by Brogan Riley
His Poppy
by
Brogan Riley
Furious Daggers MC
***
Copyright © 2018 by Brogan Riley
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Description
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Epilogue 1
Excerpt: His Rose
Chapter 1
Description
Taboo has never tasted so sweet.
Taboo has never felt so raw.
A flower.
A caring planter.
Love.
Pain.
A dark secret.
Freedom.
For adult audiences only.
MC Romance. HEA with lots of babies. Standalone. No cheating.
Explicit and dark content that may not be suitable for some readers (graphic adult scenes, graphic language, violence, abuse).
I was the crystal tear of her night
I was the nail in his heart
I was wild
I dried out
I was the purest sin on my man’s tongue
I was the joy that survived
I swallowed the brightness of the sun
I was the redness of my dewy life
One petal died
I flew out
He died
I died
I flew out
He died
I died
I flew out
A song by Poppy, written for an alternative rock band.
Chapter 1
Liberator
“Kill me,” the man whispers, his lips swollen and purple as though he’s already dead.
My eyes sweep over the greyish-purple coil around his bruised throat. It’s a piece of his gut. The smell of blood coming out of the chasm in his old round belly hits my nostrils like a nauseating whiplash.
The man is lying on the ground. His greyish body is naked and stretched out like a starfish. Blood is gushing from the wound between his thighs. We chopped off his dick ten minutes ago.
A cloud of vapour leaves my mouth as I move back and nudge one of the LED lamps with my boot. Priest lays his hand on my shoulder.
“Number six,” he says.
“How much time is it gonna take?”
“Twenty hours at least.”
The man cries out like an old woman until his voice halts and then a few gurgling sounds come out of his mouth. Steam rises from the hole in his belly and the stench causes me to cough.
He deserves such a death because the girl was only fourteen.
The girl almost died and is damaged for life.
Monsters like this man deserve to die in the way that he is. They deserve to suffer for many hours, agonize just like their victims.
They think they’re untouchable. They’re wrong.
We’re gonna hunt them down and punish them.
Number six will be dying for twenty hours. Good. That was my plan for him.
We move back and watch the scumbag from a distance. Priest lights up two cigarettes and passes one to me. The man’s cries and pleas tear at the night air.
The sky is black cloudless perfection. Three mountains are silhouetted in the distance like dark giants as they witness the justice occurring in this deserted forgotten place.
“Go home,” Priest says. “I’ll finish up here.”
“You sure?” A cloud of smoke leaves my mouth.
“Go before I change my mind.”
I bow my head at him, crushing the cigarette under my boot.
I turn around and walk down the path that meanders through the rock formations. It leads me to a devastated stone house. It’s our storage space. I step inside and wash my hands in a bowl. The silver glow of the moon is the only source of light. Time stops for a moment. I’m frozen.
Her face flashes through my mind.
I shake my head and rub my palms on my jeans. A delicate sense of loss surges through me. I kill it off.
I step out of the house, jump on my motorcycle and start the engine. The machine roars, the sound filling me with pride, and I shoot into the dimness of dawn.
Three hours later, I stop at the cabin I bought two years ago to shower and change my clothes. Then I head home. Selene is waiting for me.
I walk into my kitchen late in the evening. My eyes flick over the canvas that hangs on the wall above the oak kitchen table. I bought it two years ago. I couldn’t resist the subtle magnetism of red poppies in a wheat field, an intensely blue sky above them, a summer breeze captured by the painter as if it was real.
Memories flash through my mind.
She was like a poppy flower indeed—delicate and wild. Addictive.
I miss her so much sometimes.
Selene’s concerned eyes sweep over my face. She says nothing, just pours me a shot of vodka. I empty it in one gulp and slam the glass down on the table.
Selene opens the oven and takes a pan out.
“Later,” I say.
She shoves the pan back into the oven and stands in front of me. Her burning eyes lock on mine.
She helps me remove my cut and drapes it over the back of the chair, her movement full of respect. Her tiny hands slip under my hoody and massage my chest in circles.
“A bath or a shower?” she asks.
“A bath.” I slide my hands down her back and squeeze her ass through the satin fabric of her nightdress. “But not now. Later.”
I feel her hand slip under the waistband of my jeans as her fingers close around my cock. It grows hard with her touch.
She always knows what to do. My sweet Selene. My sweet little wife.
Her eyes flick over the canvas and her hand trembles as she squints out the window.
“I need you,” I say.
She nods. Her lips curl into a delicate smile. She strokes me up and down with her hand as she unbuttons my jeans. My stiff cock springs free. She kneels in front of me. Her mouth wraps around the head of my cock and she works me gently, her wet little tongue causing sparks of electricity to surge through me. That’s what I need—her sweet obedience, her tempting youth, her love.
I grip the back of her neck with my hand and shove my cock deeper into her sweet mouth. She gags as her throat squeezes me, bringing me to the brink. I emit a low growl.
I need it rough and she knows it. She yields herself to me.
I thrust into her mouth three more times, gagging her. Tears shine on her cheeks as I moan my satisfaction. She swallows every drop of my cum.
A light knocking on the front door tears me out of my euphoric languor. I curse under my breath. I button up my jeans and go to open the door.
I pu
ll the ornate door handle and the door swishes open.
My eyes fall upon a female figure. The woman clears her throat as she puts a hand on the gun attached to her belt.
“Sheriff Fiona Michaels,” I say. “What a surprise.”
“You’re in big trouble,” she says.
I raise my hands in a gesture of surrender.
Poppy
Seven years earlier.
The pebbles scrunch under my bare feet, the sound threatening in my ears. Cold penetrates the marrow of my bones. I start panting like a wounded animal.
I am wounded.
I am a thing, lower than an animal.
They would have killed me if I hadn’t jumped, so I jumped. Fell off the cliff. Eternal peace filled me for a second and then my body hit the icy fury of the ocean’s waves. Blackness obscured my vision and mind.
I didn’t die.
I thought I would, but I didn’t.
I fought. The coldness of the water was merciless. It jabbed and stabbed. Burned like it was acid not the ocean’s water.
I emerged from the deadly greyness and kept fighting.
Every step is like torture, but I move forward. If I stop, I’ll die. I know this even though I know very little.
God, help me. You’ve been my best friend since forever. I need you.
There’s nobody here. No God. No people.
The grim wind grows in strength as the brightness of the grey sky threatens to crush me.
I open my mouth and call out, “Somebody, please, help me.” It comes out in a quiet screech though.
I fall to my knees. Black and red flashes dance in front of my eyes.
It looks like I will die.
So be it.
I have no strength to fight anymore.
They punched me and kicked me and laughed at my pain.
My stepmother had told them to do that to me. She’s always hated me. Now that my father is dead, she’s the queen of his pharmaceutical empire.
I have no family.
My father grew up in foster care and then a middle-aged couple adopted him. That was when he was fourteen years old. His adoptive parents are long gone.
Sabine was supposed to be a mother to me, the loving mother that I never had.
Sabine was a perfect actress, and I was a naïve kid. She fed me with her lies so I didn’t see her evilness until I finally did one day.
Another wave of pain lances through me, knocking the air out of my lungs. The metallic taste of blood in my mouth makes me retch. I curl up into a ball and wheeze. Cold droplets of rain splash against my forehead.
I don’t feel any emotions. It’s quiet.
I realise I want to live. I want to enjoy my silly tiny existence.
I want to be happy.
I draw in a sharp breath.
I will fight and I will survive.
I jerk my hands up, but my mind goes blank.
Jackson
I enter the bar that belongs to the Grim Dwarfs MC and the smell of tobacco envelops me, teases me with the promise of relaxation. Tank, the club’s president, flops from the bar stool and walks over to me, waving his hand in a greeting gesture. He slaps me on the back.
“Long time no see,” Tank says, his green eyes gleaming.
“You haven’t changed, brother,” I say. “Ugly as always.”
He emits a raspy chuckle and hugs me. His long silver beard scratches my face.
I slap him on the back, pull away, and see Marion, his old lady, walk out of the kitchen through the black ornate door at the left flank of the bar. Her generous hips sway gracefully as her long brown hair waves. She’s fifty years old but looks forty. Gorgeous forty.
“Jackson,” Marion says in a deep melodious voice, her brown eyes full of joy. “Come here, honey. I need to hug you, pretty boy.”
Tank’s six boys rumble their greetings. I wave my hand to them in response and Marion grips my arm. She kisses both my cheeks and pulls me towards the bar top. I see Tank’s daughter Alexandra sitting on the green worn out couch. She flashes me a flirty smile.
She’s twenty. Very attractive twenty—big boobs, big green eyes, a waterfall of blonde hair, but Tank is my best friend, so she’s no woman to me. I made her very aware of that fact two years ago when she attempted to shove her hand into my pants. From that evening, she only flirts with me.
The white door of the bathroom that’s situated opposite the metal stairwell swings open and a girl walks out.
No, not a girl. A forest fairy.
Her big brown eyes rise to mine and she freezes for a few seconds. So do I. A timeless eternity connects us for a split second and it feels like we’re the only two people in the void of universe.
Fuck me. I’ve never seen a chick as beautiful as her. She looks barely eighteen and reminds me of a fawn. What a fragile, unearthly creature. A gust of wind could scare her away.
My eyes devour her full lips forming an ‘o’. They remind me of ripened cherries. I realise I want to kiss those sinfully beautiful lips of hers.
No, I want to wind her long brown hair around my fist.
I want…
Fuck me. She looks barely legal.
Alexandra grips the girl’s tiny hand and drags her over to us. The girl is limping.
I shoot forward, driven by my primal instincts. I lean over the girl and scoop her up into my arms. She sighs like a startled little animal.
“Always so chivalrous,” Alexandra says as she rolls her eyes. Her hand strokes my arm up and down in a friendly gesture. “Good to see you, Jackson.”
I pull this tiny fawn to my chest as her body shivers against mine. “Good to see you too, Alex.” I don’t pay attention to Tank’s daughter though. All my senses are zeroed in on the fawn staring up at me. “Who are you, you little fawn?” I ask.
“I’m Poppy,” the girl says, her voice tinged with delicate rasping, her cheeks flushed.
Her skin is as white as snow and that delicate redness of her cheeks lures me with the promise of untouched innocence. I shouldn’t be interested in her. She’s too young, too ethereal, but I can’t help it. I am very fucking interested.
“I can walk, sir,” she murmurs, clearly embarrassed by my attention.
“You can’t,” I say. My eyes travel to Tank and Marion. “Your family?”
“Yes and no,” Marion says as one of her thick eyebrows rises. “I mean she’s not our relative by blood, but we already love her like she is.”
“Put Poppy on the couch and come with me,” Tanks says. He leans over the bar top and reaches down with his hand to grab a bottle of whiskey. He straightens. His bushy grey eyebrows form a line as he thrusts his chin out towards me. “Put the girl on the couch.” One corner of his lips quirks up.
I realise I’m still holding Poppy against my chest. I’m shielding her with my arms. She clears her throat as our glances meet. Her hand rises and she points a finger to the couch.
I tighten my embrace around her.
Her eyes widen and I’m mesmerised.
Tank clears his throat and that brings some clarity to my brain.
I lay Poppy on the couch and this separation is almost painful to me. Like she fucking should be plastered to my chest all the time.
Fucking hell. I’m thirty-seven, but this girl makes me feel like I’m a teen again.
Tank pulls forward and I follow him to the office that’s situated behind the bar. We enter it and take our seats at the oak table.
“Talk to me, brother,” I say. “Why am I here?”
“You love my ugly gob?”
“I love your homemade whiskey.” I nod several times. “Marion loves your ugly gob.”
Tank opens the bottle and fills two glasses with the golden richness of alcohol. He shoves a glass towards me and I grab it.
“To our friendship,” Tank says.
We clink glasses.
“To our friendship,” I say.
Tank’s face turns into a cold mask like he’s doing club business. “T
hat girl, Poppy…”
“Very fucking pretty.”
“Good you said that,” he says more to himself. “Everything will be easier.”
A chuckle escapes my mouth. “You’re weird, man.”
His cold eyes fix on mine. “We found Poppy on the beach.” He wrinkles his forehead, concern filling his eyes. “She was unconscious, beaten up. She’d almost drowned in the ocean.”
Rage surges through me at his words as I rise to my feet. “Just tell me the name.”
The piece of scum that did it to Poppy is already dead.
“We can’t, brother.” Tank attempts to calm me down with a wave of his hand. “Big money, you know. Very big money. That bitch, her stepmother, is untouchable.” He threads his fingers through his shoulder-length silver hair. “I asked here and there. There’re rumours that Poppy is on a hitman’s list, but I don’t know the motherfucker’s identity.”
I’m stunned. “A hitman? Why?”
“I don’t know. Poppy didn’t tell us much. Probably it’s all about the big money. Poppy’s stepmother rules a pharmaceutical empire.” He nods several times. “Maybe the bitch doesn’t want to share?”
There’s gravely silence as I try to process the information.
“I have a wife and a daughter,” Tank says. “I love that girl, but—“
“I’ll take care of Poppy.” It just slips out of my mouth.
“Good. She turned eighteen two months ago.” He grins at me.
“So what?”
“She’s an adult, Jackson. And she’s very pretty. Since you’re gonna take her to your clubhouse, you need either to give her a job as one of your girls or to…” He nods several times like he can see more than the human he is can.
No fucking way. I can’t bring Poppy to my clubhouse. She’s an adult and my boys are uncontrollable while around a pretty chick. The thought of a man’s hand touching her wakes a possessive animal inside of me. The thought of employing her wakes an urge to murder inside of me.
My club, the Furious Daggers, is a bunch of wild men. We bring justice to where the police or victims are helpless. We help other people, but we’re no saints.
My mother had a publishing house. She was a widow, but we were rich and happy until a piece of scum killed her. I was eighteen years old then. The killer was put on trail, but the judge pronounced him innocent. The scumbag had money, and a brilliant lawyer.