Poet (3 page)

“Bad form taking what doesn’t belong to you. Now … you feel better? Now that you apologized for your pissant son with his mommy complex that makes him hate women? Yeah? Good. Now get the fuck out of my club. I have no problem with you and your boys crashing our party as long as they stay out of trouble, but I’m sick of looking at you.”

“Jesus Christ, Poet. You’re a hard bitch to know, and an even harder one to
try
to know. You need to get the fuck off your high horse and let someone in – doesn’t matter who, but fucking someone, or you’re going to grow old and wrinkled and realize you’re nothing but alone.”

With that, Titan stood, dropping his empty beer bottle on the coffee table as he went. Poet watched as it toppled and fell, the glass clinking loudly as it hit the hardwood, echoing the sound of the Bishops’ President’s footsteps.

She’d intended to relax and go back to the party, merely taking a minute to enjoy silence to ease the throbbing in her head. Of course the bastard had to follow her, to steal the precious seconds she was stealing for herself. It was just like him – the self-righteous prick.

Standing, Poet decided against joining the happy yells and cheering outside. Instead, she’d celebrate being alive on her own. Decision made, she meandered her way to her room at the back of the clubhouse, taking the bottle of tequila with her.

Chapter Three
 

The door shut loudly behind her as Poet focused on walking toward the bed. She’d never admit it, but the mix of Patron and Titan’s words were making her unsteady; then again, it could’ve just been the tequila.

“Definitely just the tequila,” she murmured aloud, taking another swig from the bottle before sitting down. Idly she debated calling Braeden. They’d been sleeping together on and off for a while, and as someone who wasn’t involved in any club, it was an easy arrangement. Neither wanted a relationship, and they kept their businesses private. Poet knew nothing of what he did with his free time, nor did he know of anything she did in hers. It was an agreement that worked well. Glancing at the clock, she decided sleep would be better for now, though a call would be in order soon.

She’d just reached down to pull off her boots when her door abruptly swung open.

“What the fu—”

Poet didn’t have time to say anything more, or to draw the Ruger under her arm. A meaty fist flung out, striking her squarely on the cheek, snapping her head back. Another followed, and another. Trying to scramble backward, her foot caught on the area rug, tripping her. Her attacker didn’t allow her to regain herself – instead he continued raining blows down on her, his fist replaced with his booted foot.

It seemed to go on forever, a never-ending onslaught of colors exploding behind her eyes. The world spun, pain and tequila blending, stealing the direction of the world from Poet. When her attacker finally stopped, spitting on her before slamming the door behind him, she could no longer tell which way was up.

Poet had been in fights, with both men and women in her days, but she’d never taken a beating quite like this one. This one hadn’t allowed any retaliation her part, instead stealing everything from her – her attitude, her pride, and even worse, her reputation if anyone found out. Since she was fifteen, she’d never lost. She’d never missed an opportunity to prove herself, to take care of business. The body count against her didn’t keep her up at night; but this, this would.

Arms shaking, she tried pushing herself up, grunting with the effort. Her throat was hoarse and she tried to swallow, choking when she tasted blood. Spitting, she watched idly as the crimson liquid pooled below her before gritting her teeth and forcing herself to her knees. Every inch of her hurt; her breaths came with a wicked wheeze as it left her lungs, but she was determined.

Moving to the door, she opened it slowly, one arm moving weakly to her pistol; if she had to pull it, she’d be useless. When no one jumped out at her, she peered around the jam, hoping not to run into any of her boys.

“Shakespeare?” she called out, inwardly cringing at the rasp in her tone. After saying it, she remembered the party going on outside – her VP was still keeping watch in her place. “Fuck.”

How was she going to fix this mess? And who the fuck had the balls big enough to attack her, and in her own damned house? A fucking coward, one that would seriously regret the decision once she found out who the hell did it. And as soon as she could take a full breath without wanting to throw up.

Heavy footsteps brought her gaze back to the hallway, her heartbeat speeding up at the sound. Inwardly she cursed. She wasn’t some weak bitch who got all shaky – she just wasn’t. Whoever turned the corner wasn’t a threat, even if they were the bastard coming back for a second go round. This time she’d be ready.

“Jesus Christ, Poet.”

The last person she’d ever want to see her this way was, of course, the one rounding the corner. There she was, shaky, covered in her own spit-upped blood, face covered with tear stains, and Titan was the one to find her.

“Keep walking, Bishop. I’m fine, just got in a little skirmish is all,” she told him, steeling her voice. There wasn’t a chance in hell she was going to let him know just how hurt she was. How vulnerable. Poet Butler wasn’t weak.

“With what? A fucking tire iron in your room? Save your shit. Tell me what happened.”

Poet stared into the eyes of her rival, seeing more than she thought possible there. He was pissed, whether at her or the situation she didn’t know, but he was a second away from blowing his lid. She could see it – she’d been there, felt that. Yet that wasn’t all she saw. Concern, genuine concern, for her lingered there.

“No. Keep walking.”

“Fuck. You. Poet,” he answered through gritted teeth before grabbing her arm, shoving her back into her room before slamming the door. She stumbled back, unable to hide the gasp that escaped her from the pain of the sudden movement. Titan froze as he took her in, her arms wrapping around her middle along with the blood on the floor. The bottle of Patron she’d come in with was laying sideways on the wood, the alcohol leveling in the bottle, the remnants of what spilled mixing with the crimson.

His eyes softened as he stepped closer to her and she froze. Unmoving, she watched as he pulled the chair from her table out and held out a hand to help her into it. Poet refused his hand, despising the look on his face and his offer of help, but still sat. The adrenaline that had been coursing through her was easing, leaving her body throbbing and exhausted. Once she was seated, he sat on the end of her bed and merely stared at her.

“Why are you staring at me?”

“I’m waiting for you to tell me what the hell happened in here. Take your time because I don’t want to hear any of your damned lies.”

Poet could feel the annoyance rising through her, despite the pain, and opened her mouth to protest. Titan interrupted her with a lifted hand.

“I don’t want to hear it, Poet. Can that shit right now. You either tell me, or I’ll go get every brother out there in the yard and they’ll all be crammed in this fucking room demanding the same thing I am. I know for a fact you don’t want them all to see you this way; hell, I know you don’t want
me
seeing you all fucked up, but it is what it is. Now, blow the attitude and start talking.”

She started to demand he leave again, to avoid the glare he was giving her. It killed her that he was right – she didn’t want the brothers to know, to see her weak and battered. She was their President, she had an image to uphold. Being a woman in a man’s world, more, being a woman leading men, there was little room for weakness. She often had to be stronger, more unflinching, more heartless than those around her. It was something that usually came easy to her; she had no qualms dealing with shit when it needed to be. This, though, wasn’t something she could easily shake off. Nor could she shoot it, blow it up, or give the order for either of the two to be done. Sighing, she gave in a little.

“Bastard,” she said, blowing out a breath. “Fine. I came in here – I was tired of partying. Sat down, drank, and next thing I know I’m getting sucker punched in the face. That happened, then I got knocked to the ground, where fists were replaced with boots. The end. Bedtime story over.”

The large Bishop stood, pacing the floor between them before coming to a stop. Gently, he grasped Poet’s arms and lifted her to stand in front of him. Looking at her for a moment, he reached for the hem of her shirt and inched it up.

“Do you know who?” he asked as he continued raising the fabric covering her stomach, pulling it up to reveal her rib cage. Poet tried to stop him but he swatted her hands away; she didn’t have the energy to protest further.

“No,” she answered quietly, ignoring his gaze and the tender way his fingers trailed the already bruising of her skin. It was hard to believe that the crazy-ass biker in front of her could be so … soft. He towered over her, something she had become accustomed to around men. At five-foot-five she was absolutely tiny compared to all her boys, but with Titan so close, overwhelming her personal space, she felt even smaller. She despised the feeling.

Poet expected him to move back, his visual inspection completed, but he didn’t. Instead he raised his hand into her line of sight before reaching out to the neck of her shirt. Slipping a finger under the fabric, he pulled it to the side, taking in the damage done to her collarbone and up to her neck. She hadn’t even realized blows had been landed there until the tips of his fingers traced a sensitive spot and she winced.

“Sorry,” he breathed, pulling his hand away slowly.

Poet shrugged and regretted it immediately. “I’m not porcelain, I won’t break. Anyway, you done?”

Titan didn’t answer, his gaze landing on her cheek before his thumb followed. Steeling herself, Poet refused to let her face lean into the warmth of his hand. How long had it been since she’d seen Braeden? She couldn’t remember, but in that moment, for a slight second of weakness, a part of her wished she was one of the sweeties outside. How much simpler life would be, being worried only about being a woman and pleasing a man. But, as quickly as the thought had come, it flew away again.

Poet pulled away, having nowhere to go but to sit back down in the chair, so she did. She didn’t want to be affected by the prick in front of her.
Pussy is just pussy to the man, Poet. Always remember that.
That thought helped re-center herself, helped to bring the here and now back into focus. How she’d forgotten, even for a heartbeat, the reason he was there, was beyond her. Especially now as her face throbbed in time with her heart.

“Stop touching me, Bishop.”

“Titan. My name is Titan.”

“I know what your name is, Bishop. Now stop touching me,” she said, putting every inch of heat she could in her words. “Why are you even still here?”

Titan shook his head. “Fuck if I know. You’re such a stubborn bitch you refuse even the slightest hint of niceness. Is it just me? The fact that you want to fuck me or something that makes you like this? Or are you just this way with men in general?”

“I don’t want to fuck you.”

“I mean, shit, I’ve heard all about you, darlin.’ The way you treat people who cross you, most of them barely walk away. You’re ruthless, a perfect shot, and every inch as crazy as Fury was. I get it, I do – but I’m here because I have issues with men beating women. I want to find the fucking asshole who didn’t even give you a fighting chance. That’s some low shit right there. Can bet your ass when I find out who it is, I’ll fuck them up.”

“I don’t need you fighting my battles. I’m quite capable, as you’ve just said – I’m ruthless. I can take care of my own shit. Besides, how do I know it wasn’t
you
who orchestrated this shit? After all, the Bishops already tried to fuck me out of the drug deal today.”

Poet watched as Titan’s eyes narrowed on her. Deep down she knew it hadn’t been him – Titan was straight up. If he wanted to hurt her, he would, and damn the consequences or who saw it. There would be no cloak and dagger for that man; it would be public, a humiliation more than what happened to her. Still, saying it and watching him squirm gave her a small sense of satisfaction.

The Bishops’ Pres didn’t move, didn’t speak, only stared at her.
Why is he still here?
She desperately wanted to get up, to pace, to do something that didn’t include letting the attractive asshole look at her the way he was. Her entire body hurt, adrenaline was wearing off, and she had no idea what the fuck she was going to do. Poet knew her boys were solid; if they saw the beating she’d taken, the damage that was done, she knew they’d call off the rest of the party and go hell bent for rubber to find out who did it. And, while that was her long-time goal, it did nothing to help her at this very moment.

“Never let them see you flinch, Poet. Shit’s gonna hurt, and hurt bad, but if you want this fucked-up life, you have to learn to grin and bear that shit. You cry, you wince, you limp, you show any kind of weakness, and you’re going to get devoured alive. I don’t want any of this for you, Princess, but since you’re all for it, you have to learn the way things work. If you’re weak, they’ll know, and weakness equals worthless in our eyes.”

Fury’s words when she’d been sixteen and broken hearted over a boy echoed in her ear. Her pop always knew what to say to get her to listen, in a way that would actually break through her shit. One thing Poet never wanted was to be thought of as weak. She was the only child of Samson “Fury” Butler, the daughter to a man who would’ve preferred a son, and she was damn well going to prove she was worth the effort he’d put into her. The club, her surrogate brothers and uncles, favorite cousins and more, could be lost in a heartbeat of weakness. Even the younger version of herself knew her pop was right, and she’d stood tall, wiped her eyes, and never thought again about the douche who’d momentarily made her forget her worth.