Artist

by Juli Valenti

  Being in the damp, dimly lit warehouse, she couldn’t help but understand that if police came around this time, there would be no slap on the wrist. The three rival bikers on the ground, already bloody, was proof of that. No, this time, no pretty little lies could get any of them out of charges and jail time. Their weapons were intent, Cora dead and Teagan injured their motive, and just being there was their opportunity.

  The more she neared them, though, the less she cared. Two of the men were spitting curses in Spanish, struggling to get off the floor despite the AK-47 assault rifle Tonka held pointed at them. She stopped in front of the one already bleeding, disgusted as he spat blood at her feet, and she had to resist the urge to retaliate, the need to kick the bastard in the face strong.

  “Hey, Cabron,” Poet said, rolling the spitter over with her boot, the man’s struggles to roll making the motion easier. “Hablo ingles?”

  “Fuck you, bitch.”

  “Ah, good. That will make this so much easier,” she told him, smiling. It was a look she’d never seen on the petite blonde President. She was no longer wholesome and girl next door; rather, in that one change of her facial expression, she seemed cruel, calculating, and every inch the bad ass president she was. “I hear you were bragging with your buddies about trying to hit my club. About hitting my fucking girls and killing one of them. Want to start with the easy questions? Or the harder ones?”

  “I’ll tell you nothing.” On the tail of his words, Poet stomped a booted foot on his neck. The biker made a choking sound, then turned his head as he coughed more blood onto the concrete.

  “Let’s try this again. You must’ve been distracted by the blonde curls. See, I was on a date tonight, but this sounded like so much more fun that I couldn’t help but ride on over. Do you know who I am?”

  The same man started to speak but the one beside him interrupted. “Poet. Loca. Pres of Infiernos Redencion.”

  “Ah, we have a winner. And crazy? Hmmm,” she muttered, pacing around the three on the floor before coming to a stop in front of the speaker. “That part, I’m not sure. Sarg? Am I crazy?”

  “As they come,” he said fiercely, not missing a beat and his tone hard. The brother was watching her every step, his eyes darting between her and the Diablos on the floor, seeing everything.

  “Okay. So yes, then. Now … do you want to talk? Or just spit blood on my fucking boots?”

  “Talk.”

  “Good!” Poet was frighteningly cheerful as she spoke. She glanced at Tonka and inclined her head; Artist watched as the larger man moved forward, heaving the Diablo off the floor and lowering him awkwardly onto his knees, facing her. “Who ordered the hit?”

  “That pinche chota sucio … fucking Branka. He came to … our clubhouse,” he said, obviously struggling with the occasional translation from Spanish to English in his head. “Told us Infiernos behind the drive by – when you shot up our clubhouse en abril. Eh, in the springtime. He said he knew what would hurt your club, and would make baja los cargos. ‘Charges.’”

  “So, you thought you would take the good police officer up on his promise – that, by killin’ some of us, any of us, you could wipe away some fuckin’ parkin’ tickets?” Shakespeare asked incredulously. He was standing just off to the side and behind Artist, his face filled with disgust, his eyes darting from the men on the floor to the rest of the room.

  “Fuck you,” the man started, grunting in pain as Tonka hit him with the butt of his rifle. “Lo siento, lo siento. No. Not parking tickets, drug y murder cargos. But after we do it, nada.”

  “Awww, poor bikers can’t get out of their wraps? Tough fucking break,” Artist grumbled under her breath, grinning sweetly when the man glared her direction. When he saw she wasn’t intimidated, he looked even more pissed, but said nothing about it.

  “Did you know anything about Branka coming after Artist?” Poet asked, nodding toward her. “Or why?”

  “Not her, no. The hit because of you. Celoso. He wanted between your legs.”

  “Fuck, we’ve got a big fucking problem, Pres,” Tonka said, having wandered to the lone window inside the warehouse. He turned to them, grip tight on the AK. “Rein-fucking-forcements. Theirs.”

  “Shit,” Shakespeare drawled, pulling his .380 Browning from under his arm and motioning for Artist to do the same. She did, though she aimed at the men at her feet rather than at the door like he and Fallen had. Suddenly, four men burst through the warehouse doors, armed with rifles, and the room exploded into action.

  The sounds of gunfire exploded against the concrete floor and walls; everyone took shelter behind what they could find. Artist perched behind a stack of the crates, leaning carefully out to fire at the assholes who’d interrupted their interrogation. This was different than target practice, the attention and adrenaline rushing demanding her entirety. The rational part of her brain, who’d never been involved in a legitimate shooting before, worried she’d hit one of her own, making her shots sparse compared to the others around her.

  When she leaned once more, she noted one of them trying to free his men and she took aim, shooting quickly. She turned back before she saw him fall, though she knew he had – even the strongest of people cannot sustain a bullet wound to the head. Glancing from the other side, she saw two more on the ground, the sounds of gunfire fading as they looked for the remaining Diablo. Seconds too late, she turned, finding the biker behind her. He knocked the Beretta from her hands and slipped a beefy arm around her stomach, pulling her into the middle of the room.

  “Don’t shoot or I’ll kill the fucking bitch!” the man yelled, his English perfect. “I swear to God I’ll fucking end her.”

  “Do it. Take the goddamned shot,” she growled, demanding her men take the bastard out. Artist knew, as they all knew, it didn’t matter if they shot then or shot later – the prick would kill her anyway as soon as he had no use for her. That was the way human shields worked, only valuable until they weren’t.

  “All right, all right,” Poet said calmly, holding her hand and gun into the air.

  “Put the guns on the ground,” the Diablo continued, dragging her to the men still on the ground. The one they’d been questioning had dropped the floor once more. Probably didn’t want to get his ass shot by his own brothers, she thought, finding the thought funny since she’d been having the same only moments before.

  “Don’t do it,” she said through gritted teeth and he tightened his grip on her.

  “Shut the fuck up, bitch,” he told her, turning his attention to Shakespeare. “Put it on the goddamned floor!”

  “We’re puttin’ ‘em down, brother. See, down?” her VP said, his forehead creased and his eyes alight with an anger she hadn’t seen before. She watched as he bent toward the ground, catching her eye as he went. He inclined his head for a moment, then nodded.

  Artist, moving on impulse and experience with her trainer, went limp in the biker’s arm. Faster than she could blink, Shakespeare rose, firing two shots from the gun that had only just seconds before been hovering over the ground. A ripping pain tore through her shoulder as one of the slugs grazed her shoulder, finding purchase in the Diablo, forcing him to release her. The second tore through his forehead, a perfect shot. He dropped to the floor, remaining unmoving as Shakespeare approached her.

  “You okay?” he asked, worried, his hand trailing up her arm and brushing the tear of her sweater aside. She smacked his hand away.

  “I’m fine,” she said, turning toward Poet. “Are we done with them?”

  Her President glanced from her to her VP, to Fallen and Tonka, then down to the men on the ground. Stepping forward, she nudged the biker in the middle. “You want to die? Or do you want to make a deal?”

  “Que?”

  “I didn’t stutter and my patience is fucking gone. I won’t repeat myself and you have two damned seconds before I paint the floor with your head.”

  “Deal. I don’t want to die.”

  “Smart answer,” she sai
d, turning back toward Artist. “You can have the other two. I think this one may be useful.”

  Shocked, she merely stared at her Pres, trying to get the fury she felt under control. All three of the bastards had been behind the hit, regardless of whether they ordered it or not. Artist didn’t care who had pulled the trigger, whose bullets pierced her best friend’s skin. What she cared about was getting justice, getting revenge, making it fucking right. She needed Teagan to know that no one could hurt her that way and get away with it. And now, Poet had stolen a third of that.

  “Don’t argue with me, Artist,” Poet warned and she colored, hating that the woman could read her so easily. Biting her tongue, she turned back to the men.

  “It’s your lucky fucking day you dirty douchebag. I swear to God, you so much as breathe in a way I don’t like, I’ll fucking kill you, orders or no. You killed one of our girls. You hospitalized two others for fucking days. The fact that Poet is offering you a chance at redemption … It’s not an offer you’ll get twice.”

  The biker nodded as Tonka came forward, picking him up from the concrete and carting him toward the door to await their President’s orders. Fallen followed, keeping his eye on the saved man as well as Poet. Shakespeare looked at Artist, who continued to stare at the men on the floor.

  Regaining her focus, she released the clip in her Beretta, swapping it for the spare her VP had given her before they left. “Shakespeare, turn them over, please.”

  He did as she requested, unceremoniously rolling them to face her, both spitting curses at them. Artist stared at each of them, memorizing each line of their faces, the bruising around their cheeks and chins, the color of their eyes, the splits in their lips from previous punches. Then, without speaking a word, she lifted her arm and fired. She shot one, then the other, multiple times, in all the places Teagan had been hit.

  The men roared in pain, their faces contorting, their bravado and attitudes falling away due to their injuries. Their shouts and cries were lost on her as Artist turned, and started toward the door.

  “Darlin?’”

  She knew what Shakespeare was asking. He wanted to know if she needed him to finish them off, if she planned to do it herself. A slew of questions were in his one pet name for her, and she shook her head.

  “No. Leave them. It’s what they did to Teagan. Death is too quick, too good for them. Let them feel what it’s like to not know if they’re going to live or die; if someone is going to save their worthless fucking lives or if they’re going to bleed out on a dirty concrete floor like they deserve.”

  “Damn,” she heard Fallen mutter as she neared them, his eyes darting from the crying men to her, and she shrugged. His face broke out into a large grin, the Sergeant she knew appearing before her once more. “Spoken like a bitch from my own, cold heart. Careful, people might think you’re gunning for my job.”

  “Nah. You can keep yours … I like my own,” she told him, moving passed the walking dead man and climbing onto her bike. Shakespeare followed, swinging a long leg over his own and starting his engine in unison with her own. And, still covered in a spray of blood, along with her own, she began the ride back to the Hells Redemption clubhouse.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The drive back to the clubhouse was easier; either because she was getting to go home, or because her nerves made her oblivious to everything but the road ahead of her, Artist wasn’t sure. She didn’t care, either – just glad she wasn’t needing to focus on the weight of her bike along with her actions and the other million thoughts running through her head.

  She wasn’t bothered by what she’d done. The bastards had gotten what they deserved, better than what they deserved, really. Yet, the fact it didn’t bother her, bothered her. Shouldn’t it? She’d just participated in a mass shooting, killed one man, and left two more to die. But she felt nothing but satisfaction. Satisfaction that a sweetie’s death was avenged and that her friend could sleep at night knowing the men who’d shot her, while she was trying to save others, could never do it again.

  Pride was also there. She’d protected her own, her family, her club. And with the feel of her Harley’s engine humming beneath her, she felt zero regret. Shouldn’t I feel at least a little bad? I mean … I killed that son of a bitch without a second thought, left the others to die, she questioned herself, her conscious, but she got a resounding no in response.

  Cheers erupted outside the clubhouse as they pulled inside the compound. Brothers filed out of the house, raising an arm and shouting, as she and Shakespeare maneuvered carefully into the garage. Rather than using the entrance, they walked out to meet them, all smiles. One voice sounded above all the others.

  “Artist!” she heard and turned, catching Teagan as she threw her arms around her.

  “Hey, Hooker,” she whispered softly, fondly, as she enfolded her friend. “I got the bastards for you.”

  “I know! You’re a real-life fucking Avenger! Fallen called to give us all the heads up, told us how badass you are. I wish I could’ve seen you, standing there in all your beautiful rage as you shot them the way they did me. Talk about making a name for yourself, bitch. Everyone’s gonna love and fear your ass now. Don’t forget about us little people.”

  Pulling back, Artist took in the bright smile spread across the girl’s face, her hair shining and bouncing at her shoulders. She looked almost like her old self, though it was easy to see she wasn’t ever going to be the same. And while her words were cheerful, happy, practically straining to be ecstatic, there was a tightness in her forehead that belayed her words. Moving forward, she hugged her friend once more, running a hand up her back and cradling the back of her head.

  “I’ve got you, Teag. I’ll always have you,” she murmured in the girl’s ear, serious.

  Her friend tightened her grip around her, burying her face in her uninjured shoulder. When she pulled away, her eyes were red, but she showed no tears. “Thank you, Sissy. Thank you.”

  Throat constricting, Artist nodded and pulled away, refusing to let her emotions get the better of her. She hadn’t cried and she refused to – it was a happy occasion, and she’d be damned if she broke like a bitch over an ounce of gratitude.

  Shakespeare appeared at her side, grasping her hand and squeezing it as he led her through the crowd of her brothers. They patted their backs as they walked toward the clubhouse door, their whoops and hollering loud in the night. Artist expected them to stop them, though, to want to know details; to ask about exactly what happened, how it happened, and if there were steps they were going to take next. She knew Hells Redemption was going to hit back at Diablos Hermanos, like always – if they didn’t come at them first. After all, they’d relieved their club of four men, for sure, two possibles, and she had no idea what Poet planned with the rat. No way would the bastards let the deaths go unavenged. Artist wouldn’t if it was her, and so there would definitely be a next step.

  But their men didn’t stop them. Instead they parted like the seas as they walked, allowing them into the clubhouse, not following as the two made their way to their room. To say she was grateful would be an understatement. Looking down, she took in the blood on her clothes, unsure where hers and the others mixed, and spared a thought that she’d probably gotten some on Teagan. If she’d been thinking more clearly she wouldn’t have hugged the girl. The last thing she needed was the visceral reminder of violence on her. She wasn’t the same sweetie she’d been, stronger and more resilient, but Artist didn’t want to be what took that away from her.

  Shakespeare moved around her after shutting the door behind them, tossing his cut and holster on the dresser before peeling off his thermal. She watched, transfixed on his body, the muscles straining against his skin, his old scars like tattoos. Unthinking, she walked toward him and he stopped moving for a moment, peering down at her.

  Reaching up, Artist grasped at his neck, pulling his face down to hers and kissing him. After a heartbeat, he returned the kiss and she moaned, pressing for more,
running her tongue across his lips, seeking entrance. Deepening the kiss, she explored his mouth, her hand trailing down to his chest, his stomach, to the button on his jeans. She tugged at his waistband until the button gave, slipping her fingers between his boxers and the rough material to grasp his erection. He was hard and ready, which only fueled her on.

  Artist broke away long enough to shrug off her own cut, dropping it beside his. She struggled with the holster, her thoughts on his body, making it difficult to get out of the rig. When she was free, she sighed and dragged the ruined sweater over her head and threw it on the floor, her bra following it. She stood a foot away from the man she loved, her chest rising and falling in time with her heavy breathing, watching, waiting. And he didn’t make her wait long. Shakespeare lunged for her, dragging her body to him by the loops of her jeans, pressing her skin against his and capturing her mouth once more.

  “Make love to me, ‘Speare,” she breathed against his lips, kissing him hard, their tongues twining in a desperate dance.

  Her mind and body were raging, demanding to feel him, needing him. It wasn’t something she could explain; it was instinctual and raw. She couldn’t get close enough to him, even as his hands lowered to grasp her ass and he lifted her and set her on the bed, his weight comforting as he followed above her. Even as their mouths clashed, their embrace punishing and brutal and needy, teeth knicking lips and tongues, it wasn’t enough.

  She pressed a hand on his chest and he rose, his own breathing ragged, matching hers. Maintaining eye contact, she struggled out of the confining material of her jeans, and he did the same, until they were naked and ready. Her body was weeping, crying out for his hands, for his cock, for him, and she told him so, begging him to take her.

  His hand slipped between her legs, his fingers trailing through her wetness, spreading it. “Fuck, you’re so wet.”

  “I want you,” she told him, her body arching into his fingers, pleading with him for more. “Now.”