Artist

by Juli Valenti

  “I knew that alarm clock was a piece of shit,” Artist answered in greeting before Poet nodded, allowing her to approach and clasp arms.

  It was common for the members of Hells Redemption to greet each other individually, linking arms as a show of solidarity, a connection for a lack of a better term. But, as a prospect, her position was often more unknown. She wasn’t a brother yet, so everything she did usually had to be approved by the biker she was greeting or working with.

  Poet’s grip was tight as she returned the gesture before pulling her into an even tighter hug. Hesitantly, Artist hugged her back, but froze as her President’s lips met her ear and she whispered,

  “Do I need to give you a warning? Do I need to ask if you can think with your head rather than your pussy when I need you to? I’m not saying it’s bad to fall into bed with Shakespeare, I can see the appeal, but I need to know you’re not going to go all girl on me here. We’re going to need you.”

  “Leaving the cock in the sheets,” she said in answer, meaning it. “I’m not a bitch, Poet. We’re a lot more alike than you may think. An hour ago he was between my legs, doesn’t mean he’s going to be the forefront of my head for the next hour.”

  “Good,” her Pres replied, pulling back and releasing her with a nod to Shakespeare, who merely smirked in greeting.

  Stepping back, she took up a place against the wall, winking when Fallen caught her eye. He grinned in return and she smiled, completely unashamed. The Sergeant nodded approvingly before looking to Poet.

  “We’ve got a problem, y’all,” she started, her stance unyielding under the stare of a dozen men larger than she was. “Apparently some of the Reno boys made a pit stop off the party train last night.”

  Artist waited as her President hesitated, wondering why they cared where the Reno chapter had gone. From what she could remember, not all of the charter were assholes, seeming to reserve that position for Crisp. Sorrow and Monday had been decent, striking up a conversation with her about the possibility of ink in their future, which she’d appreciated. Even Apex, their President, who'd also been the man Teagan had become smitten with, had been polite, apologizing for his VP and his attitude. But still, she couldn’t conclude what their movements meant to all of them. Must keep my mouth shut. Keep it the fuck shut, she mentally recited, biting her tongue to keep from blurting the words out in her impatience.

  “Problem is, they stopped in DH territory. And, well, the Diablos didn’t take too kindly to having our wings on their turf,” she continued, motioning to their sigil on the wall, the bike tracks aligning with angel wings prominent on the wall.

  “Fuck,” she heard Cyrus breathe, moving forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

  “Yeah, fuck,” Poet said. “Apex is dealing with the majority of the damage, though two walked away with broken noses. Luckily, Dresden and Damien were also unharmed for the most part – scratches and some bruises, but they’re fine. Unfortunately, three of our sweeties caught lead. Now, while I don’t necessarily like their … roles, in this club, I dislike the Diablos fucking with us in any capacity even more.”

  “Which sweeties?” Artist asked, dread filling her stomach. She knew she was supposed to remain quiet, only ask questions when acknowledged and usually not even then. But she had to know, and she didn’t want to be right.

  “Felicity and Cora,” she answered. “And Teagan.”

  Artist immediately felt like she’d been punched in the gut, all air leaving her lungs. Sheer will kept her standing, kept her immobile. She’d known it, had expected the words to come from Poet’s mouth before she spoke them, but the shock still hurt.

  “Is she … did they end her?” she asked, forcing her voice to be strong as the eyes of the brothers waited for her to break down.

  “No. She’s critical at Greenspan.” The same hospital Titan had been in after taking the slug meant for Poet in the spring. The exact place Artist had asked about entrance into the Hells Redemption motorcycle club.

  “We’re going to split up. I want guards on Felicity and Teagan’s rooms, in case the douchebags decide to silence the ass. I've got to go tell Cora’s mom about her daughter, I owe it to them both. The rest of you are going to find out which of those fuckers were involved – talk to Apex and his men, and ours, get some real information. Then we'll deal with it.”

  Artist was nodding, completely on board with revenge. Her thoughts wondered to her vibrant friend, her imagination running wild. She pictured her bubbly friend broken and lying alone in a cold hospital room, her normally vibrant hair dulled. Closing her eyes, she willed the images out of her head.

  “Shakespeare will delegate who’s better suited where. Any objections to that?”

  None of the men argued, and Poet left the room with Fallen, the sound of their Harleys loud in the silence as they rode off. The fact the two of them were heading to tell a mother her young daughter was dead, one who many of the men had partied with at one point or another, and were fond of, was not lost on any of them. Even more, the fact that two more had shrapnel dug out of them only fueled their fires.

  No one moved as all gazes snapped to Shakespeare, the air heavy with impatience. It was clear every man in the room wanted to act, to do something, yet her VP took his time scanning the brothers before clearing his throat.

  “Crisp, Cyrus, and Tonka, meet up with Apex – get as much information as humanly fuckin’ possible. I want everything, down to what each asshole was wearin' before the rounds started flyin,’ understand?”

  With a nod, the men stood and exited, leaving her, Gabe, Vinci, Zander, Treason, and Cain. She glanced at them, impatience making her shift from foot to foot as she waited. After what seemed like forever, and with the song of motorcycles taking off, Shakespeare finally spoke again.

  “Gabe, you and Zander will stay here – keep watch and keep the other prospects busy. Vinci, use your contacts with the local PDs to find out what they're doin’ and let us know how they’re wantin’ this played.” That left Treason, Cain, her and Shakespeare himself. “Treason, Cain, you’re on the girls. I want you makin’ sure they're lackin’ fuckin’ nothin.’ The best doctors, hell, the best-tastin' Jell-O for all I care. They took damage for this club and they’re gonna be treated like gold. I’ll call the Bishops and get some extra manpower goin,’ so y’all can take shifts.”

  The men nodded and took off, leaving only Artist and Shakespeare. He turned slowly to face her, and her blood was boiling. The fact that he’d sent two other brothers and not her to take care of her best friend, knowing what Teagan meant to her, pissed her off. In fact, as much as she’d wanted to fuck him earlier, she wanted to punch him in his handsome face. Her anger must’ve been written across her face because he moved cautiously toward her, his hands down.

  “Darlin,’” he started, stopping in front of her, his expression changing from determined to cautious and back. “Need you at the parlor today.”

  “Bullshit, VP, and you know it,” she spat, struggling to keep from decking him.

  “Artist,” he sighed. “You’re too close to Teagan –– you fuckin’ love that girl, which is good. She needs someone like you in her life. But for this, you ain’t gonna be thinkin’ clearly yet. Go draw, earn for this club and yourself. I’ll check on her before I meet up with Poet and let you know how bad the damage is, all right?”

  “I want to fucking slug you right now, Shakespeare,” Artist said honestly, sighing and running a hand across her face. “I'll do what you say, because I fuckin’ have to – I signed up for it. But so help me God, it’ll be me who gets the bastard who did it, club rules or no.”

  “Careful, Artist,” he said, piercing her with his ‘watch your shit’ look, though it didn’t hold the same effect it used to. “I’m still your VP.”

  “I know who you are.”

  “Good.” With that, he pulled her by her cut to him, pressing his lips roughly against hers. She desperately wanted to hit him, to shove him away, but instead melted against hi
m, letting him kiss her and kissing him back.

  “Ride safe,” he added as he pulled back before kissing her softly once more. Then he was gone.

  Chapter Four

  Head down, Artist’s entire concentration centered on the line work before her. It was a large piece, one she’d taken more for the challenge of it than the money, though she couldn’t turn that down either. Train, the Vice President of Bishops Reign, had contacted her soon after she’d used the money she had in savings to buy The Wicked Wing tattoo parlor, demanding she design and ink the large expanse of his back. After discussing with him what he was looking for, the in-depth weaving of the Bishops Reign sigil with various motorcycle and nature elements, she’d been psyched. Two hours ago, she’d been livid.

  When Shakespeare had left her standing in the clubhouse common room, her anger and frustration making her shake, she’d stormed into the garage, jumped on her bike, and headed to work as she’d been instructed. Of course, Train had been right on time, while she’d had to down a shot of Patron just to see straight. A small part of her worried she wouldn’t have a still enough hand, her thoughts running too rampant in her mind to allow her to work properly, but she should have known better.

  The first time she’d ever tattooed anyone had been six years prior. Working on her master’s degree in fine arts, she was bored with the materials around her. Paints and charcoals amongst piles of canvas and paper weren’t holding her attention – everything she created looked the same, felt the same. Frustrated, she’d grabbed her sketch pad and left the mess, needing to get out for some fresh air.

  Artist let her feet lead her where they would; she found herself along the busy streets and in front of a tattoo shop downtown. She’d stared into the window for what seemed like hours, watching as gruff men and a woman made paintings of different sorts. When she finally worked up the nerve to come inside, she sat quietly on their battered leather couch, and drew them drawing on skin. It had been a revelation. And, everything after that was history.

  A small chuckle escaped her when a breath hissed from Train, the needle of her gun remaining steady as it skirted the side of his ribcage. It always entertained her that even the largest, strongest of men weren’t immune to the pain they so willingly undertook.

  “Sensitive there?” she asked absentmindedly, more to keep his mind off what she was doing than for conversation.

  “You ask like you don’t already know it hurts like a bitch.”

  “Wouldn’t know. Don’t have ink there,” she added as she finished the line and straightened. The bell over the door chimed and she turned, spying Titan coming straight toward them and looking angry. “Shit,” she breathed. “Hey, Train, the outline is done. Why don’t you stretch for a few, maybe go smoke outside, and if you’re still game for more we can continue in a couple.”

  The larger man rolled off the chair and lifted his arms, wincing as his back pulled. Train glanced up, meeting his President’s eyes, and raised an eyebrow before addressing Artist. “Sure, you got it. And I can play as long as you can, little lady.” With that he nodded to Titan before heading out the door, the small bells tinkling as he escaped the impending confrontation.

  Artist rolled her eyes at the ‘little lady’ comment as she busied herself cleaning the mess she’d made. She was pulling another set of needles from a drawer and pouring ink when her brother finally reached her. It was clear he was pissed; over what, she wasn’t one hundred percent sure, though she had an inkling.

  Titan, the President of Bishops Reign, stood at the side of her work bench and crossed his arms, his stare burning a hole in the side of her head. Taking a deep breath, Artist turned, knowing with more certainty what he was angry about and anticipating a fight.

  “Hey. How are –”

  “Don’t give me any of your fucking shit, Artist,” he interrupted. “Want to tell me what the fuck you were thinking?”

  “Crisp treated me like club ass – I had to put him in his place or everyone else would do the same,” she told him innocently, holding his gaze.

  “I don’t give a fuck about you pulling down on the Reno VP and you damn well know it. Is it true?”

  “Is what true?”

  “Don’t play fucking games with me.”

  “Did I miss the memo that the word ‘fuck’ is to be used like punctuation these days?”

  Artist knew she shouldn’t goad the man. Her brother wasn’t someone to fuck with, but she refused to let him intimidate her. Besides, he would never hurt her, of that she was certain. He’d spent the majority of her tween ages beating down on the boys who came near her, protecting her long after he’d joined his MC.

  “Goddamn it, Cecili. Did you fuck Shakespeare?”

  “How the hell is that any of your business?” she demanded, standing to put them on even ground. Sitting she felt entirely too small, and, added with his words, she hated it.

  “Answer. The fucking. Question.”

  Artist sighed. “I’m still not seeing how this has anything to do with you, but yes, I slept with Shakespeare.”

  If looks could kill and oxygen could evaporate, Titan would have caused both with a simple expression. He was all but purple as he turned and punched the wall, leaving a meaty fist-sized impression where his knuckles collided.

  As she opened her mouth to speak, to say anything that would keep him from leaving more holes in the building, the tinkling of bells chimed through the room. As if in slow motion, she turned her head, seeing Shakespeare walking toward her, his face determined, his eyes shadowed as they glanced between her and Titan.

  Oh shit, Artist thought, knowing that an explosion of cataclysmic volume was about to come and there was nothing she could do to prevent it. And her brother didn’t prove her wrong.

  Moving quickly, the Bishop lunged at Shakespeare, his fist colliding with his jaw. Her VP retaliated just as swiftly, taking the punch and throwing another, the sound of his knuckles cracking on Titan’s cheek loud. Curses and grunts escaped the men, but no words could be made out as the two grappled, slamming into workstations and scattering small bottles of ink.

  Furious, Artist moved forward, instinct taking over. She knew better than to try to get in between the two of them and instead pulled the Beretta from the leather holster she’d removed when coming in to work. Since she hadn’t really been needed, as they'd originally thought she’d be, she’d taken it off and tucked it under her workspace. Now, though, she was glad she had it.

  Pointing upward, she flicked the safety off and fired, ignoring the debris of plaster that fell around her. The men immediately broke apart, each reaching for their own pieces as they turned to assess the threat. When finding no one but her, they looked questioningly at her.

  “Are you done, yet? I mean, I’m all for a good old-fashioned mud wrestle, but not in my shop.”

  “You shut up, Artist,” Titan growled as he put his gun back under his arm. He was glaring at her, breathing hard, the skin at the corner of his eye cut and blood running down his face. “I can’t believe you were this fucking stupid. If all you wanted was to get laid, you could have done that long before coming here and shrugging into that cut. That fucking cut.”

  “Don’t fuckin’ talk to her like that –” Shakespeare started but she cut him off, placing her Beretta down on the glass case beside her.

  “I don’t need you to fight my battles, VP,” she snapped, making her way toward Titan and standing toe to toe with him. She got in his personal space, as close as she could and still see him, his larger body towering over her. “You listen, and listen well, brother. You have no right to throw yourself into my business. If I want to sleep with the entire fucking club, that’s my damned decision.”

  “The hell it is,” both men said in unison, refusing to look at each other as they spoke.

  “You are not sleepin’ –” Shakespeare sounded.

  “You won’t fuck the entire goddamned club!” Titan roared.

  “Missing the point! It’s my body, Tita
n. Mine. Not yours. I’m not a fucking child you can make decisions for.”

  “You’re twenty-six years old, Cecili! And you apparently can’t make decisions for yourself.”

  “I’m thirty! Three zero. I was almost fucking twelve when you left, not nine like you told Poet. I’m not a child. I’m an adult and certainly capable of deciding who I should and shouldn’t fuck.”

  “You’re acting like a club sweetie. Is that what you want? I thought you wanted to ride, to fucking be someone, like your President. You think Poet got to where she is by fucking the entire club? Because she didn’t. She hasn’t. She knows better … Apparently you don't. How many others have been inside you? Christ!”

  “Titan,” Shakespeare growled, stepping toward them but stopping when Artist shot him a look.

  “Titan, get the fuck out of my shop. Until you can calm that red-hot temper of yours, get out of my sight. I do not need your protection, nor do I want it. I’m not a slut, which is what you’re implying, and I’m not a child. I am a prospect for Hells Redemption, and while being a prospect doesn’t incite respect, I am also your sister and that means it’s implied. Now get the fuck out.”

  She watched as her President brother heaved for air, his anger clouding his face and eyes. After a long moment, he pulled her into a small hug before pushing her away. He said nothing as he made his way to the door, his hand pushing it open before he finally spoke.

  “You hurt her, I’ll kill you, VP, regardless of what my woman’ll think.”

  Silence stretched in the shop as Artist sucked in large breaths, trying to calm herself. The fact that her brother had stormed in the way he had, throwing hateful accusations at her because she’d had sex with Shakespeare, pissed her off. A small part of her wanted to duck and hide, to disappear so she wouldn’t have to face her VP. It was bad enough the whole scene had gone down, add to it the fact that he’d seen it all and gotten into a fist fight with Titan made it worse. But, her personality refused to let her slink away, so she stood proudly and, instead of making eye contact, went to examine the damage to her wall.