Poet

by Juli Valenti

  When he thrust back into her, deeply, she could have cried with relief. “Oh, Poet, you’ve been seriously deprived. Trust me, babe, we’ve got all night. And the morning.”

  Titan resumed the same punishing rhythm he’d developed, building her back to the same gasping mess she’d been before she had him stop. His breathing was labored as he moved, occasionally rolling into her, changing the motion enough to pull her back from the brink. It was as if she was a musical instrument and he’d become a master at playing her. Every movement he made was catered to her, blowing her mind.

  “Fuck yeah, Poet. Fuck yeah, feel that,” he demanded as her body quivered around him, squeezing into him. The huskiness in his words pushed over, forcing her orgasm from her.

  She was a slave to him in that moment, her nails digging into his back as his name tumbled from her lips. And, still, he didn’t slow. He made her ride it out, longer than she’d ever done before. Just when she thought she’d go insane from the intense sensation, he pulled out and rolled her over.

  Her body still tightening, he plunged back into her, positioning her. One foot on the floor, one knee up, her ass in the air, he took her from behind, his hands resting almost gently on her hips. His fingertips dug into her skin as he thrust into her, creating a new melody for them to dance to.

  The position had never been one of Poet’s favorites – it spoke of too much trust on one end, and a complete lack of on the other. Too many bikers preferred the position, making the anonymity easier to swallow when they were cheating on their women. Her back stiffened and she opened her mouth to protest.

  “You and me, Poet, right now. No one else, no other fucking thought.”

  It was like the man was reading her mind, yet his words caused her to relax, to fall into the movement of him inside her. With his size and the angle, it was a completely different sensation, and completely amazing.

  It didn’t take long for the quivering to start again, but this time there was no tipping point. She was so close, almost there, as was he, judging by his strained grunts; she just couldn’t find the crest. Abruptly she felt the loss of one of his hands, only to feel the sting of his palm across her bare ass. Once, twice, and her breathing skyrocketed.

  “Fuck, Titan,” she groaned, enjoying his roughness. Unable to stop herself, her ass rose up, begging for more, and he obliged. Another, and another, and finally, on the last, she exploded around him, the mixture of pleasure and pain too much for her body to bare.

  “Thank Christ,” Titan cursed between gritted teeth, his body jerking as he pulled out. She felt the warmth of his orgasm as he released on her lower back, taking pride in his almost loss of control. It had taken a great deal for him to pull out.

  Poet remained unmoving, struggling to breathe, when she heard him murmur something and his body warmth leave her. She’d never admit it aloud, but she missed it the second it was missing. Surprisingly, just as she was about to get even more pissed that she’d just had sex with the Bishop, he returned with what she could only assume was a kitchen hand towel.

  With more care than she ever imagined possible from the large man, he wiped at her back, cleaning up the mess he’d made on her. Even more shocking, when he was finished, he climbed back onto the couch, turning her to face away from him, and wrapped her in his arms.

  “Don’t think this means I won’t fucking bury your ass, Bishop.”

  “Shut the hell up, Poet,” he answered, though there was little heat to his words.

  Slowly, her breathing became even and she allowed herself to relax into his body. She didn’t even have time to question what they’d done – she was blissfully asleep within seconds.

  Chapter Seven

  Poet moved silently down the stairs, her body aching from both the beating and her afternoon workout with Titan. She’d woken at dusk and carefully extracted herself from the tight grip he had on her in his sleep. She needed to get out, now rather than later.

  So, making as little noise as possible, she showered again, threw her hair up in a tight top knot, and dressed quickly. Knowing very little about the man naked and passed out on her couch, she wasn’t sure if he was a light sleeper or not, and she didn’t want to chance him waking.

  Snatching her rig and ensuring her gun was still loaded, with the safety on, she slipped into it, sighing at its familiar weight as she snuck out into the garage. The door was loud as it rolled open and she almost held her breath, waiting for a pissed-off biker to rage after her. Luckily, he didn’t.

  Poet backed her bike out into the driveway before starting the engine. She didn’t really have a plan as to where she was going – she knew she was hungry, having only eaten breakfast, so the store was going to be on the list somewhere. But she was restless, frustrated, and the cool night air blowing in her face helped clear her mind.

  About a mile down the road, she slowed, deciding at the last minute to make a quick right down the small country path. It had been a while since she’d been there; the grass had grown and wildflowers were in bloom. A part of her wished she’d come earlier in the day, when the sun was shining, but then, if it had been, she probably wouldn’t have.

  Slowing to a stop, she parked her bike and climbed off, leaving her helmet on the seat. Her footsteps were soft as she moved, as if every movement forward had to be quieter than the last to avoid disturbing them.

  Two granite tombstones came into view and she sat in front of them, remaining silent while idly cleaning the area of stray sticks and leaves.

  “Hey Momma, hey Pop,” she whispered, the ground cold through her black yoga pants. Wrapping her arms around herself, her gaze moved between the two stones, the last pieces of her parents.

  “Sorry it’s been so long since I visited y’all. Shit’s been crazy with the club and, well, we all know I avoid things that make me less than strong.”

  Poet closed her eyes, conjuring up images of her mom and dad. Her pop came up in her mind quickly, a picture flip-book of memories and smiles, of lessons learned. Her mother, though, was like a ghost, a wisp of a face in the back of her head.

  Lenore Butler died when she was just shy of three, having been in the wrong place at the wrong time – her life ending in a heartbeat at the hands of their enemies. Diablo Hermanos had been pissed at the club, having felt jilted over a deal gone bad. To get even, they planned a drive-by shooting; the brothers had been unharmed. Her mother, though, who wasn’t even supposed to be there but decided to surprise her husband with an unplanned visit with their daughter, had been killed. Poet had been strapped in the backseat at the time.

  Her hand rubbed at the scar on her calf, the only physical scar she had from the event. It had been a miracle, the police said, that she hadn’t been killed as well – her car seat had somehow stopped the slugs that would have taken her life. All but the one. Of course, the emotional scars couldn’t be seen from the outside. No child, no daughter, should ever lose their mother at such a young age. It simply wasn’t right.

  Fury had been beside himself – full of anger, self-hatred, even fear at the sight of his daughter bleeding in the backseat, screaming like a banshee. Or, at least, that was what she’d been told by some of the brothers who had been around.

  Her parents had met at a party; her mother celebrating finals week of her junior year at UCLA and her father there for a run. At first he’d merely thought of her as a piece of ass, looking to cross biker off her bucket list, but things changed quickly. Only four months later they were married, and two after that Lenore discovered she was pregnant. Judging by the photos her father had kept, they’d been beyond happy.

  “Pop, you’d be so disappointed in me,” she whispered, hanging her head, forcing the tears back that were trying to form in her eyes. “I’ve made some pretty shitty decisions here lately. And, as you can probably see, got the hell beat out of me the other night at the club. The thing is, I don’t even know where to begin to find out who the prick is. We have so many enemies, so many who could want me to hurt.

>   “None of our boys know. Except for Shakespeare. And fucking Titan,” she cursed, hating herself. How could she have slept with him? He was the President of Bishops Reign. He was a coldhearted bastard with a reputation to rival hers. The man was a pompous asshole, everything she’d sworn she’d avoid in life and in her bed. Yet, even thinking about his hands on her body, him moving inside her, made her want him again.

  “I swear to God that Bishop is going to be the death of me, Momma. How could you have ever just jumped at the chance to be with Daddy? I mean, I know he was a different kind of man, of biker, but so many of them are the same. I don’t want that for my future. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you married Daddy – because I wouldn’t be here otherwise – and I like my life. I never wanted for anything, other than you, and Daddy was a good one. All the brothers were like uncles, a lot of them still are, and I knew more love than I ever thought possible. I enjoy being who I am … but isn’t there supposed to be some sort of separation?”

  Wind continued to blow, giving her answers and more questions, yet no peace. It was moments like these, when she felt so lost as a woman, she really hated the DH. She hated them for killing an innocent, for killing the one person who could help her now. And she’d sworn she’d bury every single one of them. Before she died, she would leave a fucking crater where that club was concerned.

  A voice cleared behind her and she jumped to her feet, hand going for her Ruger. She groaned when she found Titan standing, his hands out, showing he wasn’t a threat. Ire rose in her and she dropped her arms.

  “How did you find me?”

  “Heard your bike. Figured you’d gone for a ride and decided to join you – figured you’d be here when I saw the path. I almost forgot you chose this place over St. Luke’s.”

  “Gonna tell me how I damned their souls to eternal flames of Hell for choosing it instead of the Catholic cemetery?”

  “Nope. Know as well as you don’t matter where the fuck their bodies are – they ain’t there anymore. We bury them for our sake, not theirs.”

  Poet nodded and turned back to the stones, kissing her fingers and brushing them across the smooth tops. I love you and miss you so fucking much, she told them in her head. She didn’t know how much the Bishop had heard, yet she didn’t ask. When she turned around, he was staring at her and she met his eyes, refusing to back down.

  Long moments passed before he spoke. “Well? We riding or what?”

  “We’re riding.”

  Together, they did just that, the only sound in the night the rumbling of their bikes and the wind. It was different than the night before, her body not struggling to hold the weight of her Harley up. She also wasn’t as uneasy with Titan riding beside her. Occasionally he’d glance over, either to check on her or to merely watch her ride, she wasn’t sure.

  She had to hand it to the guy. He never once complained or slowed, matching her speed comfortably, the two of them moving with the synchronicity of a well-trained pack. When she finally slowed, he followed suit, pulling into a mom and pop all-night diner. She’d eaten there often, usually alone, and it was one of the best-kept secrets in the hills.

  “Hungry?”

  “Starving,” he replied, his eyes blazing with the one word, heating her to the core. Shooting a saucy smile over her shoulder, she climbed off her bike.

  “Good.”

  In the light of the small parking lot, she noticed he’d changed clothes, no longer wearing the jeans and button down he’d worn the night before. He was now wearing a pair of dark washed jeans and fitted white T-shirt, his cut thrown over it. She arched an eyebrow at him, allowing her eyes to move from his feet to his head, and back, clearly questioning him.

  “Always keep clean shit in your bags to wear, just in case.”

  Poet nodded, suddenly wishing she’d taken more time in dressing herself. Black yoga pants, a fitted baby-blue T-shirt, and her own cut along with her signature boots wasn’t exactly glamorous. Sure, he’d be considered “dressed down,” but he made it look good. She just looked biker grunge.

  Shrugging it off, she led them inside, smiling when Norma, the elderly lady who owned the place, came forward. The small restaurant always reminded her of what she could only imagine the true south was like – warm, with wood accents everywhere, complete with red gingham tablecloths. Everywhere on the walls were photos of people, patrons who came in, regulars, and their families.

  “Poet!” the woman exclaimed, walking around the hostess area to envelope her in a motherly hug, which she returned gladly.

  “Hey, Mrs. Norma,” she greeted, patting the smaller woman on the back before releasing her.

  “Girl, I barely see you anymore. Seems you’ve gone and grown on me again!” Norma shot a look at Titan, and quickly gazed back at her. “And you brought a boy.”

  Poet chuckled at the indignation on the Bishop’s face at being called a boy. It was just the way the older lady was – everyone was girl and boy, unless they were her age. Anyone else and the labels would drive her insane, but Norma could get away with it.

  “Mrs. Norma, this is Titan. He’s a … well, yes, he’s a boy.” She’d been about to say he was a friend, but he wasn’t, really, so she changed her mind at the last minute. Titan didn’t hesitate though, instead sticking his hand out, which the woman took and shook delicately.

  “I don’t like boys around my Poet.”

  With that, she turned, leading them to the booth she always gave Poet when she came in. It always made her smile – the elderly owner learned quickly that she didn’t like having her back to people, and had practically stuck a permanent reserved marker on the booth in the far back of the dining area. From there she could see the entire room, the door, and observe anything that may happen.

  “Old friend of yours?” Titan asked after Norma had taken their drink orders and hurried away to get them. Poet smiled again.

  “You could say that.”

  “Don’t need to say it – I can see it,” he added and Poet looked up from the familiar menu to see him staring at some of the pictures on the walls.

  She’d forgotten that most of them in this corner were of her at some stage in her life. There was one of her parents smiling and holding her as a blanket-wrapped infant; another of her and her pop when she was around eight, him in his biker leathers and she in a white daisy-print dress. There was more of a timeline of her life here, on the walls of this restaurant, then there was anywhere else – her house included. Her smile grew when she saw the visible difference in herself, when she shed her girlish dresses in exchange for tight jeans and tops, eventually adding in the custom leather cut Fury had made for her. Even in the later ones, her eyes were twinkling in each photo, proving that it had been Norma or Eugene taking them, the pseudo-grandparents she never had.

  Poet was saved from having to figure out what to say as Norma returned with their drinks, placing hers gently in front of her and slamming his down on the wooden table. She shot the large biker a glare before turning.

  “The usual, dear?”

  “Actually, my last meal was breakfast – I don’t really want it twice in one day. What’s Genie cooking for the dinner special?”

  The older lady’s face softened at the pet name Poet had given her husband years ago, one that stuck despite her growing older. The look made her suddenly uncomfortable, suddenly regretting the decision to lead Titan into a place that held such a place in her heart. Here, she didn’t usually have to worry about being Poet, Hells Redemption President. Her attitude melted away at the door, or maybe it was just temporarily covered by warmth. Either way, judging by the look the Bishop was giving her, she would have to deflect questions from him, and soon.

  “Well, for you, he’d make just about anything. But for everyone else it’s a taste of the south tonight – cube steak, homemade mash and peas and carrots, all smothered with the scratch gravy.”

  “Yum. I’ll take the special then. And thanks.”

  Norma nodded and turned to lea
ve, clearly ignoring Titan. Stifling a giggle, a sound she hadn’t made in forever, she cleared her throat. When the older lady turned, regarding her with an upraised eyebrow, she pointed toward him. She sighed and faced him, taking his order of the same, before wandering off, muttering about “another biker asshole” as she left.

  Poet had to give the man credit. While his face was reddening from his increased ire, when he spoke to Norma, he was polite, kind even. She’d been expecting attitude, to talk to the woman the way she knew he would speak to anyone who pissed him off. He surprised her though.

  “Thank you,” she said, her own words shocking her. She hadn’t meant to say them; they’d merely popped out.

  “For?”

  “For reining in your temper with Mrs. Norma. And, if it makes you feel better, it’s not really you. Well, it is, but it isn’t. She’s just … protective of me.”

  “You’re welcome. Have to ask though – she said another biker asshole. Who was the first she was referring to?”

  Poet had hoped he’d miss that. “I have rules for a reason, Bishop. I don’t date bikers.”

  “Okay … A, that explains nothing, and B, you are a biker, you know that, right?”

  “It explains everything,” she said, her hands gripping the wooden edge of the table, her knuckles whitening. “Rules keep shit in our lives neat, as neat as they can be with constant blood on our hands. I don’t kid myself about anything – I know I’m a cold-hearted bitch, with more stain on my soul than one person could wash away in a lifetime. But I have fucking morals and one of them includes staying as far away from biker men as possible.”

  “You are confusing as hell, Poet. I mean, yeah, we do shit we aren’t proud of. It’s who we are … and the fucked-up part of it, is that even though we don’t like what we have to do, we love it at the same damned time. The rush of taking care of our own, of burying someone who’s wronged us – it’s a fact of life so don’t look at me like that. You know it, I know it, no point in pretending anything else.