Poet (16 page)

“Not even kidding, Poet. I hate this … and I don’t even know why I give a damn. You sure as hell don’t.”

“Are you done yet? Because I’ve got more on my plate right at this second than your insecure womanly worrying.”

“Did you just call me a fucking chick?”

Poet sighed, fighting a grin at the frustration in his voice. If she wasn’t more concerned about opening the blinds throughout the house to spot a potential hit she’d be completely entertained. As it was, her nerves were shot to shit over a hit, which was pissing her off. She could take care of herself – she always had – yet the bastard was making her uneasy.
Your blood will paint the world, bitch.

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Were you talking?” she asked, stopping in the middle of the living room, her eyes scanning the area. She heard a sound in the kitchen and leaned left, catching sight of Gray making something, moving surely through the cabinets.

“Poet – what’s going on? It’s not like you to space in the middle of a conversation.”

“Um,” came her answer, her instincts telling her to tell him but her brain rebelling against the idea. For all she knew, he could have sent the message from a disposable… or his prospect could have. Poet groaned, her head starting to hurt from the rushes of adrenaline throughout her system from the day.

“You said your arm got a new decoration – is it bad? Jesus, talk to me, Poet. Don’t make me ride to the compound and beat on the gate til someone shoots me or lets my ass in.”

She snickered at the mental image. “Won’t do any good, ‘cause I’m not there. And no – my arm is fine, some stitches but I’m good.”

“Well, what then?”

“I’ll be right back, Gray,” she called to the prospect and climbed the stairs to her room, shutting the door behind him. Until he was patched in, it was best to keep him in the dark to most things. A non-member with too much information became dangerous, and she’d be damned if she misjudged him and he turned out like the Bishop’s rogue prospect.

Titan’s voice was hard when he spoke again. “You’re at your house … and you brought a prospect home? Seriously? A fucking President with a prospect? That’s some low shit, especially when you know I have feelings for your frozen ass.”

Poet took a deep breath, trying to rein her anger in before answering him. If he were to tell her he had a sweetie in his room, in his private place, she’d probably have the same reaction. Or, maybe she wouldn’t, given that she’d already been assuming he’d get ass when and where he could.

“No. Well, yes,” she answered through gritted teeth, “Gray is here but because Shakespeare isn’t yet. Shit’s going south and fast, the rest of my men were out, and I wasn’t riding with a threat over my head solo. I may be reckless and slightly fucking crazy, but I’m not that stupid.”

“You took out the Diablos today – so who’s the threat?” he asked, probing for more information, his tone curious. “I’ve told you more than once it wasn’t me or mine, Poet.”

“I saw the video, Titan. I saw it, saw the blue patch. But I just … I don’t know what to believe. And this text message has me on edge so I went to the hills. If he isn’t your man, he has some damned good inside information of our club, along with a way in and out while avoiding being seen at the same time.”

Poet proceeded to tell him about the text she’d received, along with the unease churning in her stomach. Something just wasn’t right, not adding up, and she couldn’t figure it out. It was enough to have made her leave her usual safe haven, the place she always felt secure. Even out where she was, miles away from the compound, she felt like she was being watched.

As she was talking, her phone vibrated against her ear, a message incoming. She stopped talking and Titan spoke again.

“Another message? Check it, Poet.”

Pulling the phone away from her ear, she hoped it would be from Speare, telling her he was there and to unlock the door. She hoped it was Fallen, messaging her about another Disney princess or about Sarah or the men still posted outside his room. But she knew, even before she saw the unknown number flash across the screen, it would be him.

Unknown: I see you. You can’t hide. You’re already dead.

“Fuck,” she cursed aloud, her hand shaking. Distantly she could hear Titan’s voice, demanding she tell him what it said, but she was having trouble working her hand. Whoever the asshole was, they could see her in her bedroom? Was that even possible?

Her eyes darted around the room, to the window, and she jumped up from the bed, crossing over and peering out of the curtains. The grounds were silent, the sun about to start setting, no one in sight. When she stepped back and brought the phone back to her ear, all she caught was a long string of swear words from the other end.

“Titan,” she whispered softly, surprised when he heard her and stopped cursing.

“Poet, what the fuck did it say.” No question, a demand. His tone was hard, angry, frustrated, sounding like he was a second away from jumping through the phone lines to kill the person who sent the message.

“They can see me, I can’t hide, and I’m already dead.” The voice that answered him didn’t sound like hers. It was small, scared, almost fragile – everything she wasn’t. It made her angry, the fear mixing with frustration that someone she didn’t know, someone she hadn’t actively pissed off, was gaining power over her.

“Christ. I’m on my way, stay close to the prospect and make damn sure he’s carrying.”

Poet started to protest – she wasn’t going to stay at the house. Especially not if whoever was watching her was actually there, seeing her through the windows of her place. She was going to go to the only other place she could think of, armed to the nines, with a lot of lights. With the sun going down it was going to get pitch black outside, with the exception of the front lights of her home – she hadn’t installed a high-security system. It was so far removed from the club, so far away, that the thought hadn’t crossed Fury’s mind.

But she didn’t get the opportunity to tell him anything. The line was dead and when she tried to call him back to tell him just that, the line rang straight to voicemail – whether he was calling his prospect, and telling him his plan was working, or calling for reinforcements, she wasn’t sure.

Running down the stairs, she called out for Gray, anxiously watching the sky as it was beginning to darken outside. He didn’t answer and dread filled her. Poet made her way into the kitchen, gasping when she saw the prospect.

He was on the cold tile floor of her kitchen, blood pooling around his body, an angry red line across his throat. The butter knife he’d been using to make sandwiches was still in his hand, his face contorted in confusion. Even from the spot she’d frozen in, she could tell he wasn’t breathing – and going by the amount of red on the floor, there was no hope for him.

Heart racing and her throat tightening, she dialed Shakespeare, her eyes scanning everything, just waiting. When he picked up, she spoke quickly.

“Gray’s dead. He’s fucking dead, Speare, and I heard nothing. I was upstairs talking on the phone for less than five goddamned minutes. I got another text saying I was already dead and came back down, ‘cause the message said he could see me, and we were going to leave. But he’s dead. He’s dead on my fucking tile floor – he was making sandwiches. Food.

“I’m leaving. I’m getting the fuck out of this house – the prospect hadn’t even heard him. His face is so confused, he never even heard whoever the hell did this. If they’re that good, that quiet, I’m in over my head unless I set the whole house on fire,” she rambled, unable to stem the flow of words as she went to the front door, finding both hers and Gray’s tires slashed on their bikes. “Fuck. Bastard cut our tires too.”

“Get safe. Norma’s. Get there – they’ll keep you safe; they’ve got club security.”

“What? No, they don’t,” she protested, drawing her gun and moving cautiously toward the garage and punching in the number. Poet could have cried in relief when she saw her dad’s bike, still untouched, parked in the exact place it should be. Whoever was doing this didn’t know her house as well as the clubhouse.

“Yes, trust me. Get there and get there quick,” he demanded and she could hear the roar of his engine. She was surprised she hadn’t heard it before. “I’m about halfway there. I’ll be there, Poet. Just get your ass to high ground.”

She was nodding, though he couldn’t see her, and she hung up without saying goodbye. Pocketing the cell, she climbed on Fury’s bike, her heart frantic as she moved the heavier Harley, walking it as far out as she could before starting the engine. Her dad’s bike was louder than hers and unfamiliar, but she pulled out smoothly, not catching a complete breath until the wind was whipping across her face.

Guilt was tearing her apart on the inside, now mingling with the rampant emotions swirling in her stomach. It was her fault Gray was dead, and the fact she’d left him there, lying in his own blood, felt so wrong. Everything in her told her to turn around, to go back, to honor him the way she would one of her patched brothers, but she couldn’t.

It felt like she’d somehow been transported, taken out of her normal life and transplanted into the scene of a horror film. She was the blonde, and could only pray she didn’t do something stupid she’d always yelled at the TV for. The only real difference, though, was she was armed and knew how to use it – there would be no hesitation when and if the time came she got a clear shot. She’d take it, empty her clip in the prick, making sure he never got back up. There would be no shocking jump up and grabbing her leg; his brains would seep into the floor before she was finished.

Chapter Fourteen
 

The parking lot was empty when Poet pulled into Mrs. Norma’s diner, the lights on as the sun had gone down below the trees. It was eerie and she hesitated momentarily, debating on the merits of parking around the back or not. The lights didn’t extend behind the building, except for the small porch light at the back door, and it could be dangerous parking there if the attacker had followed her and she hadn’t seen him. Yet, the idea of leaving her dad’s bike out in plain sight, clearly giving away her location to anyone who knew anything about her, didn’t seem very smart either.

She was saved from making a decision when Mrs. Norma poked her head out of the front door, waving her around the back. Poet trusted her and nodded, allowing the bike the lead her around and parking at the end of the porch. Climbing off quickly, she jumped when the door to the restaurant slammed open, her hand dropping to the butt of her gun, ready to draw.

Eugene, Mrs. Norma’s husband, appeared, his gnarled hands clasping a double barrel shotgun. When he noted it was her he lowered it and ushered her inside, locking the door behind him.

“Hey, Pretty Girl,” he greeted her fondly, wrapping his arms around shoulders and pulling her against him. “Shakespeare called. Don’t you worry about a thing. You’re not alone here.”

“Hi, Genie,” she whispered back, hugging him tightly. “I’m sorry to bring this to your door, but Speare said to come here – said to trust him, and I do. I hate that I’m involving you and Norma, putting your lives in danger. If anything happened to either of you –”

“Not going to happen, darlin.’ The wife and I, we ain’t just little restaurateurs, sweet girl. Once upon a time, I had my very own cut.”

Poet released the older man to stare at him, confused. She’d known the man forever, her entire life, and never once had she even caught wind of a rumor he could have been in HR. He was Genie, the cook at the diner, the man who made her whatever she wanted to eat, and gave her big hugs. His smell was a coming home, full of memories and happy times. But never had she ever thought he could have once been a biker.

“It’s true. My man used to ride Harleys and walk around armed,” Mrs. Norma’s voice came from behind her and she turned to glance at her, before looking back to Genie, her head spinning.

“But … how have I not known this? And there are no pictures along the walls. Surely someone would have told me by now.”

“Nah. Fury … your dad was a damn good man, and a good President. He was just a kid when I gracefully bowed out. The hands,” he said, sounding sad and looking down at the one not holding the shotgun, “couldn’t hold up the bike anymore. Arthritis, you know? Luckily I can still flip a burger and hold a spoon. But either way, Hells Redemption has always been welcome, invited, even, to find refuge here.”

Memories were spinning in Poet’s thoughts, filling her, small snippets of conversations and private moments between the older couple and her brothers. Hugs and whispers, side looks and meetings, it all clicked; how she’d missed it for years upon years blew her away.

“Now, let’s go sit down. Norma, bring the Gray Goose,” he said, resting his free hand on Poet’s lower back and guiding her toward the dining room.

“So tell me about this Bishop my wife saw you with the other day,” he demanded as he stopped them at a booth and sat down across from her, his back to the room so hers didn’t have to be.

“I have some slasher dude after me, and you want to talk about Titan?” Poet asked, astonished. She could barely compute everything that had happened, from leaving the club to her house to Gray, and now to Genie having been a brother … and he wanted to talk about her love life.
Is he serious?

“Ah. The President,” Genie nodded his head, his eyes focused on her, his hand never leaving the shotgun perched on his lap. “Good man, from what I know of him. Ruthless, direct, always honest. The man can take a life without even blinking, definitely not a bad thing in the world we live in, but he never lies.”

Poet arched an eyebrow. “Well, I think your sources may be wrong, Genie.”

“Never. But how do you think so, Pretty Girl?”

She shook her head, her heart warming at his pet name for her, yet tightening at the thought of Titan. “We’ve got video of one of his prospects in the clubhouse … the same one that jumped me, giving me what’s left of the shiner on my face, among other things. Talked to Titan, he said he doesn’t even have any prospects at the moment – it’s just not possible, though. The video doesn’t lie, blue patch –”

“Equals Bishops Reign. They’re the only ones who use blue.”

“I know. And it completely sucks, Genie. It sucks so hard. I trusted him, if you can believe it. Plus, he made me feel … He made me feel.”

The older man’s face softened as he stared at her, his expression knowing and compassionate. “Maybe give him the benefit of the doubt, Pretty Girl. Maybe he’s telling the truth because my people are never wrong, and that Bishop doesn’t lie – doesn’t believe in it. And the fact that he made you feel, says something, Poet. You have damned good instincts, even better than your pop when he was alive.”

“Genie –”

“We’ve got wheels!” Norma called from the front of the restaurant, her eyes gazing out the front window, her hand still clutching the bottle of vodka.

Poet jumped to her feet, Eugene following slowly as he used the table to help him up. She wanted to yell for both of them to get somewhere safe, to leave, to go anywhere but in the possible line of fire. Yet as she turned to say something along those lines, she caught sight of the determination and anger on Genie’s face. She’d seen the look in the mirror more than once and knew immediately her words would fall on deaf ears. Now she could only pray neither of them got hurt.

Heavy beating on the door sounded, relentless as the rider on the other side demanded his way in. It wasn’t Shakespeare; he would have called or texted, letting them know he was pulling in.

“It’s Titan, let me in, damn it. I need to see Poet and I know she’s here,” came the Bishop’s voice, worried as his fist continued to beat on the door. He was hitting it so hard it wouldn’t shock her if the rattling busted the glass.

“Go away, Titan,” Poet called over his loud knocking. When the sound ceased, his voice came again.

“No, I won’t. You can’t push me away, Poet. I could love you one day, provided you weren’t such a pain in my ass. I’m not letting you just run me off when shots get fired or lives get lost. It’s part of you, hell, it’s a part of me. But none of that shit is going to make me leave this doorstep. So you can either let my ass in, come outside and talk to me, or just sit there and fucking listen,” he said, not yelling as he had been, but still talking loud enough she, as well as Norma and Eugene, could hear.

“How could you possibly say something like that to me? You’re a fucking biker, who’s full of shit. I told you – we have it on camera. Your motherfucking prospect patch in the asshole’s back pocket after he beat the living shit out of me. And, imagine the wonder, you were there to pick up the damned pieces.”

Tears tried to form in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. All of his words, all of his lies he’d told her over the past few days, had almost changed her mind of the world. She’d let a man in, a biker, which she’d sworn she’d never do, and now she was paying the price for it. All of them were the same and she’d known it, but given in for the promise of a good time.

Having nothing left to say, she turned around to face Norma, whose face was soft and her lips turned into a small smile. Poet scowled at the woman who was more like a grandmother, and snatched the liquor from her hands. As she brought the bottle to her lips, forgoing the idea of a shot glass, the sound of the lock releasing had her spinning around.

Mrs. Norma had opened the door, and there, standing there, framed by the light of the parking lot, was Titan. His face was red, his breathing heavy, his arms resting against the door jam. The man looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, though she knew he had, since it hadn’t been that long since he’d been in her bed.

Meeting his gaze, it was like, for a moment, the world fell away; it simply crashed into the ocean and disappeared. Poet uncomfortably pulled her eyes away, shaking her head and stepping back into the room, trying to put as much distance between them as possible. It wasn’t enough, though. They needed a minimum mile rule – anything under ten miles was too close.

“Thank you,” he nodded toward Mrs. Norma, who, even more surprisingly, reached up and patted his arm. He turned and caught sight of Eugene, his eyes widening slightly. “Foust.”

Foust? Why the fuck did he call Genie ‘Foust?’
As soon as she asked herself, she understood – it must have been his road name. But how the hell did Titan know it, or him, for that matter?

“Okay, seriously? Has everyone known who the hell you really were but me? I feel like the kid who was chosen last for dodgeball in school…”

Titan ignored her, instead moving to stand in front of the older man, respect radiating from him. “Christ, man, everyone thought you were dead. Glad to see you’re not – you been here the whole time?”

Genie nodded. “Yep. Haven’t been hidin’ or anything, just spendin’ the rest of my days quietly cooking instead of loudly ridin.’”

“How the fuck did you know who he was, Titan? Even
I
didn’t know until about five freaking minutes ago. And I’ve come to this diner my entire life.”

The Bishop merely shrugged as he faced her. “Everyone knew Foust. The man’s a legend – the fact that you haven’t heard of him, or know of him, is actually kind of sad.”

“Whatever,” Poet said, frustrated. “I don’t have time for this. But I expect some answers later, Genie. I mean it.”

The older man shot her a smile, one she knew meant he had probably been waiting a long time for her to grill him. Knowing him, he’d probably just been lying in wait for her to find out. When he shot her a small wink, she knew she was right.

“Poet,” Titan said, drawing her attention back to him and his eyes locking with hers once more. “I had nothing to do with what happened to you in your room at the club. Every one of my men were accounted for; none of them did it either. Wait, where’s Gray?”

The look on her face must’ve answered his question the moment he asked it because his expression morphed. Pain and sympathy filled his eyes and he took a step toward her, but she stepped back again. If he touched her, especially when talking about her prospect, she’d lose it, which was a luxury she couldn’t afford at the moment.

Poet took a deep breath. “Gray’s dead. On my kitchen floor. His throat was slit while I was upstairs … talking to you. I didn’t hear a fucking thing – there were no footprints in the massive pool of blood surrounding the kid, nothing. It’s like a fucking ghost cut him and let him bleed out on the tile. And I left him there.”

Her words were simple, to the point, giving Titan the bulk of the story she was able to, but each one twisted her heart. The whole situation was just wrong – if someone had something against her, they should have come straight out and said it. She would have taken care of it quickly, without one of her men having to die.
Or getting shot
, she mentally added, thinking about Fallen in the hospital, having taken a slug meant for her.

“Fuck,” the Bishop cursed, running a hand through his hair. He extended an arm toward her, obviously wanting to touch her or console her, but dropped it – knowing she wouldn’t take it. “I swear to God, Poet, the Bishops have nothing to do with this.”

“I believe you,” she murmured, meaning it. People could say and do a lot of things, but the pain in his eyes could not be duplicated. If he had ordered her jumped or even dead, regardless of their tryst the past few days, no one was that good of an actor.

Genie was right, her instincts had always been good – the gut reaction to trust or dislike people. And, deep down, she trusted Titan. She knew, if he had a problem with her, he would’ve come straight to the source – it was who he was and she should have realized that sooner, instead of jumping straight to accusing him, the video be damned.

“Thank fuck,” he breathed, closing in the distance between them and snaking an arm around her waist. “I’m going to kiss you, Poet.”

As his lips touched hers, she let herself get lost, even if for only the moment. He kept the touch soft, yet meaningful, his fingers gripping her skin and holding her tightly to him. The sound of a motorcycle engine out front had them pulling away before either of them was ready.