by Juli Valenti
And he continued to kiss her. Her lips, her cheek, her ear, her throat – with every thrust he kissed another part of her. Artist saw the strain in his arm, the muscle and veins there as he kept himself in check as he, for a lack of a better word, made love to her. Yet, she knew, as well as she knew her name, that he wasn’t. Instead he was marking her, claiming her, staking his claim. It was commonly misunderstood that men in motorcycle clubs did so by rough, almost brutal sex, but from what she’d seen and heard, it was the opposite in Hells Redemption. This was Shakespeare making his claim known.
It didn’t take long for her body to start to tighten, her muscles squeezing him as he continued to move inside her. Shakespeare felt it, his breaths coming faster as he pulled back, their eyes locking.
“Come on, darlin,’” he urged her, his voice soft, coaxing. And, for the first time ever, her body responded to his words, her orgasm catching her off guard. Where the last one had been an explosion, this one was like the wind. It started as a light breeze, a gentle caress, and changed. She was a feather, thrown high into the air, continuously floating. Shakespeare was right behind her, her name tumbling from his lips in a whisper as he thrust a couple more times before stilling.
Rolling to the side, he pulled her with him, tucking her under his arm and covering them with a soft blanket. Her head rested on his chest, listening to his heart as he calmed. Idly he played with the strands of her hair, wrapping the chestnut locks around a finger before letting them go and repeating the gesture. To say she was content was an overstatement.
“Tired?” he murmured when she yawned against him and pulled the blanket up a little more.
“Mmmm,” she answered. In all honesty she was more tired than she could remember. Adding to that how comfortable she was and she was a breath short of being catatonic.
They lay together, for how long she wasn’t sure; she must’ve dozed off. His warmth and the steady beating of his heart was a lullaby, soothing her. She was safe and happy.
It was his voice and sudden movement that woke her. “Come on, Artist. You’ve gotta get up and go to your room.”
“What?” she asked sleepily, confused, as he stood and tossed a pair of his boxers and a T-shirt on the bed.
“You have to go back to your room.” She was hearing his words but they weren’t making sense through the fog in her head. They’d just slept together, gotten comfortable, were about to fall asleep, and he was kicking her out?
Before he could say it again, and choking back tears, she tossed the blanket off herself and stood. She reached for her jeans, unable to find her panties in the short glance she’d gotten at the floor, and pulled them on. Her cut went next. She left her holster and the jacket he’d given her.
He’d said repeatedly she wasn’t a sweetie, and here he was treating her as if she was. Artist couldn’t bear to look at him, afraid the pain in her chest would translate to her face. It took everything she had to not rail at him, to not scream at him for tricking her into thinking he was different than all the other bastards she’d had in her bed. He’d gotten what he’d wanted, and she’d fallen for his shit, hook, line, and sinker. How had she been so stupid? She’d really thought they’d had more than … this.
Artist left without another word or look his way. And, because she didn’t look back, she didn’t see the hurt in his eyes or the way he watched her go without saying anything to stop her.
Sleep was an elusive stranger once in her room. The tears she’d worked so hard to contain before having burst from her eyes like water from a dam. Punching her pillow, she rolled over, desperately wishing she’d showered so she wouldn’t still smell the remnants of Shakespeare on her skin.
What had she expected? The man told her he had nothing to give her but his cock, yet she hadn’t believed him. He hadn’t let her. He’d defended her honor with her brother, thrown punches and called her his. They’d talked, and, despite his bristling during their dinner at her sassy comments, he’d made plans. She’d just thought…
You were stupid to think. You should know by now the man means what he says … and you knew going into it he had no plans more than his cock, her subconscious all but screamed at her.
Eventually, time passed and her body allowed her to drift away from the memories of the last twenty-four hours, and thrust her into a fitful, nightmare-filled sleep. There she dreamed of Cori’s tears, the fear and shock on her face. The trembling of her muscles as she raised her hand again, gripping the gun tightly, her finger on the trigger.
“GET YOUR ASS OUT OF BED, PROSPECT,” a male voice boomed, startling the hell out of Artist as she jumped from her bed and reached for the small pistol on her bedside table. Struggling to get her bearings, she noted it was only five in the morning, the sun still tucked away by the night sky. Weapon in hand, she aimed, noting a large body in the doorway of her room, but couldn’t place who it was.
“Better put that pistol down. Chapel. Now.”
With the fog of sleep clearing, her mind finally placed the voice. Fallen. Shit, she thought. If the Sergeant was coming to get her, and judging by the harsh tone he used when barking at her, things definitely weren’t good. Mentally she tried to figure out exactly what was going down, and the list became endless. She’d slept with her VP. Said VP got in a fight with their rival, current ally, club President. That President, her brother, didn’t want her sleeping with the aforementioned VP. The Bishop was currently in a serious relationship with her President.
Fuck, I’m getting my ass kicked out of Redemption.
Chapter Seven
Artist followed Fallen silently as he led them through the halls of the clubhouse and came to a stop at the chapel door. Once there, she lifted her arms, knowing he’d pat her down for any electronics. Regardless what the club was meeting about, or what would be talked about, cell phones or any other electronics weren’t allowed. Even smart watches had to be removed as a precaution. In the technological age that had come, bugs could be installed with ease – no longer did authorities need to physically plant one. Something as easy as clicking a website on social media could secretly download software.
Still dressed in her jeans and the tank she’d replaced her cut with, there was little room to hide anything. And she wasn’t in the habit of sleeping with her cell phone tucked in her pants. Convinced she was technology-less, Fallen opened the door.
Chapel was the one room of the clubhouse Artist had never been in. When she was on cleaning duty, she’d cleaned everywhere, including some of the brothers’ rooms. Bathrooms, bedrooms, the loft, the billiards room with its Tiffany-style glass lamps, the bars and side bars. But she’d never been allowed beyond the heavy wooden door that kept their meeting room private.
It was a place for business and secrecy. No one without an official membership was allowed unless brought in for a specific reason, usually being involved in whatever was going on. Seeing it now, felt almost oppressive. The floors were dark wood¸ the walls a red so deep they almost looked black. In the middle held a behemoth-sized oak table, taking up almost the entire room. In the center, carved and burned into the wood, was the Hells Redemption sigil, the wings detailed and the bike tracks trailing close to the edges.
A throat cleared as the door shut behind her and Artist realized she wasn’t alone. At the head of the table stood Poet, looking fierce. Having grown up in the life, she was no stranger to the world of motorcycle clubs. The irony was she didn’t look it unless you knew what you were looking for. It would be easy for Poet to blend into high society, sporting expensive stiletto shoes and carting a designer purse. Her blonde hair, ice-blue eyes, and short stature made her seem like the girl next door. Until you noticed her eyes. She was calculating, ruthless, and as tough as the toughest three hundred-pound wrestler.
Beside her stood Shakespeare, his face shadowed and his eyes hooded. Dressed in dark, ripped jeans and a tight black thermal with his cut, he looked downright mouthwatering. She turned, without meeting her VP’s gaze, finding Falle
n taking his place on the other side of Poet. Next to him stood Cyrus, and Tonka on the other side of Shakespeare. Gabe, Treason, and Dresden were on the other side of the room.
All of them stood at the table, their hands at their sides, none saying anything as they stared at her. It was unnerving as hell and she wished if they were throwing her out they would do it without all the damned fanfare. But, that wasn’t the way with MCs. They had their traditions, their ways of doing things, and old dogs very rarely learned new tricks.
“Cecili Warren,” Poet said, her words concise, and Artist flinched at the use of her name instead of her tag. Shit, here it comes.
“Council of Hells Redemption and leading members,” she said next, addressing the men in the room who rapped their knuckles once in unison on the table. “It’s been brought to my attention that this prospect,” she turned to look at Artist, “should be permanently patched in.”
Okay … definitely not what I was expecting, Artist thought, stunned. She knew her eyes had widened and that Poet caught it, her President’s lips turning into a small smirk. She’d been certain she was getting the big-ass boot.
“Sit.” Poet motioned to the men first, and then to Artist, who quickly took the chair in the corner of the room, away from the table. “As you all know, while a prospect can be voted in on majority, one cannot be patched in as a member without a unanimous ‘yeah.’ Shakespeare, as Vice President of this club, it was you who put the issue up for a vote?”
Artist’s eyes snapped to the man who’d kicked her out of bed only an hour or so ago. He didn’t look at her, instead to Poet, his expression serious and nodded. “Yes.”
“You’ve been training this prospect, kicking her ass and putting her to the test. You think she’s ready?”
Again he nodded.
“And this has nothing to do with the two of you fucking?”
Even from where she sat Artist could see her VP’s jaw tighten. He didn’t like the words Poet used to describe what they’d done. Well, shit. That’s something. Maybe I was wrong about more than just this.
“You know damned well it doesn’t. I put this up two weeks ago, Pres.”
He was sarcastic, his tone strained when he spoke, but it didn’t faze Poet. Instead she smiled broadly. “Just checking. Any of you have something to say before we get down to it?”
Cyrus shook his head, his cheeks reddening when he caught her eyes before dropping his gaze. Fallen grinned and wagged his eyebrows, but said “No.” The rest of the boys mirrored the others, though Tonka hesitated, opening his mouth, probably to make a smart-ass comment, but closed it when Shakespeare pinned him with a look.
“All right then. All those for patching in Cecili ‘Artist’ Warren say ‘I.’ Cyrus?”
“I.”
“Yep,” Gabe said without being prompted.
“No problems with it,” Treason put in.
“Fuck yeah. Great tits, by the way.”
Leave it to fucking Tonka. Artist could’ve sworn she heard Shakespeare growl amongst the sniggering of the other men. Next was Fallen, the Sergeant in Arms. Taking a deep breath, she held it. It was his job to weigh all possibilities, to do what was best to protect his President and the club without fault. The two of them had never had an issue, often shared a laugh, but if he thought it wasn’t the best decision, he would say no. It wouldn’t be personal, and she knew it.
“I’m not going to lie,” Fallen started, looking from her to Poet. “The tight tie to BR worries me. She is Titan’s sister, and while she’s shown nothing but loyalty to this club, if shit started to hit the fan, bullets raining on both sides, could she turn on him?”
Poet tsked before speaking. “Careful, Fallen. That’s my man you’re talking about and I’d chop his fucking nuts off before anyone got the chance if he screwed with us. But still, it’s a good point and the weight of that question is yours to answer. What do you think she’d do, Sarg?”
She watched as the man took a deep breath, his eyes narrowing on the table, his forehead scrunched as he mentally debated the risks of patching her in. Fallen was known for being the manwhore of the club, his hazel eyes and easy smile getting him whatever woman he had his sights on. He was usually quick to joke, the first many sought out to talk when they needed an impartial opinion. Yet, putting that aside, he was smart as they come and a cold-blooded killer. The man took his job seriously and had earned it, and wore his title with pride.
“My gut says she’d fight you to get to him, Pres. She’d want to get the first shot if he fucked with her. Don’t prove me wrong, prospect,” he said, turning his handsome face and speaking to her for the first time since entering the room. Keeping her mouth shut, she nodded and his lips turned up in a small smile. “I.”
It was Poet’s turn. The woman wasn’t that far from her age, but she still looked up to her, respected her. The day she’d met her had been an awful one, one when she wasn’t sure if her brother was going to live or die. Poet had been covered in Titan’s blood, her face ragged and tired and stressed. More than that, her expression was completely empty when she’d looked at her, as if she saw through her. It was the only time Artist had seen her anything other than the powerful woman sitting at this table. Now, one would never even think she could’ve been so … wounded.
Artist had been nervous as hell that day, having decided after finding out Titan was stable that she was going to ask to prospect. She’d begged Titan over and over and he’d constantly stood fast to his no. There was no wavering in his decision; when she’d bring it up on the phone he’d change the subject or call her a silly girl. This woman, though, took her seriously.
Now, though, she wasn’t sure what the woman was going to say. Sure, they got along well enough and had talked from time to time, but for the most part their paths didn’t cross as often. Poet, as President, was the heart of the club’s operations, and more often than not either on a run, scheduling a run, or sitting at the very same table in front of her conducting business. When she wasn’t, she was with Titan at her house in the hills.
“Cecili,” her President started. “When I first met you, I’d been through hell. I was bruised and covered in blood, multiple people’s blood, and you brought me clothes to change into and hugged me. When I’d changed, into some pink monstrosity from your closet, we got coffee and you asked to prospect Hells Redemption. There you were, all fucking beautiful and put together, asking to join my club. Your brother had been critically shot, we’d just killed your nephew and another man, my last prospect had been slaughtered, Fallen was in the hospital after taking a slug, and you still asked to join Hells Redemption.
“I’ll never forget what you said when I told you your brother’s blood was on your perfect, cream-colored shirt. You said, ‘Better on me than on the ground.’ Perfect fucking thing to say, dude. In that moment, I knew what my decision was going to be. And yes, you cock blocked the fuck out of me unintentionally for a day or two when I really talked to Titan about it. We fought, you know, but I’ve never backed down to any man, even the man in my bed. Of course, I approve of you joining our ranks.”
Artist smiled broadly at Poet, who returned the gesture before reaching under the desk. She withdrew a new cut, the Hells Redemption sigil on the back of it, her name and the MC patches on the front, and tossed it across the table. Reaching for it, Artist noticed it was different than the one she’d worn previously, better quality, and had Leather and Lace imprinted on the inside, meaning it had been custom made for her. The fact her name was already on it, meant they’d more than likely already voted, and this had all been more of a formality.
“Fuck yeah!” Tonka sounded, banging his fist on the table, the others joining in. She stood and slipped the leather over her shoulders, enjoying the feel of the soft material, the cut fitting like a glove. When she looked up, all the brothers were smiling broadly, Poet included. Someone produced a bottle of Jack and shot glasses, pouring one for each of them quickly.
“To Artist, newest member
of Hells Redemption!” Poet yelled and they drank – none of them caring it wasn’t even dawn. Her brothers were hooting and hollering, Tonka jumping up to hug her and swing her around. Cyrus clapped her on the shoulder before backing away quickly. Fallen gave her a lame high five, which made them both burst out laughing afterward. The only one who hadn’t approached her was Shakespeare.
She turned, meeting his gaze to where he stood beside the table once again, his expression unreadable. As the others filed out of the room, off to either start their day or end it, Artist made her way over to her VP. He remained unmoving, the lines in his forehead creasing as she reached him.
“You put me up two weeks ago?” He merely nodded. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Never do. It’s how it works – gives the club time to talk to all members and get their take.”
“And you knew it was going to happen now?” Again he nodded and she blew out a breath, frustrated. “Then why the hell did you let me think you were kicking me out of your room? Making me feel like I was just another piece of ass when you’ve said until you’re fucking purple in the face that I wasn’t?”
“Darlin,’ I told you a thousand times you aren’t just ass. And I didn’t say anythin’ for two reasons. One, I couldn’t. And two, if I tried to give an excuse, you’d’ve thought I was full of shit and lyin’ to you. It was a catch twenty-fucking-two.”
Artist took a step forward, her body as close to his as it could get and she still able to see him. He didn’t back away, but he didn’t reach out to touch her either.
“So you weren’t kicking me out just to kick me out?”
“Fuck no. All I wanted was to fuckin’ fall asleep with you, to wake up with you next to me.”
“That’s what I needed to hear,” she told him, the hurt she’d felt earlier vanishing as if it had never existed. She reached out and fisted his shirt near the collar, tugging him down. He obliged, ducking his head and kissing her softly. It quickly turned from gentle and sweet to more, heat immediately shooting to her toes. Shakespeare must’ve felt it too because he bent and lifted her, forcing her to wrap her legs around his waist before he deposited her ass on the chapel table.