His Poppy: Furious Daggers MC

by Brogan Riley

  I sold the publishing house, bought a gun, and learned to shoot. I killed the scumbag two years later and then the Furious Daggers MC was born.

  Thoughts tumble in my head as Tank’s grin widens. We’ve been best friends almost since forever, and we know each other as two old horses having lived a lifetime in one stable would. Sometimes, no words are necessary. Sometimes, a tiny gesture is enough.

  “Poppy is a beauty,” Tank says. “My boys can’t tear their eyes off her. And she’s very obedient. Very sweet and well mannered.”

  I fucking want to kill Tank’s boys.

  My head feels like a hot carousel, but a moment later, my mind detaches.

  Why the fuck not? Poppy is a cute little thing. She could be only mine.

  “Can you brand her for me?” I ask as heat rushes to my dick and it twitches in my pants.

  “Of course, I can.”

  Chapter 2

  Poppy

  I’m seated on the couch as a few women enter the bar. They’re laughing and chatting among themselves, and are dressed in very indecent clothes—cropped tops, very short skirts, knee-high boots. Alexandra rolls her eyes and rises to her feet to serve them.

  Marion is one of the two bartenders here, but her daughter helps as often as she can.

  We’re sharing Alexandra’s bedroom. She’s nice to me. She took me out for a shopping trip and bought nice clothes for me.

  I’ve been here for three months. I’d spent four weeks recovering from a bad pneumonia and all the injuries at the local hospital before Tank brought me to the clubhouse.

  I’m useless here and that worries me a lot.

  Loud male voices divert my attention and cause me to raise my eyes. It’s Tank walking in the company of Jackson. Tank waves his hand to me while Jackson’s grey eyes bore into me. I shudder. My heart leaps.

  I manage to stand up, but Jackson flings himself towards me and lifts me off the floor. It’s very embarrassing, but he’s older than me, so I don’t protest.

  He smells of earth and violent storm. Of light sweat and tobacco. Heat rushes through my veins as his smell diffuses into me, filling me with a promise of danger. I shiver in anticipation.

  Tank gestures for him to move forward and we go through the door behind the stairwell. Ten concrete steps lead us down into a narrow corridor and then we enter a dim room. Tank switches on the light and asks me to sit on a narrow bed. I do as I’m told. He tells me to expose my upper back. The last sun’s rays filter inside the room through two small round windows in the ceiling and cast rainbows on the stone floor.

  “What’s going on?” I ask as my voice falters.

  That man, Jackson, is staring at me like a predator. He is as massive as a bear. His eyes are burning like he’s furious. His face doesn’t betray any emotions though.

  He is much older than I am. I’d say he looks thirty-five years old. The logo on the back of his leather jacket reads The Furious Daggers MC. A biker like Tank. Bikers are tough men. They exude tempting brutality and alluring menace.

  But the darkness in Jackson’s gaze is unnerving.

  It’s like a bad storm is coming. It will devastate and change forever.

  I should avert my eyes, but I keep watching him instead.

  I’d say Jackson is a very handsome man. He has short brown hair and two thin scars run across his unshaven cheek.

  I’m sure I’m no woman to him. He wouldn’t be looking at me with such fury otherwise.

  I wish he liked me.

  He likes Marion and Alexandra. When he looks at them, his gaze radiates warmth and friendliness. He is a good man when he looks at them. He is a bad man each time he glances at me.

  I wish I were like Alexandra.

  I shake off my hoody and lower the straps of my top and bra.

  Tank and his family helped me when I needed it the most. They didn’t ask questions. So I don’t ask questions either. I may be naïve but they seem to be good people, so I do as I’m told.

  I’ve never met any biker before, but Tank’s club comprises seven good men who ride their bikes and get drunk in their bar from time to time. Three of them are married and have kids. All of them are like a family to me.

  Jackson kneels in front of me. His enormous hand reaches for mine, and he squeezes it gently.

  “It may hurt,” Jackson says, his voice deep, husky.

  Beautiful.

  “What is it for?” I ask as panic strangles my throat at the sight of Tank taking strange tools out of what seems to be the kind of suitcase.

  “It’s for your safety,” Jackson says, his face radiating ruthlessness.

  Why does he want to kill me? We met merely an hour ago.

  My heart feels like a knife is slicing it. I shiver. From my nervousness. From my disappointment.

  Jackson is dangerously beautiful. He must like dangerously beautiful women.

  I’m Poppy. Poppies are just Poppies.

  Jackson looks like he hates Poppies.

  I start trembling as Tank sits down beside me and sweeps my hair away.

  “Poppy,” Jackson says firmly. “Look at me, sweetheart.”

  I do as I’m told and something jabs my back above the shoulder blade. I hiss in pain.

  “A tattoo?” I gasp.

  Jackson nods. “Yes, my brand.”

  “I don’t understand,” I say. “Why do I need a tattoo?”

  “We’ll talk about it later.” Jackson holds my hands in his as his blazing eyes lock onto mine. One corner of his asymmetric lips crooks up. “You’re so beautiful.”

  Tank chuckles, but my heart jumps to my throat. Why did he say that? He isn’t interested in me, I’m certain. Why would he? He’s a handsome biker. Beautiful women his age must throw themselves at him. I’m only Poppy.

  I’m only Poppy.

  I feel blurry and nauseous.

  Tank keeps jabbing my back with his tools and I grit my teeth. I can manage. I’ve gone through hell. I am weak, but I’m going to pretend to be a strong woman.

  Sweat pricks my forehead and a thin stream of moisture trickles down my temple.

  “It won’t take long,” Jackson says.

  He strokes my outer thigh up and down with his hand and then runs his rough knuckles up and down my cheek. A tingle runs down my spine and the pain seems to fade.

  “Tell me something about yourself,” Jackson says in a soft voice.

  “I’m not a very interesting person,” I say.

  My heart hammers in my chest as embarrassment floods me. I’m so boring. So… simple. Jackson is nice to me and I’m an idiot.

  “You have a hobby or something?” Jackson pulls my hair together and winds it around his hand.

  “I love playing a piano,” I gasp.

  Jackson

  Something is wrong with her. I can see that now. She’s as naïve as a five-year-old.

  But fucking hell, I can focus only on her lips. She’s intoxicating. Addictive.

  “I can buy a piano for you,” I say.

  “Why would you do that?” she asks even though her eyes gleam with excitement.

  She’s very easy to read and I like it.

  I love it.

  “You’re going to live with me, so I want you to feel happy,” I say.

  Her lower lip quivers and she looks over her shoulder, seeking answers from Tank.

  “Jackson will keep you safe, sweetheart,” Tank says. “That’s why I’m branding you. To keep you safe when you’re with him.”

  She nods in agreement even though her eyes flutter and her hands shake. I guess her stepmother is scarier to her than I am. My eyes sweep over a thin scar that stretches across her forehead. There’s another scar on her arm and two more on the back on her hand. Poor kid.

  Fuck. Not a kid. A young woman.

  My woman.

  “Are you in college or something?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “I’m not very bright.” Her face tinges with a dark red. “I was born like this. I don’t learn thing
s as fast as other people.” She bobs her head. “But I can play a piano. I can play it for you.”

  Something squeezes my heart. A word wavers on the edge of my mind. A word that causes a sense of guilt to prick my heart. Disability.

  But she’s so beautiful.

  So normal.

  “I’d love you to play a piano for me,” I say.

  Tank looks at me and gives me a slight nod. His eyes say it all—‘be good to her’.

  I will be very good to her. Very caring.

  I bring her hand up to my lips and plant a kiss on her knuckles. Poppy chuckles and rolls her eyes. She’s adorable.

  “Why are you so nice to me?” she asks.

  “We’ll talk about it later,” I say.

  Slowly and everything’s gonna be fine.

  Tank puts his tattoo gun aside. “Finished. Keep it clean, Poppy. Jackson will help you with… everything.” He covers my brand on her back with a piece of cling film and secures it with two pieces of white sticky tape.

  I help Poppy put her hoody back on. “Have you ever ridden on a motorcycle?”

  “No,” she says.

  I hold her hands and pull her up. “This is gonna be your first time then.”

  Tank clears his throat. “You can stay here in the clubhouse for a day or two.”

  I shake my head. “No, I want to go back to my clubhouse as soon as I can.”

  “I bet you do,” Tank says as he scratches his head and his lips quirk in a grin.

  Yep, he knows me better than I do.

  We met thirteen years ago. There was a war on his turf. My club helped him to get rid of all the scum. Now, he helps me when I need fake papers for my clients. He’s the best at his profession.

  Poppy

  Jackson lifts me off the floor. I jerk my arms up, wrapping them around his neck. His smell hits me hard and causes my mind to whirl. I like his smell. I could smell him for hours.

  Jackson is supporting my ass with one arm and my neck with his other hand. I wrap my thighs around his waist.

  My tattoo is burning as though a real fire was licking my skin. I choke back tears.

  Jackson glances at me. “I’ll give you some painkillers.”

  “No,” I protest. “I don’t need them.” I flash him a smile like there’s no pain.

  No painkillers. Ever. I prefer to die.

  His dark eyebrows arch. “You sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  Jackson nods. “If you needed them just let me know.”

  He carries me over to the bar and sits me down on the couch. Tank whispers something to Marion and she looks at me with a pale expression, her lips held tightly together. Alexandra and she disappear into the stairwell. Jackson kneels in front of me, his warm hands on my thighs.

  “Hungry?” he asks.

  “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  I feel even more blurry. People talk around me, but I can’t discern the words. My heart hammers in my chest. Seconds are minutes, or maybe minutes are seconds.

  Jackson lifts me up again and carries me out of the bar. He sits me on a bike. It must be his motorcycle—a powerful machine of black and steel colours. Alexandra kisses my cheek. Her eyes fill with sadness as she slides them over Jackson.

  I realise I’m moving into Jackson’s clubhouse, but I have no belongings. He puts his hands on my head and kisses my forehead. His lips are hot, his facial hair scratchy.

  “I need some clothes,” I say.

  “We’ll do some shopping later,” Jackson says.

  He’s very nice to me. As nice as Tank and his family. Maybe I’m not that ugly and stupid.

  Jackson settles himself in front of me and starts the engine. Its roar causes me to shudder. I wrap my arms around Jackson’s chest instinctively. The smell of leather and tobacco settles in my nostrils and mixes with that of his light sweat and cologne.

  The bike shoots forward. Good, the farther away I am from her the safer I am.

  I may not be the brightest person in the world, but I want to live. I want to play a piano for a living.

  I want to spend more time with Jackson.

  He hasn’t killed me yet so maybe he wants to make friends with me.

  I can clean his house. Yes, cleaning should be easy for me. I’m not very organised and I tend to start doing things but struggle to finish them. Maybe if I have a good cleaning plan, I may succeed. Something squeezes my throat. I’m not good at planning either.

  The wind smacks me as its icy coldness creeps under my hoody. It bites every cell of my body. I plaster myself to Jackson as my body shivers.

  The bike stops. Jackson shakes his jacket off and turns to me. He throws his jacket over my back and helps me slip into it.

  “You’ll be cold,” I say.

  “I can manage. We’re gonna stop soon anyway.”

  I nod. I feel like I’m inside a magical cocoon.

  Chapter 3

  Jackson

  Half an hour later, I stop in front of a cheap motel and help Poppy off my bike. She winces as her right foot touches the asphalt pavement stretched along the red-bricked façade of the two-story building. I lean over her and lift her off the ground. Her arms and legs wrap around me like they belong around my body.

  “Easier, huh?” I say.

  “Easier.”

  “We’re gonna eat something and have a good rest.” A sense of shame surges through me as I say it.

  She doesn’t understand.

  She trusts me.

  And I’m a bad man.

  I could head straight for my clubhouse, but I want to spend the night here.

  I want Poppy only for myself. I want her so badly.

  She’s my very own fawn.

  I don’t know what it is about her. I’m more and more crazy about her with each second that passes. Like some dark force has possessed me.

  I carry her through the roofed glass entrance and cause a chuckle to leave an old receptionist’s mouth. I check in and then carry Poppy out and then towards a café that stands opposite the motel, across the parking lot. A petrol station stands behind the café and cars speed along the motorway nearby.

  “You need the toilet, sweetheart?” I ask as I enter the café.

  “Yes, I need the toilet.”

  I put her in front of the bathroom door. “I’ll order something for us.”

  She nods and walks, no limps into the bathroom. I stifle the urge to follow her. I can’t. It’s a female bathroom.

  I order food and drinks and offer Poppy my elbow as soon as she walks out. We sit down at a red table. The food has been delivered so I help her shake off my jacket and unzip her hoody.

  “Food okay, sweetheart?” I ask.

  She grabs a fork and pierces a piece of chicken with it. She puts the meat into her mouth. “It’s nice, thank you.”

  “Tell me what you did before Tank found you.”

  “Not a lot. I read comics books about Vikings. I had lessons three times a week. Maths is not my favourite subject.” Her right eye twitches. “I don’t understand maths at all.”

  “That’s no crime. I’ve never been good at maths either.”

  It’s a lie. I was the best at maths in my year group. Always. I graduated from one of the best universities in the country. Computers have no secrets from me.

  Poppy’s face lights up as she says with a full mouth, “You’re a bit like me then.”

  “Why would I not want to be like you, sweetheart?”

  I see confusion in her eyes.

  I thread my fingers through my hair and change the subject, “Your stepmother—“

  Poppy makes a shush gesture. “She’s evil.” She leans towards me. “Can I stay with you forever?”

  Something violent and feral wakes inside of me. I am a beast. Poppy is my prey. I’m going to devour her.

  Poppy

  He looks at me like he wants to devour me and that causes heat to fill my tummy. I like him. I’m scared of him. It’s crazy.

  No,
I really like him. I have butterflies in my stomach each time I glance at him.

  He wants to help me. That’s all that matters to me. I need to stay in hiding or Sabine will send those bad men to kill me for good.

  “You will stay with me forever,” he says.

  I exhale with relief. “I can cook for you. I mean I can learn to cook. I mean…”

  I can’t cook. I’ve tried a few times, but something always went wrong. Not to mention our cook and maid. They did everything for me.

  Jackson smiles at me. “I can cook for you.”

  “You’re very nice.” My hands rise in a chaotic movement. They always do so when I’m nervous. “Can I call you Jackson?”

  “Sure.”

  Jackson tilts his head as the waitress delivers our dessert. She puts two bowls with ice cream on the table and freezes as though she wants something from him. A smile raises the corners of her mouth.

  “Thank you,” Jackson says in a sharp voice.

  He grabs my hand, bringing it up to his lips and plants a kiss on the inner side of my wrist. The waitress’s eyes flutter before she walks off.

  I jerk my hand away from Jackson’s, but he grabs it again and our fingers lace. I’m a bit unnerved by his gesture, so I start burbling. I always burble when I’m nervous.

  “I have a learning disability,” I say, “but I understand the world. It’s not very bad, I mean my condition, and I can understand a lot. I’m sometimes different to everyone else, but I’ll try my best not to make you be cross with me.”

  “Why would I be cross with you?”

  “Sabine was. Then she’d say sweet things and I forgot. I kept forgetting until it was too much.”

  “Everything’s fine now, Poppy.”

  “I can be invisible. I’ll cause you no trouble, I promise.”

  Jackson chuckles, leans towards me, and pulls my chair closer to his. He throws his arm over my back, enveloping me with his closeness and heat and smell. He holds a spoon. I sigh as he dips it into my bowl and starts feeding me. The strawberry flavour layers my tongue like a cold fluffy cushion.

  “It’s melting,” Jackson says.

  Jackson

  I lower my head and inhale her. She smells of expensive jasmine soap and her own musk. My dick strains against my zipper. She’s such a cute and sweet thing.