Poet

by Juli Valenti

  “What I don’t get, though, is your complete aversion to what you know. I’ve told you, multiple times it seems the past day, that I know you, Poet Butler. And before you get all fucking huffy with me, which I can see you about to do so calm the hell down, I mean I know your story, cliffs notes version. Your mom died in a drive by, you didn’t even get to know her. Jesus Christ, you were raised in HR – I’ve heard you call some of your boys ‘uncle.’ What the fuck is your complex when it comes to biker men, hell, men in general?”

  She had to take a couple deep breaths to keep from tipping the table. What the hell was wrong with her? Sure, she was a live wire, prone to flip shit with little provocation, but it was always worse when he was around. Somehow, he knew exactly what buttons to push to take her to the very edge of her patience.

  After the red, anger-induced haze began to fade from her vision, she spoke. “Since the time I was a little girl, I watched the men around me constantly fuck around on their women. Good women, women who, while they didn’t carry a gun or scrub the guts of another human off their hands, were just as strong as the biker men they married. I heard the words ‘Old Lady’ being thrown around with disgust, like, God for-fucking-bid, the man had to take responsibility for his own damned choices.

  “As I got older, I sat with them, held their hands while they cried, equally disgusted by their weakness and pissed off that they’d allowed themselves to be screwed around on like that. Call me what you want, a feminist, whatever, but it pisses me the fuck off. I swore a long fucking time ago I’d never be that way. I’d never be just a piece of ass on the back of a bike, sitting at home waiting in hopes my man will come home and warm my bed. Fuck that. Fuck it.”

  Her chest was heaving as she finished, and she realized the few other patrons in the restaurant had turned to look at her, her voice clearly rising as she ranted. The Bishop himself was staring at her oddly, which did nothing to calm her down. And he could stare at her all he wanted, even a womanizing asshole like him had to know she was telling the truth. It was the way of club life. The men were gods with women back home to raise babies and occasionally fuck, while if they were out, any ass would do.

  Mrs. Norma was suddenly at their table, having appeared out of nowhere, which only furthered to piss her off. Poet was usually more on her game than this, and it was irking the hell out of her that she hadn’t heard or seen the older lady shuffle over. She placed an iced bottle on the table and peered down at her.

  “One won’t affect your riding, love,” she said in explanation as she poured a shot of vodka and set it in front of her before turning and leaving once more.

  Mentally thanking her, grateful she knew her as well as she did, Poet tipped the clear liquid back and closed her eyes, counting to ten. Get your shit together, Poet. Shut the hell up, eat, and get the fuck home.

  “So you became a badass instead of a ballerina.”

  Her eyes snapped to meet his. “Ballerina? Where’d you get that?”

  Titan pointed to a smaller picture toward the top of the wall: her in a pink leotard, complete with tutu, holding a bouquet of flowers and surrounded by a dozen men in leather, all smiling proudly at the camera.

  “You should have seen the looks on the other kids,’ hell, and their parents,’ faces. All the brothers were armed, our club in the midst of some heavy shit, and there they were, cheering like I’d just danced on Broadway or something. Didn’t matter to them one bit that I sucked.”

  “I’ve never seen you smile like that…” he said thoughtfully, more to himself than to her, his eyes not leaving the image. “You look so fucking happy.”

  “Titan, why are you still here? Clearly I’m fine now. You did your Boy Scout duty for the year, making sure I got away from my clubhouse without killing myself. Why aren’t you back at BR?” she changed the subject, not wanting to share anything more personal with the man. Already, things were shifting in her, she could feel it happening. Not quite a softening for him, but an understanding and even a twisted sort of fondness. She liked verbally sparring with him, and the constant bickering, the battling with him. It was refreshing, in a way, and it all pissed her off.

  The large man in front of her didn’t answer, instead running a hand through his hair, which he’d left down. His head inclined to the side at the sound of shuffling footsteps and Norma appeared with their food. After thanking her, there was no more talking as they ate in silence, uncomfortable compared to earlier in the day.

  When finished, they stood and Titan placed money down despite Poet’s protests to pay for herself at least. Norma was going to give her hell later on that they paid to begin with, and admitting to the woman she’d let him pay wasn’t going to sit well with her. Once outside, they made their way to their bikes, still parked side by side where they’d left them. In sync they started them, revved the engines, and took off.

  Chapter Eight

  They were about a mile away from her house when Titan signaled to pull over, and more out of habit than anything she followed as he guided them to the side of the road. She watched, confused, as he shut off the engine to his Harley and removed his helmet before pacing away from her. Sighing, she did the same, and trailed slowly after him.

  When he turned abruptly, she jumped slightly, on edge. From what she knew of him, he was acting weird, and it was bugging her. It felt like something was wrong but she refused to ask.

  So they stood there, him staring at her, her staring at him, in the moonlight. The breeze caressed her skin as she continued to meet his gaze, random wildflowers swaying at their feet. She waited for him to say anything, to do something, not budging from where she’d planted herself.

  Titan took a step toward her, then another, and still she remained unmoving, not backing down or looking away. Directly in front of her, he reached out, grabbing her hip and tugging her so her body was pressed against his.

  “What—” she started, but was silenced as his lips came down on hers.

  This kiss was different than the last ones they’d shared. Before, anger had clouded her thoughts, creating a desperation she didn’t know was possible within herself. Now, though, he kissed her almost tenderly but firmly, giving her no room to pull away. His tongue traced the seam of her lips and she opened, allowing him access to explore her.

  They kissed for what seemed like hours, his arms wrapped strongly around her waist, hers around his neck. They kissed like lovers, like friends, like the world revolved around them and they didn’t have a care in the world. For a few moments she wasn’t Poet, President of Hells Redemption and he wasn’t Titan, President of Bishops Reign. They just were.

  The moment he pulled away she felt the loss to her toes, but she let him anyway. His large hand moved to cradle her face, his thumb tracing her cheek as he kissed her gently once more before releasing her and turning away.

  “I’ll be seeing you, Poet,” he told her, his voice almost sad, a clear goodbye.

  She was torn, part of her wanting to tell him to stop, to ask him to stay with her one last night. But the other half, the larger part of herself, held strong to her rules. He was a biker, and biker men were bad news. So, she watched as he casually restarted his bike, glanced once over his shoulder, and took off, leaving her alone on the side of the road, her thoughts at war with themselves.

  The house was quiet as she entered, seeming bigger than she remembered. Titan’s presence had filled the space, making it seem different. She wasn’t sad he was gone, she wasn’t. It was a good thing. He’d helped her for no reason, and scratched a sexual itch she’d clearly needed. That was it. She’d just needed to get laid.

  Shaking her head to clear it, she checked her cell phone, noting a missed call from Shakespeare, along with a text telling her to call back when she got the message.

  He picked up on the first ring. “Poet.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Fallen’s in the hospital – took a slug to the stomach when a Diablo caught him riding back. He’s in pretty bad shape but
should be fine; they missed Gabe.”

  “St. Agnes?” she asked, her words clipped. She’d been dicking around too long; her boy needed her and she was going to be there; who gave a fuck if anyone asked questions. Her plan had been to tell everyone at once at Chapel, but the game had just been changed.

  “Yeah. I’m here now – got it taken care of. All’s good.”

  “Bullshit. I’ll be there in twenty.”

  “It’s almost an hour ride.”

  “Twenty.” With that, she hung up and darted out the door.

  Poet rode like a bat out of Hell, her thoughts racing and her anger growing with every tree she passed. If she’d been on that run like planned, Fallen wouldn’t have gotten hurt. If some bastard hadn’t broken into her club and treated her like a fucking punching bag, she wouldn’t have been a weak bitch and gone into hiding.

  It took her twenty-two minutes to pull into the large parking garage of St. Agnes Memorial Hospital. Immediately she caught sight of Shakespeare’s bike, along with Cyrus’ and other brothers.’ Backing into the pack, she jumped off and all but ran into the hospital, her ribs aching and her boots echoing down the quiet halls. The clock on the wall read eleven PM, and it seemed deserted, the occasional nurse giving her a hard glance as she passed.

  She didn’t even need to ask for directions to find her Sergeant. Not that long ago she’d been in the same place, only it had been Fury in the bed, fighting for his life for the same reason. When she reached the waiting area, six of her men stood, faces tired and eyes bloodshot. As they took her in, their gazes turned to confusion, then questioning, before hardening in anger.

  A glance at the mirror on the wall was all the explanation she’d needed. With the ride and the shit with Titan, Poet had forgotten all about her face, plus Mrs. Norma hadn’t commented on it. While the older woman was used to seeing her in various states of being, she’d usually make some sort of comment to “helpfully” remind her about the dangers of her choices.

  Still, she was surprised she’d allowed herself to forget. Her ribs were a constant reminder, her hips when she moved wrong, but her face barely hurt. Her reflection sang a different song – it was bright purple, dark around her eye and trailing down her cheekbone, the color glaringly obvious against the alabaster of her skin. Guess that explains why the nurses had stared. Gray, one of the prospects, was the first to move forward.

  “Poet, what the hell happened to you?” he asked, concern etched on his young face, but she ignored him, looking for one of her trusted.

  “Cyrus, explain.”

  Cyrus, HR’s secretary, stepped forward, his eyes narrowing on her but smartly not saying anything about her appearance. “Gabe and Fallen were riding back after finishing the pick-up, the rest of us at the end of the poker run. From what we got out of Gabe, Diablos Hermanos showed up, six of them, and demanded what they claimed as theirs. Of course, our boys didn’t hand it over, and a Diablo got pissed. Started shooting. Missed Gabe entirely, but clipped Fallen in the gut. Took them about three hours to get the slug out and stop the bleeding, but he should live, so they said. Only Shakespeare’s been able to go in. All I know.”

  She reached out and clasped his forearm, a sign of comradery and thanks, glad Cyrus had been there. He was one of the best when needing information, giving only the facts and quickly. He returned the gesture before pulling her close and whispering in her ear.

  “We need to take care of more than one asshole? Or did you already bury the fucker who did that to your face?”

  “Later. Chapel. We have a lot of cleaning to do.”

  Her man nodded before releasing her, accepting her word the way they all did. It was a strange thing, the way they all listened to her. They dwarfed her, almost all of them, making her seem tiny. Add to that her long, wavy blonde hair and icy blue eyes, and she was a walking contradiction. The fact that every man who wore a Hells Redemption cut listened to her, took orders and followed her, was mind blowing. But, as Shakespeare had told her once, it had been their decision voting her as President, so of course they’d do as she said. And she spent the rest of her time praying she didn’t get them all killed.

  Needing to see her man before anything further, she strode down the corridor to where she knew Fallen would be. St. Agnes wasn’t a large hospital, with only a couple emergency areas and an ICU on the first floor. The second was home to the maternity ward and nurseries. Poet stopped outside the only closed door of the three rooms and took a deep breath.

  Anger running through her veins, along with bad memories, she steeled herself, trying to remain calm. In reality, all she wanted was to fly out the doors and ride hard, finding the bastards who shot her Sergeant and bury their asses. Unfortunately, revenge was a dish best served cold, with a clear head. Right now, she was anything but.

  Just as she reached for the handle, the door opened, a young brunette nurse exiting the room. Her gaze fell first on Poet’s face, then her cut, her eyes widening at the sight of the Ruger peeking out from under her arm. The girl recovered quickly and her face blanked as she spoke.

  “I’m sorry, only immediate family after hours. You’ll have to wait to see your boyfriend.”

  “Move.” The one word was spit through gritted teeth, Poet’s attempt at not calling the girl out. She knew if she said too much, she was going to explode, and, as good as it would feel, it really wasn’t her fault. It’s not her fault. It’s not her fault, she mentally chanted, balling her fists to contain the rage running through her.

  “I’m … I’m sorry, but really. It’s long after visiting hours. I’ve already told the men in the waiting room the same thing, you can wait there with them,” she said, this time her voice not as sure, her previous attitude blowing away like a gasped breath.

  “Sarah, is it?” Poet said, reading her name off the badge around her neck. “My patience is shit right now. And, while I’m mentally reciting how it is not your fault, you really don’t want to fucking push me right now. The man in that bed is my brother and I swear to God if you don’t move out of the way so I can see him breathing, I will move you myself.”

  The nurse, Sarah, who couldn’t have been more than twenty, went ashen at her threat, but still remained where she was. Unable to contain her temper any longer, Poet’s hand shot out, grabbing her by the throat and slamming her against the door jam.

  “Poet!”

  Her gaze snapping to her left, she saw Shakespeare moving quickly toward her, presumably to keep her from doing something stupid. Poet shook her head slightly, her eyes hard in his direction, and his steps slowed. The look was a warning, a silent order with a demand to be heeded. Content he wouldn’t interfere, she turned back to the girl, ignoring the quiet tears falling from her eyes.

  “Listen to me, Sarah, and listen closely,” Poet whispered, waiting for the girl to nod, proving she was, indeed, listening. “You’re going to walk away and continue on your rounds. I’m going to go in there and make sure my brother’s heart is beating and that I didn’t lose him to the same assholes who stole my mother.”

  Sarah was shaking, her entire body trembling as she nodded frantically, and Poet’s grip loosened. A twinge of guilt pierced through her fury at the terror in the girl’s eyes.

  “I told you not to push me,” she whispered to her as she watched the younger girl nearly sprint through the corridor before disappearing down another hallway. Pulling her gaze back to her VP, she could see his eyebrows raised, curiosity mixed with exhaustion written on his face, but she merely shook her head once more. There would be time for talking after she checked on Fallen.

  Moving with as soft of footsteps as she could manage, she entered his room, swallowing a gasp. Fallen looked almost lost amongst the tubes and machines, his body seeming almost small in the hospital bed. Her Sergeant was a big guy – six foot six, two hundred and fifty pounds – and seeing such a large man looking tiny was unnerving. Images of her father, in the exact same bed, rushed to her mind and she forced them away. She needed to focus
on Fallen, not relive old shit.

  Poet pushed at the chair at the bedside, scooting it away so she could prop at the edge of his bed, avoiding the tubing that saved his life. He had an IV in his hand, two more lines that disappeared under the blanket, and an oxygen tube in his nose. She wanted to reach out and move his bangs out of his face, to see him, but she was afraid to touch him. A heart monitor behind his head beeped steadily, proving his vitality, and she hung her head, swallowing air like it was in short supply.

  “You look like shit, Pres,” a gravel voice said, just above a whisper, and her head shot up.

  Her eyes met Fallen’s, his hazel eyes seeming unfocused, but aware. Poet swallowed back unwanted, unneeded tears, and took the hand he weakly extended toward her.

  “I could say the same about you,” she said truthfully. She hadn’t gotten every detail from Cyrus, but it was clear he’d been riding when he was clipped. His face was covered in road rash, same with his hands, and his lower lip was busted.

  “I have good reason – I was shot by a fucking douchebag. What’s yours?”

  “Got jumped at the clubhouse last night during the party. Fucker was too much of a pansy to confront me like a man.”

  Her Sergeant’s eyes widened momentarily before narrowing in on her, the previous fog she’d seen in them lifting slightly. She’d known he was going to be one that took the assault on her personally – as her Sergeant at Arms, he was, by office, her protector. Not that she really enforced the position; in Hells Redemption, all brothers looked after the other, with none in particular assigned to any one person. Still, Fallen often demanded the role.

  “While I was busy fucking club ass,” he said, more of a question than a statement. When she made no comment, he continued. “I’m so sorry, Pres, I should have been watching your back.”