Poet (2 page)

Chapter Two
 

Poet sat near one of the many bonfires burning, her boots propped on the top of the picnic table as she surveyed the party around her. Bodies were pumping, dancing along to the loud country rock music blaring from large speakers. Booze and smoke hung in the air, mixing with the smell of mistakes and bad decisions to come.

She couldn’t help but shake her head. Some things never changed. There were brothers sitting down, chatting, others feeling up one of the many sweeties around, hoping for a shot on the back of their bike. It was an unfortunate way of life, having the women there – one that had been that way since before she’d been around and would continue long after she was gone. And, while she couldn’t change it, she had made rules.

Poet didn’t care who fucked who, where they did it, or when, as long as it didn’t violate two things. First were their runs. The minute a chippie fucked something up, they were gone – where they went, she didn’t give a damn. Secondly, any of the men who were married were not indulging anywhere near her presence. She refused to have any hand in her boys treating their old ladies like doormats. Not all women could be armed and dangerous, willing to do whatever it took to get a job done, but those who stood behind their man should be given the respect they deserved. It was an injustice that they were usually walked all over, cheated on, impregnated, and left to rot in a cabin far away from the rest of the world.

Hells Redemption didn’t work that way. They may ride motorcycles, get dirty with blood on bad days and mud on the good, but they weren’t uncivilized. And, what had shocked her, was that none of the men had disagreed with the rule – she’d expected a huge fight when she’d brought it up at Chapel, expected to argue and create a few holes, but once again, her men proved their worth. Not all of them wholeheartedly agreed, but those who didn’t kept their opinions to themselves, and only got their cocks wet when Poet wasn’t around. It was an arrangement that worked for all of them.

“Need a drink?”

Without looking up, Poet took the bottle of Patron that was extended and took a swig, enjoying the burn as it slipped down her throat. Shakespeare set the tequila down when she handed it back, and pulled up a chair beside the picnic table, sitting back to take in the crowd as she was doing.

Her Vice President was one of her trusted inner circle – she trusted the man with her life, her thoughts, and honored his opinions when he gave them. Orphaned as a child, he’d had nothing before being found on the streets by Ezekial on a run close to forty years ago. He’d brought the boy home, given him to his old lady, and enlisted her father in getting papers for him. Fury had told her the man’s story, most of it anyway, and when she’d asked why E had done what he did, her pop had merely shaken his head. E was bat-shit crazy, acted first and thought later, making him a loose cannon among the group – for him to have done something selfless for another, especially an infant, was completely out of character. Unfortunately, no one had ever gotten the real answer; he’d died when he kamikazed into a group of Bishops ten years ago.

In his forties, Shakespeare was what most women would classify as tall, dark, and handsome. His shoulder-length, jet-black hair was a complete contrast to his porcelain skin and emerald eyes. With lips almost always pulled into a smirk and his chin stubbled, he had an easy way about him … until you got to know him. Shit lingered beyond the surface of the man, almost frighteningly so; and, despite the soft spoken-ness about him, he was one of her most dangerous.

He never hesitated, ever. When Shakespeare’s mind was made up, the discussions were over. It was one of the things that had bonded them, made them more friends than Pres and VP. Plus, he’d never given a damn that she didn’t have a dick.

Once during a run when she was just knee high to a grasshopper, she’d taken watch duty, keeping an eye out at the door - something she was awful at. Poet had let her eyes wander, taking everything in as her pop and the other brothers did their business. She spotted something the men hadn’t seen during their walkthrough: a sniper on the second floor. Unthinking, she’d leveled her own gun, aimed through her sight, and fired twice. The sniper had tumbled from the landing, landing at Shakespeare’s feet. Her pop had been pissed, but Shakespeare merely chuckled and nodded his thanks to her. And, from that moment, he’d regarded her as he would one of the boys.

“Shit ton of people here,” he stated dryly, reaching for the bottle and drinking before passing it back to her.

Poet merely nodded. He was right; there was a good three hundred people or so taking up the outside space of their compound. It was a celebration, a victory for seeing another June. After Fury died and she took over, she’d begun monthly parties, often for no other reason than living to die another day. In their world, death was inevitable and while it was sad, it was expected. Sometimes they all needed to remember they weren’t there just yet. They honored those they loved and lost, and they enjoyed those they still had. As a bonus she hadn’t thought of, morale raised with them. The boys looked forward to the events and had begun taking turns theming them out.

Tonight’s theme was country rock; music of the likes of Creedence Clearwater Revival and the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band mixed with Garth Brooks, Alabama, Alan Jackson, and even Blake Shelton. Some of the brothers had brought in bales of hay to be used as seats and beer by the caseload. Large-brimmed hats were everywhere, looking ridiculous and out of place among the leather cuts they wore. The sweeties, old ladies, and other women mingling amongst the men wore cowgirl boots, frayed jeans, and various flannel shirts.

There were more there than just the HR family as well; Poet could see some Bishops amongst her men, laughing, joking, and drinking. She wasn’t angry about it, regardless of the bullshit she’d had to deal with them earlier – as long as they caused no trouble, all was fine tonight. Tomorrow would be different, but tonight they partied. Luckily none of the members of Diablo Hermanos had the balls to show up. While Poet could stomach the Bishops, the DH were KOS in her book.

Eyes met hers as she gazed across the fire and she steeled herself. Of course
he’d
be there.

“Who the fuck invited Titan?” she asked Shakespeare, accepting the offer of a Camel. Lighting it, she breathed deeply, cursing internally. The small nap she’d taken earlier hadn’t given her enough patience to deal with the Pres and she couldn’t help but wish she was at her pop’s house in the hills. The man pissed her off, made her see red; when he was around she was constantly a hair trigger away from putting one between his eyes.

The man in question refused to look away as well, instead peering intently at her from across the way. She watched as he lifted a finger and crooked it, summoning her to him. Smiling sweetly, she seated her smoke in her mouth before lifting her own hand and flipping him off.

“Want him gone?”

“Nah. Bastard can stay where he is.”

“He wants to talk to you,” her VP added and she broke eye contact with Titan to look at him, arching an eyebrow. Shakespeare mirrored her before holding up a hand. “I ain’t sayin’ go to him – I’m just pointin’ it out.”

“Hmph,” she answered, rolling her shoulders. She hadn’t chosen to dress up with the rest of the ladies, instead choosing a pair of acid-washed, ripped, skinny jeans and a shredded ZZ Top tank with her shit kickers. Refusing to go anywhere unarmed, a habit born from her surroundings, she’d donned her smaller shoulder rig and it was digging into her flesh. It had nothing to do with the man staring a hole through her at the moment.

Poet could have sworn she heard Shakespeare murmur, “He wants to do more than just talk,” but when her gaze snapped to him, his mouth was firmly closed.

Standing abruptly, she grasped the bottle of Patron from the table before walking away. She contended herself with mingling among her men and the women. Fallen was busying himself with two sweeties, apparently teaching them some sort of line dance that involved taking off their clothes. When their gaze met he smiled broadly and winked, before continuing in his task. Poet merely shook her head and laughed. Her Sergeant was a manwhore; the world knew it and he was proud. He razzed her often about getting laid; once he offered to relieve her of some stress, to which she followed up with an offer to break his kneecaps. He’d laughed, she’d laughed, yet he never offered again.

She passed Reagan holding hers and Cyrus’ two-month-old daughter, grinning as she watched her husband dance with the others; Maggie bringing drinks to three men playing cards; Train as he discussed sports with two HR prospects. The three ducked their heads as she walked by, a sign of respect from the Bishop and expectation from the wannabe members. She nodded back and continued on, dropping the now empty bottle of liquor on the makeshift bar before motioning for another.

“Thanks,” she told the prospect who was bartending before turning and making her way to the main clubhouse. The music was getting loud and her head was pounding – she wanted a couple minutes of silence.

As she sat down on one of the plush leather couches, heavy footsteps brought her head up. One hand went to her Ruger P89, the other still holding the unopened bottle of tequila. She almost groaned aloud when she saw who had followed her.

“Get the fuck out of my clubhouse, Titan,” she demanded, though her words held little heat as her hand released her weapon and started worrying the plastic on tequila.

“What’s wrong, darlin?’ Can’t play with the big boys?”

“Fuck. You.”

“You know, you’ve been sayin’ that to me a lot. It’s starting to sound like an invitation, Poet,” the Bishop stated as he took a seat in the chair across from her and snatched the Patron from her hands. She started to protest but stopped when he handed it back, sans plastic.

“Thanks. Now leave.”

“Haven’t been in here since before Fury died,” Titan continued, as if she hadn’t said anything. “Hasn’t changed much.”

“No need. Done with your walk down memory lane?”

The President of Bishops Reign regarded her, his eyes sparkling in humor as he took a drink from his beer. Even in the dim light, Poet could see the appeal in Titan. His chestnut hair was pulled back loosely – something she’d call a man-bun if she didn’t think he’d flip shit over such a term. Still, it was piled atop his head, accentuating the sharp lines of his cheeks down to his jaw. His eyes were the color of honey, with lines around them – both laugh lines and age. He was near forty or forty-five, around ten to fifteen years older than her, but it didn’t take away from his looks. If she were someone else, she’d say it added to them.

But Poet was
not
attracted to Titan. He was an asshole, one who was heartless to boot. She’d heard stories of what happened to those who crossed the man, and they weren’t pretty. Yet, it wasn’t any of that which made her not like him. No, it was him as a whole. So cocky, so sure of himself, and the exact replica of every biker she’d ever known. He believed women were disposable, just a wet place to sink his cock into when he felt the need every now and then. From what the brothers said, the Bishop slept with everything that walked into his club – married or not, skinny or fat, even his brother’s pregnant piece on the side. The killing and crazy Poet could deal with, the fucked-up attitude toward women she couldn’t.

“Would it kill you to talk to me? I mean, really, Poet. Here I am, all nice like – I even wiped my boots before coming into your clubhouse here.”

“Stop trying to be friendly, Titan. Your act only works on an audience. What do you want?”

The Bishop sighed before wiping his hand down his face. Poet almost felt bad for making him work for his words with her, but thought better of it. Most of her was enjoying his discomfort.

“I want to apolo—why are you smiling?”

Shaking her head, Poet hid the expression under a look of boredom. “Nothing. Please, continue. I’m all ears for you, oh great pain in my ass President of Bishops Reign.”

“I wanted to say I was sorry for Dirk. He has … issues with women.”

“Probably shouldn’t let him envoy with HR then, since, well, last I checked I am one,” Poet answered wryly, pulling a large swallow from the Patron she’d almost forgotten about.

Titan surprised her by reaching forward and grabbing the bottle, bringing it slowly to his lips and following suit. She couldn’t help but watch, his eyes never leaving hers as he swallowed. When he handed it back, she all but snatched it, holding it to herself.