Poet (15 page)

“Him, yes. Shoot up the entire goddamned club? No way.”

“I didn’t want you to come for a reason,
Officer
. You shoved your way into this ride and so help me God, I won’t hesitate to add you to their body count if you don’t shut the fuck up. You can feel free to ride your ass back to wherever you came from, you can keep working with us or not, but you aren’t arresting any of us.”

Branka stared at her long and hard, his thoughts passing across his face so fast she could barely catch them. It was clear he was mad and she could have sworn she saw a look of determination, but as quickly as it came, it was gone.

“I did invite myself along. I wanted to watch you work, that’s my problem. What I hadn’t realized was you really don’t give a damn about anything but your own men. We’re done – and HR better watch their steps because I’ll be watching and there won’t be another free pass on fucking murder.”

“Don’t threaten me, Steven.” Her glare was hard as she squeezed the trigger slightly, not enough to discharge but enough to cause his eyes face to turn ashen. He glanced from her gun to her face before shaking his head and backing away more. Turning, he made his way to the bike he’d been riding and took off down the road, never looking back.

“Want me to go take care of shit, Pres?” Treason asked, all the men watching the officer leave.

“No. He’s not going to be a problem.”

“Pres, your arm.”

Poet glanced down, seeing blood painting her pale skin, but still barely felt it. She knew a slug hadn’t landed, but more than likely grazed her pretty deep judging by the amount of red streaking her white arm.

“I’m fine – let’s get home, boys,” she told them, grinning at each of their faces. Sweating and a couple bloodstained, they were fine and it was all damn good.

Chapter Thirteen
 

Prospects cheered as they pulled into the compound, and other brothers came out to meet them. Reagan ran into Cyrus’ arms, checking him for any wounds and kissing him before leading him away from the group – the scene bringing a small smile to her face. He had a good woman, one who never tried to stop him from club business, and he was good to her.

Poet accepted the embraces from her brothers as they came, but quickly excused herself from the thrall. Halfway through their ride home her arm had started hurting, the blood running from the wound making her palm sticky. Still, she’d gritted her teeth and got them home. Injured or not, she was President – and a President who couldn’t ride, couldn’t lead, regardless of what was going on. The club wouldn’t vote her out for a wound, but the saying from long ago always lingered in the back of her head.

After washing her hands, she stripped off her cut and the holster, tossing her phone into the fray. She waited until the water was warm before using a washcloth to remove the red trail marking her skin and check out the damage. It didn’t take a doctor to tell her she needed stitches, but no way was she going to the hospital. Instead, she hung her head out the door to her room and yelled for Teagan, one of the club sweeties.

The girl appeared within five minutes, gaining her bonus points in Poet’s eyes. She was a pretty girl, with long red hair and fair skin, green eyes and freckles that highlighted them, but other than that, she was pretty pathetic in her eyes. From what the boys said, she’d slept with almost all of them and still stuck out hope that one day she’d be more than just a piece of ass. One upside to her was that she went to the local college, studying to become a nurse.

“Poet? You were calling for me?”

“I need stitches,” she explained, her words more clipped than she meant them to be. Teagan reached out to grab her arm, but hesitated, shooting her a questioning look, and Poet nodded in acceptance. The girl examined the wound for a moment and stepped back.

“I’ll be right back.”

Minutes later she reentered the room with a light tap on the door, a small bag that resembled a makeup case in one hand, a bottle of Patron in the other. She told Poet to sit and handed her the tequila.

“This is gonna hurt, but I don’t have anything to localize the area with. Please don’t bury me ‘til after I’m done.”

Poet couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face. “I won’t.”

Teagan was right. Each prick of the needle, the pulling of the thread, hurt like a bitch, bringing unwanted tears to Poet’s eyes. Yet, the girl was patient, letting her swear and groan, stopping frequently to let her slug from the glass bottle. The tequila was doing little to numb the stitching, but it made her mind feel better.

“Done,” the girl whispered after she’d cut the thread and thrown the needle in the nearby garbage can.

Practically glued to her chair, Poet extended the bottle of Patron to the girl, watching, amused, as she, too, gulped down the strong liquor.

“Thank you for not punching me … or worse,” Teagan said softly, handing the tequila back to her, and Poet stared at her.

“I asked you to sew me up. You listened. You told me it would hurt, you didn’t lie. No reason to retaliate against the truth.”

“But you’re the President, and I hurt you; that goes against code.”

“Didja hear Tonka’s roar while you were busy sewing?” she asked and Teagan shook her head. “Well, that’s ‘cause one of the brothers had the honor of digging a fucking slug out of his shoulder. This life is hard, and it hurts.”

“You’re so much stronger than me, Poet. I could never sit through what you just did.”

“Strong is a frame of mind, Teagan,” she told her, shaking her head. “And there’s no shame or blame in being … softer. Some days I wish I were.”

The girl’s gaze snapped back to her face, and Poet immediately stiffened, knowing the tequila had helped her in oversharing. There was confusion in her expression though, complete dismay.

“I … What…”

“Never mind. Thank you. Talk to Shakespeare – tell him I sent you. He’ll compensate you for your work,” Poet cut her off, not wanting to delve into a deeper hole than she’d already dug herself in. The girl looked like she wanted to say something more, to protest or question her, but Poet shook her head, her eyes hard.

As the door shut behind her, she picked up the Patron from the floor and took another large swallow from the bottle. Her mind was replaying the day, the abrupt wake-up call from her VP, to the ride, and the triage. It had been less than four hours since she’d been asleep, according to the clock, which informed her it was only now midday.

Idly she remembered her phone vibrating as she got on her bike. Anyone she’d wanted to hear from was with her at the time, but now curiosity was winning over. Standing unsteadily, she moved to the bed and sat on it, snatching her phone. Four messages from Titan, and one from a number she didn’t recognize. Ignoring the unknown, she brought his up first.

Titan: Poet, I grilled everyone here. A Bishop is
not
responsible for the jump on you.

Titan: This is crazy, babe. I’d never hurt you. Fuck, I seriously care about you. I want you. I want you so damned bad.

Poet snorted, her eyes rolling while her stomach tightened. It was so fucked up, but she wanted him, even knowing without a shadow of a doubt his club was somehow behind the beating on her and Fallen’s injury. She would’ve loved to have his arms to run to, as she’d come down from the high of the ride – someone who understood and had been there. One who didn’t think she was “fucking crazy” like Branka had said.

Titan: According to scanners, someone drove by DH about an hour ago. 4 dead, 3 more injured. Your work? You alright? Your boys?

She checked the timestamp, seeing it had been over an hour since he’d sent it.

Titan: Goddamn it, Poet. At least tell me you are fucking breathing. Fuck. I hate this shit.

Half of her warmed to his words, knowing he was worried about her, while the other half wondered if he was just putting on a good show. Still, whether it was tequila or the guilt of his concern, she texted him back.

Poet: Arm has some new decoration, but all’s good. Answers, Bishop. 2 days.

She lifted the bottle to her lips once more, drinking hard, wishing she could be the little sweetie who’d stitched her, the only worry in her world if she’d get to ride on the back of a bike. Memories had her shaking the thought away quickly though, and she checked the other message.

Unknown: Your blood will paint the world, bitch. You’re going to die.

Poet’s entire body stilled as she read and reread the words on her phone. The number wasn’t local and she didn’t recognize the area code. The fog the tequila had been creating in her mind disappeared as quickly as it had come; she was completely alert.

She remained frozen for a long minute before standing and all but sprinting from her room, carrying her double holster and cut as she moved. A quick survey of the living area didn’t find Shakespeare and she went to the security lab, sure he was in there trying to find more information. Taking a soothing breath, she entered the code on the keypad and darted inside, but he wasn’t in the room. Poet shrugged on her holster and cut before dialing his phone.

“Hey, Poet,” he answered, his voice light. “How’s the arm?”

“Tell her the marathon ended and I want some Pocahontas. Have you seen those legs?” she heard Fallen’s voice, and her heart sunk, knowing Shakespeare was at the hospital.

“We have a problem.”

Her VP’s tone shifted, immediately going hard. “Tell me.”

“I got a text. My blood’s gonna paint the world and I’m going to die … rather repetitive now that I say it out loud,” she mused, trying to get her heartrate under control. “Something about it, Speare. Can’t explain it.”

“Definitely not the usual,” he answered, understanding her meaning.

The text message was certainly not the first death threat she’d ever gotten; the hit Fallen had taken not the first ever taken out on her. But the words being used, how out of the blue it all seemed, put her on edge. It wasn’t normal. Most were validated, at least in the doer’s eyes – she’d wronged them somehow, infringed on territory or hurt someone that belonged to them. But, she hadn’t done anything to the Bishops – if anything they were the ones who’d tried to fuck them out of the drug deal. And what was with Titan saying it wasn’t actually them?

“I’m standing in the computer lab, trying to decide on a course of action here. Any suggestions?” Her mind was telling her to do one of two things: run to the house in the hills so as not to be ambushed at the clubhouse or stay where she was, her back against a wall and a gun in her hand, so still as not to be ambushed.

The line was silent on the other end and she could hear him breathing, murmuring to Fallen. “I can’t believe I’m ‘bout to say this, but get the fuck out of the club. Bastard’s proven he can get in and there are just too many damn places the pussy could be hiding. Most of our men are out – only Cyrus is there, with Reagan and the kid, Wyatt, Tonka, who’s injured, and a couple prospects.”

“Where is everyone else?”

“Cain and Zander are here, with me. The twins, Gabe, Vinci, and Treason all went into town, doing normal shit, making sure no heat gets drawn to HR after the hit on the Diablos … If we all disappeared –”

“It would lead the cops not our payroll right to our fucking door. I get it. Shit.”

“Yep. Go on to the hills, have a prospect follow you, stay with you if need be – then you’ll have a couple eyes on the doors. I’ll get in touch with the twins, have them head back to the compound to hold the fort down, and I’ll meet you.”

“I’m coming too,” she heard Fallen say. Judging from the strain in his voice, he was trying to sit up and get out of bed.

“No! Do not let him get out of that damned bed, Speare, I mean it.” Poet let out a sigh. “Alright, I’m heading to the hills. I’ll see if I can find Gray and make him ride along – won’t hurt to cover both doors at the house. Ride safe.”

“Ride safe,” he answered, then added softly, “and Poet?”

“Yeah?”

“Shoot straight if you have to.”

“Make yourself at home,” Poet said over her shoulder, grateful Gray hadn’t asked questions when she told him he was riding with her. He was a pretty good prospect in those regards, rarely asking questions and doing as he was told, when he was told, by whoever told him to do it. He’d been around for eight months already and she made a note to bring it up at the next Chapel.

Shit, Chapel was supposed to be today,
she groaned in her head, pissed that so much was getting in the way of business. But, she guessed there was little need for it now. All the brothers knew what had happened to her, what happened to Fallen, and they’d already taken care of the Diablos.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket and she stilled again, her hand going for her Beretta before pulling it out. Poet relaxed slightly when Titan’s name flashed on the caller ID.

“I fucking hate worrying about you – what the hell have I gotten myself into? Hell, I can’t even come and see you since you’re disillusioned into thinking I sent one of my own men, who doesn’t even exist, to come and jump your fine ass,” the Bishop said by way of greeting when she answered.

“Hello to you, too, Titan.”