Artist

by Juli Valenti

  Synopsis

  Cecili “Artist” Warren knew what she was getting into when she asked to prospect for Hells Redemption Motorcycle Club. At least, she thought she did. What she hadn’t been prepared for was the grueling training, long working hours at her tattoo shop, and falling for the man who’d tested her limits day after day.

  Shakespeare Carter, Vice President of Hells Redemption, was ruthless in all aspects of life – from his role within the club to the demands he placed on Artist. It was no secret he was a hard man, but even ice melted when confronted with fire.

  After a close friend of Artist’s is shot during a hit on the club, she becomes determined to seek out retribution. Little did she know that would be much harder than any of them ever expected.

  With Shakespeare’s help, can she prove to be as strong as he thinks she is? And, more, will she come out alive on the other side and still recognize herself?

  Copyright © 2015 Juli Valenti

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Editing by Kristina Circelli with Red Road Editing

  www.facebook.com/RedRoadEditing

  Cover & Formatting by Rene Folsom with Phycel Designs

  www.Phycel.com

  Dedication

  For everyone who has ever lost a friend and wished they could avenge them - this one’s for you.

  Chapter One

  “How many times do I have to tell you not to lean on your back foot when firin?’ That’s why you’re missin,’” Shakespeare barked, scolding her, and it took everything she had not to bash him in the face with the butt of the rifle.

  It had been eight months since Artist had been given her prospect patch and officially started her road into being a member of Hells Redemption. Since then, she’d been put through grueling tasks and training, testing her worth and her dedication to the MC, and to herself. Most days she fell in bed exhausted, too tired to think or relive the days. But some days, days like today, she was almost driven to violence.

  “I’m trying, damn it,” she whispered through gritted teeth, re-centering herself to the target and preparing to fire once more.

  Since Poet had put Shakespeare, HR’s Vice President, in charge of her gun skills, it was his pleasure to put her through hell. When she got up in the morning, it was a vigorous workout routine before hopping on her 2013 CVO Harley and meeting him at the shooting field about seven miles from the clubhouse. There, he would quiz her on the weapons he brought, put her to task cleaning and putting them together, before spending hours target practicing. From there, she was sent on her way, sore and exhausted, to her day job.

  It wasn’t the training, the gruelingly long days, or the chill of the New Mexico winter that bothered her, though. What bothered Artist was the man’s attitude. Shakespeare was constantly on her ass about everything – her feet weren’t perfectly positioned, her arm wasn’t extended the way he wanted it, she was relying on sights instead of instinct. It was irritating as hell. Two months ago, she'd called him on it exactly one time.

  “What the hell, man?” she’d asked, dropping the arm holding her new .9mm to her side and running a hand through her hair. Ire at his barked words had pushed her over the edge, his constant nagging about foot placement and shot alignment cutting through her mind like broken shards of glass. “I’m doing the best I fucking can here, Shakespeare. And I’m not a goddamned idiot so don’t talk to me like I am.”

  “Excuse me, prospect?”

  Her blood chilled, immediately cooling her temper at the tone of his voice. Her VP’s face had hardened, an eyebrow raised, framing a dangerous expression. Artist sighed, knowing she’d lost the battle and points before she'd even been given the chance to play.

  “Nothing, VP. Sorry.”

  The man standing before her seemed impossibly large, his stature almost dwarfing her as he stepped forward. He grabbed the pistol from her hands and leaned in close. “I’ll stop treatin’ you like a fuckin’ idiot when you stop actin’ like one. We’re done for the day. Get gone.”

  Artist nodded, her eyes to the grass and dirt at her feet, ashamed to look at him. She knew better than to snap at any of the members, especially him, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to know he was going to tell Poet. Who, in turn, would tell Titan. The day was getting better and better.

  “Oh, and Artist?” he called, causing her to turn back. She swallowed her pride and glanced up at him, meeting his eyes with sheer force of will though fearing the threat that was sure to come. “Free pass this time around – but don’t push me. You won’t like what happens.”

  Shakespeare had kept his word, keeping her attitude to himself instead of telling their Pres, which surprised her. It was still rough, though, biting her tongue to not do it again. She longed to yell, to scream, to tell them all she already knew what she was doing. Sure, she may not have the same training or experience, but her time with Hells Redemption hadn’t been first time she’d held a gun, nor had it been the first time she’d shot one.

  But she didn’t. Instead she remained quiet, keeping those details to herself while squaring her shoulders once more and firing, keeping her feet firmly planted and leaning into the shot instead of away from it as instinct told her to. The red circle in the bullseye exploded, hay flying as the bullet maimed the target and the shell popped into the air beside her head.

  A part of her inwardly cheered, happy to have made her mark. Yet, another part, a deeper, darker part of her, wished it wasn’t just a target on a bale of hay. She shook her head, forcing away the memories that tried to surface.

  “Good. Again,” Shakespeare demanded, moving forward and replacing the target with another.

  She did as he demanded, again and again. Artist wasn’t sure how much time had passed since the first shot to last – she didn’t care. Every time the hay exploded, a prospect, even newer than her, replaced it.

  “Enough,” her dictator sounded, startling her from her focus. Head snapping behind her, she found the VP staring intently at her, his eyebrow raised in thought.

  Artist nodded, forcefully lowering her gaze as well as the shotgun. Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly, noticing for the first time the ache in her arms, her shoulder. The Beretta A400 Lite was anything but; at six point six pounds, it was a beast to keep level, let alone to shoot. Her skin would be sporting bruises later, if not already.

  The sun had begun to lower, the sky turning shades of pinks and oranges, the wind picking up and brutal through her sweat-soaked top. She’d been cold when she left the clubhouse that morning, wearing only the pink baby doll tee and jeans, her cut over it. At the time, it’d made sense though, not having gotten the hang of riding with bulky clothes. Spending the majority of her life in sunny California, with temperatures rarely dropping below sixty-five, made it hard to adjust to the mid-fifties. But once she started working with Shakespeare, her mind and concentration stole her attention elsewhere.

  Judging what light there was left, and not having a watch for an accurate time, she’d guess she’d been at it for at least six hours. It’d seemed like much less, like six minutes had passed since she’d so desperately wanted to punch the club’s number two. Now, though, she was calm, her mind clear. It was a beautiful thing.

  “Dismantle
and clean up. Poet needs us back – decorations need to be put up at the house and it’s all hands on deck.”

  “I thought only the prospects were required to do things like that,” she commented as she put the shotgun with the others and picked up the empty boxes of rounds at her feet.

  “Christmas is a club event, everyone – from officers to members, prospects, and even sweeties – helps. Let’s ride.”

  Taking the bag from her, she watched as Shakespeare attached it to the back of his bike before throwing a leg over the side. She followed suit, idly wondering how the new prospect was going to get home – especially since she didn’t see another bike or a car around. How did he even get here?

  Artist shook her head, started her Harley and revved, the engine roaring beneath her and bringing a smile to her face. Her VP pulled out onto the road and she did the same, riding behind him and to the right. The rules of pack riding had already been discussed. She knew not to try taking the spot directly at his side, but it didn’t bother her. As long as she was getting to cruise, she could be in the back of a string of thirty men.

  Unfortunately, the ride was entirely too short. The seven miles flew by in a blur of color and cold wind, the gates to the compound coming into view faster than she would’ve liked. Shakespeare stopped at the keypad, entered the security code, and they swung open in welcome. She followed as he drove around back and into the garage, taking his spot toward the front door while she took one in the back. One of HR’s easiest rules to follow: never leave a bike in the open.

  Without being asked, she made her way forward and took the duffel from his bike, removing each gun in turn and placing them on the hooks in the walls. The weapons they’d been using were club gear, ones with serial numbers and never used for anything but practice. It would look too suspicious if they were raided and no guns were found at all, so in plain sight they went.

  After pressing the button on the wall, listening to the almost soothing sound of the large door rolling down, effectively protecting their bikes, she stepped inside the clubhouse. Almost instantly she was assaulted by bodies, more people than just the regulars who usually hung around. She spotted some familiar faces, Cyrus and Reagan, Tonka, Fallen with the nurse he’d met when he was shot, as well as the twins Damien and Dresden. She smiled when Dresden nodded her way and lifted a hand before pushing through the crowd.

  It had been a very long time since she’d been so surrounded, in such tight quarters. The irony was the clubhouse was a large compound, home to dozens of rooms, as well as common areas. Yet, with all the large men filling it, it seemed downright tiny.

  Artist would be lying if she said it didn’t make her uncomfortable – not the brothers, really, but the fact she felt like she could barely breathe. Images flashed through her head, polos and broad smiles, and she shook it quickly, not willing to go there. A flash of red at her side pulled her eyes up, and she grinned when she saw Teagan.

  If anyone had ever told her she’d somehow make friends with a sweetie, one of the girls who hung around, sleeping with every man possible in hopes of something more longstanding on the back of a bike, she would’ve called them liars. But, the spirted redhead had been kind to her when she was on uneven pavement. She’d shown her the ropes of the clubhouse, the ins and outs of where to go, and shared stories about each of the brothers, helping her know them better.

  “Hey, dollface,” Teagan said, smiling, adjusting her entirely-too-tight green elf costume.

  “Hey, slut,” she answered, her lips turning upward. “Your tits are an inch away from being in your beer.”

  The other girl looked down and giggled, forcing Artist to groan. A part of her envied Teagan, her easy-going spirit and naiveté – she couldn’t remember the last time she’d made a sound like that.

  “Jelly?”

  “Never. What the hell’s going on here? Shakespeare said everyone decorates, but I know our chapter, if not personally, at least by sight. There are dudes in here I know I would recognize if I’d seen before.”

  “Reno chapter came down – some business, not that I have a clue what it is. Don’t care either. But that one,” she pointed to a tall, dark-skinned man, his emerald eyes boring a hole into her friend, “is going to be in my bed tonight. And you can bet your ass, he’s gonna be the one I ride into the sunset with.”

  Artist sighed. “Teagan, you say that every time. Why don’t you just buy yourself a damned bike and stop using your pussy as a crutch. We both know you like to get laid, but the riding part … you can do that without a man who’s going to fuck you then forget you.”

  As she’d expected though, her words fell on deaf ears, despite their truth – her friend was already gone, wrapped in a hot chocolate embrace and beaming. Artist watched idly as his hand trailed down her back, grabbing her ass before moving lower, disappearing under her skirt and raising again. Shaking her head again, she could only hope her friend moved it out of sight soon – Poet didn’t mind as long as the brother wasn’t taken, but judging by the plain silver band she’d noted on his finger before it had moved out of sight, he was married. That meant her president would flip shit.

  Continuing on her way, she squeezed through the crowd and disappeared down the hall, wanting to change before going back out. Realistically, she’d adore a shower, but knew there wasn’t time. It wouldn’t take long before Shakespeare or Fallen was beating on her door, demanding she get her “tiny ass” back out to help with the party.

  Stripping her cut off, she laid it gently on her bed before peeling her T-shirt off. Rummaging through her closet, she found a red lace tank and slipped it over her head. Artist ran a brush through her hair, despairing that she’d had it in a ponytail. Giving up, she piled it into a loose bun, letting stray tendrils fall to frame her face. Nodding at herself in the mirror, deciding against makeup, she was ready to join the crowd.

  Artist grumbled internally once again, tired of tinsel and glittery ornaments. Christmas had never been her favorite holiday, a day that was meant as a religious devotion turning into one about gifts and a fat man in red. Since she’d moved out of her parents’ home years ago, she'd stopped decorating. Here, though, she was doing as she was told, and bent toward the box and yet another dinkleball.

  “Hey, beautiful,” a voice said, before a beefy arm wrapped around her waist, grasping her hip hard and pulling her into a large body. “I'm needing some company.”

  She stiffened, not recognizing the brother, and tried to extract herself from his grip, but he held strong.

  “Don’t deny me, sweetheart. Do what you’re told.”

  “Get your fucking hands off me,” she demanded, trying once again in vain to get away from the man, and failing.

  “Don’t make me tell Poet she’s got unaccommodating sweeties hanging around her club. She may be female, but you ladies have one job.”

  Unable to control herself, she elbowed him in the gut, reveling in his pained grunt. Jerking sharply, she stepped away, pulling the .38 Cobra from the small of her back. Arm sure, she lifted it, aiming for his large chest.

  The brother was definitely a stranger, the Reno Chapter patch on his cut proving what she already knew, but the Vice President patch below it almost made her pause. Judging by the gray in his hair and beard he had to be pushing fifty, and while tall, he had started to round in the middle.

  “Don’t motherfucking touch me. You do, and I’ll show you just how accommodating I can be, VP.”

  All noise in the room ceased, every biker turning their way. She could feel their gazes on her, some curious and some angry, but she didn’t care. Not for the first time, Artist wished she’d been lucky like Poet – growing up in the life and having respect. But her, especially as a woman, and a prospect to boot, there was little to be had. Why the fuck didn’t you put your cut back on, dumbass. At least then, they’d know you weren't just a piece of ass, her mind cursed at her, but she ignored it. Not wearing her cut shouldn’t have mattered – Poet wasn't wearing hers, and neither we
re most of their chapter. Family doesn’t have to prove who they are to each other, that’s the benefit of being a family.

  The large man in front of her didn’t move, still toe to toe with her, his breath thick in the air between them, reeking of beer. “Back your ass up. Don’t think I won't shoot you.”

  “Artist!” she heard Poet exclaim, pushing through the throng of men to reach them, Shakespeare and Fallen close at her heels. “What the hell are you doing, prospect?”

  At the word “prospect,” her assaulter arched an eyebrow.

  “I’m sorry, Pres,” she said, glancing over her shoulder, “but my festive spirit can only last so long. This bastard thinks just because I don’t have a cock hanging between my legs, that I’m fair game to take his.”

  “All your prospects this disrespectful, Poet?” he asked, disdain clear in his tone, though he retreated back a step.

  “Does the entire Reno chapter think with their fucking dicks? You think you can just walk up into our house and take what pussy you want – that you’re entitled to it?” Artist answered before Poet could, her gun still level with his chest.

  “Crisp, I’d back up out of her space,” Poet said, this time sounding amused rather than forceful. “I believe my prospect is about to teach you some respect of her own, if you don’t.”

  Artist could tell by his expression he wasn’t happy with her president’s assessment, but after glancing at who she could only assume was his charter's president, he nodded and backed off. Holding his hands up in an “I surrender” gesture, he moved away, his eyes growing hard before turning his back on her and stomping loudly through the men and out the door.

  She took a deep breath, willing her arm to lower. He wasn’t a threat, and as badly as she still wanted to teach him something about women and how to act, she forced herself to re-sheath the gun in her pants. As noise started in the room once more, she breathed deeply, watching as her three officers made their way to her.