by Juli Valenti
“No, but I’m working on it,” he said, his eyes inspecting the floor before turning his attention behind her. “I’m leaving now. Shit’s turning sideways around here, what with a fucking Bishop in your home. Call me if you need me.”
With that, he swung around on his heel and left, slamming the door shut behind him. Poet turned, finding Titan standing at her back, exactly where she’d expected he’d be. He glanced at the folder in her hand, then back to her face before speaking.
“Lunch is ready,” he said softly, kissing the top of her head before taking her hand and leading her to the kitchen bar. She wasn’t sure why she let him guide her the way she had, except that she was relishing the last few moments she was going to get with him. Officer Branka had told her Shakespeare had a lead on who’d beat her down, and she was itching to call him. Yet, when she did, the little fantasy they’d allowed themselves in her house was going to end.
After lunch, Titan had taken a quick call on his cell before throwing his hoodie on and taking off, the rumble of his Harley loud in the quietness of her house. Poet remained unmoving on the couch for a few moments, reliving his goodbye. He’d kissed her deeply, thoroughly, caressing her face, stepping back before either of them could push for more.
“Ride safe, Poet.” That was all he’d said before pivoting on his booted heel, hesitating in the doorway only slightly before shutting it behind him.
Shaking her head, and the dropped feeling in the pit of her stomach, she stood and went in search of her phone, finding it where she’d left it beside her bed. There were three missed calls from Shakespeare, along with a text message, as well as a message from Fallen. She opened her Sergeant’s message first.
SIA: All these bastards in leather ruining my game. Tell em to leave. That Sarah’s a hot little thing.
Poet burst out laughing. It seemed her Sergeant in Arms was getting back to normal, for sure, if he was wanting the brothers to leave so he could try to get some ass. And, if anyone could do it while being hooked up to machines in the hospital, it was him, for sure.
She quickly typed a reply telling him no and his mojo would have to wait. Still smiling, she decided against reading her VP’s messages and pressed the call button, waiting patiently as it rang on the other end of the line.
“’Bout damn time, Poet. Christ, if I hadn’t known you’d gotten home fine, I woulda driven out to the hills to check on your scrawny ass.”
“My ass ain’t scrawny, Speare, it’s proportionate. Had a visit from Branka earlier. What’d you find out?”
“Bishop still there with you? And don’t start with he wasn’t there to begin with, we both know you’ll be lyin’ your ‘proportionate’ ass off.”
“You know too much. Your detective skills woulda been much more useful in the police corps or something,” she told him dryly, enjoying the sound of his deep chuckle on the other end. He could laugh, but it didn’t make her words any less true. The man was a master at fishing out information, finding shit out most people could keep hidden forever.
“You didn’t answer the question.”
Poet sighed. “No, he left about ten minutes ago.”
“Good because we have a serious fuckin’ problem. One you ain’t going to like much. How’s your face?”
“Err, I think it’s fine. Still different shades of the rainbow but it doesn’t throb. Why? And what’s the problem?”
“Get back to the clubhouse. Our phones are pretty damn solid, but if I can hack the lines, so can others.”
Shit. It was going to be really bad if Shakespeare refused to talk about it over the phone. The unease in her stomach was growing every second that passed, flowing through her veins. She needed to know, and she needed the information yesterday.
“Gimme two-sixty. I want to check on Fallen and I’ll be there. He need to know? Nothing he hates more than being left out of the loop, but shit can’t really wait.”
“I’ll fill him in when we decide a course of action. I’m at a complete fuckin’ loss here, and glad as hell I ain’t Pres today, Pres.”
“Great. I’ll be there in a bit.”
Poet didn’t wait for his reply, instead disconnecting the call and tossing the iPhone on the bed, staring at it like it was going to attack her. The feeling inside her was getting worse and pissing her off at the same time. Trouble was brewing on more than one front, she could feel it, and it was making her itch for a fight.
Moving quickly through her room she pulled on a pair of her ripped blue jeans, before throwing her favorite blue ‘ride or die’ tank over her head. Her shoulder rig followed, adjusting the straps so her boob wouldn’t get in the way if she pulled the Ruger, and tossed her custom cut over it. Mid-calf black riding boots, her blonde hair thrown up into a high pony tail, and she was ready for whatever news was waiting her back at the clubhouse.
The ride to St. Agnes Memorial Hospital was a blur to her, an escape in the form of a seven-hundred-and-thirty pound rumbling engine. Poet’s mind was lost to the shit going on within the past few days – from the beating she’d taken, to Fallen in the hospital, and the complete lack of common sense when it came to Titan. The other two she couldn’t solve at the moment, needing more information, yet the shit with the Bishop was driving her up the wall. How she could have let her guard down, with him of all people, was a complete mystery.
She parked her bike and walked through the sliding glass door, ignoring the nurses and other passersby in the hospital halls. They still stared, and there were more of them, being the middle of the day, but she didn’t care. Her feet led her to Fallen’s room and she clasped arms with the brothers guarding his door. It seemed to be Cyrus and Gabe’s watch. Neither commented on her face, instead informing all had been quiet, with the exception of her SIA, who was yelling at them every time they questioned staff trying to enter his room.
Thanking them, she opened the door, smiling broadly when the man in question glared in her direction, opening his mouth to yell at the brothers, only to see her. His mouth snapped shut before he grinned at her and muted the TV.
“Hey, Pres! Here to break me out of jail? Or at the very least relieve Flotsam and Jetsam out in the hallway?”
“Are they having a Disney princess movie marathon on ABC Family again?”
“Hey, Ariel was hot for being a youngen,” he said in answer, his eyes gleaming.
“That’s wrong on so many levels, Fallen. And no to both of your questions. You’re at your home away from home until the doc says your insides aren’t going to become your outsides.”
“Damn, you’re no fun,” Fallen told her, falling back onto his pillows in mock depression. “Could you at least get them to stop scaring the shit out of that little hottie nurse? I mean, I keep telling her they’re mostly bark, but with all the guns and shit I doubt she believes me … which she shouldn’t, but still. I’m trying to get myself well soon between her legs…”
“Um, sure, Fallen, I’ll tell them,” she said, shaking her head. Her Sergeant had always been a horny fucker; him being in the hospital seemed to just give him access to different pussy. “Anyway, how are you feeling?”
“Like I got smashed in the stomach with a tire iron a few times, from the inside out. Any news on why shit went down the way it did?”
“Don’t have much. Branka came by though and it was a hit.”
Fallen’s eyes widened before hardening; gone was his easy going, usual horny persona and out came the reason he was her SIA. He was a scary son of a bitch when he was angry.
“Someone took a fucking hit out on me?” he asked incredulously, and she could have laughed. The amount of women he screwed weekly would certainly piss someone off, and he knew it.
“No, they didn’t,” she answered, matching his hard gaze and returning it, letting the frustration she felt pour out of her. He quickly grasped her meaning and his expression became murderous. His hand balled into a fist, grasping at the crisp white sheet of his bed and squeezing, his knuckles whitening.
&n
bsp; “The slug I took was meant for you.” It was a statement, rather than a question, and she nodded. “Who bankrolled the fucking hit?”
Poet shook her head and shrugged. “Not sure yet. Clearly I pissed in someone’s Cheerios, but I haven’t got the slightest idea whose. It’s not like I go around trying to be besties with everyone in our business, you know?”
Fallen shook his head, his teeth gritted and his jaw flexing. The monitor attached to his finger, keeping track of his heartrate, began to beep faster. After long moments, neither of them looking away, he finally took a deep breath.
“Thank fuck it was me. Jesus, Poet. This is some serious bullshit right now. Things have been pretty quiet lately, all of us somehow working together without problems … but we all knew things would go downhill again. It’s just how shit goes, right? We haven’t had a full-blown war, actively fighting, since Fury died. Whoever did this … war is what they want. I’ll be all too happy to give it to them, too. Once I can get myself out of this goddamned hospital.”
She watched as his fist came down on the wrinkled linen of his bed, her Sergeant’s anger permeating the air, almost making it hard to breathe. It pained her to know she’d have to take care of the shitstorm around them, without his help or input. More so, he was going to be furious. Problem was, according to the doctors, he could be there for a week or even longer, and even when he was released would be in no form to go charging with guns blazing. Once he got out, he’d have to take it easy for a while.
The hit, finding out who beat her, was something she’d have to take care of quickly, or the world as they’d built was going to tilt sideways. If that were to happen, the trade empire they’d built would crumble, security would be nil, and life would go to shit. No way could she stand by and wait.
Not that she’d tell him that. Not a chance. All he needed to know was what she told him – and right then, it wasn’t a whole lot. As she opened her mouth to tell him exactly that, to calm down and wait for more information, a knock sounded at the door and she turned, her fingers wrapping around the butt of her gun.
Long brown hair appeared first, before the tan skin of the young nurse she’d met the night before entered the room. Her steps were hesitant as she caught sight of her, ready to pull down, but she raised her chin bravely and moved toward Fallen’s bed. As for her Sergeant, Poet watched as his face softened slightly, his fury still visible but lessened somewhat.
“Sarah,” he breathed, a small smile playing on his lips. Poet’s hand relaxed on her Ruger as she watched him, the change in his posture as he sat up straighter, his eyes never leaving the petite nurse. If she didn’t know any better, didn’t know him any better, she’d say he actually liked the girl … and not just for a quickie.
“Luke,” she replied softly, surprising Poet even more. Sure, she knew her Sergeant’s name, but it was rare she heard it. Like so many, his road name had become him in her mind, his given name disappearing into the wind. Even more shocking was Fallen’s reaction. The bastard was actually grinning.
“Um … okay. I’m gonna go, Sarg. I’ll keep you in the loop as I know shit. And leave Flotsam and Jetsam alone – they’re doing as Ursula ordered. No arguments,” she added as he opened his mouth to protest.
Sarah pressed some buttons on the monitor beside his bed, and his attention turned to her, his eyes locked heatedly on the younger woman. Poet took that moment to duck out of the room, inexplicably uncomfortable with the interaction. It wasn’t the desire burning in his face that made her that way; she’d seen him lusting after a lot of women in their time together. Instead it was the intensity, the completeness of it that made her uneasy. She hoped the nurse was just an itch he needed to scratch, but deep down, she could already tell it wasn’t. Damn it, that means I’ll have to eventually apologize for threatening the bitch.
Walking into the clubhouse, Poet could immediately feel calmness seep through her. From the smell of booze, cigarette smoke, and leather, along with the photos on the walls and the multitude of bikes parked out front, there really was no place like home. Brothers filled the living area, seated on the couches laughing and drinking, rock music filling the room from the stereo she’d installed a few years ago. The sight made her smile – it felt like years since she saw them, not a few days.
“Is that what you lazy asses do when boss is gone? Sit and fuck around?” she called loudly, inwardly laughing when the men stood, looking guilty. “There no work to be done ‘round here?”
Some of the men shot looks to each other, while others began mumbling excuses. Unable to contain herself, she chuckled aloud and held up a hand.
“I’m only joking. Relax.”
“Damn, Pres. Your face still looks like shit,” one of them, Moose, commented, and she arched an eyebrow, watching him squirm uncomfortably. “I just meant…”
“No, it’s alright, man. I know it does – could’ve put some makeup on it or something, but that just ain’t our style. Hell doesn’t cover their battle scars.”
“Damn right we don’t!” Rev hollered, holding his beer above his head in a toast to her, the scar down his cheek lifting as he smiled.
Poet nodded in response. “Where’s VP?”
“The Bard is in the spy room,” Moose said, meaning their computer lab.
Poet’s first advisement to her father had been to update their security, adding more cameras, computers, and some high-tech equipment she had no idea how to work. After some nudging, Fury had agreed to bring in a former CIA agent, who, with free reign of the club’s Amex, had completely outfitted the place. Luckily, her VP knew how to work all of it – though when she’d asked him how he knew, the man had merely smiled and winked, giving nothing away.
Leaving her boys to resume their chatter, she made her way down the hall, not hesitating as she passed her room. She’d tackle that hurdle after she got the information Shakespeare had for her. The door to the spy room opened with a loud click as she pressed the number code in. Poet sighed in relief, grateful she remembered it – as added security, there was no second chance on the door. If it was done once wrongly, an alarm sounded throughout the clubhouse, locking the place down. Only a few brothers knew it, and it would’ve been embarrassing as hell if she gotten it wrong.
Shakespeare’s back was to her as she entered the room, three monitors in front of him, each with a blurry image enlarged. Squinting, Poet tried to make out some details, but could see nothing but colored pixels.
“What’d you find?” she asked, sparing no time for pleasantries and shutting the door behind them. The lock engaged and she turned, noting that her VP looked like he hadn’t slept in days, the dark bags under his eyes the same color as the damage done to hers. “Christ, you look like shit.”
“We have a serious problem, Poet. Big. More than I think we’re prepared for.”
She stared at him for a second, gazing at him and trying to judge how serious he was. His expression was solemn, stressed; the entire world could have been on his shoulders as he spoke and he would have looked less worried. Poet took the seat beside him and waited for him to explain. Shakespeare inclined his head toward the screen in the middle.
“What do you see here?”
“Honestly, not a whole lot. Looks like a huge glob of color on a computer screen, broken up by pixilation.”
Her VP pressed a few buttons and the image zoomed out, pulling a gasp from her throat. She’d never forget the body, the black hoodie, jeans, scuffed boots, though she didn’t know who it belonged to. Images flooded her memory: her falling to the floor, trying to protect herself from the onslaught of him stomping on her, kicking her in the ribs, the taste of blood in her mouth. A chill coursed through her from remembering and she steeled herself, glancing from Shakespeare to the screen.
“The bastard that jumped me,” she breathed, letting him know she wasn’t lost in some sort of trauma or something.
“Yes – I pulled this from the security footage. He walked in through the back, made no stops but you
r room, and disappeared amongst the party out front. Never once does the asshole look up or give me any chance to see his face … He’s good, and somehow knew we had cameras inside.”
“So we still have nothing then…”
“No. Look,” he pointed out, zooming the image incrementally, focusing on the zipper front of his hoodie. Poet strained as she tried to see what he did, staring at the image, until something caught her attention.
“Wait – what is that strip of color right there?” Poet asked, her finger shooting out toward the monitor, touching it as if it could give her answers.
“That’s what I’ve got, Poet.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. It can’t be, her mind screamed, but there was little she could say to actually deny it. It was there, plain as day. “No, it can’t be a prospect patch.”
Shakespeare nodded, no longer looking at the screen but staring at his President. She glanced from the strip to him and back, her head moving automatically, trying to rationalize what she was seeing but unable to.
“Pres … you know that’s a patch. I know that’s a patch. Even worse, we both know only one club in the fuckin’ country uses a blue for their prospects.”
“Shakespeare … I just … fuck!” There was suddenly a lack of oxygen in the air, making breathing hard, and it took everything she had to avoid putting her head between her knees.
“I know, man. I know. Talk about some screwed-up shit.”
Her Vice President was right. The shit was definitely screwed up. And, he was right about something else as well – she knew it was a patch and there was only one club in the entire United States who used a blue one for their prospects. Poet didn’t want to admit it, but there it was, in blown-up technicolor.
