by Juli Valenti
“Damn, Branka works fast. Get them together – ten or so. We ride in twenty.”
The man didn’t ask twice, merely smiled and inclined his head before making his way down the hallway. Her thoughts going to her Sergeant, still lying in a hospital bed, she quickly dressed for take down - tight riding jeans, black tee, and boots light enough to run in if she needed to. She brushed her hair out quickly and secured it in a top knot, making sure none of it would fall in her face and provide a distraction.
Poet drew her gun from the bed holster and bypassed her usual shoulder rig, instead choosing a double draw setup she rarely used. The design of it felt slightly awkward for a moment, her body taking the time to adjust to it, but the weight of the two Berettas under her arms was comforting. Adding a clip to the concealed strap in each boot, she slipped her Hells Redemption cut on, and she was ready.
By the time she made it out to the front courtyard, her men were already waiting. Shakespeare, Cyrus, Gabe, Tonka, twins Damien and Dresden, Vinci, Zander, Cain, and Treason all stood beside their bikes, expressions hard. It was easy to tell just by looking at them, they were all armed and dangerous, but what surprised her was Officer Branka standing amongst them. The cop wore street clothes, jeans, and a white T-shirt, a dark gray jacket thrown over it.
“Branka – what the fuck are you doing here?” she asked by way of greeting, confused by his presence. Shakespeare had mentioned he’d found out who had poorly carried out the hit, but he shouldn’t be there.
“I’m going with you.”
“The hell you are,” she retorted, turning to her VP. “Please tell me you didn’t tell the kid he could ride.”
“Poet,” her VP said, blowing a slow breath out, “You know I can’t go. I fucking hate that I can’t have your back, but with Fallen in the hospital, we both know the club can’t be deserted right now. Especially since we don’t know who picked up the hit on you – one of us has to stay behind, and I know for damn sure you ain’t gonna agree to babysit this pile of bricks.”
She cursed under her breath. “I despise that you’re right. But still, that doesn’t explain why the five-oh should be taking your place,” she added, glancing at Branka, “not that he could anyway.”
“I’m right here, Poet. Christ, you talk like I’m not even here.”
Poet ignored him, keeping her gaze locked with Shakespeare, seeing the anger and frustration brewing behind his eyes. Something had happened between the two men, something her VP didn’t like, along with his lack of riding today.
“He wouldn’t give you the information unless he got to come.”
Her words were a statement, a fact, rather than a question, but Shakespeare nodded anyway, throwing a glare in the cop’s direction before speaking softly so only she could hear. “The boys are going to watch him – so much as one mistake and they’re gonna take care of him. Now go take care of business, Pres.”
Nodding, she turned and clasped arms with each brother around her, one at a time, ignoring Branka entirely. It pissed her off that he pulled the shit he had, but Shakespeare told her to go take care of business, and nothing was going to keep her from doing just that.
Poet threw a leg over the seat of her bike, ignoring the vibration of her phone, and turned the key, the familiar roar of the engine bringing a tight smile to her face. As her men did the same, the sound grew louder, almost deafening, but was music to her ears. It was a symphony, a full orchestra, and as they each pulled out of the compound and onto the road, she let the melody take her away.
They rode, Cyrus taking her four, and Gabe her seven, the others behind them. She wasn’t sure where they’d thrown the cop, and frankly didn’t care. If he knew what was good for him, he’d forget the tagalong nonsense and break away when shit got real.
What she doubted Branka understood was this wasn’t a “let’s go talk and figure this out” type of ride. This was a “we’re going to fuck them up, kill as many as we can, and hopefully take the doers out in the process” ride. Rounds were going to fly, rubber was going to burn, and they were going to get the hell out without any of her men taking a hit.
It took about forty minutes before they cleared city limits, and Poet slowed, wanting to ensure they all were steady in their speed. The Diablos Hermanas compound could be seen a couple blocks up, their security under par for a motorcycle club. By day the DH played mechanics, most of their members working at their shop in town, and their work followed them home. A chain-link fence surrounded the area, with beater cars lining the metal, providing little cover.
Poet glance behind her at Cyrus, who nodded, his free hand reaching under his leather cut and pulling out his Desert Eagle. She inclined her head and turned, grinning. Adrenaline was fueling her, knowing there was no way the bastards hadn’t heard the rev of their engines – soon they’d be flooding their courtyard, armed and ready.
Raising her arm, her unspoken “let’s do this” gesture, she pulled a Beretta from the holster and let her bike pull her forward. Instinct took over as she rode, her finger pulling the trigger until the clip sounded empty before she quickly holstered it and pulled her second. She emptied it as well, anger, fear, and frustration pouring out of her as she watched Diablos drop.
Something stung her arm but she barely felt it. As her second clip rang empty she whooped loudly, letting her bike pull away, comforted when the chorus of rumbling followed her. She picked up speed, trusting her Harley to get them back, though she wasn’t afraid of the Diablos coming after them. Not only would they be on cleanup duty, cleanup that would take a while, but they hadn’t been bold enough to try to actively take on the HR compound since her mom. They simply had better security and outnumbered them.
After about fifteen minutes and about as many miles, Poet slowed and pulled off to the side of the road. She cut her engine and climbed off her bike, watching as her men followed suit, and she counted heads. All of her men were there and accounted for, though Tonka was cradling his left arm and Cain had blood running down the side of his face.
“Tonk, you alright? Can you ride?”
“Lead in my shoulder, but I’m fine – nothing I ain’t dealt with before,” he answered, shaking his head. And, he was right. Part of the reason they called him Tonka was because the man was like the construction vehicle – nothing ever stopped him or kept him down.
“Cain?”
“Nah, I’m good – just grazed my thick skull.”
“Pres, you’re bleeding,” Cyrus murmured, glancing at her arm, just as Officer Branka appeared, his face red and breathing heavily.
“You’re fucking crazy, Poet Butler. What the fuck were you thinking? And with a cop around? You’re all under arrest.”
“You really did think we were just going to talk and play fucking tiddlywinks, didn’t you?” she asked sadly, reaching into her boot and snatching a clip. Pulling one of her Berettas out, she watched his eyes widen as she released the empty and slid the loaded one home. He was standing close to her but backed up when she leveled the gun at him. “We’re not under arrest. You can fool yourself all you want, but you knew I was going to kill the bastard that got my Sarg.”
“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 wo
n’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.”
