Poet

by Juli Valenti

  “Above all that crap, I loved the life I saw. Never once was I kept in the dark about what was done – I knew even as a kid that some of the shit was bad. Guns were always out, drugs too, but it never bothered me. The men of the club adopted me as one of theirs, came to expect having me around, and were like uncles to me. As I grew up, I did things with them … from going to the gun range to riding on the back of one of their bikes and cruising. It was the closest to flying as I’d ever been.

  “But, one night, when I was about twelve, a woman came beating on our gates. She was bleeding from what seemed like everywhere – her nose, her head, ears, mouth, just everywhere. Her husband had beat the fuck out of her, threatening to kill her and her daughter if she tried to leave. After her mother took her daughter, she ran to the closest place she could think of to find shelter … HR. My pop took her in, hunted down her husband, and helped her and her daughter get a place to live. It was that day, the day I realized I could not only take a life doing what they did, but also possibly save a life, I decided. Besides, the rumble of an engine is more music than any EP could be.”

  The woman’s panic had scared her, leaving Poet with no clue how to help, but her dad, her dad knew exactly how to take control of the situation. He’d comforted the stranger, brought her a blanket and some coffee, calming her enough to talk to him. She’d been in awe of Fury that day, of all the HR brothers for their gentleness with someone who so clearly needed the helping hand at that moment. The Bishop beside her was quiet so long she glanced over to make sure he was even still there. She hadn’t realized she’d been staring at the floor as she spoke, getting lost in the memory.

  “I hear what you said,” Titan said finally, his forehead scrunched. “But that still doesn’t answer the question. Instead of getting out of the life and doing something to help people, like you said you wanted to, you stayed in? Gun toting and growing hard against the world?”

  “It doesn’t have to make sense to you. Clearly I know I do more bad than good, but it’s my life, my world. I don’t want another one. Sorry if that disappoints you, if I don’t have some great reason as to why I’m not a Jimmy Choo-wearing SoCal girl who’s only interested in shopping and charitable events.”

  Silence filled the air, making it seem thick and harder to breathe. Poet hated that he had a point – if she’d really wanted to help people, why hadn’t she left, gone to school, and become a doctor or something? Simply put, because she didn’t want to. She loved her life, most of the time, and wouldn’t change any of it.

  “And I’m not hard against the world,” she said almost bitterly, before standing and leaving the room. She wasn’t sure where she was going, but she didn’t want to be trapped on the couch with him anymore. Titan was pushing more of her buttons than she knew how to deal with, short of kicking his ass to make the vulnerability go away. And while the thought was tempting, she doubted she’d feel any better afterward.

  Poet found herself in the billiards room, her fingers caressing the rough green felt. Moving on autopilot, she racked the balls and took her coveted stick from the wall. Placing the cue ball in exactly the right spot, she pulled back and relished in the loud crack of contact, watching as the other balls broke apart and scattered. Despite her force and accuracy in breaking, none pocketed.

  “My turn,” Titan said, surprising her. She hadn’t heard him come in, or take another cue stick from the wall, yet there he stood, chalking the tip and staring at the table.

  Saying nothing, she watched as he carefully took aim, his large body making the table seem smaller. The Bishop took his shot, the white expertly hitting a stripe, yet not landing the shot. Still not speaking, she stepped forward, examining the shot he missed and lining up her own. The stick vibrated in her hand as she struck, the sound of the same yellow stripe falling into its pocket bringing a small smile to her face.

  She felt more than saw Titan’s eyes on her, warming her, but she was in no mood for any more talking or explanations. Instead she squared her resolve, her focus on her next move only. After sinking yet another ball, then another, she finally missed, scratching by a hair.

  “You are hard against the world, Poet,” Titan murmured as he sank his first solid, this time keeping his eyes on the pool table. “If you weren’t, there wouldn’t be a chance in hell you’d be here with me.”

  Poet watched as he drew his arm back and sank another, and another, evening the score between them. His movements were sure, calculated, completely immersed in what he was doing, yet his words said otherwise.

  “Just because I carry a Ruger instead of a Prada?” she asked, lining up her next shot after he’d missed. The Bishop didn’t move out of the way for her, though, and his presence was heavy at her back, distracting her, and she too failed to sink the ball.

  “Most women don’t even know what a Ruger is.”

  “Most women don’t need to.”

  When her turn came and went again, Poet was getting frustrated. Pool was her game – she’d spent more hours practicing and playing the sport than she could remember. Between time with her father, and other brothers, it was the room most used at their place when Fury was still alive. The fact that Titan’s mere presence could throw her off so badly was irritating. Maybe it’s not just him, a small voice in her head chimed in helpfully, but she ignored it.

  Strong hands on her waist turned her suddenly, her face to his chest. She lamely held her pool stick at her side, like a forgotten weapon, as she stared up into his eyes, unable to read his expression. As quickly as he had spun her around, he lifted her, her ass on the edge of the wood.

  “Deny it all you want, but you are hard. And it’s not a bad thing. I think it’s fucking hot. You’re the best of both worlds, Poet. I don’t have to worry you’re going to cry in a corner like a bitch because you saw my rig, or blood on my hands.”

  His head ducked as he captured her lips, crushing their mouths together, causing heat to bloom within her. How he could illicit such a reaction from her, she wasn’t sure, but he did, every time. Her body seemed to crave him, to want him even when her brain didn’t.

  “I like that you don’t give a fuck about shopping or fancy brands,” he whispered as he broke the kiss, his hand trailing up her shirt. “And the fact that you could give me a run for my money in riding and business makes my cock hard when I think about it.”

  One of his hands moved between them, taking her stick and tossing it aside. He grasped her hand and placed it on his erection, proving he was hard like he’d said. Rocking into her hand, a breath escaped him through gritted teeth.

  “I really don’t give a damn why you chose to stay in the life, babe. I’m just glad you did.”

  “You are? Why?” she asked softly as he lifted her shirt over her head, revealing her breasts.

  “Fuck, you’re not even wearing a bra,” he groaned, not answering her. Kissing down her neck, he captured one of her nipples in his mouth, his teeth teasing the nub. Poet squeeze his erection in response, his growl prompting her to slip the zipper down. As he spilled out of the material and into her hand, she caressed his cock up and down, enjoying the way he made noises around her breast.

  Titan abruptly stood and roughly grabbed the sides of her shorts, all but ripping them off her body. The air was cold against her, though she didn’t have time to complain. He quickly replaced the heat, thrusting into her, rocking her back onto the coarse felt of the pool table. Poet moaned, his fullness heaven in her. She hadn’t been with many men, maybe five, but when Titan fucked her, it was like she’d never had sex before. He filled her in the most delicious ways, reaching the end of her and making her want more. Wrapping her legs around his waist, she moved with him as he took her, hard, giving her no rest.

  “Christ, Poet,” he groaned, slowing his thrusts. “Your pussy was made for me. Another reason I’m glad you’re not like most bitches.”

  “Why?” she asked breathlessly, almost incoherently. The way he was rotating inside her was making it hard to think;
she was losing herself in him again.

  “I can fuck you as hard as I want and you beg for more.” He thrust deep into her again, hard, his name tumbling from her lips. “And hearing my name on those lips makes me want to be inside you forever. As long as you’ll say my name that way.”

  Her insides were already trembling, she could feel it and knew he could, yet she refused to let go. He felt too good, too close to heaven amongst the hell they lived in. “What way?”

  “This way,” he said in answer, withdrawing and thrusting into her once more. When he pulled almost out again, he slipped his hand between them, pressing his thumb on her clit before slamming back inside her. She screamed his name as her orgasm took her, stars filling her vision, everything disappearing but the two of them.

  When she started coming down, she was surprised to find him staring down at her, still hard in her. Tilting her head, she silently questioned him, and he smirked.

  “Get on the table, babe.”

  Still in a pleasure-induced haze, she listened and climbed onto the felt, the material rough against her bare skin. He followed, lifting her as he went so she was above him. Slowly he guided her down, sheathing her around his cock.

  “Fuck me, Poet,” he murmured, his eyes saying more than his words. For him to give up power to her was big. It was a constant line to walk, even for her, the constant leadership role, always in charge, yet to give up an ounce of control. Now he was demanding it from her, arching upward when she hadn’t moved.

  Nodding in understanding, she lifted and seated herself again. Poet watched his face as his expression went slack and his head fell back, no longer watching her but relishing in the feel of her.

  “Watch.” One word had his eyes snapping open, his gaze following the lines of their bodies, of her breasts rising and falling with her movements. His fingers gripped at her hips but made no motion to control her, instead merely holding on.

  Titan’s expression changed, from desire and want to appreciation and something else, almost making her falter. It was almost too much. She’d always hated the loss of control he brought out of her, but in this instant, she almost wished he’d take it back. Pride refused to let her tap out, though, and she angled her body down to kiss him.

  His lips were hungry, mirroring her movements as she rode him. It was the most intimate moment they’d shared, and her heart ached to admit she was going to miss him. They both had to know they couldn’t last, wouldn’t last. He was the President of her rival club; there was no way around the lives they’d built.

  A tear escaped her and fell to his cheek, and she prayed he hadn’t felt it, but knew he had. Sitting up, taking her with him, he gazed at her, his hand moving to dry her eye. Their movements changed; no longer was it about control. Instead they were equally giving and equally taking – they weren’t fucking … they were making love. Poet’s heart squeezed in her chest and her body trembled in his arms, the emotions and sensations overtaking her.

  “Let go, baby, I’ll catch you. I promise,” he said softly, capturing her lips once more.

  Her body listened, exploding around him, as her heart shattered. He followed, his orgasm coursing between them, filling her. They clung to each other as they rode their combined pleasure, their sweat mixing. Poet wasn’t sure where her body ended and his began. In that moment, there was nothing but him, and the fact that she’d never be the same.

  Chapter Eleven

  The doorbell chimed through the house. They hadn’t moved, neither of them wanting to separate and end the spell they were under, but real life came closing in on them again. Titan kissed her on the forehead and mumbled that he’d go see who it was while she got dressed.

  Titan had called her an unflinching bitch and tough as nails, but she wasn’t feeling like it. Instead, she wanted to curl up into a ball and cry. How in the blazing hell had she allowed herself to develop feelings for the Bishop? And in only a couple days? It was absurd, even to her; completely unrealistic.

  For so long she’d closed herself off, knowing life was easier that way. It was so much simpler to avoid extreme emotions for any one person, because in the end, only she’d end up hurt. Other than her family, the brothers she led and who watched her back, she didn’t care about anyone else.

  Titan though … somehow that prick had found a way. He’d found a small pinprick in her heart and drilled through it, bulldozed a hole the size of New Mexico into it and seated himself there.

  Angry at herself and the world, Poet dressed, hesitating when she heard shouting. Throwing her tank top on as she ran, she found Titan in a face-to-face shouting match with someone. His gun was still on the coffee table beside her, so that gave her some comfort¸ and she peered around his large body to see who he was fighting with.

  “Poet Butler would never let a fucking Bishop in her house, let alone a half-naked one to open the goddamned door. Now, what the hell is going on and where is she? So help me God if you hurt her…”

  “I told you – she’s busy at the moment. And, clearly, she let a ‘fucking Bishop’ in her house. What the hell do you want, Officer? Or are you just here to bust my balls?”

  Poet could see the muscles in Titan’s back tensing, swallowing his first instinct to hurt the man who was in his face. She couldn’t say she blamed the man, but she was grateful he wasn’t punching the cop.

  Officer Steven Branka was part of the local police department, and, part of her payroll. He generally let her know when heat was building against her club. She’d get an anonymous tip, from him, and plan accordingly. And, while she never asked him to get involved, he often had, going above and beyond to keep her boys from seeing bars.

  Branka was about forty and tall, yet nowhere near as tall as Titan. Standing next to the Bishop he seemed downright small even. The exchange certainly wasn’t going to go well though – he’d admitted to Poet to wanting her once, and Titan so clearly having gotten her was going to rub the cop wrong.

  “Branka,” she said sharply. Both men turned, clearly neither of them having heard her come in. The cop eyed her up and down, from her disheveled hair, to her flushed face, and his gaze narrowed. “Leave Titan alone. What’s up?”

  “You … you’ve actually allowed this piece of shit in your house?”

  Titan’s face tightened again and his expression turned deadly. Poet spoke before the Bishop could react the way he wanted to.

  “Branka, you will either be nice to my company or you will leave. My patience is wearing thin. What’s up.”

  The officer cleared his throat and ground his teeth for a moment, his eyes darting between Poet and Titan before finally setting on her.

  “I heard about Fallen, and about the jump on you. I already talked to Shakespeare … He’s got a lead on the jump. After some digging of my own, I’ve got the dirt you need for your boy.”

  Branka glanced at Titan, still standing with his arms crossed by the open door, before moving forward and handing her a sealed manila envelope. When his eyes darted to the Bishop once again, Poet cleared her throat and looked at the other President.

  “I’ll go fix some lunch. Anything you want in particular, babe?” He beat her to the punch in asking for privacy and could tell by the smirk on his face he enjoyed making the cop uncomfortable. She gave him a small smile and shook her head, entertained.

  Once he disappeared back toward the kitchen, Branka seemed to relax somewhat, though the tension never left his eyes. When he opened his mouth, she knew exactly what he was going to say before he said it.

  “Really, Poet? Want to tell me what the fuck a Bishop is doing in your house? I mean, for real. What the holy fuck?”

  She shook her head. “No, and it’s really none of your damned business, is it, Steven? Tell me what you’ve got.”

  The officer sighed and scratched his forehead, obviously trying to maintain his composure before speaking. “The incident with Fallen wasn’t coincidental, or for the shit y’all were transporting. From what my informant told me, it was any
thing but. It was a hit, though your Sergeant wasn’t the target.”

  “I was,” she murmured, her grip on the envelope tightening, her knuckles white from the force.

  He nodded. “Yep, you got it. Everything else was just DH trying to cover their fuck up. One of the first blatant declarations of war from them in a while. What’d ya do to piss them off, Poet?”

  “Who knows. I hate those fuckers with a passion and they know it. Doesn’t really matter now – they threw down the gauntlet and, if I’m being honest, it’ll be refreshing as hell taking a few of those pricks out.”

  “I’m going to forget you just said that; I may work with you, but I am still an officer of law.”

  “Forget what you want to, Steven, doesn’t change any of it. Those bastards made a huge mistake and will have to pay for it.”

  “I could haul your ass in, you know,” he said, his gaze turning hard as peered down at her, trying to intimidate her. While his stare did nothing, she had to give him credit for his effort.

  “Sure, you could. But I don’t think you want the backlash a dumbass move like that would be, now would you, Steven?” She glared at him hard, the anger she’d been burying beginning to surface. “Don’t fuck with me.”

  Branka held her stare for a moment before sighing and looking away. It was that reason why she never considered taking him up on his many offers to take her to dinner. A man who could so easily be intimidated by her, who would so quickly back down from her, wasn’t strong enough to take her to Wal-Mart, let alone anywhere slightly romantic.

  “Did your informant give you any idea who took out the hit?” she asked, stressing the word informant. It irked her beyond belief that the PD had someone either feeding them information on the club’s doings, even one as shitty as DH, or someone undercover. The last thing she needed was a real problem with the law … though she’d have to get caught red-handed before they’d actually throw down with Hells Redemption. Of course, if one of them got their panties in a twist and reported to the FBI or Homeland Security, shit would rain pretty badly.