Artist

by Juli Valenti

  “How’s Teagan?” she asked, pulling away broken bits of drywall and paint, letting them drop to the floor.

  “Artist.”

  “Is she okay? Is she in critical condition? Do we know what assholes are behind it? What’s the game plan?”

  Artist continued picking at the fist-sized hole in the wall before turning to find the broom and dustpan. She moved quickly, relying on her peripheral vision to tell her where her VP was and stepping accordingly, avoiding him.

  “Artist.”

  “I swear, the prick who hurt her is going to pay. That girl … she’s innocent and would never hurt a fucking fly.”

  Emptying the dustpan into the nearest trash bin, she made a mental note to call someone to come repair the damage in the morning. It was too late for anyone to come out now.

  “Artist.” She turned to avoid him once more, colliding into him, his hands reaching out to hold her arms, steadying her. When her gaze lingered on the floor, her skin tingling at his touch, he gripped her chin and pulled her face up. “Look at me, darlin.’”

  Artist took a deep breath and steeled herself. The last thing she wanted was to look him in the eyes; the only thing she wanted was to look him in the eyes. When she gazed up at him, she flinched, seeing the split lip, and the bruising already starting to show across his handsome cheek. It seemed so out of place on him, yet so at home there as well.

  “I’m so sorry, Shakespeare,” she whispered, allowing her body to relax, sinking against him.

  “I expected it, and my face has takin’ worse beatins’ than this one from your brother. Ain’t no need to be sorry. But you, are you okay?”

  Artist nodded, burying her head into his chest and wrapping her arms around his waist. The words her brother had spewed hurt more than she’d ever admit, and she used the more intimate moment to take a second to recover.

  “I don’t think you’re what he says, Artist, and neither should you. What I didn’t get the chance to say this mornin’ is I’ve wanted you since the day I first saw you at the hospital after your brother got shot. Didn’t know who you were, but fuck, you were so beautiful, dressed all girly and lookin’ lost, yet determined. You’re still beautiful, even more so with that cut on and a tattoo gun in your hands.”

  She said nothing as he kissed the top of her head, his large hand pressing her against him by the small of her back.

  “You ain’t a club sweetie. In fact, another brother so much as thinks about touchin’ you and I’ll have his fuckin’ head and cut. You’re mine, darlin.’”

  “You said you couldn’t offer me anything but your cock,” she murmured against him. Her words were muffled as she snaked her hands under the back of his cut, and inside his T-shirt.

  “Still can’t offer you much, ain’t got much to give. But that don’t change anythin,’” he answered, leaning back enough to take her head in his hands. “You’re mine.”

  Shakespeare’s lips crashed down onto hers hard, ignoring the split in his lip. As he opened his mouth, urging her to do the same, she tasted blood on her tongue, but kissed him back. Her fingertips grazed down his back and he groaned, walking them backward.

  “Break room back here?” he asked in between kisses and she nodded, unwilling to break contact with him.

  His back hit the door and she turned the knob, allowing them into the darkness of the shop’s small break room. He flipped the light on with one hand and pinned her against the door as it shut behind them. It had only been a few hours since they’d been in his bedroom, but it felt like longer judging by the grip Shakespeare had on her hip.

  “Been thinkin’ about you all damned day,” he said softly, trailing kisses down her neck. He hesitated when he got to the collar of her shirt. “You’re still wearin’ my thermal.”

  “It’s comfortable. And it smells like you,” Artist told him, grinning when he met her gaze. A small smile lifted the corner of his lips before he pressed them back to hers, his kiss hungry and searching, for what though, she wasn’t certain.

  “I like that you wanted to smell like me, darlin.’ I like it a lot.”

  Artist shivered as his hands moved from her waist, pulling the hem of his shirt upward, and his hands met her bare skin. His touch was rough, the hands of a man who’d worked most of his life and wasn’t afraid of hard labor, and she loved it.

  “Fuck,” he groaned. “You’re not wearing a bra.”

  She could say nothing as his strong fingers kneaded her breasts, his lips nipping at her ear. His arousal was evident through his jeans, pressing against her leg, and she ground against him. Artist wanted him, regardless of the fight he’d gotten into with her brother. Regardless of the situation with the Reno brothers. But, as she reached for the button of his jeans, he stepped away, releasing his hold on her and repositioning her shirt.

  “You’ve got to finish work and I still have another stop to make before I can get back to the clubhouse,” he whispered, reaching for her hand and kissing it before moving her away from the door. “What time do you think you’ll be done here?”

  Her mind reeled as she tried to focus her thoughts long enough to come up with a coherent sentence. “Depends on Train, I suppose, and how much pain he can take. We won’t be done tonight, but I’ll go as long as he’s up for it.”

  “Asshole better not be up for anythin’ with you, darlin.’ That’s all me.” He pressed the hand he still held against the strain of his jeans, his hard-on evident.

  “Totally would have solved that for you, VP. You’re the one who stopped me.”

  “Heard the bells. Besides, Train’s Titan’s Vice Pres. Wouldn’t put it past him to slug me one out of loyalty and I’d rather that not be when I’m inside you. Though when I got here, I had some delicious thoughts of your ass pressed against the glass…”

  “Unless you want to get back in that room and fuck me silly, you’d better stop talking like that,” she warned and he chuckled.

  As they reentered the work space, Train was picking up the ink bottles that had crashed to the floor in the fight. His back was an angry shade of red, as were the tips of his ears – he more than likely thought they’d been banging against the break room door. Shame they hadn’t.

  “You ready for round two?” Artist asked and both men’s head turned to her. She couldn’t help but laugh, the looks they were giving her priceless. Shakespeare looked guarded, reserved, with a hint of jealousy toward the Bishop. Train, on the other hand, looked completely uncomfortable and almost embarrassed. “I meant the tat, Train.”

  “Oh, yeah, I’m down,” he answered, his eyes darting to Shakespeare as he straightened, a silent conversation passing between the two men.

  Shakespeare cleared his throat and she faced him, his arms pulling her by the waist into him as he lowered his lips to hers once again. It wasn’t the same kind of kiss as the ones they’d shared before, but still good, and more than a friendly kiss goodbye. Artist knew he was staking his claim in front of the other powerful man, but she didn’t care. The feel and taste of Shakespeare was wonderful, regardless of his reasons. And that he felt like he needed to mark his territory set little butterflies moving in her stomach.

  “I’ll see you later, darlin.’ Dinner when you’re done – whatever the time.’”

  And, like the whirlwind of his appearing in her shop to begin with, he was gone once more. She never did find out what his original purpose for showing up was.

  Chapter Five

  Apparently, Train could take a lot more than she figured he could. The mountain of a man on her chair remained still and unmoving, mostly quiet except for the occasional complaint, for another four hours. In truth, and she’d never admit it aloud, but she called the session so she wouldn’t look like a wimp and tap out first. Her back was aching from staying bent over his body, her arm an odd mixture of hurting and numb from the vibration of her tattoo gun, and her eyes were crossing. In total, they’d done the complete outline on his design, as well as a good third of the color.

/>   It had been a long while since she’d done a marathon ink session, with more than just the basic stock art drawings on different drunken women. This one had been challenging and exhilarating at the same time. Watching the art come alive on his back gave her a high no drug could ever bring, even if her body was completely exhausted. It probably hadn’t helped that she’d slept on the clubhouse stoop the majority of the night before.

  Artist poured more antiseptic onto her paper towel and dragged it down Train’s tattoo, making sure she got every inch of the residual ink on his skin. Taking in her work, she let a pleased whistle out through her teeth.

  “Damn I’m good,” she said softly as he stood and stretched. Offering him a hand mirror, he stood at the full length and peered at the work she’d spent the day on.

  “Fuck yeah you’re good. Even after seeing your portfolio, I was hesitant to pay the prices you quoted. You’re certainly not cheap, Artist,” he said, and, apparently realized what his words were the minute the escaped him. “I didn’t mean it like that … Your prices are high compared to some of the others in the nearby towns. But after seeing this? Christ, you’re worth every fucking penny.” When she merely stared at him for a heartbeat, enjoying his discomfort, he added, “You know what I mean.”

  Tired, she decided to give the man a break. It was hilarious to her though, the way he acted around her. He was a rough man, gruff around the edges, though young. But every time he came anywhere around her, he became super mindful of what he said. Artist knew it was because he was on ground he wasn’t sure how to maneuver. As a prospect to Hells Redemption, she was not yet an equal, yet she was a woman. Add to that she was his president’s sister, and it put the man in an odd place.

  “I know what you mean. And yes, my work is expensive, but only because I do nothing but the best.”

  As she said it, she knew she sounded cocky and not at all like she normally was, but, especially in his case, it was the truth. In the past, she’d always been modest about her art, never sure of one stroke of her brush from the next. But in her tattoos, she was confident. Magazines had picked up her pieces, proclaiming her one of the rising stars in the ink world. It was part of the reason she could get away with charging what she did.

  After setting the mirror down, she finished cleaning the piece and covered it the best she could, giving him after-care instructions. She had him repeat them back to her, ensuring he knew exactly what to do and what not to so he didn’t destroy her art before she got a chance to finish. After she was done it was all up to him to take care of it permanently, and what condition he kept it in … Until then, she’d be damned if he fucked it up.

  When he was gone, she finished cleaning up her area and stood herself, stretching her aching muscles. Once, when she’d first started tattooing, she’d hated the pain that came with larger pieces, but now she relished in it. It was a good feeling, that of accomplishment, and while it wasn’t comfortable, it wasn’t something she bitched about.

  Checking her phone, she noted she had four text messages, three from Shakespeare and one from Titan. Taking a deep breath, she chose to read her brother’s message first.

  *Titan: Sorry ‘ili. You’re right, not my business. & I don’t think you’re a slut. Love you.

  Artist had to shake her head. Leave it to him to say shit, not thinking it through, only to apologize later for it. It always amazed her he could run an MC so well, keeping everything in line and running smoothly. Somehow, with his men and in situations that didn’t involve her, Titan’s head remained crystal clear. Life had always been that way though, where she was concerned. Any man wanted in her pants, and he’d break the dude’s knees for even thinking it. After texting back a basic “it’s okay” to him, she tapped her VP’s messages.

  *Shakespeare: Meant to tell you, Teagan’s gonna be ok. Moved her from ICU.

  *Shakespeare: Oh, and we’ve got boys taking turns keeping watch.

  The man certainly knew her, that was for sure. After reading his first message, she was about to hop on her bike and ride down to check on her girl, make sure she was really okay and that she wasn’t left alone. One thing she’d learned about bastards like the Diablos Hermanos was that they didn’t give two shits who they hurt or where, and they would do anything they could to ensure no fingers would be pointed to them. The fact that there were loose strings in the hospital, which is what sweeties were considered, was bad for them.

  Even in Hells Redemption, witnesses with no strong ties to the club were often taken care of – either via sums of money, threats, or even death. It was a part of their world, one they held on to tightly regardless of the circumstances. Sweeties, as bad as it sounded to outsiders, were expendable. They were known to turncoat if it meant a stronger possibility to get on the back of a bike – though, it was a misguided thought. Once someone turns on the ones they call family, whoever that may be, it’s hard to see them as anything but a traitor, even if they find new places to lay.

  Shakespeare knew Artist well enough to know she would want her protected. Teagan wasn’t like the others – she was a tried and true Redemption wing. She was one of the girls who actually gave a fuck what happened to the brothers and often helped where she could. She’d do smaller runs the boys couldn’t because of visibility, did basic wound care, and she also helped out around the club, all of which she got paid well for. Leaving her to be picked off just wasn’t an option and it warmed her that her VP knew to tell her so she wouldn’t be more worried than she already was.

  Remembering there were three texts from him, she glanced at her phone once again.

  *Shakespeare: Darlin if you’re not back soon I’m gonna have to come get your ass. I’m hungry.

  She glanced at the time, noticing it was nearing midnight, and his last text had come through about an hour before. Just as she was messaging him back, the bells above the door rang out again.

  “What’d you forget, Train?” she asked without looking up.

  “I’m hungry, darlin.’”

  The chime of his text tone rang out as she stared up at her VP, smiling as she took him in. He’d changed, meaning he’d either been done for the day or he’d gotten his hands dirty with club business on his last run. She was guessing it was more than likely the latter, but wouldn’t ask – he’d tell her if he wanted her to know. His face was freshly washed, though the evidence of her brother’s fists lingered on his mouth and cheek.

  “Damn you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

  “Was about to say I was just here, but that was,” he paused as he checked his watch, “hours ago. Long hours ago. I’m fuckin’ hungry, and for more than just food. You ready to get goin’? I’d originally planned for us to eat in my bunk, but since we’re already out and if you’re not too tired, we can go grab a bite and then go to my bunk, where you’re on the menu for dessert.”

  “Sounds like some of the best news I’ve heard all day.” Removing her cut, she shrugged the custom gun harness back over her shoulder, and replaced it. Ready, she faced him, surprised he wasn’t moving toward the door, and instead staring at her. “What?”

  “You look fuckin’ hot in a cut. Your cut,” he remarked, shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts. When she only looked at him, he reached out and took her hand, guiding her out of the shop and pausing so she could lock it. “Let’s ride, darlin,’ let’s ride.”

  Night had long since fallen, the lack of light creating a type of comforting void around the pair as they reached their bikes parked at the curb outside. Socorro was not a big city by any means. With an impressive population of just over 8,900, many would classify it as downright tiny. The Wicked Wing, which was located off Spring Street, was prime time real estate, though no one would know this late. Only the small neon sign from her shop proved any life amongst the other buildings. Even the street lights had turned off, their timers shutting them down after eleven.

  Tonight, clouds covered the sky, allowing no light from stars or the moon. Paired with the chill in the air,
it was eerie and serene and beautiful all at once. Closing her eyes, Artist tilted her face upward, inhaling deeply and enjoying the still, cold air as it caressed her skin and sore muscles.

  Having spent the majority of her life in a town always bustling, always polluted, there were times, like this, that Socorro was a dream. It seemed so unreal, so far from everything she’d known. It was a refreshing change to breathe air untainted by cars and trucks, smoke and fog.

  “Ah. Almost forgot. Here, darlin,’” Shakespeare said, his voice seeming loud and startling her from her reverie.

  Thankfully, it was dark and he couldn’t see the flush coloring Artist’s cheeks. She was about to say something to explain her actions, and embarrassment for forgetting him for a minute, when she noticed his hand extended to her, something black and leather dangling from his fingertips.

  “What’s that?” she asked lamely. Even despite the darkness, her eyes had adjusted well enough to recognize a jacket when she saw one.

  “A coat,” he answered simply, shrugging. “You don’t ride with one, haven’t since it got cold. Thought maybe you didn’t have one. Should be the right size.”

  Artist’s throat tightened as she took his gift. The leather was soft and supple to her touch, clearly not a cheap pleather knock-off. She slipped it on with ease; it fit like a glove.

  “Is it … um, good?”

  Instead of immediately answering, she stretched, enjoying the flexibility in the fabric, how it moved as she did. Regardless of how she turned, tilted, shrugged, the jacket did the same, mirroring her every movement like a second skin.

  “I can ride in this,” she murmured, excited. In answer, Shakespeare remained silent. Meeting his gaze, she found he was staring at her oddly, and she quickly smiled before continuing. “It’s great, ‘Speare, really. I had a coat but I couldn’t move in it and I just couldn’t deal with the restraint … while riding or otherwise. Thank you.”