Poet

by Juli Valenti

  Bile rose in her throat as her eyes tried to water, the urge to vomit while simultaneously panic strong. The world was spinning, despite her sitting. She hated what she was seeing, that of all people who could jumped her it would be a prospect. The fact that it was a familiar patch made it even worse.

  Blue was prospect patch for Bishops Reign. And she’d just spent the last few days fucking their President.

  Chapter Twelve

  Poet listened as the phone rang on the other end, her hand shaking and her palm sweating. It had taken her over twenty minutes to calm long enough to dial Titan’s number. After the world had steadied, Shakespeare’s look of pity had almost made her mad enough to punch the man she respected.

  “Hey, babe, miss me already?”

  The sound of the Bishop’s voice equally warmed her and made her nauseous. Especially if he knew … and how could he not? Her prospects were kept on a short leash with their sponsors. No way would one of hers pull something like his had and not be immediately called on it.

  Yes, because I’m a pathetic bitch. “Not quite.” Her words were clipped, her anger barely contained. She hated that she did miss him, that though only a few hours had passed, she missed the feel of his body. Stupid, pathetic fucking bitch.

  “Okay … this business rather than pleasure, I take it?”

  “You take it right,” she paused for a moment, gathering how she was going to go about having this conversation. Openly demand to know what he knew, why he’d seduced her anyway? Or try to find out if he somehow didn’t know?

  “All right, President… your call, your floor.” Now the tone of Titan’s voice had changed. No longer were his words filled with warmth and playfulness. He was all Bishop’s Reign President now, hard and ready to get his hands dirty.

  “The party. You seemed to have been missing a fucking prospect, President.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Poet? I don’t even have any prospects at the moment.”

  “Funny. Because I know otherwise. Pretty much irrefutable proof of the fact, actually. Other than the very colorful display on my face, even.”

  Poet could hear him dismissing someone on the other end, an obvious play to clear the room so he could talk to her without interruption. “Are you implying that one of my men jumped you? That’s some serious shit, Poet. Not only would it be a big fucking mistake – we don’t necessarily want to go to war with HR – but it would piss me off. I spent the last few days making sure you were all right, or have you already forgotten. Why would I have done that if I ordered someone to beat the shit out of you?”

  “I’m not implying anything, Bishop. Funny how the exact same douchewaffle that kicked the shit out of me was caught on our cameras. Oh, and you certainly taught him well – he was smart, not showing his face, no identifying tattoos or markers to give away his identity, but not bright enough to zip his fucking hoodie all the way to hide his blue prospect patch. You see why I don’t have to imply anything, right?

  “What I can’t seem to wrap my mind around, though, is why. I mean, it was your men trying to screw me out of the deal you and I had already made. And then, even more surprising, was your impeccable timing – finding me beaten and bloody. Was that your plan, maybe? To get one of your rookies to jump me in hopes of leaving me vulnerable? I mean, hell, I can’t exactly fault you for it, since it worked, but it seems an awful lot of work for a piece of ass.”

  Poet took a deep breath, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her head. Through everything she was slightly impressed with herself – she wanted so badly to yell, to scream and call him a dirty bastard for hurting her, a coward for getting her fucked up, and an entire slew of profanities. Instead she kept her voice down, not wanting the rest of the club to overhear her conversation with their rival club’s President. She wasn’t one hundred percent on how she was going to deal with him yet, and if they knew what was going on, she knew they’d be jumping on their bikes and going on a joy ride with guns blazing.

  “Tell me why, Titan. Why go through all that fucking trouble? Was it simply a fact of two birds and one stone? What was the end goal? Hurt your rival club, knock their President down a few notches and get in her pants all at the same time?”

  “Babe –”

  “Do not call me babe, you arrogant asshole. I’m the fucking President of Hells Redemption and your equal, and you should show me enough respect to address me as such.”

  “Poet,” he started again, her name a sigh as he spoke. “I do not have any prospects at the moment because the last few have been nothing but a pain in my ass. None of my brothers want to sponsor any of the stragglers that hang around – they think a motorcycle club is all pretty fucking Harleys and sweet ass to tap.

  “Therefore, as I have no prospects, I gave no such order. And me getting in your pants? That’s just makes me a lucky son of a bitch because I want you, even when you’re completely off the mark.”

  “Stop patronizing me, Bishop. What part of I have fucking proof don’t you get? Your man! In my club! Leaving my room, blue prospect patch. There’s not a whole lot of room in there for ‘no such order.’ I can’t believe I fucking trusted you, even for five goddamned minutes.”

  “Poet –”

  “I let you in my house – in my bed. What the fuck was I thinking? You’re worse than the rest too, can’t man up to the shit you start, the shit you cause.”

  “Poet –”

  “You need to fucking fix this, Bishop. I’ll give you three days. Count them, three fucking days. Give me the name of your prospect, or, even better, give me the prospect himself because I will fucking kill him once I find out. No one comes into my house and fucking hurts me for no fucking reason, regardless of whoever gives them a fucking order.” Poet’s voice was rising, the word fuck becoming almost like punctuation, her anger and frustration and hurt pouring out of her in a rush.

  “Poet –”

  “I mean it, Titan. Three fucking days. Or you’ve officially declared war.”

  With that she hung up, unable to bear talking to him anymore. She didn’t want to hear any of the words he may have to say, any excuse or any more of his goddamned lies. Never date a biker. It had been her mantra for years and she’d given up, given in to Titan, for the heat of his body and the strength of his hands. You knew better, Poet.

  No arguments came to mind to fight with the small voice in her head. She had known better. But, the Bishop had played a good game; he knew exactly what to say, how to deal with her. The man had made her laugh, made her giggle, made her moan, and made her scream. Even more pathetic was if he were to show up, she knew she’d still want him, even knowing he’d orchestrated a jump on her.

  The look on Fallen’s face when he’d been watching Sarah flitted through her. She wanted that look, and, for a heartbeat, had seen it on the Bishop’s face. As she sat there thinking, the absurd desire to cry flooded her, her eyes tearing, and she squeezed them shut, refusing. Behind her lids she saw Titan, heard him whisper her name as he came.

  Wait a minute, the small voice in her head came to her rescue, drawing her attention to something else, a small thread of thought hidden away in the back of her mind. Fallen, the hired hit from the Diablos. If the Bishops were behind the jump on her … maybe they were linked all around. The idea that Titan could have not only had her beaten, but also wanted her dead, made her breath catch.

  Moving robotically, Poet moved to the door of her room and locked it before falling on her bed, letting her hiccupped breaths take her away. Tears came shortly after that, too many to count, and she let them fall, all the while hating herself for having been so weak. For having allowed herself, even if for only a few short days, to think she may have found her match, her equal – both in business and in the bedroom. She let the tears fall for the heart she had left, and the pieces she could feel dying with each drop that traced her cheek.

  The sound of her phone vibrating where she’d dropped it on the floor came and went, but she didn
’t pick it up. What was the point? She already knew it would be Titan, telling her how he has no idea what she’s talking about, or that she’s crazy. And reading those words from him, more lies, would only hurt worse. At the moment, she didn’t need more hurt. If anything, she needed her anger to come back or even numbness. Numbness would work. Numbness would be grand.

  Following that line of thought, she wiped her face, briefly checking the mirror to ensure it didn’t look like she’d just broken down like a teenager. Her eyes were slightly bloodshot, but luckily, the bruising still camouflaged the worst of it. Nodding and giving herself a mental ‘you can do this’ pep talk, she left her room in search of the club bar. She needed a drink. Alcohol had been away for far too long, and she was missing its company.

  “Hey, Uncle Wyatt,” she greeted the older brother behind the bar as she propped herself on one of the stools. He was the oldest still riding, somewhere in his late sixties, but as quick on his feet and as spry as some of the younger, newest recruits. When she was young, he was one of the men who took to looking after her, sneaking her sweets after Fury had said no, or surprising her with dolls that she’d asked for.

  His eyes lit up as he grabbed a bottle of vodka from the mini fridge and poured a couple fingers into a tumbler over ice. “Well hello, Princess Pea,” he said, and she grinned at him the nickname he’d used for years. “Whole club is talking about your face – can’t say I blame them, ugly-looking bruise you got there. Doubt it’s not the only one?”

  “It’s not, but I’m alright.”

  “Your eyes tell a different story, Princess Pea. You’ve been cryin.’ ‘Course, you don’t have to tell me, none of my business, but you should know I’m damn proud of the woman you’ve become. Your mom and dad would be too. You’re beautiful and strong, damn good with a gun, and the clearest headed person in HR. And President?” he chuckled softly, pouring himself a glass from the bottle as well. “Who woulda thought the lil lady I’d twirl around the clubhouse in a tutu would one day rule all this … and rule it well.”

  It was her turn to laugh. “I don’t know all that – you make it sound like a kingdom. And my tutus were awesome.”

  “That they were … what, with six mean biker men making them?”

  That he remembered made her heart warm, the memory a much-needed diversion. When she’d danced, and not having a mom to cater to her costumes and makeup, the men of the club had stepped up. Not only that, but they took to it with gusto, learning everything they needed in order to make sure she was the best outfitted seven-year-old in the chorus line. Thinking back, it was hilarious, six grown bikers dressed in leather and covered in tattoos, guns on the tables, sitting around with needles and thread, sewing tulle. She’d almost pay to have them recreate the scene, just so she could take a picture. Of course, her father wouldn’t be amongst them now, but it would still be a great memory to immortalize.

  “Heh. Wasn’t a time we ever disliked that job. Anyway, you got your drink – the boys are watching TV. Looks like you could do with some mindless entertainment. Off you go, Princess Pea.”

  “Thank you, Uncle Wyatt. For more than just the Grey Goose.”

  Poet’s feet led her to the living area of the club, where the sixty-inch TV was on, the surround sound booming, and about ten of her men lounging on the couches. Seeing her, Cyrus and Shakespeare shifted, allowing room for her between them, and she took the spot, nodding in thanks and sipping from her drink.

  “What are we watching?” she whispered, asking whoever was listening.

  “True Blood,” Cyrus whispered back, his eyes not leaving the screen.

  “Isn’t that based off a book … with sparkling vampires?”

  “No way,” Gray protested from his seat on the floor. “You’re thinking Twilight. This one’s about vampires who drink blood out of a bottle, and Bill, that one right there, loves Sookie – the blonde in waitress uniform. She can hear people’s thoughts.”

  “So she’s the vampire?”

  “No, Bill is,” Shakespeare chimed in and she looked at him, confused.

  “Then why is she drinking his blood?”

  “It’s a long story. Basically she got the shit beat out of her,” Gray started, flinching when he realized what he said, but she waved him on, curious, “because she stopped the Rattrays from stealing Bill’s blood and selling it. Vampire blood is a drug to humans, gives them a hella high. Too bad it’s not real…”

  Poet had stopped listening to the prospect and had begun watching the show with the rest of the men. After a while, she’d given her still mostly full glass to Shakespeare to put on the table beside him, more interested in getting lost in the TV than the numbness of the liquor. Her VP’s arm spread across the back of the couch and she leaned into him, sighing.

  Together they watched for hours, more brothers joining them and some leaving to go to work or back to their families. Someone ordered pizza and brought in a case of beer, and before long it passed midnight. After season one was over, Poet realized it was only her and Shakespeare left, the two of them propped against each other on the leather sofa. Throughout the night neither had moved, instead taking solace in the one who understood them most.

  “You okay, Pres?” he asked softly and she shifted off him, feeling bad for making him her pillow for the last six or so hours.

  “I should be asking you that – seriously, I’m sorry. You were comfortable. I’m sure your arm is asleep or something.”

  “That’s not what I was talking about. And my arm is fine. I was asking if you are okay. Do you want me to kill him?”

  A breath hissed through her teeth. She’d forgotten to talk to her VP, tell him she’d spoken to Titan and the bullshit he said.

  “No … don’t kill him yet. Three days. I talked to him and gave him three days.”

  “What did he say?”

  Poet pressed the stop button on the remote, halting Netflix from continuing their True Blood marathon. If the next episode started, she’d rather watch it than discuss the Bishop.

  “He told me they didn’t have any prospects at the moment. He told me he knew nothing of why we would accuse him of having a man in the house, who would beat me. I asked him what his goal was, and he couldn’t give me a straight answer. Didn’t even believe me when I told him we had proof in the form of video.” Relaying the Bishop’s words weren’t as hard to say as they’d been to hear hours ago. Apparently Uncle Wyatt was right – she had needed some mindless entertainment.

  “And you think his goal was…?”

  “To hurt the club through me? Using my moment of weakness as an opportunity to take advantage of me? I don’t know, Speare, I really don’t.”

  “I’ll kill him if you want me to. You only have to say the word, you know that. Because he hurt you,” her VP said, as if it made complete sense. And, in their world, it did. You hurt one brother, you hurt them all. The fact that she was technically a ‘sister’ never factored into the equation, because she wasn’t. She’d long since proved herself, and made herself one of them. If she hadn’t, no way would they have let her lead them.

  “No. Like I said … I gave him three days to cough up whoever the fuck he sent in here on me.”

  “Not believing him, just playing devil’s advocate here, but any chance he’s telling the truth? Think maybe they don’t have a prospect and someone is setting BR up?”

  Poet thought on his statement for a second, let his words roll around in her head. She didn’t think it was possible; how else could someone get one of their prospect patches? All patches were kept under lock and key in the Chapel … at least they were for HR. No one had access but the higher ups in the club – her, Shakespeare, Fallen, and Cyrus were the only ones in their club who could open the safe. Were the Bishops different?

  “I doubt it, honestly,” she said on a sigh. “And thinking that is just a setup for being let down when he does give up the asshole who did it.”

  “And if he doesn’t have a name to give you after the ti
me you’ve given him?”

  “You still can’t kill him … I’ll do it. And to war we’ll go.”

  With everything said and reported, Poet said goodnight and made her way back to her room; she was exhausted, emotionally and physically. After a quick call to the hospital, Jury informed her that Fallen was fine, all was well, and they were trying not to scare ‘the hot little nurse’ with their appearances.

  Hanging up, she thought about the evening she had, how nice it’d been to spend time with her men, watching useless TV. Shakespeare had never complained as she’d leaned against him, and it really was a pity there’d never been anything between them. He made her feel safe, helped keep her safe – realistically he would’ve been the logical choice of men for her.

  Shakespeare knew practically everything about her, watched her grow up and mature into who she was. He was tall, good looking, smart as a whip, and knew his way around their world as well as she did. Unfortunately, he was more like a brother to her, a confidant and partner, no romantic emotions involved whatsoever.

  Poet tried to imagine kissing her VP and she cringed; no, no way. It would be wrong, completely not okay, and gross as hell. More so, it would also ruin their friendship, which was simply unacceptable. Besides, I don’t date bikers.

  Frustrated with her life in general, she climbed under the covers, pleased that the headboard of her club bed had a built-in holster. Having her trusty Ruger within reach, especially while she was sleeping, was comforting. Of course, she’d still locked her door. Beat me once, shame on you. Beat me twice and I’m a fucking idiot.

  “Poet! Wake up – we’ve got the names of the Diablos who capped Fallen. The boys wanna ride, but they’re all waitin’ for your word go.”

  Shakespeare’s voice seemed loud in the quiet of the room and Poet shook herself awake, understanding her VP’s words seconds after they were spoke. Faster than even she could have imagined, she was up and sprinting to the door, throwing it open.