Poet (12 page)

The ride to St. Agnes Memorial Hospital was a blur to her, an escape in the form of a seven-hundred-and-thirty pound rumbling engine. Poet’s mind was lost to the shit going on within the past few days – from the beating she’d taken, to Fallen in the hospital, and the complete lack of common sense when it came to Titan. The other two she couldn’t solve at the moment, needing more information, yet the shit with the Bishop was driving her up the wall. How she could have let her guard down, with him of all people, was a complete mystery.

She parked her bike and walked through the sliding glass door, ignoring the nurses and other passersby in the hospital halls. They still stared, and there were more of them, being the middle of the day, but she didn’t care. Her feet led her to Fallen’s room and she clasped arms with the brothers guarding his door. It seemed to be Cyrus and Gabe’s watch. Neither commented on her face, instead informing all had been quiet, with the exception of her SIA, who was yelling at them every time they questioned staff trying to enter his room.

Thanking them, she opened the door, smiling broadly when the man in question glared in her direction, opening his mouth to yell at the brothers, only to see her. His mouth snapped shut before he grinned at her and muted the TV.

“Hey, Pres! Here to break me out of jail? Or at the very least relieve Flotsam and Jetsam out in the hallway?”

“Are they having a Disney princess movie marathon on ABC Family again?”

“Hey, Ariel was hot for being a youngen,” he said in answer, his eyes gleaming.

“That’s wrong on so many levels, Fallen. And no to both of your questions. You’re at your home away from home until the doc says your insides aren’t going to become your outsides.”

“Damn, you’re no fun,” Fallen told her, falling back onto his pillows in mock depression. “Could you at least get them to stop scaring the shit out of that little hottie nurse? I mean, I keep telling her they’re mostly bark, but with all the guns and shit I doubt she believes me … which she shouldn’t, but still. I’m trying to get myself well soon between her legs…”

“Um, sure, Fallen, I’ll tell them,” she said, shaking her head. Her Sergeant had always been a horny fucker; him being in the hospital seemed to just give him access to different pussy. “Anyway, how are you feeling?”

“Like I got smashed in the stomach with a tire iron a few times, from the inside out. Any news on why shit went down the way it did?”

“Don’t have much. Branka came by though and it was a hit.”

Fallen’s eyes widened before hardening; gone was his easy going, usual horny persona and out came the reason he was her SIA. He was a scary son of a bitch when he was angry.

“Someone took a fucking hit out on me?” he asked incredulously, and she could have laughed. The amount of women he screwed weekly would certainly piss someone off, and he knew it.

“No, they didn’t,” she answered, matching his hard gaze and returning it, letting the frustration she felt pour out of her. He quickly grasped her meaning and his expression became murderous. His hand balled into a fist, grasping at the crisp white sheet of his bed and squeezing, his knuckles whitening.

“The slug I took was meant for you.” It was a statement, rather than a question, and she nodded. “Who bankrolled the fucking hit?”

Poet shook her head and shrugged. “Not sure yet. Clearly I pissed in someone’s Cheerios, but I haven’t got the slightest idea whose. It’s not like I go around trying to be besties with everyone in our business, you know?”

Fallen shook his head, his teeth gritted and his jaw flexing. The monitor attached to his finger, keeping track of his heartrate, began to beep faster. After long moments, neither of them looking away, he finally took a deep breath.

“Thank fuck it was me. Jesus, Poet. This is some serious bullshit right now. Things have been pretty quiet lately, all of us somehow working together without problems … but we all knew things would go downhill again. It’s just how shit goes, right? We haven’t had a full-blown war, actively fighting, since Fury died. Whoever did this … war is what they want. I’ll be all too happy to give it to them, too. Once I can get myself out of this goddamned hospital.”

She watched as his fist came down on the wrinkled linen of his bed, her Sergeant’s anger permeating the air, almost making it hard to breathe. It pained her to know she’d have to take care of the shitstorm around them, without his help or input. More so, he was going to be furious. Problem was, according to the doctors, he could be there for a week or even longer, and even when he was released would be in no form to go charging with guns blazing. Once he got out, he’d have to take it easy for a while.

The hit, finding out who beat her, was something she’d have to take care of quickly, or the world as they’d built was going to tilt sideways. If that were to happen, the trade empire they’d built would crumble, security would be nil, and life would go to shit. No way could she stand by and wait.

Not that she’d tell him that. Not a chance. All he needed to know was what she told him – and right then, it wasn’t a whole lot. As she opened her mouth to tell him exactly that, to calm down and wait for more information, a knock sounded at the door and she turned, her fingers wrapping around the butt of her gun.

Long brown hair appeared first, before the tan skin of the young nurse she’d met the night before entered the room. Her steps were hesitant as she caught sight of her, ready to pull down, but she raised her chin bravely and moved toward Fallen’s bed. As for her Sergeant, Poet watched as his face softened slightly, his fury still visible but lessened somewhat.

“Sarah,” he breathed, a small smile playing on his lips. Poet’s hand relaxed on her Ruger as she watched him, the change in his posture as he sat up straighter, his eyes never leaving the petite nurse. If she didn’t know any better, didn’t know
him
any better, she’d say he actually
liked
the girl … and not just for a quickie.

“Luke,” she replied softly, surprising Poet even more. Sure, she knew her Sergeant’s name, but it was rare she heard it. Like so many, his road name had become him in her mind, his given name disappearing into the wind. Even more shocking was Fallen’s reaction. The bastard was actually grinning.

“Um … okay. I’m gonna go, Sarg. I’ll keep you in the loop as I know shit. And leave Flotsam and Jetsam alone – they’re doing as Ursula ordered. No arguments,” she added as he opened his mouth to protest.

Sarah pressed some buttons on the monitor beside his bed, and his attention turned to her, his eyes locked heatedly on the younger woman. Poet took that moment to duck out of the room, inexplicably uncomfortable with the interaction. It wasn’t the desire burning in his face that made her that way; she’d seen him lusting after a lot of women in their time together. Instead it was the intensity, the completeness of it that made her uneasy. She hoped the nurse was just an itch he needed to scratch, but deep down, she could already tell it wasn’t.
Damn it, that means I’ll have to eventually apologize for threatening the bitch
.

Walking into the clubhouse, Poet could immediately feel calmness seep through her. From the smell of booze, cigarette smoke, and leather, along with the photos on the walls and the multitude of bikes parked out front, there really was no place like home. Brothers filled the living area, seated on the couches laughing and drinking, rock music filling the room from the stereo she’d installed a few years ago. The sight made her smile – it felt like years since she saw them, not a few days.

“Is that what you lazy asses do when boss is gone? Sit and fuck around?” she called loudly, inwardly laughing when the men stood, looking guilty. “There no work to be done ‘round here?”

Some of the men shot looks to each other, while others began mumbling excuses. Unable to contain herself, she chuckled aloud and held up a hand.

“I’m only joking. Relax.”

“Damn, Pres. Your face still looks like shit,” one of them, Moose, commented, and she arched an eyebrow, watching him squirm uncomfortably. “I just meant…”

“No, it’s alright, man. I know it does – could’ve put some makeup on it or something, but that just ain’t our style. Hell doesn’t cover their battle scars.”

“Damn right we don’t!” Rev hollered, holding his beer above his head in a toast to her, the scar down his cheek lifting as he smiled.

Poet nodded in response. “Where’s VP?”

“The Bard is in the spy room,” Moose said, meaning their computer lab.

Poet’s first advisement to her father had been to update their security, adding more cameras, computers, and some high-tech equipment she had no idea how to work. After some nudging, Fury had agreed to bring in a former CIA agent, who, with free reign of the club’s Amex, had completely outfitted the place. Luckily, her VP knew how to work all of it – though when she’d asked him how he knew, the man had merely smiled and winked, giving nothing away.

Leaving her boys to resume their chatter, she made her way down the hall, not hesitating as she passed her room. She’d tackle that hurdle after she got the information Shakespeare had for her. The door to the spy room opened with a loud click as she pressed the number code in. Poet sighed in relief, grateful she remembered it – as added security, there was no second chance on the door. If it was done once wrongly, an alarm sounded throughout the clubhouse, locking the place down. Only a few brothers knew it, and it would’ve been embarrassing as hell if she gotten it wrong.

Shakespeare’s back was to her as she entered the room, three monitors in front of him, each with a blurry image enlarged. Squinting, Poet tried to make out some details, but could see nothing but colored pixels.

“What’d you find?” she asked, sparing no time for pleasantries and shutting the door behind them. The lock engaged and she turned, noting that her VP looked like he hadn’t slept in days, the dark bags under his eyes the same color as the damage done to hers. “Christ, you look like shit.”

“We have a serious problem, Poet. Big. More than I think we’re prepared for.”

She stared at him for a second, gazing at him and trying to judge how serious he was. His expression was solemn, stressed; the entire world could have been on his shoulders as he spoke and he would have looked less worried. Poet took the seat beside him and waited for him to explain. Shakespeare inclined his head toward the screen in the middle.

“What do you see here?”

“Honestly, not a whole lot. Looks like a huge glob of color on a computer screen, broken up by pixilation.”

Her VP pressed a few buttons and the image zoomed out, pulling a gasp from her throat. She’d never forget the body, the black hoodie, jeans, scuffed boots, though she didn’t know who it belonged to. Images flooded her memory: her falling to the floor, trying to protect herself from the onslaught of him stomping on her, kicking her in the ribs, the taste of blood in her mouth. A chill coursed through her from remembering and she steeled herself, glancing from Shakespeare to the screen.

“The bastard that jumped me,” she breathed, letting him know she wasn’t lost in some sort of trauma or something.

“Yes – I pulled this from the security footage. He walked in through the back, made no stops but your room, and disappeared amongst the party out front. Never once does the asshole look up or give me any chance to see his face … He’s good, and somehow knew we had cameras inside.”

“So we still have nothing then…”

“No. Look,” he pointed out, zooming the image incrementally, focusing on the zipper front of his hoodie. Poet strained as she tried to see what he did, staring at the image, until something caught her attention.

“Wait – what is that strip of color right there?” Poet asked, her finger shooting out toward the monitor, touching it as if it could give her answers.

“That’s what I’ve got, Poet.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head.
It can’t be
, her mind screamed, but there was little she could say to actually deny it. It was there, plain as day. “No, it can’t be a prospect patch.”

Shakespeare nodded, no longer looking at the screen but staring at his President. She glanced from the strip to him and back, her head moving automatically, trying to rationalize what she was seeing but unable to.

“Pres … you know that’s a patch. I know that’s a patch. Even worse, we both know only one club in the fuckin’ country uses a blue for their prospects.”