as he slowly ascends, then they pound back down when he realizes I’m not up there.
There’s no way to sneak out of here and get that door relocked and closed before he sees me, and there’d be no point in attempting to hide it. I can’t ever look at him again without him knowing what I’ve seen.
I tighten my grip on the only weapon available to me and wait for him to appear in the doorway.
He does almost immediately, his eyes wild and wide, his jaw set hard. His gaze locks on me, trepidation darkening the usually warm waters there. “It isn’t what it looks like, Hellcat.”
“Don’t call me that.”
My rage bleeds through my words, making them come out colder than I’ve ever heard my own voice.
He holds up his hands. “Let me explain.”
“There’s no explanation for this, Gage. None. Especially this.” I motion toward the items on the table, and he flinches and squeezes his eyes closed. “I’m no expert, but I know enough to recognize what I’m looking at. This stuff you have here? These are the components for making a fucking bomb.”
His eyes fly open and meet mine, and there’s a plea in them—one I absolutely cannot fall for.
Not ever again.
“Did you—”
I swallow back the words because I can’t even form them.
I can’t possibly say them out loud because that would make them true.
It would make everything I thought I knew about this man into the biggest lie of my life.
“Did you make the bomb that hurt my uncles? That hurt me? Did you try to kill us?”
His eyes harden to that icy blue I so rarely see. “Would you believe me if I said no?”
Oh, God…
I shake my head. He steps closer, but I raise the screwdriver in front of me, pointing it directly at his chest.
“Don’t.”
It may not be my weapon of choice, but I know exactly where to shove this to do the most damage, to immobilize him or even kill him. And I won’t hesitate to do it if he takes one more step.
“Bishop, please.” He keeps his hands up. “Give me a minute to explain.”
I circle to the other side of the tiny room, trying to make my way to the door without him intercepting me, but we both know he could easily. The space is tight, and he’s taller and has a much longer reach than me.
Only a handful of feet separate us—and stand between me and escape.
Keeping the screwdriver raised, I inch toward the door, my bare feet cold on the old concrete. But it barely registers.
My entire body is numb.
Gage lets me move toward the door, and as soon as I’m close enough, I dash out of it and into the main garage, but I never give him my back because I know he’ll take that advantage and use it against me.
That’s apparently where his expertise lies.
“Bishop, I need you to listen to me.” He lets me get halfway across the garage before he steps out from that side room. “Things aren’t always what they appear.”
My hand trembles as I hold the screwdriver out toward him. “What did you do in the Rangers? What was your specialty?”
He flinches again. “Explosives. But I didn’t lie to you. I’m also a mechanic—”
“Fuck you! You didn’t lie to me?” My voice echoes around the room, bouncing off all the metal. “How long have you been here, in New Orleans?”
His throat works a thick swallow. “A while.”
“Because of us?”
His jaw hardens again and he nods.
Fuck…
I’m so fucking stupid…