Poet (14 page)

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 time 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.

“Damn, Branka works fast. Get them together – ten or so. We ride in twenty.”

The man didn’t ask twice, merely smiled and inclined his head before making his way down the hallway. Her thoughts going to her Sergeant, still lying in a hospital bed, she quickly dressed for take down - tight riding jeans, black tee, and boots light enough to run in if she needed to. She brushed her hair out quickly and secured it in a top knot, making sure none of it would fall in her face and provide a distraction.

Poet drew her gun from the bed holster and bypassed her usual shoulder rig, instead choosing a double draw setup she rarely used. The design of it felt slightly awkward for a moment, her body taking the time to adjust to it, but the weight of the two Berettas under her arms was comforting. Adding a clip to the concealed strap in each boot, she slipped her Hells Redemption cut on, and she was ready.

By the time she made it out to the front courtyard, her men were already waiting. Shakespeare, Cyrus, Gabe, Tonka, twins Damien and Dresden, Vinci, Zander, Cain, and Treason all stood beside their bikes, expressions hard. It was easy to tell just by looking at them, they were all armed and dangerous, but what surprised her was Officer Branka standing amongst them. The cop wore street clothes, jeans, and a white T-shirt, a dark gray jacket thrown over it.

“Branka – what the fuck are you doing here?” she asked by way of greeting, confused by his presence. Shakespeare had mentioned he’d found out who had poorly carried out the hit, but he shouldn’t be there.

“I’m going with you.”

“The hell you are,” she retorted, turning to her VP. “Please tell me you didn’t tell the kid he could ride.”

“Poet,” her VP said, blowing a slow breath out, “You know I can’t go. I fucking hate that I can’t have your back, but with Fallen in the hospital, we both know the club can’t be deserted right now. Especially since we don’t know who picked up the hit on you – one of us has to stay behind, and I know for damn sure you ain’t gonna agree to babysit this pile of bricks.”

She cursed under her breath. “I despise that you’re right. But still, that doesn’t explain why the five-oh should be taking your place,” she added, glancing at Branka, “not that he could anyway.”

“I’m right here, Poet. Christ, you talk like I’m not even here.”

Poet ignored him, keeping her gaze locked with Shakespeare, seeing the anger and frustration brewing behind his eyes. Something had happened between the two men, something her VP didn’t like, along with his lack of riding today.

“He wouldn’t give you the information unless he got to come.”

Her words were a statement, a fact, rather than a question, but Shakespeare nodded anyway, throwing a glare in the cop’s direction before speaking softly so only she could hear. “The boys are going to watch him – so much as one mistake and they’re gonna take care of him. Now go take care of business, Pres.”

Nodding, she turned and clasped arms with each brother around her, one at a time, ignoring Branka entirely. It pissed her off that he pulled the shit he had, but Shakespeare told her to go take care of business, and nothing was going to keep her from doing just that.

Poet threw a leg over the seat of her bike, ignoring the vibration of her phone, and turned the key, the familiar roar of the engine bringing a tight smile to her face. As her men did the same, the sound grew louder, almost deafening, but was music to her ears. It was a symphony, a full orchestra, and as they each pulled out of the compound and onto the road, she let the melody take her away.

They rode, Cyrus taking her four, and Gabe her seven, the others behind them. She wasn’t sure where they’d thrown the cop, and frankly didn’t care. If he knew what was good for him, he’d forget the tagalong nonsense and break away when shit got real.

What she doubted Branka understood was this wasn’t a “let’s go talk and figure this out” type of ride. This was a “we’re going to fuck them up, kill as many as we can, and hopefully take the doers out in the process” ride. Rounds were going to fly, rubber was going to burn, and they were going to get the hell out without any of her men taking a hit.

It took about forty minutes before they cleared city limits, and Poet slowed, wanting to ensure they all were steady in their speed. The Diablos Hermanas compound could be seen a couple blocks up, their security under par for a motorcycle club. By day the DH played mechanics, most of their members working at their shop in town, and their work followed them home. A chain-link fence surrounded the area, with beater cars lining the metal, providing little cover.

Poet glance behind her at Cyrus, who nodded, his free hand reaching under his leather cut and pulling out his Desert Eagle. She inclined her head and turned, grinning. Adrenaline was fueling her, knowing there was no way the bastards hadn’t heard the rev of their engines – soon they’d be flooding their courtyard, armed and ready.

Raising her arm, her unspoken “let’s do this” gesture, she pulled a Beretta from the holster and let her bike pull her forward. Instinct took over as she rode, her finger pulling the trigger until the clip sounded empty before she quickly holstered it and pulled her second. She emptied it as well, anger, fear, and frustration pouring out of her as she watched Diablos drop.

Something stung her arm but she barely felt it. As her second clip rang empty she whooped loudly, letting her bike pull away, comforted when the chorus of rumbling followed her. She picked up speed, trusting her Harley to get them back, though she wasn’t afraid of the Diablos coming after them. Not only would they be on cleanup duty, cleanup that would take a while, but they hadn’t been bold enough to try to actively take on the HR compound since her mom. They simply had better security and outnumbered them.

After about fifteen minutes and about as many miles, Poet slowed and pulled off to the side of the road. She cut her engine and climbed off her bike, watching as her men followed suit, and she counted heads. All of her men were there and accounted for, though Tonka was cradling his left arm and Cain had blood running down the side of his face.

“Tonk, you alright? Can you ride?”

“Lead in my shoulder, but I’m fine – nothing I ain’t dealt with before,” he answered, shaking his head. And, he was right. Part of the reason they called him Tonka was because the man was like the construction vehicle – nothing ever stopped him or kept him down.

“Cain?”

“Nah, I’m good – just grazed my thick skull.”

“Pres, you’re bleeding,” Cyrus murmured, glancing at her arm, just as Officer Branka appeared, his face red and breathing heavily.

“You’re fucking crazy, Poet Butler. What the fuck were you thinking? And with a
cop
around? You’re all under arrest.”

“You really did think we were just going to talk and play fucking tiddlywinks, didn’t you?” she asked sadly, reaching into her boot and snatching a clip. Pulling one of her Berettas out, she watched his eyes widen as she released the empty and slid the loaded one home. He was standing close to her but backed up when she leveled the gun at him. “We’re not under arrest. You can fool yourself all you want, but you knew I was going to kill the bastard that got my Sarg.”