by Juli Valenti
“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.
Looking up at Titan, his large structure all but dwarfing her seated position, she knew she had to come up with something fast. And, as much as she didn’t want to, she knew she needed to find refuge elsewhere, at least until she could walk without wanting to throw up.
“I’m … shit. Could you get Shakespeare? He’s outside, on the picnic table, keeping watch.” Poet couldn’t bring herself to apologize. It wasn’t in her nature, and though the word had tried to form, she swallowed it. Admitting wrong was just as good as admitting to lack of strength.
“Say please.”
Was this asshole serious? She watched as mirth played over his face, replacing the ire that had been there only moments before. His eyes danced with the lights of the room, daring her to rise to the occasion or to banter with him some more. If she didn’t know any better, she’d almost think he liked fighting with her.
“Please…” she sighed and frowned when Titan broke into a grin. “Asshole.”
The large man chuckled and moved to the door before his expression grew serious once more. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move. And draw that pistol – anyone that doesn’t knock twice before opening the door, you shoot them. No questions.”
It irked her that he was giving her orders, reverting to Pres mode himself, but before she could come back with a witty retort, the wood was already closed. What was even more annoying was the fact that her hands moved almost robotically, unsnapping the rig and palming her Ruger. The motion was comforting and gave her a sense of security, though even she knew she would hesitate in pulling the trigger without hesitation. Not that she was squeamish, quite the opposite, but because she didn’t want to make a mistake and plug one of her own men without good cause.
A quick double knock at the door had her pulling her head up fast, startling her. Titan hadn’t been gone that long, had he? Glancing at the alarm clock beside her bed, she noted it had been at least ten minutes or so.
“What the fuck, Poet?” Shakespeare all but pushed the larger man out of the doorway, barreling through to get to her. Titan’s face grew red but he said nothing as her VP moved beside her, brushing her blonde hair away from her face and taking in her cheek.
“Judging by the throbbing in time with my heart, I’m assuming it’s already a miraculous shade of purple?” she asked, her eyes locking with the Bishops’ again, who merely nodded in answer.
“I asked, what the fuck happened?” Her VP asked again and she sighed, not having the energy to rehash the whole damn incident again. There were things that needed to be arranged, taken care of, and discussed that took precedence over the colors her body was currently changing.
“She got jumped after coming in her room. Prick sucker punched her and stomped on her once he got her to ground. She didn’t—”
“I asked my Pres, not you, Bishop.”
The blaze in Titan’s eyes grew and his chest puffed up as he stepped forward. Unthinking, Poet stood faster than she should have in between them, facing him. She’d been around alpha men long enough to know the body language that screamed pissing match, and she didn’t want to deal with it right now.
“We don’t have time for this shit, from either of you. Shakespeare, he told the truth of what happened, and as much as I know the cliffs notes version is going to drive you nuts, I don’t want to fucking repeat myself. Right now, we need to get shit straight. Got it?”
She was starting to shake, the rush she’d gotten from her movements wearing off quickly, but she gritted her teeth to remain where she was. Once the men nodded, she did the same, and lowered herself into the chair.
“You know, Pres, you need a couple nights off. Been a long stretch for you … Why don’t you head to the hills for a night or two?”
Poet could have hugged her VP in that moment, which was exactly why he held the position he did. Shakespeare knew what to say that wouldn’t piss her off, or remind her that she was of the “weaker sex,” and instead focused on the situations at hand without her having to tell him. He knew the problems that could arise with this and was moving on like she wasn’t practically a cripple.
“Think you can handle it all? The poker run is tomorrow, with the, er,” she shot a dubious look at Titan before continuing, choosing her words carefully, “other run after. I’ve already got Fallen and Gabe taking point there, making sure shit goes down the way it should. Other than that, should be easy.”
Her VP nodded. “We’re solid. Go out the back, and go dark. All the boys are out front right now and I’ll make sure they stay that way.” Poet did grin that time, and reached out, taking his hand and twining her index finger with his pinkie, her way of thanking him since she was young. He didn’t smile back, but tightened his grip for a moment before making his way to the door and turning back. “Oh, and this,” he waved, “someone’s going to wish they were fucking dead when I’m through with them. I’ll start putting feelers out, quiet-like, until you get your ass back and we all talk. Chapel?”
“Chapel. Three days, Four o’clock. Everyone there, or out of my fucking club.”
Chapter Four
“I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing. You can’t even stand,” Titan growled from the wall he was leaning against, holding it up. He’d been on a tirade since he realized Poet had full intentions on riding her bike to the hills. Lucky for her he wasn’t her Pres, or in any position to tell her what to do.
“I don’t know what business you think it is of yours, Bishop. Not like you’re invited on this joy ride.”
She paused for a moment, leaning against the seat as she closed the black leather saddle bag containing the few items she’d need. Her pop’s house, now hers, had everything – clothes, toiletries, even weapons. There was also a truck and a couple cars there, along with her father’s Harley, his pride and joy, other than her, he’d say.
“Poet,” Titan murmured quietly, suddenly beside her, and she straightened, glaring at him for moving without her noticing. Lack of attention could get her killed and she hated that she wasn’t running on all cylinders. “Are you seriously going to ride out there? Isn’t it a good twenty-five miles from here?”
“Twenty,” she answered indignantly and waved him away, hiking her leg with as much gusto as she could and seating herself firmly. Turning the key, Poet started the bike, smiling as the vibration travelled her limbs, soothing and distracting her from the pain of her body.
Titan shook his head before running a hand over his face. “I’m gonna ride with you,” he shouted over the engine and she grinned.
“You’ll have to catch me, Bishop.”
With that, she put the bike into gear and eased it forward, out of the garage and out of the compound. The weight of her 2002 FLSTC Heritage Softail Classic Harley was just shy of challenging, but it rode as smoothly as ever, the tires caressing the pavement beneath them as they moved.
Her bike was one of her most cherish
ed possessions – a gift from her pop when she turned eighteen. He’d had it customized for her, painted in an illusion tangerine color that looked pink in certain lights. The paint, along with the extreme sheen of chrome, was both masculine and feminine – a perfect representation of Poet.
A flash of white behind her alerted Poet that Titan had caught up with her. Idly the idea of speeding up, of losing him, flitted through her head but she decided against it. Instead, she let him pull beside her, expecting him to try to surpass her for the lead patch position. He surprised her though, instead remaining next to her, matching his speed to hers, as though they were members of the same club. A slight thread of respect for the Bishop lit through her and, together, they rode through the rolling roads and into the hills.
Poet had never been so happy to stop riding. The trip had been long, painful, and she’d been close to her limit as she pulled into the driveway of her three-story home hidden among the countryside. It always surprised her that people didn’t realize there actually was country in New Mexico. Sure, they had their fair share of deserts, but they also had lush trees and grass when one knew where to look.
It took her a moment to find the door opener amongst her bags, and she found herself gritting her teeth, fighting to keep her bike up until the slow-moving steel gave way. Pulling in, she cut the engine, even more surprised to find Titan following suit, removing his helmet and parking his bike beside hers. In the corner was a 1995 Honda Civic coupe, her car of choice when she wasn’t riding, and next to it was her father’s Harley, still untouched since the day she’d trailered it inside.
Ignoring the questioning looks the Bishop sent her way, she moved to the door opening into her home, allowing him to follow her if he wanted. Poet wanted a stiff drink, a couple pain killers, and something soft to sit on. Anything else was going to take entirely too much energy as far as she was concerned.
She heard the sound of the garage door closing, then the house door, as she moved into the kitchen and snatched the bottle of Patron she’d left in the freezer. Pulling the cork from it, she put it to her lips and pulled, savoring the cold numbness that filled her. After a moment she realized Titan was standing behind the kitchen bar, eyeing her.
“You want?” she asked, setting the tequila down in front of him and moving around slowly to sit beside him. The barstool was hard beneath her and she shook her head, immediately standing again. She shrugged out of her holster rig and placed it on the bar, deciding she wouldn’t need it with Titan. Besides, there were plenty more around the house. Needing to find something more comfortable, she motioned deeper into the house and nodded to Titan, who grasped the bottle, obediently trailing behind her.
The den was calling to her, begging Poet to collapse onto the microfiber couch there, and she obliged, sighing the moment her body was cushioned. She felt like she’d been hit by a car, and, seeing as how something only slightly different had actually happened, it made sense. Her mind desperately wanted to know who’d attacked her, her thoughts trying to flip through her multitude of enemies, but unable to focus on a single thought. Well, except for the pain roaring through her.
“You look like shit, babe.”
“Feel like it,” she answered softly, knowing another snide comment was going to be following the statement from the man who’d seated himself on the other end of the sofa. When one didn’t come she raised her head and peered at him, finding him doing the same to her. “What?”
“I called you babe and no smartass remark?”
“Smartass takes effort and, right now, you’re not worth it.”
“Ah. There’s a bit of smartass. Now take off your shirt.”
Poet sat upright, unable to hide her flinch as she moved. Titan chuckled, handling her the Patron and watching her take a drink before she began to protest, but he held up a hand.
“Gotta get a real look at the damage, toots. It’s either me or the ER, take your pick.” She could tell by his I’m-serious-just-try-to-fuck-with-me tone, he meant business and wouldn’t hesitate to haul her ass to the nearest hospital. Still didn’t mean she wanted to be half naked in front of him.
She didn’t want to be half naked in front of most men she knew and was comfortable with, let alone Titan. She didn’t even like him. Maybe you should go to the hospital … after all, you would’ve had to get hit pretty hard to allow the Bishop to follow you home.
Before she could think better of it, she pulled her shredded ZZ top over her head, smirking at the irony – she didn’t want to be half naked in front of him, yet her shirt showed more skin that it covered. Cold, large hands touched her revealed skin, making her try to cringe away, but she bit her lip and held still, allowing him to survey the damage.
Titan’s fingers trailed her visibly darkening skin, along the right side of her rib cage, counting each one as he pressed gently. As he touched one, a yelp escaped her and he froze.
“Bruised, maybe a hairline fracture, but not broken,” he murmured, taking a long look at her before moving to the other side and repeating the process. When he was finished with her ribs, he trailed downward, pulling gently at the waist of her jeans to reveal the bruising on her hips. Poet squirmed uncomfortably as his fingers brushed her skin, almost tenderly, and he sat back.
“You’ll be alright. Other than the rib, you’re just bruised. Gonna hurt like fuck tomorrow. Face okay?”
“It currently feels like a metronome … you know, that keeps time on a piano?”
“I’m not a complete fucking Neanderthal. I do know some big words,” he retorted, retrieving the tequila from where’d placed it on the floor.
“Learn something new every day,” Poet said, though her words held little heat. She was tired, so tired. When Titan held the bottle out to her again, she shook her head – she didn’t want to drink anymore. It was doing nothing to numb the injuries and now she was consumed with thoughts of the best way to get horizontal. If she were someone else, she’d ask to be carried, maybe even bat her eyes at the man beside her. But she wasn’t. Most of the time it was something she prided herself in; now was not one of those times.
“No shame or blame in asking for help, babe.”
“Huh?”
“I see you over there, working hard to keep your I’m-a-bad-ass female-biker-bitch persona, when all you really want is a man to rescue you.”
“Whatever, Titan,” Poet said, struggling to sit upright, refusing to ask for a hand.
“Fuck you, Poet,” the Bishop growled, standing. He slipped an arm under her legs, and another gently behind her back, and lifted. “Where’s the goddamn bedroom?”
She pointed toward the stairs, cringing at the fact that he planned to cart her ass up them. Internally Poet was struggling, wanting to kick and scream until he put her down, yet, she knew she needed him in this moment. He was warm and surprisingly aware of her, carrying her as though she weighed nothing. Breathing deeply, she noted that he smelled good too, masculine.
Once he reached the landing, she gestured left to a set of double doors. She helpfully turned the knob to open one, remaining as still as she could in his arms as he kicked the other, moving carefully not to jostle her. Flipping the light switch, she heard a quick intake of breath from Titan, which made her chuckle softly.
“It’s something, isn’t it?” she asked him, breathing as deep as she dared, taking in the smell of her private sanctuary. Her bedroom had changed often through the years, from soft pink walls and white wicker furniture, a princess room, to angsty dark colors and band posters. Now, it was one of her favorite places to be.
Poet had discovered the perfect mix of herself within the decorations she’d found and placed so carefully. The walls were a light turquoise reminiscent of the sea, the floors hardwood, and the furniture a deep cherry wood. A large, four-poster king-sized bed took up an entire side, the bedding as white as snow. The other side of the room was a mini living area, complete with a soft loveseat and coffee table. Another door led to her en suite bathroom and walk-in
closet.
Compared to her room at the clubhouse, this was the Ritz. Fury had spared no expense when she’d asked, once again, to remodel and had even offered to hire an interior decorator to help her. She’d declined, instead enlisting the help of a couple of the brothers, her father included, and they’d done most of the work in a day.
“What is that smell?” the large man asked, standing completely immobile while still holding her securely.
“What? Oh. It’s a blend of vanilla and passion fruit – I make it at the Ideal Softness downtown – they let you choose what you like the best, then blend it into anything you want. Lotions, perfumes, soap, and even potpourri air fresheners,” she told him, before shaking her head. “Why am I telling you this? More than you wanted to know, I’m sure.”
Wordlessly he took another step deeper into the room and walked them slowly toward her bed. With more caution than even she needed, he placed her gently on her bed, allowing her body to sink into the plush down comforter. Then, still unspeaking, he turned and made his way back to the door.
“Um … thank you. I could have gotten up here myself, eventually. But I appreciate it either way.”
She expected Titan to make some smartass comment about her being a ‘tough guy’ or something before leaving. But he didn’t. Instead he closed the door, shutting them both inside.
“You’re on the wrong side of the door,” she told him, confused. Though she’d never say it out loud, his silence was beginning to wear on her nerves. It had been a long night, every inch of her felt like she’d been beaten with a crow bar instead of fists and feet, and he’d been around all damn night. It was like the pain in her ass wouldn’t leave – and, while she could admit a small part of her didn’t completely mind, all she wanted was to go to sleep and forget.
The Bishop moved toward her quickly, his strong shoulders back and his face determined. Poet’s damaged body demanded she flinch, demanded she shy away from him as he came forward, but she did neither. Instead she forced a passive expression and waited. Stopping within her personal space, he knelt, his large frame seeming awkward at her feet as he began untying her boots, letting them drop loudly on the hardwood as he freed her. Once finished with hers, he perched at the edge of the mattress and proceeded to do the same with his.
