Artist

by Juli Valenti

  Artist couldn’t help but laugh as she took his card to the front of the store and ran it through the machine, printing an extra receipt for him. Donning his cut and holster, he met her there, taking a pen from the cup and signing the authorizing slip; she wasn’t surprised when he shook his head at the extra copy.

  Now that she was no longer in her comfort zone, no longer tattooing, awkwardness started to seep into her. What was she supposed to say now? That she missed her brother? That she wondered if there would always be a hesitancy between them, whether because of her club or because of her relationship with one of the brothers? Artist shuffled her feet, her hands trailing the countertop in front of her.

  “So,” Titan said, saving her from having to speak first. “Maybe you and that VP of yours would want to double date with Poet and I?”

  Cocking an eyebrow, she stared at him. Was he kidding? “Are you kidding?”

  “Look, I know I’m a fucking dick. I can’t help it. But the entire time you’re dragging a dagger down my side, I can’t help but think that I’m being a bigger douche than normal. Honestly, I’ll probably never like that you’re with one of them … regardless of him being in Hells Redemption or not. Even if he was one of my own, I wouldn’t like it. But I can learn to accept it. So … double date?”

  “Um. I’ll talk to Shakespeare about it … but I don’t think he’ll be against it. I’ll let you know?”

  “Good. I love you, Artist,” he said. “Take care of yourself. Ride safe and shoot true, yeah?”

  She nodded. “Always. Same to you, brother.”

  With that, he was gone. From the window she watched as he mounted his bike, his arms gingerly outstretching to grasp the handles of his Harley before taking off. The silence in the wake of his motorcycle was almost deafening.

  “Well that was fucking weird,” she murmured aloud. If anyone had told her that her brother would storm into her shop today, demanding a tattoo, she would’ve called them a dirty liar. She still wasn’t convinced it had actually happened, though the pleasant spreading ache in her back and body was proof it had.

  According to the clock on the wall, it was just after eight, which pleased her. Rib pieces, regardless of the size, usually took much longer, the client having a hard time swallowing the pain. Artist couldn’t deny Titan sat well. Moving back to her station, she proceeded to clean up, tossing the needles into the sharps container she kept under her table. The remaining ink, Vaseline, and her gloves went into the garbage. As she was wiping the leather of her chair, the chimes over the door sounded again.

  “Forget something?” she asked, not looking up, assuming it was Titan. A heartbeat after she’d said it, she realized she hadn’t heard the roar of his bike. The hair on the back of her neck prickled, which she thought was absurd. Walk-ins came all the time, why would this one be any different? But before even looking, something had her heart beating faster than it should.

  “I forget nothing, bitch.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Dread filled Artist as she stared at the man who’d just walked into her shop. Nothing good was going to come from this meeting, she knew it, and suddenly regretted that she’d put her gun, still in its holster, under her work table. Ideas flew through her thoughts on how she could possibly reach for it without him seeing, but she could think of nothing.

  Officer Branka stood in the doorway, anger in his posture, so much so that it radiated through the air. Even from the distance, she could smell booze, along with cigarette smoke. His eyes were bloodshot, his hands shaking on his hips, his fingers close to his gun.

  “Can I help you with something, Officer?” she asked, trying to keep her tone steady, to not let her own anger surface. In truth, looking at him made her uneasy – it was easy to tell the man was drunk, possibly fucked up on something. All of that equaled a time bomb ticking away, and, from the looks of it, the detonation area was directed at her. She was scared, which pissed her off, but she was also smart enough to know she needed to keep her head.

  “Oh, sure, you can help me. You can get over here and get on your fucking knees and apologize to me. You ran your mouth at me in front of your boys. What, since you don’t have a cock hanging between those long-ass legs of yours, you think you can make up for it with the shit you spew? Bitches like you don’t last long, Artist.”

  “Are you threatening me?” She was going for timid, playing the helpless girl, but by the way his eyes narrowed at her, she knew the act wouldn’t work on this audience. “Look, I apologize if I embarrassed —”

  “Stupid little cunt. You didn’t embarrass me. Takes a lot more than a little girl like you do to that,” he answered, his words slurring slightly and his steps unsteady as he moved toward her. “What you did, was embarrass yourself. Another reason why the only place for women like you is on your knees to take turns with the bikers.

  “Tell me, how many of them have bent you over their bikes? Shakespeare, has, I’m certain. The way he got all territorial of you. It was … cute. Tonka too? You’ve probably even seen a couple of the Bishops in the biblical sense.”

  Branka was moving closer, crowding her work area, and she backed up, the bottles of ink rattling against the table when she hit it. Gut instinct had her mind reeling, desperately evaluating the situation and her options. Gun under the table. No knives, no bats, nothing she could easily grab to use as a weapon. His gun was right there, a hair’s breath away from him pulling it; same with his baton. And she still wasn’t sure what his angle was, what his plan was. Keep him talking, Cecili. Keep him fucking talking.

  “I’m not a sweetie, Branka. I’ve told you. My body is not used as currency for the hope of a bike ride; I have my own and it rides just fine without a man,” she told him, watching as his face screwed up.

  “All of you involved with the club are fucking whores, and you thinking different is just a pretty idea. You think those boys see you as anything other than a nice ass and great tits? I sure as hell don’t, and I can bet they don’t either. So, come on over here, and get on your fucking knees, bitch. I won’t repeat myself.”

  As if to emphasize his words, his hand rested on the grip of his gun, the snap to his holster long since unfastened. And, regardless of how much she hated it, she knew she didn’t have much of a choice. Either she refused and he pulled down on her, or she did as he told her. Sure, there was a chance she could pull some Matrix shit and avoid the lead he fired at her – his being fucked up a point in her favor – but with the short distance between them, she didn’t think it was likely.

  Swallowing her pride, she held her hands up, the paper towels she’d been using to clean the chair still waded in them, showing him she was throwing them in the trash. She then moved toward him, her arms down so he could see her hands. Slowly, she lowered herself toward the floor, rogue droplets of ink still coloring the tile from where she hadn’t cleaned yet. Artist knelt, one knee down at a time, her eyes never leaving the dirty cop’s face.

  “Good to see you on your knees like you belong, you dirty fucking whore. Now apologize.”

  The tile was cold, even through the material of her skinny jeans. Artist tried to focus on the hardness of the floor, the chill in her knees, as she inhaled deeply. After several long breaths, when she was sure she could, she spoke. “I’m sorry, Officer Branka.”

  “Not good enough. Say it like you mean it,” he demanded, his grip tightening on the butt of his pistol.

  “I’m sorry I ran my mouth at you, Officer. Please forgive me.”

  “Better,” Branka murmured before pulling the gun from its holster. He made a show of flipping the safety before stepping closer, his dick in her face, and running his hand through the length of her hair. When his fingers caressed the side of her face, down her neck, she shivered in disgust. “Like that? I could show you more than the back of a motorcycle … a much better life for a hot piece of ass like you.”

  Artist said nothing, ignoring the unwanted touching. When he grasped her chin to turn her face back
to him, she pulled away; her “putting up with bullshit” meter had reached its limits. Whatever he was going to do, he was going to, but she wasn’t going to play a willing victim.

  “Bitch. What a fucking waste,” he spat, stepping back and raising his gun, pointing it at her face. “Los paseos del diablo en el infierno.”

  Fear demanded that she remain where she was, but it was anger and her gut that had her punching out, landing squarely in his groin, just as the echoing of his handgun firing rang out through the store. The officer swore and gritted his teeth, but remained upright, his bullet finding purchase in the wall behind her. Artist threw her fist out again, aiming for his kneecap and missing, but still knocking him off balance. Finding an opening, she scrambled for her gun under the table.

  Branka threw himself on her back, his weight and the impact smacking her chin on the tile floor. Her eyes watered and her vision went black for a moment, but she refused to give up. She reached for the gun, wiggling across the floor, the two hundred-pound man moving with her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his arm raise, gun in hand, the butt of it coming down toward the back of her head, and she threw her weight to the side, rolling him with her. Flailing, she knocked into his arms, his Glock skidding two feet away from him on the floor.

  “You fucking bitch. You’re going to die. One fucking sweetie isn’t a good enough message, but the old lady of the VP? What a fucking waste!” the man was roaring, his fists raining down on her, finding purchase where they could. His knuckles hit her face, her throat, her head. Artist could feel the blood trickling from her right ear, her head feeling as if it was on fire.

  Desperation had her throwing punches, though they were weak, significantly less powerful than the man above her. Reaching behind her, she grabbed the first thing her fingers touched; the pedal to her tattoo gun. Artist palmed it the best she could, hitting him repeatedly in the face with it, and was rewarded by his grunts. His weight above her lessened as he tried to reach for his gun and she took advantage of the moment, weakly pulling herself by the feet of the table. Ripping her Beretta from the holster, she didn’t allow herself to think. Her finger pulled tightly on the trigger, catching him in the stomach.

  Branka curled away from her, clutching the wound, but she could tell by the sounds he made and the lack of blood seeping into his hands that he’d been wearing a vest. Unable to get off the floor, her body too tired and hurt to fight anymore, she remained where she was, clutching the handle of her gun. She waited, watching as the officer rolled from side to side, spitting curses and groaning, before he shook his head and forced himself to his feet. He retrieved his gun from the tile floor, and pointed it at her.

  “Say goodnight, Artist. As fun as this was, your time is up.”

  Artist said nothing as she fired first, the bullet missing her target. She’d intended to shoot him between the eyes, straight through the forehead; the shaking in her arms made it impossible, and instead she hit his neck. Blood sprayed from the wound, covering her and the floor faster than she could have imagined. Officer Branka made a strange gurgling sound as he fell, and she watched his chest rise and fall, before it stopped and his body lay still.

  Her body quivering, and her vision blurring, Artist stumbled to her feet to grab her cell phone from her work table. With her balance off, she quickly toppled over. Luck was with her, throwing her against the leather seat she’d cleaned after Titan left. Fingers shaking, she found the number she was looking for and dialed.

  “Hey, darlin,’ how’s the ink business?”

  “Need help. A lot of help. Cleanup crew. Shop, now. I…” Tears started to prick her eyes as she spoke. Artist hated she was sounding so weak, but she could tell it wouldn’t be long before she threw up or passed out, likely both. And, at the moment, all she wanted was Shakespeare to hold her and tell her she was okay. That she did what she was supposed to. That she had killed a dirty-ass cop who’d deserved it because if she hadn’t she would be the one dead on the floor. “There’s blood everywhere. He’s dead. He was going to kill me.”

  “Who? Christ, Artist. Are you okay?”

  “I … I need you baby,” she murmured, using a pet name for him she’d never used. And, as soon as she’d said it, her world went black.

  Cori’s scream pierced through Cecili’s dream, jerking her upright in bed. According to the alarm on her bedside table it was just after two – she’d only been asleep an hour and a half, having put in a full day of apprenticeship at the tattoo parlor. Confused, she rubbed her eyes, trying to place the sound she’d heard. Had it been part of her dream? Or had Cori really screamed?

  Another scream, followed by thumping across the hall, had Cecili up and running, only stopping long enough to grab the small revolver she’d bought just days before. She tore through the house, her feet moving as fast as they could, terror filling her as she tucked the piece in her sleep shorts at the small of her back. Her best friend was in trouble and she had to get her.

  The reek of cigarette smoke and men’s cologne filled her nostrils first, before she even reached the doorway to Cori’s room.

  “Fuck!” she exclaimed, knowing damn well who she was going to find. And, if he was there, nothing good was going to happen. She scoffed. “As if her screams weren’t enough of an indicator.”

  Not bothering to knock, Cecili turned the knob, throwing the door open and preparing for the worst. Jason stood at the side of the bed, Cori in a crumpled heap at his feet, his fist raised to strike her.

  “Get the fuck out of our house, Jason,” she spat through gritted teeth, hoping her words would stay his hand. Judging by an unmoving Cori, if he hit her again, she may not survive this time around. “Do you not understand English? Let me break the words down for you, you cock-sucking, woman-beating piece of shit. Restraining. Order. Which means, in stupid terms, you stay the fuck away. Now get out!”

  “Fuck you, Cecili,” he growled at her. “She wants me here.”

  “Oh, really? She isn’t fucking moving, asshole. And I swear to God if you killed her, you’d be praying to follow her into the afterlife when I was done with you.”

  “You think you can threaten me, you little bitch? Really? I could fucking kill you faster than you could blink. Cori’s going to marry me, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”

  Not for the first time Cecili wondered what the hell her best friend had seen in the douche in front of her. Sure, he was probably good looking, if someone was into the whole college, Abercrombie and Fitch, pretty boy kind of guy with a trust fund and an attitude the size of Texas. Standing around five-ten, he wasn’t that much taller than she was, though still taller than Cori; his hair was a blond mop, and his eyes the blue of ice, and just as empty. He had one of those smiles that people paid good money for, the ones that gum commercials spent the big bucks to sponsor, and was popular.

  Which was why, though she didn’t understand the fascination, she did know why Cori had fallen so hard for the guy. Her best friend had been from a very poor area of south Los Angeles, with barely enough money for Top Ramen on the good days, nothing on the bad ones. She’d gotten a full scholarship to UCLA, where she met Cecili, and the two had become friends. Both majoring in art, they ran in the same circles with one exception. Cori became obsessed with Greek life – the partying, the beautiful people, the money.

  Cori had begged for Cecili to go to one of the parties with her, and, because she couldn’t deny her bestie anything, she’d agreed to go. It had been fine at first. They’d laughed and danced, and had a good time. Then Jason came into the picture. He dazzled her friend with his good looks and his “I-come-from-money” charm and she’d been sunk, hook, line, and sinker.

  Unfortunately, their relationship had gone south quickly. The man was a controlling bastard, demanding Cori dress in clothes she couldn’t afford, forcing her to change her major to business because, “Who can get a real job with an art degree?” After she graduated, it had been Cecili’s idea for them to move in together. Jason h
ad hated it, thrown a fit bigger than anyone could imagine, but Cori had agreed.

  What Cecili hadn’t known, was her friend had been looking for a way out – moving in together had been just that for her. During a night of wine and junk food, her friend had admitted that Jason wasn’t only emotionally abusive. A couple years in he’d turned violent; he’d started small to avoid detection – pushing her against a wall, throwing an empty beer can at her when they’d fight. But as time passed, he got worse.

  A few weeks before, he’d shown up at their townhouse, demanding to see Cori; while Cecili had wanted to tell him to go to hell, her friend had nodded, and she’d let the pissant inside. It had been a mistake. One that would haunt her forever. She and Jason had gone into her room; Cori had truly wanted to talk to him, to explain to him she didn’t want to see him anymore, that he’d grown too abusive for her to handle and she wanted out. He, however, had different ideas. He forced himself on her, and when she resisted, he’d beaten and raped her.

  Cecili had found her sobbing in her bed, blood running down her thigh, and called the police. The men in blue had come, of course, taking statements before the paramedics transported Cori to the hospital, but they’d done nothing other than implement a restraining order against him. She’d known it wasn’t going to be enough, had thrown enough of a conniption about it that she’d been escorted out of the squad room; judging by Jason’s angry glare pinned on her, she had been right.

  “Cori isn’t going to marry you. She wants nothing to do with you, you self-absorbed mommy’s boy. Get the fuck out!” Cecili was yelling, almost hysterical, her breaths coming in quick pants. She was terrified, afraid her best friend was dead on the floor, afraid of what it would all mean.

  “The only one getting out is you. This is an A and B conversation, so see your ass out of it.”