by Juli Valenti
“Where is everyone else?”
“Cain and Zander are here, with me. The twins, Gabe, Vinci, and Treason all went into town, doing normal shit, making sure no heat gets drawn to HR after the hit on the Diablos … If we all disappeared –”
“It would lead the cops not our payroll right to our fucking door. I get it. Shit.”
“Yep. Go on to the hills, have a prospect follow you, stay with you if need be – then you’ll have a couple eyes on the doors. I’ll get in touch with the twins, have them head back to the compound to hold the fort down, and I’ll meet you.”
“I’m coming too,” she heard Fallen say. Judging from the strain in his voice, he was trying to sit up and get out of bed.
“No! Do not let him get out of that damned bed, Speare, I mean it.” Poet let out a sigh. “Alright, I’m heading to the hills. I’ll see if I can find Gray and make him ride along – won’t hurt to cover both doors at the house. Ride safe.”
“Ride safe,” he answered, then added softly, “and Poet?”
“Yeah?”
“Shoot straight if you have to.”
“Make yourself at home,” Poet said over her shoulder, grateful Gray hadn’t asked questions when she told him he was riding with her. He was a pretty good prospect in those regards, rarely asking questions and doing as he was told, when he was told, by whoever told him to do it. He’d been around for eight months already and she made a note to bring it up at the next Chapel.
Shit, Chapel was supposed to be today, she groaned in her head, pissed that so much was getting in the way of business. But, she guessed there was little need for it now. All the brothers knew what had happened to her, what happened to Fallen, and they’d already taken care of the Diablos.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket and she stilled again, her hand going for her Beretta before pulling it out. Poet relaxed slightly when Titan’s name flashed on the caller ID.
“I fucking hate worrying about you – what the hell have I gotten myself into? Hell, I can’t even come and see you since you’re disillusioned into thinking I sent one of my own men, who doesn’t even exist, to come and jump your fine ass,” the Bishop said by way of greeting when she answered.
“Hello to you, too, Titan.”
“Not even kidding, Poet. I hate this … and I don’t even know why I give a damn. You sure as hell don’t.”
“Are you done yet? Because I’ve got more on my plate right at this second than your insecure womanly worrying.”
“Did you just call me a fucking chick?”
Poet sighed, fighting a grin at the frustration in his voice. If she wasn’t more concerned about opening the blinds throughout the house to spot a potential hit she’d be completely entertained. As it was, her nerves were shot to shit over a hit, which was pissing her off. She could take care of herself – she always had – yet the bastard was making her uneasy. Your blood will paint the world, bitch.
“Are you even listening to me?”
“Were you talking?” she asked, stopping in the middle of the living room, her eyes scanning the area. She heard a sound in the kitchen and leaned left, catching sight of Gray making something, moving surely through the cabinets.
“Poet – what’s going on? It’s not like you to space in the middle of a conversation.”
“Um,” came her answer, her instincts telling her to tell him but her brain rebelling against the idea. For all she knew, he could have sent the message from a disposable… or his prospect could have. Poet groaned, her head starting to hurt from the rushes of adrenaline throughout her system from the day.
“You said your arm got a new decoration – is it bad? Jesus, talk to me, Poet. Don’t make me ride to the compound and beat on the gate til someone shoots me or lets my ass in.”
She snickered at the mental image. “Won’t do any good, ‘cause I’m not there. And no – my arm is fine, some stitches but I’m good.”
“Well, what then?”
“I’ll be right back, Gray,” she called to the prospect and climbed the stairs to her room, shutting the door behind him. Until he was patched in, it was best to keep him in the dark to most things. A non-member with too much information became dangerous, and she’d be damned if she misjudged him and he turned out like the Bishop’s rogue prospect.
Titan’s voice was hard when he spoke again. “You’re at your house … and you brought a prospect home? Seriously? A fucking President with a prospect? That’s some low shit, especially when you know I have feelings for your frozen ass.”
Poet took a deep breath, trying to rein her anger in before answering him. If he were to tell her he had a sweetie in his room, in his private place, she’d probably have the same reaction. Or, maybe she wouldn’t, given that she’d already been assuming he’d get ass when and where he could.
“No. Well, yes,” she answered through gritted teeth, “Gray is here but because Shakespeare isn’t yet. Shit’s going south and fast, the rest of my men were out, and I wasn’t riding with a threat over my head solo. I may be reckless and slightly fucking crazy, but I’m not that stupid.”
“You took out the Diablos today – so who’s the threat?” he asked, probing for more information, his tone curious. “I’ve told you more than once it wasn’t me or mine, Poet.”
“I saw the video, Titan. I saw it, saw the blue patch. But I just … I don’t know what to believe. And this text message has me on edge so I went to the hills. If he isn’t your man, he has some damned good inside information of our club, along with a way in and out while avoiding being seen at the same time.”
Poet proceeded to tell him about the text she’d received, along with the unease churning in her stomach. Something just wasn’t right, not adding up, and she couldn’t figure it out. It was enough to have made her leave her usual safe haven, the place she always felt secure. Even out where she was, miles away from the compound, she felt like she was being watched.
As she was talking, her phone vibrated against her ear, a message incoming. She stopped talking and Titan spoke again.
“Another message? Check it, Poet.”
Pulling the phone away from her ear, she hoped it would be from Speare, telling her he was there and to unlock the door. She hoped it was Fallen, messaging her about another Disney princess or about Sarah or the men still posted outside his room. But she knew, even before she saw the unknown number flash across the screen, it would be him.
Unknown: I see you. You can’t hide. You’re already dead.
“Fuck,” she cursed aloud, her hand shaking. Distantly she could hear Titan’s voice, demanding she tell him what it said, but she was having trouble working her hand. Whoever the asshole was, they could see her in her bedroom? Was that even possible?
Her eyes darted around the room, to the window, and she jumped up from the bed, crossing over and peering out of the curtains. The grounds were silent, the sun about to start setting, no one in sight. When she stepped back and brought the phone back to her ear, all she caught was a long string of swear words from the other end.
“Titan,” she whispered softly, surprised when he heard her and stopped cursing.
“Poet, what the fuck did it say.” No question, a demand. His tone was hard, angry, frustrated, sounding like he was a second away from jumping through the phone lines to kill the person who sent the message.
“They can see me, I can’t hide, and I’m already dead.” The voice that answered him didn’t sound like hers. It was small, scared, almost fragile – everything she wasn’t. It made her angry, the fear mixing with frustration that someone she didn’t know, someone she hadn’t actively pissed off, was gaining power over her.
“Christ. I’m on my way, stay close to the prospect and make damn sure he’s carrying.”
Poet started to protest – she wasn’t going to stay at the house. Especially not if whoever was watching her was actually there, seeing her through the windows of her place. She was going to go to the only other place she could think of, arme
d to the nines, with a lot of lights. With the sun going down it was going to get pitch black outside, with the exception of the front lights of her home – she hadn’t installed a high-security system. It was so far removed from the club, so far away, that the thought hadn’t crossed Fury’s mind.
But she didn’t get the opportunity to tell him anything. The line was dead and when she tried to call him back to tell him just that, the line rang straight to voicemail – whether he was calling his prospect, and telling him his plan was working, or calling for reinforcements, she wasn’t sure.
Running down the stairs, she called out for Gray, anxiously watching the sky as it was beginning to darken outside. He didn’t answer and dread filled her. Poet made her way into the kitchen, gasping when she saw the prospect.
He was on the cold tile floor of her kitchen, blood pooling around his body, an angry red line across his throat. The butter knife he’d been using to make sandwiches was still in his hand, his face contorted in confusion. Even from the spot she’d frozen in, she could tell he wasn’t breathing – and going by the amount of red on the floor, there was no hope for him.
Heart racing and her throat tightening, she dialed Shakespeare, her eyes scanning everything, just waiting. When he picked up, she spoke quickly.
“Gray’s dead. He’s fucking dead, Speare, and I heard nothing. I was upstairs talking on the phone for less than five goddamned minutes. I got another text saying I was already dead and came back down, ‘cause the message said he could see me, and we were going to leave. But he’s dead. He’s dead on my fucking tile floor – he was making sandwiches. Food.
“I’m leaving. I’m getting the fuck out of this house – the prospect hadn’t even heard him. His face is so confused, he never even heard whoever the hell did this. If they’re that good, that quiet, I’m in over my head unless I set the whole house on fire,” she rambled, unable to stem the flow of words as she went to the front door, finding both hers and Gray’s tires slashed on their bikes. “Fuck. Bastard cut our tires too.”
“Get safe. Norma’s. Get there – they’ll keep you safe; they’ve got club security.”
“What? No, they don’t,” she protested, drawing her gun and moving cautiously toward the garage and punching in the number. Poet could have cried in relief when she saw her dad’s bike, still untouched, parked in the exact place it should be. Whoever was doing this didn’t know her house as well as the clubhouse.
“Yes, trust me. Get there and get there quick,” he demanded and she could hear the roar of his engine. She was surprised she hadn’t heard it before. “I’m about halfway there. I’ll be there, Poet. Just get your ass to high ground.”
She was nodding, though he couldn’t see her, and she hung up without saying goodbye. Pocketing the cell, she climbed on Fury’s bike, her heart frantic as she moved the heavier Harley, walking it as far out as she could before starting the engine. Her dad’s bike was louder than hers and unfamiliar, but she pulled out smoothly, not catching a complete breath until the wind was whipping across her face.
Guilt was tearing her apart on the inside, now mingling with the rampant emotions swirling in her stomach. It was her fault Gray was dead, and the fact she’d left him there, lying in his own blood, felt so wrong. Everything in her told her to turn around, to go back, to honor him the way she would one of her patched brothers, but she couldn’t.
It felt like she’d somehow been transported, taken out of her normal life and transplanted into the scene of a horror film. She was the blonde, and could only pray she didn’t do something stupid she’d always yelled at the TV for. The only real difference, though, was she was armed and knew how to use it – there would be no hesitation when and if the time came she got a clear shot. She’d take it, empty her clip in the prick, making sure he never got back up. There would be no shocking jump up and grabbing her leg; his brains would seep into the floor before she was finished.
Chapter Fourteen
The parking lot was empty when Poet pulled into Mrs. Norma’s diner, the lights on as the sun had gone down below the trees. It was eerie and she hesitated momentarily, debating on the merits of parking around the back or not. The lights didn’t extend behind the building, except for the small porch light at the back door, and it could be dangerous parking there if the attacker had followed her and she hadn’t seen him. Yet, the idea of leaving her dad’s bike out in plain sight, clearly giving away her location to anyone who knew anything about her, didn’t seem very smart either.
She was saved from making a decision when Mrs. Norma poked her head out of the front door, waving her around the back. Poet trusted her and nodded, allowing the bike the lead her around and parking at the end of the porch. Climbing off quickly, she jumped when the door to the restaurant slammed open, her hand dropping to the butt of her gun, ready to draw.
Eugene, Mrs. Norma’s husband, appeared, his gnarled hands clasping a double barrel shotgun. When he noted it was her he lowered it and ushered her inside, locking the door behind him.
“Hey, Pretty Girl,” he greeted her fondly, wrapping his arms around shoulders and pulling her against him. “Shakespeare called. Don’t you worry about a thing. You’re not alone here.”
“Hi, Genie,” she whispered back, hugging him tightly. “I’m sorry to bring this to your door, but Speare said to come here – said to trust him, and I do. I hate that I’m involving you and Norma, putting your lives in danger. If anything happened to either of you –”
“Not going to happen, darlin.’ The wife and I, we ain’t just little restaurateurs, sweet girl. Once upon a time, I had my very own cut.”
Poet released the older man to stare at him, confused. She’d known the man forever, her entire life, and never once had she even caught wind of a rumor he could have been in HR. He was Genie, the cook at the diner, the man who made her whatever she wanted to eat, and gave her big hugs. His smell was a coming home, full of memories and happy times. But never had she ever thought he could have once been a biker.
“It’s true. My man used to ride Harleys and walk around armed,” Mrs. Norma’s voice came from behind her and she turned to glance at her, before looking back to Genie, her head spinning.
“But … how have I not known this? And there are no pictures along the walls. Surely someone would have told me by now.”
“Nah. Fury … your dad was a damn good man, and a good President. He was just a kid when I gracefully bowed out. The hands,” he said, sounding sad and looking down at the one not holding the shotgun, “couldn’t hold up the bike anymore. Arthritis, you know? Luckily I can still flip a burger and hold a spoon. But either way, Hells Redemption has always been welcome, invited, even, to find refuge here.”
Memories were spinning in Poet’s thoughts, filling her, small snippets of conversations and private moments between the older couple and her brothers. Hugs and whispers, side looks and meetings, it all clicked; how she’d missed it for years upon years blew her away.
“Now, let’s go sit down. Norma, bring the Gray Goose,” he said, resting his free hand on Poet’s lower back and guiding her toward the dining room.
“So tell me about this Bishop my wife saw you with the other day,” he demanded as he stopped them at a booth and sat down across from her, his back to the room so hers didn’t have to be.
“I have some slasher dude after me, and you want to talk about Titan?” Poet asked, astonished. She could barely compute everything that had happened, from leaving the club to her house to Gray, and now to Genie having been a brother … and he wanted to talk about her love life. Is he serious?
“Ah. The President,” Genie nodded his head, his eyes focused on her, his hand never leaving the shotgun perched on his lap. “Good man, from what I know of him. Ruthless, direct, always honest. The man can take a life without even blinking, definitely not a bad thing in the world we live in, but he never lies.”
Poet arched an eyebrow. “Well, I think your sources may be wrong, Genie.”
�
�Never. But how do you think so, Pretty Girl?”
She shook her head, her heart warming at his pet name for her, yet tightening at the thought of Titan. “We’ve got video of one of his prospects in the clubhouse … the same one that jumped me, giving me what’s left of the shiner on my face, among other things. Talked to Titan, he said he doesn’t even have any prospects at the moment – it’s just not possible, though. The video doesn’t lie, blue patch –”
“Equals Bishops Reign. They’re the only ones who use blue.”
“I know. And it completely sucks, Genie. It sucks so hard. I trusted him, if you can believe it. Plus, he made me feel … He made me feel.”
The older man’s face softened as he stared at her, his expression knowing and compassionate. “Maybe give him the benefit of the doubt, Pretty Girl. Maybe he’s telling the truth because my people are never wrong, and that Bishop doesn’t lie – doesn’t believe in it. And the fact that he made you feel, says something, Poet. You have damned good instincts, even better than your pop when he was alive.”
“Genie –”
“We’ve got wheels!” Norma called from the front of the restaurant, her eyes gazing out the front window, her hand still clutching the bottle of vodka.
Poet jumped to her feet, Eugene following slowly as he used the table to help him up. She wanted to yell for both of them to get somewhere safe, to leave, to go anywhere but in the possible line of fire. Yet as she turned to say something along those lines, she caught sight of the determination and anger on Genie’s face. She’d seen the look in the mirror more than once and knew immediately her words would fall on deaf ears. Now she could only pray neither of them got hurt.
Heavy beating on the door sounded, relentless as the rider on the other side demanded his way in. It wasn’t Shakespeare; he would have called or texted, letting them know he was pulling in.
