Poet

by Juli Valenti

  Synopsis

  Poet Butler, the first female President of the outlaw motorcycle club, Hells Redemption, has one basic rule in life: Don’t date bikers, ever.

  After she’s randomly jumped during a clubhouse party, she takes off to her house in the hills to avoid her men seeing the bruises she’s sporting. The one flaw in her plan is the man who found her and demands to come with her.

  Titan Warren, the President of Bishops Reign, is an arrogant prick Poet can’t stand. He’s entitled, pushy, and attractive as hell, which only pushes her to dislike him more.

  Can Poet’s strength withstand bloodshed and conspiracy as the world she once knew falls apart? Or will she crumble under the pressure, and lose everything she’s ever known?

  Copyright © 2015 Juli Valenti

  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 from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Editing by Kristina Circelli with Red Road Editing

  www.facebook.com/RedRoadEditing

  Cover & Formatting by Rene Folsom with Phycel Designs

  www.Phycel.com

  Dedication

  For all the women who are stronger than they know…

  Especially Rene.

  Chapter One

  “I don’t give a damn what you or any other misogynist thinks. We all agreed to this deal, Titan included, and y’all damn well better keep your end of the bargain or I’ll snuff that shit quick.”

  Poet was seething, straining to keep her temper reined in as she stared at the two men across from her. They were pretty typical biker kinds, with tattoos and attitudes a mile high. Most people, men and women included, would be intimidated by their narrow eyes, their large bodies, and the menace that radiated from them. Poet, however, was not one of them.

  She watched as one of the men cast a sidelong glance to the other. They were messengers, chosen to meet with her instead of their Pres, and the fact the magnanimous prick couldn’t even make the ride himself pissed her off more. Instead, he sent his VP and goon. Dirk, Titan’s son, would have been good looking if he’d laid off the booze and the whores he kept in his bed daily. At six-three, with raven-dark hair and hazel eyes, she could see the appeal. Unfortunately, the life was taking its toll on the Bishop. Train, though, was in his prime, still young and disillusioned to the world he’d agreed to. Pity, too, because he was awfully pretty.

  “A Bishop always keeps his word,” Dirk said through gritted teeth and Poet smiled, a large encompassing smile. The Bishops Reign Motorcycle Club always kept their word, indeed. She knew it, had banked on it.

  “Good.” Glancing past them, she saw Shakespeare shaking his head and she swallowed a chuckle before turning back to face the Bishops. “I assume you brought the goods, then? We’ll be collecting now.”

  The sound of a chair scraping against the hardwood floor rang throughout the room as Dirk stood, running a hand through his chin-length hair before leaning forward. “You know, bitch, you think you’re the end all be all. Gonna be a hell of an awakening when you realize you’re just pussy, and your place is on the back of a bike, not in Chapel.”

  Poet didn’t move, instead letting the man stay in her face. It wasn’t the first time a biker would say that to her, and she doubted it would be the last, either. In a world where men ruled, where women were disposable or merely breeders and bed warmers, hatred toward her wasn’t uncommon. It was especially harder for the older men, the ones who’d never have allowed a woman to ride their own bike, let alone rise to such power. It was a fact of life that didn’t bother her and never had.

  She’d been born and raised in the life; after her mother died, she’d lived with her father at the clubhouse when he was there, at his house in the hills when he wasn’t. None of the men had a problem with it, instead accepting Fury’s word as law – and it was. As President, he could do whatever the hell he wanted and anyone who took offense to it was dealt with quickly. It was the way of Hells Redemption.

  As she grew up, Poet had little interest in leaving the club. It was all she’d known, and she’d begun asking her pop if she could tag along. He’d been resistant at first, wanting to keep her as the blonde princess he often referred to her as. But she was persistent, choosing to trade in her girly clothes for leather and boots; eventually she wore him down and he had no choice but to allow her on runs. Soon, she found herself somehow climbing the ranks, going out on more and more dangerous tasks as well as playing devil’s advocate for her father as his right hand.

  The two worked well together. All the men would brainstorm and then look to her, expecting her two cents. Most of the time she’d agree, backing the club and supporting their decisions. Other times, she’d weigh both sides, giving them all possible outcomes of any choice made, and how they’d deal with those repercussions. Some of the boys took to seeking her out on their own, asking not only advice but inviting her out when they’d cruise.

  More surprisingly was when Fury took two slugs to the chest over a deal gone bad, one she’d advised against. She’d been holed up in her room, desperately trying not to cry, when the men of the club voted her in to lead them. It was unprecedented, something that in the history she studied she couldn’t find another case of. Never before had a woman been named President instead of the Vice President taking over. And, at first, Poet had been worried Shakespeare would come after her. She would have put a bullet in his head if he’d tried, and everyone knew it, but he’d shocked her most of all. His had been the vote making it unanimous.

  “If pussy belongs on the back of a bike, perhaps you should climb on mine,” Poet answered finally, and her VP burst out laughing from his place against the wall before he walked forward. He knew better than to interfere, to come to her rescue, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t flank her in support. It was a small thing, something that kept her from feeling weak, while giving her backup at the same time. In any case, she wouldn’t allow any of her men to meet with another club alone – the buddy system at its finest.

  Dirk’s face immediately colored, changing from normal to a spectacular shade of pink, purple, then to blue as he struggled to remain neutral. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to guess what would happen if he drew down on her. Not only would he be dead before he could pull the trigger, but the Bishops would be declaring war on Redemption. No respectable club in the tri-state area would ever be stupid enough to think they could take them on and win. Hells Redemption simply had too much manpower and too many connections.

  After several unmoving heartbeats, Train spoke up. “We got the shit. Let’s trade hands and be on our way.”

  The man placed a hand on his brother’s arm, which was promptly shaken off, before he stood as well. Poet turned and nodded to Shakespeare, who led the two out of the heavy chapel door. Between her VP and Fallen, her Sergeant at Arms, she knew the shipment would be unloaded quickly, the money exchanged, and the Bishops escorted off her property faster than she could blink. Thank fuck.

  Standing, she allowed her fingers to idly trace the wood grains of the long chapel table. She could still see her father standing behind it, his face pinched in anger. Shaking her head, she left the room, the door slamming behind her. Now wasn’t the time to get lost in nostalgia. There was one more piece of business she had to take care of with the great Bishops.

 
Poet grasped her phone from the plastic bin outside the entryway, where they all dumped their electronics before meetings to avoid bugs. Swiping the screen, she scrolled through her contacts before finding the one she was looking for. Unable to hide her smirk, she waited as it rang and a gruff voice answered.

  “Titan.”

  “Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf?” she asked in greeting, enjoying the growl that escaped him.

  “Fuck you, Poet. What do you want?”

  “I may be wrong, but I seem to recall a Chapel meeting scheduled today. I believe you were not only invited, but a key component in that arrangement.”

  “I got held up. Sent my VP—”

  “To cover your ass, I know. To be honest, I’m damn tired of dealing with Bishops today, and you’re the icing on the fucking cake. I’ll only say this once, and we all know I mean the things I say, the next time your boy comes into my house and gets in my face, I will take the act as a blessing from you. You can bet your ass that won’t go over well and you know it. Don’t fuck with me, Titan. And the next time you try to screw me out of a deal, at least give me the curtesy of a reach around.”

  Poet leaned against the wall. She was tired, and desperately wanted to catch some sleep in her bunk before the party. It had been a long day, and an even longer week – she’d been out before the sun rose yesterday and still hadn’t seen a shower or the blessed relief of her bed. Shit was getting old fast, and she was running out of patience.

  “What the hell are you talking about? Dirk and Train were supposed to dump the shit, tell you I was sorry I couldn’t make it, and get the fuck out. You know I’d never endorse them getting—”

  “I told you, I’m tired of dealing with the fucking Bishops today. I don’t give a flying fuck what you ordered them to do – I’m telling you what they did. Just fix it so I don’t have to put a hole in your baby boy’s face.”

  “Aww, one would think your crazy ass actually has a conscious, Poet. You should probably watch that,” Titan said wryly, almost bringing a smile to her face.

  Thing was, once upon a time, Titan wasn’t a complete asshole. He’d merely been a boy with a motorcycle, or so she’d been told. From the things Fury had told her, he’d chosen the life – having known nothing of it in the beginning. It hadn’t taken long for most of his redeeming qualities to be swallowed amongst the hardness, though. Shortly after patching in, he’d begun taking all the snuff runs and it had all been downhill from there.

  “Fuck you, Titan.”

  With that, Poet hung up. A heartbeat later her phone vibrated in her hand and she glanced down, confused. Titan texted her?

  I’ll watch it for you, if you need me to Princess.

  Fuck him indeed.

  Chapter Two

  Poet sat near one of the many bonfires burning, her boots propped on the top of the picnic table as she surveyed the party around her. Bodies were pumping, dancing along to the loud country rock music blaring from large speakers. Booze and smoke hung in the air, mixing with the smell of mistakes and bad decisions to come.

  She couldn’t help but shake her head. Some things never changed. There were brothers sitting down, chatting, others feeling up one of the many sweeties around, hoping for a shot on the back of their bike. It was an unfortunate way of life, having the women there – one that had been that way since before she’d been around and would continue long after she was gone. And, while she couldn’t change it, she had made rules.

  Poet didn’t care who fucked who, where they did it, or when, as long as it didn’t violate two things. First were their runs. The minute a chippie fucked something up, they were gone – where they went, she didn’t give a damn. Secondly, any of the men who were married were not indulging anywhere near her presence. She refused to have any hand in her boys treating their old ladies like doormats. Not all women could be armed and dangerous, willing to do whatever it took to get a job done, but those who stood behind their man should be given the respect they deserved. It was an injustice that they were usually walked all over, cheated on, impregnated, and left to rot in a cabin far away from the rest of the world.

  Hells Redemption didn’t work that way. They may ride motorcycles, get dirty with blood on bad days and mud on the good, but they weren’t uncivilized. And, what had shocked her, was that none of the men had disagreed with the rule – she’d expected a huge fight when she’d brought it up at Chapel, expected to argue and create a few holes, but once again, her men proved their worth. Not all of them wholeheartedly agreed, but those who didn’t kept their opinions to themselves, and only got their cocks wet when Poet wasn’t around. It was an arrangement that worked for all of them.

  “Need a drink?”

  Without looking up, Poet took the bottle of Patron that was extended and took a swig, enjoying the burn as it slipped down her throat. Shakespeare set the tequila down when she handed it back, and pulled up a chair beside the picnic table, sitting back to take in the crowd as she was doing.

  Her Vice President was one of her trusted inner circle – she trusted the man with her life, her thoughts, and honored his opinions when he gave them. Orphaned as a child, he’d had nothing before being found on the streets by Ezekial on a run close to forty years ago. He’d brought the boy home, given him to his old lady, and enlisted her father in getting papers for him. Fury had told her the man’s story, most of it anyway, and when she’d asked why E had done what he did, her pop had merely shaken his head. E was bat-shit crazy, acted first and thought later, making him a loose cannon among the group – for him to have done something selfless for another, especially an infant, was completely out of character. Unfortunately, no one had ever gotten the real answer; he’d died when he kamikazed into a group of Bishops ten years ago.

  In his forties, Shakespeare was what most women would classify as tall, dark, and handsome. His shoulder-length, jet-black hair was a complete contrast to his porcelain skin and emerald eyes. With lips almost always pulled into a smirk and his chin stubbled, he had an easy way about him … until you got to know him. Shit lingered beyond the surface of the man, almost frighteningly so; and, despite the soft spoken-ness about him, he was one of her most dangerous.

  He never hesitated, ever. When Shakespeare’s mind was made up, the discussions were over. It was one of the things that had bonded them, made them more friends than Pres and VP. Plus, he’d never given a damn that she didn’t have a dick.

  Once during a run when she was just knee high to a grasshopper, she’d taken watch duty, keeping an eye out at the door - something she was awful at. Poet had let her eyes wander, taking everything in as her pop and the other brothers did their business. She spotted something the men hadn’t seen during their walkthrough: a sniper on the second floor. Unthinking, she’d leveled her own gun, aimed through her sight, and fired twice. The sniper had tumbled from the landing, landing at Shakespeare’s feet. Her pop had been pissed, but Shakespeare merely chuckled and nodded his thanks to her. And, from that moment, he’d regarded her as he would one of the boys.

  “Shit ton of people here,” he stated dryly, reaching for the bottle and drinking before passing it back to her.

  Poet merely nodded. He was right; there was a good three hundred people or so taking up the outside space of their compound. It was a celebration, a victory for seeing another June. After Fury died and she took over, she’d begun monthly parties, often for no other reason than living to die another day. In their world, death was inevitable and while it was sad, it was expected. Sometimes they all needed to remember they weren’t there just yet. They honored those they loved and lost, and they enjoyed those they still had. As a bonus she hadn’t thought of, morale raised with them. The boys looked forward to the events and had begun taking turns theming them out.

  Tonight’s theme was country rock; music of the likes of Creedence Clearwater Revival and the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band mixed with Garth Brooks, Alabama, Alan Jackson, and even Blake Shelton. Some of the brothers had brought in bales of hay to
be used as seats and beer by the caseload. Large-brimmed hats were everywhere, looking ridiculous and out of place among the leather cuts they wore. The sweeties, old ladies, and other women mingling amongst the men wore cowgirl boots, frayed jeans, and various flannel shirts.

  There were more there than just the HR family as well; Poet could see some Bishops amongst her men, laughing, joking, and drinking. She wasn’t angry about it, regardless of the bullshit she’d had to deal with them earlier – as long as they caused no trouble, all was fine tonight. Tomorrow would be different, but tonight they partied. Luckily none of the members of Diablo Hermanos had the balls to show up. While Poet could stomach the Bishops, the DH were KOS in her book.

  Eyes met hers as she gazed across the fire and she steeled herself. Of course he’d be there.

  “Who the fuck invited Titan?” she asked Shakespeare, accepting the offer of a Camel. Lighting it, she breathed deeply, cursing internally. The small nap she’d taken earlier hadn’t given her enough patience to deal with the Pres and she couldn’t help but wish she was at her pop’s house in the hills. The man pissed her off, made her see red; when he was around she was constantly a hair trigger away from putting one between his eyes.

  The man in question refused to look away as well, instead peering intently at her from across the way. She watched as he lifted a finger and crooked it, summoning her to him. Smiling sweetly, she seated her smoke in her mouth before lifting her own hand and flipping him off.

  “Want him gone?”

  “Nah. Bastard can stay where he is.”

  “He wants to talk to you,” her VP added and she broke eye contact with Titan to look at him, arching an eyebrow. Shakespeare mirrored her before holding up a hand. “I ain’t sayin’ go to him – I’m just pointin’ it out.”