Artist

by Juli Valenti

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said in placation, dropping her eyes to the floor. “I fucking hate men like that – all of them thinking women are property and they can get ass from whomever, whenever … I'm not a damned sweetie. They have no right to put their fucking hands on me and demand shit from me. Buy me a fucking drink, learn my goddamned name, and maybe we can talk. But I am not some piece of club ass. Fuck!”

  When no one spoke she looked up, realizing she’d gone off on a tangent she probably shouldn’t have. Controlling her mouth, her attitude, and her ideals was something she often struggled with – her filter had broken a while ago, and she said what she was thinking. Which usually got her in trouble.

  “You’re done decorating for the night. Party if you’d like, but put your fucking cut on,” Poet told her, turning to her VP. “Get someone to keep her company.”

  Artist started to protest, but Shakespeare silenced her with a menacing look before taking her arm and dragging her through the crowd, back toward her room. Knowing she was already pushing her luck, she kept her mouth shut until they got to her door.

  “I don’t need a babysitter,” she said, storming inside and picking her cut off from the bed. She shrugged it on, wincing at the chafing. Taking it back off, she pulled her tank over her head and moved to her closet. Pulling the first T-shirt she touched from its hanger, she turned back, finding Shakespeare staring at her and the door shut. You didn’t even hear him close it. You need to get your shit together – if it was that asshole, he’d have no problem overpowering you.

  “I mean it, Shakespeare. And I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have pulled down on a brother, but I fucking hate that shit. I didn't really want to shoot another douche – okay, maybe I did – but boundaries, man. They need to hold a class, so men like that learn how the hell to act. This isn’t the Stone Age – you can’t just see a woman, decide she’s yours, and cart her around by her hair while holding a big stick.”

  Her VP merely continued watching her, his eyes hooded and unreadable. Following his gaze, she realized she was still only wearing a white lace bra, which left little to the imagination, and quickly dragged her tee on.

  “Artist,” he said softly, clearing his throat before stepping closer. “First, please try not to shoot a VP of another charter –– that’ll start a shit storm none of us would want. Not that we would blame you, Crisp is a fuckin’ worthless human being, but still. Second,” he said, moving even closer and reaching out, his hand touching her neck before tucking the tag of her shirt in, “I’m goin’ to want to know what you mean by 'shootin’ another douche.’ And third….” he trailed off, his fingers grazing her skin.

  Goosebumps broke under the trail of his touch and she stifled a shudder. She remained quiet, waiting for his third, but he didn’t finish, instead shaking his head and backing away. Almost instantly, she wished he’d come closer again, touch her again. Which was ironic, seeing as she almost blew a hole in a principal for invading her personal space only moments ago.

  “Third what?” she asked breathily as she donned her cut once more and followed him to the door. He reached out and spun her, pressing her back against the door roughly, stealing what was left of the oxygen in her lungs.

  “Boundaries fuckin’ suck.” His words were a whisper, a promise, a lament, and traveled straight to her groin. Shakespeare's lips hovered over hers and, for a small second, she thought he would kiss her. But he didn’t. He reached for the door handle and turned, her body swinging with the momentum as it opened.

  If Artist didn’t know any better, she’d think Shakespeare wanted her.

  Chapter Two

  For the rest of the night, Shakespeare stayed glued to her side. Or, rather, she remained glued to his. He hadn’t specified she do so, at least not explicitly, but when she’d excused herself for the bar, he’d been close on her heels.

  After accepting the bottle of Jack from the sweetie manning the bar at the moment, she’d turned and collided into his chest. He’d steadied her, his hands at her waist before clearing his throat and letting go. Stepping back, he’d arched an eyebrow at her and she shrugged before motioning for him to join the party. When he started to move away and she didn’t follow, he stopped.

  In no mood to dance an unmusical dance, his silent message heard loud and clear, she kept by him, half listening to the conversations he held with everyone. There was definitely something to learn from the man; as Vice President of Hells Redemption, he had some serious people skills. He somehow knew everyone by name, greeting them as if they were old friends, and they probably were. He, like Poet, had been with the club his entire life – it was all he knew – and it stood to reason the men surrounding them were friends.

  Artist entertained herself with the liquor in her hands. It had been a while since she’d seriously drank, but as she watched Shakespeare interact, she made a game out of it. Every time someone referred to him as “the Bard,” she’d take a shot. Every “hey brother,” or “VP!” or even “hey honey, later?” questions from the occasional sweetie. Each time, she took another large pull from the bottle, the burn no longer present as the dark liquid slid easily down her throat.

  If anyone were to ask, she’d say she was pleasantly numb. Crisp stayed far away, whether it was from her bodily harm threat, or Shakespeare, she wasn’t sure, but she didn’t care. It was nice to breathe without worry.

  The fact that all it took was one Vice President, in the form of an over-six-foot-tall man with jet-black hair and the greenest eyes she’d ever seen – even more so than the emerald on Teagan’s bed romp – to make her feel safe, irked her slightly.

  It irritated her beyond measure that every time his arm brushed against hers, her heart stopped, her mind reliving the incident in her room. How could she even be thinking about Shakespeare that way? He was the bastard who worked her to the bone, who demanded more out of her than her controlling parents. The almost constant burn in her arms, the exhaustion – it was all that asshole’s fault. Yet, occasionally, she’d catch him glancing down at his side, making sure she was still there, and part of her insides beamed at the attention.

  Huffing, and fed up with her stupid girly emotions, she charged her way out the front door, not sparing a look behind her. The cold night air hit her before she’d taken a breath, shocking her skin with its brutal breeze. With the body heat around her, it had been easy to forget the chill, but it felt good. For the first time in hours she felt like she could breathe, gulping down the fresh oxygen like a starving man would food. She couldn’t get enough of it and bent, placing the whiskey bottle on the concrete step and plopping down beside it. Her instincts demanded she drop her head between her knees, but that was a step too far.

  Pull your shit together, Artist. Seriously. What the fuck is wrong with you? First you pull down on a senior member of a visiting charter, like that’s going to improve your standings with your brothers. Now you’ve become infatuated with the idea of being wanted. And wanted by a fucking slave driver, even.

  Sighing, she lifted the strong liquor to her lips, pulling and swallowing. Her life had become a whirlwind – from the shit at the university, to moving to Socorro, and being patched into Hells Redemption.

  Poet had spent the last year begging Titan to let her come down, to let her join his MC, but he always denied her. Not that she hadn’t understood – women weren’t allowed in clubs, it just wasn’t done. But, still, she asked, pleaded, desperate for another option. Throughout his denials, she researched, finding Hells Redemption and learning about Poet.

  Her President was the shit in her eyes, everything she wanted to be. Fearless, strong, respected – no man would ever put his hands on her the way Crisp had and walk away without a limp. Having grown up in the life, the apple of her father’s eye, it was expected she be around. She'd taken up the torch after Fury was killed. Even more surprising was the fact that the brothers voted her to actually lead them – to take up the President patch.

  Realistically, and look
ing back on the situation now, Artist had no idea why she hadn’t just come down and asked for an audience with her to begin with. Poet wouldn’t have known she was Titan Warren’s baby sister, nor would it have come into play in any decision making. Part of her also wondered if that was the only reason she’d been accepted.

  Sure, all the HR chapter boys were respectful and treated her well, but it often felt like they walked on eggshells around her. Like, God forbid they offend their President’s President boyfriend by offending her. Her merits, her will, her own strength – that was what she wanted to be accepted for. Not a thin family bond.

  Family, her mind scoffed. For someone with both a living mother and a father, along with a brother, she was sorely disappointed on that front. All her parents did, at least, what she saw of them, was fight – and usually about her. She wasn't living up to her potential, she should be showing in major galleries, and where the hell they had gone wrong. Why was she wasting her time instead of trying to become famous? Add in her brother’s … profession … and it was downright cheerful in the house.

  Artist hadn’t made that any better by falling into her own job, but she liked it. Tattooing was different than painting murals and abstract globs of color. Though she still enjoyed the latter, the former was more challenging, and felt more rewarding. Inks and canvas faded, crumbled with time and the elements. Ink in someone’s skin lived as long as they did, telling their stories louder than any author could immortalize. It was personal, yet public.

  Taking another swallow of whiskey, she let her fingers graze the letters on her wrist, the ones that forced her mother’s hand. Memories of the fight, the words thrown and hatred spewed filtered through her mind. She’d never seen her parents so angry, or hateful, especially to her rather than about her. The tattoo was worse than the shooting, though she was lucky they hadn’t caught wind of that, too.

  “Fool me twice. Pennies to explain?” a voice behind her asked and Artist jumped, her head snapping around. Seeing Poet, she started to stand, but her Pres extended a hand, telling her to stay and sitting down beside her.

  “Would take more than pennies, I’m afraid,” she answered, offering the whiskey bottle. Poet accepted and tipped it back before wiping her mouth. She set it down between them and Artist snatched it like a security blanket.

  “I think I’ve got some quarters around here,” Poet pressed, her eyes persistent. It was clear she wasn’t going to drop the subject until Artist spilled.

  “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…” her words faded, the remainder of the well-known saying floating between them.

  Poet nodded, understanding. “Have something to do with the douche you shot?” Artist opened her mouth to protest but the woman continued on like she hadn’t moved a muscle. “Don’t get all pissy – don’t forget who the goddamned President is around here. I need to know shit like that. And, besides, Shakespeare let it slip. Now, the branding a reference?”

  Artist watched as her Pres pointed toward the ink on her wrist, and shook her head. “I don’t want to fucking talk about it, Poet. No offense meant but shit, my business. Not yours, not club’s. It was before Redemption.”

  “So it does.” Poet took another long swallow from the Jack and handed it to Artist. “Look, I’m not going to push you on it, at least, not today. But you will tell me one day because shooting douchebags always comes back to haunt you; trust me, I’ve put lead in plenty.

  “You know, the more I think about it, I never asked why you wanted to join HR. Is that part of the ‘my business’ shit you want to keep spewing? Because, you're twenty-six. You’re beautiful and could be in New York or something painting, or staying and working at the college while working on your doctorate,” she continued, though the only response she received was the sound of the party going on inside. “Look, your brother told me you were only nine when he left home … and maybe you thought this was the best way to get a real relationship with him, I don’t know and I don’t really care. But I will say you need to get your shit together. Can’t be throwing down on all men who think you’re club ass –– or there will be more dead cuts on the ground that I’d rather not clean up.”

  Artist had nothing else to say, so she remained quiet. The last thing she planned on was spilling her guts like a fucking pansy. And she’d meant what she said – that shit was her business. Not her President’s, or Vice President … nor her brother, who would try to go guns blazing into something that she’d already taken care of. All he’d do was make things worse, if that was possible. No, that was her baggage to carry and it was a heavy enough load.

  For the first time in weeks, she wished it was morning so she could blow some holes into targets. At least then, the demons that haunted her were further away, the kick of the gunpowder and lead leading her home inside.

  Time came and went, and she didn’t notice. Poet had long since gone inside, mumbling an order for her to get inside and get some sleep, yet she paid no attention. Instead she comforted herself with long-gone memories, ghosts, and her best friend Jack Daniels.

  “Jesus Christ, Artist,” a man’s voice startled her awake and she blinked in the sunlight, trying to see who it was. The voice sounded familiar but she couldn't place it, the familiar dream of blood and sobs still clouding her thoughts. “Have you been out here all damned night? Poet said you were right behind her when she was goin’ in. It’s seven in the fuckin’ morning and about thirty degrees. You tryin’ to freeze to death?”

  “Fuck, Shakespeare,” she grumbled, trying to jump to her feet but her muscles feeling like lead. “Did I pass the hell out while practicing or something? I'm so sorry, I didn’t mean to. I know you’re going to put me on bike wash duty again, and that’s cool. I'll start the minute we get back to the clubhouse. Starting with Poet’s and making my way through everyone else’s … I know the drill.”

  Artist’s vision cleared enough she could see her VP peering at her, the expression on his face not the one she expected. She’d expected anger, frustration, at her falling asleep on him again. Instead, he was looking at her like he was concerned, like something was wrong and he was actually …. worried about her.

  “Come on, darlin.’ We’ve got to get you inside and out of the cold. Shit, if I’d known you were out here, I would’ve come and gotten ya. Let’s go.”

  With that, he grasped her hand and guided her forward, her movements sloppy and uncoordinated. As he swapped his grip to her elbow, Artist went willingly, confused as she realized she was still at the clubhouse. The empty bottle of Jack was in her hands, and she remembered. She’d stayed outside drinking – ignoring a direct order from her President and getting shitfaced on the stoop. In all honesty, it’d sounded like a good idea at the time, though not a decision she’d actively made. Now, though, as the man she couldn’t get out of her head was leading her from room to room, she was seriously starting to regret it.

  “I’m sorry, Shakespeare.” The words as she spoke them were small, humiliated. Her thoughts were still swimming from the alcohol, her limbs heavy, her stomach reeling and her mind foggy. With every step the liquor lurched, threatening her throat, and she prayed she wouldn’t add the embarrassment of throwing up to the mix.

  “Stop, Shakespeare. Please, for the love of God, I’m going to be sick if you don’t slow down,” she pleaded, hating the words as they spilled from her lips. The club was about being strong, proving your limits, but her voice was weak. It was taking all the will she had, every inch of self-respect and strength she had to not empty her stomach on the beige plush carpet.

  Her VP slowed, glancing back at her, before cursing under his breath. He opened the nearest door and dragged her inside, never slowing as he took her to the bathroom. She made it just in time, throwing up spectacularly in the toilet. Masculine hands grazed her neck as her hair was scooped away from her face and she swatted at him.

  Please make him go away. He can’t see this. He’s my goddamned Vice President. And, on top of all that, I think I want
in his pants. Get him away from me, please.

  She wasn’t sure who she was pleading with in her head, but was grateful she wasn’t speaking out loud. Artist continued to smack at his hands until he finally took one of hers and wrapped her fingers around her hair. Loud boot steps sounded against the tile as she heard water running in the bathtub before he left the room. In between heaves, she listened.

  “Hey, Cyrus! Tell Poet I can’t run with her this mornin.’ Not feelin’ too well and gonna stay in bed for the day.” Silence followed for a minute before he spoke again, “Nah, I’ll be fine. A little too much Christmas festiveness. See ya, brother.” With that, she heard the door slam shut and footsteps moving closer.

  “All right, darlin,’ let’s get you up.”

  Despite her weak protests, his hands gripped her under the arms, lifting her with ease from her comfortable perch on the toilet seat. Shakespeare maneuvered her as if she weighed nothing as he flushed the bowl and put lid down, lowering her into a sitting position on it rather than the floor. Turning, he shut off the faucet in the tub, before gazing at her.

  Worry was evident on his face, even from her stupor, and she wanted to tell him to stop. So she was hungover, probably still slightly intoxicated and numb from the cold, but nothing so serious to enforce the look contorting his features. Artist tried to form the words to say exactly that, but he moved forward and grasped her cut, removing it slowly. He placed it on the counter carefully before pulling her shirt over her head, dropping the garment to the floor.

  She watched as he did the same with his own cut, the worn leather a stark contrast to the pristine of hers. The irony of it struck her, only opposite. He was so together, so perfect, and it was she who was worn and battered, at least on the inside. Before she could dig deeper into thought, Shakespeare stripped his own shirt, his bare chest distracting her and leaving her dumbstruck.