by Juli Valenti
Her door opened, the sound of it closing pulling her from her position in front of the closet.
“Damn,” Shakespeare breathed, his eyes on her ass. She’d been on her hands and knees, digging through her folded clothes, and he was taking full visual advantage of it.
“Like what you see?” she asked saucily, wiggling, watching his eyes grow hooded.
“Fuck yeah, I do,” he told her, moving to her and grabbing her hips, pulling her against his erection, already hard against his jeans. “Mmm, just like that,” he said, pushing her forward only to pull her back again.
Artist laughed, standing, taking the shirt she’d chosen with her and threw it on the bed. “You’re incorrigible. I have to work.”
Shakespeare harrumphed before stepping back, his hands up in surrender. “You’re right. Pity, though. Because … that ass.”
“What’d ya need, babe?” she asked, pulling the shirt she was wearing over her head and tossing it into her laundry basket, being sure to keep her back to him. She could hear his breath hiss through his teeth and smiled to herself.
“Other than you, needed to tell you I’d be in the security room for the rest of the day. So I won’t be available via cell phone. If ya want me, you’ll have to call the club and have one of the brothers get me.”
“Ah. Bad service in there,” she said, nodding in understanding.
She turned to look at him, taking in his handsome face, and the hooding of his eyes. The man was ridiculously good looking, the emerald of his irises almost glowing in the dim light of her room. He was holding his hands behind his back, a clear effort to keep them to himself, and suddenly she didn’t want him to keep to himself.
Unthinking, she moved toward him, grasping his neck and pulling him down. He resisted for a moment, his eyes meeting hers.
“You have to work,” he recited her words back to her, and she shrugged.
“I have to have you,” she said in answer, and he relented, allowing his face to drop to hers. Her mind cheered, her body doing the same, until he cooled their kiss and stepped back.
“Really, darlin,’ you’ve gotta go to work.”
Artist groaned. She’d had the most delectable mental pictures of throwing him down on the bed and taking full advantage of his body. Throughout her twenties, she had been with men, but none of them ever did to her what Shakespeare did. The feel of his skin against hers, the thought of his hands on her body, forced all rational thought from her mind. It was as if all the books she’d read, the ones with inexplicable romances and men who made their women stupid by a look, wrote about the way he made her feel.
Sighing, she ran a hand through her hair and nodded. “You’re right. Work. Okay.”
Shakespeare smiled, his full, blindingly beautiful smile. “Don’t sound so depressed, babe. There’s always later.”
Chapter Ten
Within two weeks, Artist fell into a routine. Wake up, work out, club business, go to work, get home, and go to bed with Shakespeare. She’d long since stopped sleeping in her bed, her head not hitting the pillow alone since the morning she’d been initiated into Hells Redemption. Shakespeare had practically moved her into his room, complete with closet and drawer space, which suited her just fine.
Teagan was able to go home, but rather than stay at her apartment, where she usually lived when not lingering around the club, she stayed at the clubhouse. The boys had spent an entire day clearing a room for her, decorating it how they thought she would like, and then helped her move into it. Artist wasn’t sure if it was guilt, or genuine concern for her, but her friend was close and she wasn’t about to argue with them.
As for the bastards who shot her, the club was still deep into looking for the exact culprits. The entire club was on high alert daily, each man keeping one eye firmly on his brother’s back. The Diablos Hermanos declaration of war was never far from their thoughts, though nothing had happened as of yet. In fact, most of the DH were practically ghosts, none being seen since the day the shooting went down.
Shakespeare, especially, was taking the lack of information hard. As VP and computer security guru, he took his position seriously, and felt it was his job to get the answers they were all looking for. But, so far, he’d come up empty handed. Even Branka had disappeared off the face of the planet. All the club could gather was either they were deep in hiding, running scared, or they were planning something big. Hells Redemption had to be prepared for both.
The bells over the shop door chimed, pulling Artist’s attention away from her workstation she’d been cleaning. To her surprise, Titan stood in the entry, his face hooded but a tentative smile on his face as he walked toward her.
“Titan,” she said in greeting, confused as to why he was there. The last time he’d been in her shop he’d put a hole in the wall, which she still hadn’t gotten fixed completely, and gotten into a childish brawl with her boyfriend. Boyfriend? She chuckled to herself; it seemed like such an immature word.
“’Ili,” he returned, tilting his head to look at her, “do I have something on my face?” When she merely looked at him, he elaborated. “You laughed.”
“Sorry. A thought popped into my head and struck me as funny.”
“Care to share?”
“Nah. What’s up, brother? Haven’t seen you in a while.”
They’d been in contact of course, sharing the occasional text message to catch up, and she’d seen him with Poet for a joint club dinner a week ago, but they hadn’t really spoken. Artist was still irritated with his attitude, and he hadn’t exactly jumped on the apology bandwagon.
“I saw the ink you did on Train … some pretty badass shit, sister. Looking for some art myself; think you could come up with something for me?”
Artist couldn’t help but stare. Her brother coming in for a tattoo was likely the last thing she’d ever expect from the Bishop President, let alone compliments for her work. Sure, Titan wasn’t as close minded as her parents were, clearly, but he hadn’t been overjoyed when she’d told him her career choice. He, like their parents, wanted her to pursue a career in art, the kind without needles and skin. They all seemed convinced she would be the next Leonardo Da Vinci or something, and he tried to talk her out of becoming a tattoo artist. Of course she hadn’t listened.
“Um … thanks. Wow. Okay. Yeah,” she said, running a hand over her face to wipe the skeptical and shocked look off her face. “What do you have in mind?”
“I want a raven. But not just any damn black bird. It needs to be hella detailed.”
“A raven? Why?” Normally she wouldn’t ask a client why they were choosing the art they were, at least not with the tone of voice she’d used with Titan. But with him, and that he was family, she wanted to know. It seemed out of character for him and she was curious. A heartbeat after she’d said it, realization dawned on her, but she didn’t back down, wanting him to own up to it.
“It’s personal,” he snapped back, his eyes hooding and his forehead creasing.
“As in, Madeline. As in your girlfriend, a certain motorcycle President, whose parents loved Edgar Allen Poe, and named her after one of his characters? Cool. Let me draw something up.”
Artist gave him no chance to argue with her. He could deny it all he wanted, but they both knew she was right. It was something she’d asked Shakespeare one morning, her curiosity getting the better of her. He’d told her about her mother, her name, and that they’d followed the theme of Poe names in naming her. It was also the history behind her handle, Poet – a tribute to the late poet himself.
Turning her back on her brother, she pulled a stool up to her workstation and grabbed one of her sketch books and a charcoal pencil. Tuning out Titan, she let her hand take over, her mind shutting off and the artist inside her head making quick work of the drawing. She drew the raven on memory, an easy image to picture, each feather as detailed as the one before it. She also added an Ourosboros in the background, allowing the snakelike image to trail off into a bike track.
> She didn’t know how long she’d spent drawing, but when she finished, she put the pencil down and glanced up, finding Titan standing just behind her. Startled, she stared at him, willing her heart rate to slow, the rhythmic beating loud in her ears. Appreciation filled her brother’s face as he looked from the drawing to her.
“Damn. Hell yes,” he murmured and pride filled her.
“Where?”
Titan shrugged out of his cut and placed it on the hook she’d hung on the nearby wall, his gun and holster next. His shirt followed and he pointed to his side, along his ribcage.
“You know that’s going to hurt like a bitch, right?” she asked, quirking an eyebrow before turning her gaze back to the raven she’d drawn, calculating the size ratio she’d need to keep it proportionate to Titan’s larger body.
He said nothing and she took his silence as acceptance and, after enlarging the drawing and creating the stencil, she motioned for him to lay down on her chair. It was just after four in the afternoon – she’d come in early to clean and do inventory – and she was pleased she didn’t have an appointment for the evening. Though, if she had, it was likely the client would take one look at the Bishop President and turn around, more than happy to reschedule rather than face off with the biker. She’d noticed that happened a lot lately and it always entertained her to a degree.
Artist wasn’t a tiny woman, significantly taller than Poet, but she didn’t hold a candle to the size of the men who constantly towered around them. On average, most of them weighed upward of two hundred pounds, and the shortest amongst them was Gabe, who was still a good two inches taller than she was. Yet, none of them intimidated her. Their gruff words and expressions, the arsenal they generally carried – none of it ever affected her. None of the bikers around Socorro acted without reason, and civilians were treated with respect as long as they gave it, for the most part. But that didn’t seem to matter to most; they saw a biker, got an errant look from one, and most high tailed it elsewhere.
It took her three tries to get the stencil on to where she was happy with it, the perfectionist in her demanding it be nothing less than amazing. She turned the knob on her machine and pressed the pedal, testing the needle speed. Content it was correct, she took a deep breath and pulled the first line of the outline, starting at the peak of his ribs, knowing it would hurt the worst and wanting to get it out of the way.
“So how are you and the VP?” Titan asked through gritted teeth, clearly needing to distract himself from what she was doing.
“We’re fine,” Artist said with a smile, her attention focused firmly on her stencil. This was the hardest part of tattooing for her, keeping her mind from putting her in the zone when she was with a client who needed to talk. The artist in her always tried to take over, but when she was working, most clients wanted to talk. It was multi-tasking at its finest.
“Just ‘fine’?’ That asshole better be treating you fucking great,” he said, his breath hissing as she went over another of his ribs.
“Told you this was going to hurt,” she remarked, using her pinkie to apply Vaseline on his skin, keeping it moist. “And do you really want to talk about this? About me and Shakespeare? I doubted you wanted any sort of details after your … stunt a few weeks ago. Plus you’ve barely spoken to him either. You gave him the fucking silent treatment at the club dinner.”
“You’re my baby fucking sister, Cecili. No, I don’t want details. But, despite what you may think right now, I do give a fuck what happens to you, with you, in your life. I want to make sure that bastard isn’t just using you.”
Artist stopped for a second, leaning over the table to dip the needle into the ink. “Glad to know you care. And, no, Shakespeare isn’t using me. To re-answer your initial question, we’re great.”
Titan grumbled in response, though whether it was to her comment or in reaction to the line she was pulling, she wasn’t sure. He didn’t continue the conversation after that, his face screwing up occasionally, or his breaths whistling through his teeth. It was almost comical to her – she’d seen the largest, strongest of men, tap out when getting tattoos. Add to that the fact he was getting it on his ribs, the number one most painful place to get tattooed, only made it worse. Yet, the Bishop didn’t whine or groan, and remained completely still no matter where her gun trailed his skin.
Once she’d finished the outline, she stretched. “You can take a break for a second,” she told him, coating a paper towel with green soap and wiping away the extra ink.
“I’m fine.”
“Suit yourself, but I’m taking a break,” she told him, standing. Grabbing her bottle of water and cell phone she made her way toward the front door and to the bench just outside. In truth, she didn’t need the time away, but experience had taught her if she gave the client a short break, regardless of who they were, they were generally better able to sit through the remainder of that tattoo. Though, it was a tough balance of time – if she let them have too long, the skin would get too sensitive and they wouldn’t be able to continue.
Artist texted Shakespeare, letting him know she was in the middle of a piece, and who it was for. She didn’t need to check in with him, more she did it so if he or the club needed her, they’d either send someone over to get her, or call the shop. Often times, when she was working, or in general really, she wasn’t near her phone. She was awful at returning text message and phone calls, usually not until much later, which was a bad habit she’d recently begun trying kick. As a concession with the shit going on with DH, she’d agreed to let someone in the club know when she was downright working and going to be unavailable. Since she was sharing a bed with Shakespeare, he was the logical first point of contact.
As she stood, her phone vibrated in her hand; a number she didn’t recognize and not local. Pressing the ignore button, she went back inside, finding Titan in the exact position she’d left him in with the exception of his left arm flung over his face. She chuckled as she sat back down, re-gloved, swapped her gun, and applied Vaseline to the upper portion of the raven.
“Comfortable? You ready for some more?” she asked, pressing the pedal to start the needles before waiting for an answer. He didn’t flinch as she began the shading process.
It was one thing to outline a tattoo, and a completely different thing to shade one. Shading was Artist’s favorite part, watching the piece morph, to take life of its own, as if she were setting it free to become something more than just two-dimensional lines. Titan hadn’t specified whether he’d wanted color, and since her drawing had been shades of black, white, gray, and a soft brown, that’s how she inked it. Her hand moved rhythmically, swirling across wings and scales, tracks. It was a dance with herself as experience took over, the gun dipping into the small inkwells on autopilot. This time she did let herself check out, to block her brother out; she was no longer aware of his breathing or twitching. All she saw was the bigger picture and watched as it transformed to meet and exceed her expectations.
When she was finished, her gun hovered over his skin, her eyes trailing every inch of the piece, ensuring it was flawless. And it was. The raven was on high alert, its wings tucked into its sides, the eyes on the Ourosboros circling its body. The scales of the snake-like creature looked so real, even to her, that her head told her if she reached out and touched them they’d be slick like a real reptile.
“Sign it,” Titan grunted, pulling her from her inspection and her eyes darted to his. “I want everyone to know you did it. Sign it.”
Heart swelling, Artist swapped guns once more, back to the thinner-equipped needle. She dipped it in the ink, and following the arc of the raven’s claw added her name, the swirls of the lettering small but unmistakable. Placing the gun on the table, she applied green soap to the entire tattoo, and, as gently as she could, wiped away the excess ink.
“Go check it out,” she instructed, watching as he gingerly shifted and got to his feet. She could tell by looking at him now that the rest of the piece hadn’t been e
asy on him, that he’d been hurting while she’d been oblivious and working. His face was red, his hair soaked with sweat, and tired lines forming around his eyes. But, in her defense, he hadn’t moved or made motion for her to stop.
Titan stood in front of the full-length mirror of her area and lifted his arm, his eyes narrowing on her work as it appeared to him. She watched as he stepped closer, inspecting the bird through the reflection, then looked down to see it for himself – like he didn’t believe what the mirror was telling him.
“Christ, ‘Ili,” he breathed, making his way back and surprising her by pulling her off the seat, wrapping her in a hug. “Your handle is the most true shit I’ve ever heard. I mean, damn, I saw the drawing but this … this is fucking awesome. Better than I could have imagined. It’s like if I blinked, the damn bird would fly off my skin.”
Artist could feel her face heating under his praise. “I’m glad you like it.”
“Like it? I fucking love it,” he corrected her, finally releasing her and stepping back. “How much do I owe you? And don’t you dare tell me nothing, or lowball me. What you’d charge any other person to come through that door is what I want to be charged.”
She sighed. Of course, that’s what she’d been planning. If he’d balked at her not charging him, she had been prepared to give him an extreme discount. Now, though, she knew he’d be pissed if she tried to do either.
“I’m waiting,” he demanded as she taped absorbing pads around the area. Finishing, she leaned back and looked at him.
“Titan,” she started, but stopped when his expression turned hard. “Fine. $575.”
Her brother stared at her before whistling through his teeth. Turning, he fished his wallet out of his pocket and handed her a card, reaching for his T-shirt and slipping it over his head. “Damn, girl. Pricey and worth every fucking penny.”