It had been a project for school. She’d always liked painting, oil on canvas. Gertie knew not everyone could look at a blank slate and see a picture emerge out of a mess of media, how it was applied and overlapped in just the right way. But she’d had a knack for it, making pictures out of whatever she had around. All her art teachers from grade through high school praised her ability and vision. It was something special; no matter how hard you studied or how good your memory was, there were just some people who couldn’t be artists.
She’d fooled herself into thinking she could do it for a living. She told her parents she wanted to focus on visual arts in college. They told her no, that she should take classes that would get her employed in commerce somehow. Insurance was a compromise, or so she thought.
The canvas was huge, about six feet long and two feet high. She’d covered the entire surface with paint. It was a cubist depiction, a low angle view of a highway she’d never seen, just an image lifted from a magazine advertisement. She had no idea what it was advertising, but the black asphalt cut through a field of bright yellow sunflowers. Gertie herself had been surprised by how the image turned out. It was bright and bold, and her professor had loved it, too. He even submitted it to a state-wide call for submissions at the Warhol Museum. When her work had been selected she was bowled over. Her work hanging on walls named after Andy fucking Warhol?
Her proudest moment, actually. Darryl had bought a bottle of champagne so they could celebrate. She still had the picture of her standing next to it in the Warhol Museum. Darryl had taken it, beaming with pride as he directed the camera her way.
When the student exhibit was over she took the canvas home, proud to present it to her father. But his new wife didn’t think it went with their décor. And her mother didn’t want it either. So Gertie kept it herself, and it was the first thing she unpacked and placed when she got this condo. Her parents didn’t get it, and that was fine. Maybe it was just for her after all.
Buck had seen it, though. Not just seen it but looked at it. The thought that he might have gotten something personal out of her painting gave her a shiver, and she rubbed her one arm with the hand not holding the beer bottle.
She had another painting from college in her bedroom. It was a close-up realism work of a blood red rose. She’d done it all with only red and black so it was deep and dark and sultry. In the washroom were two small canvasses she’d done just for fun when she and Darryl bought their house. Stark white canvas, each one featuring a bright fantail goldfish. They’d looked awesome hanging on the aqua-colored walls of that bathroom in the old house. She liked them in this place too but they’d been done specially for that house.
Those goldfish were the last time she’d painted. Her brushes were somewhere in her office-slash-catch-all room. This open living room kitchen space was huge and bare. Nothing said she couldn’t paint out here. God knew she had spare time to fill.
Gertie wanted to paint again. She wanted to make something that people couldn’t fake their way through. Or read a book and know how to do within a week.
Gertie tipped the Heineken to her mouth again, smiling. That’s what she was going to do. She was going to start painting again.
Chapter Twenty-One
Mark “Fritter” Horton had been patched in just over a year ago. He was from Oklahoma originally and his charm mostly consisted of his accent. He was in recovery by the time Buck arrived, so the group was just waiting to be let in to see him.
Sheriff Sharon Downey was leaving his room as Buck hit the waiting room. She’d likely taken Fritter’s statement for the sake of hospital administration, but she’d be glad to ignore it and let the Rebels handle it themselves. Buck gave her a courteous nod and she replied in kind, hands on her belt as she moved through the room past the vinyl-coated benches. Buck plopped onto one next to Knuckles, lifting his chin to Jayce across the room.
“Where they hell’d you disappear to?” Jayce snapped, looking more annoyed than angry.
Buck shrugged. “Visiting a friend. We were dismissed for the night.”
Knuckles snorted. “A friend that requires condoms and not wearing his kutte into town,” he added.
“Fuck you,” Buck muttered low, shooting him a back off glare.
Jayce was leaning forward and shaking his head. “At least he was smart enough to go in without colors. Who is she? Do we know her?”
Buck sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “No. You don’t know her.”
“Maybe it’s best to dip your wick closer to home for a while,” Tank rumbled from his position, standing against the wall with his massive arms crossed over his wide chest. “I’d bet this shooting was Gypsys, but they’d be doing it for G-Town’s dime.”
“Yeah, I know,” Buck admitted.
“Your fingers smell like redhead?” Knuckles goaded him.
Buck shot a look at Jayce, knowing then that they’d been talking and making guesses about Gertie. Only Jayce, Buck, Tank and Spaz were at The Dog’s Breakfast that night. Knuckles wouldn’t know what she looked like.
“You’d have to smell the beard, brother,” he returned, mostly to avoid them acting like he had a school boy crush.
Knuckles cut up then, just as the doctor arrived and cast her sky-blue eyes around the room. She seemed dismayed that only bikers were in the waiting area. Buck had seen this before. Medical information could only be shared with “family” and hospitals saw that as a position held by blood, not leather and patches. But she was learning. Buck couldn’t remember her name but she’d been on duty the night Skip died and she’d seen Tank turn the room upside down when she said only family could hear the news.
That display had changed her mind, and she remembered him still. It was on her face as she swallowed and decided that Jayce was the one she wanted to talk to. “Mister McClune?” she said, sounding nervous.
Jayce stood and approached, flanked by Tank and Buck first. The rest assembled a bit slowly. “Yeah?” Jayce said gently, encouraging her to go on.
“He’s going to be fine. No major muscle or nerve damage. We had to give him quite a few stitches, though. His arm will be in a sling for a while, and he’ll likely need physiotherapy once it’s almost healed. The police have the bullet we removed.” She closed her clipboard and held it to her chest like a breastplate. “We’re moving him to a semi-private room within the hour, and we’ll keep him overnight to make sure there are no further complications. Otherwise he’ll be released tomorrow.”
“Thanks Doc,” Jayce said amiably. The doctor smiled and hurried from the room, even Jayce’s charm having no easing effect on her nerves. The brothers parted to let her through, albeit giving her just enough room to squeeze past them.
“If you guys don’t want to wait, head back to the clubhouse,” Jayce instructed. “No need for us to take up a whole floor if the fucker’s not hurt that bad.”
“I’m staying,” Buck piped up.
“Me too.” This was from Tank.
Jayce nodded as the rest of the group cleared out. Within twenty minutes a nurse was telling them that they could see Fritter, so they followed her plastic-clog-wearing feet to a room just down the hall from the waiting room. It was at the far end of the corridor and only one of the two beds were occupied, which convinced Buck their group was welcome to stay since he was so far out of the way.
For all the worry taking a bullet in the shoulder had caused, Fritter was in remarkably good spirits. As soon as they cleared the threshold he was sitting up and bellowing out, “Come on in!” with that Oklahoma twang.
Buck was shaking his head as Jayce clasped hands with Fritter. Neither of them went for the shoulder-hug out of concern for his injury.
“You believe this shit?” Fritter muttered, bumping his fist into Buck’s, settling upright in his bed. “I wanted to just go the clubhouse and call the vet to dig it out, but you know Ma. She was calling 911 before I could explain things to her.”
Fritter had moved here from Oklahoma, but only bec
ause his mom found work in Markham. The guy was thirty-seven and completely unembarrassed to be getting his meals and laundry done at home. Sure he spent most nights around the clubhouse but he hadn’t even claimed his own dorm room. To a great extent Buck believed Fritter worried about his mom being entirely alone, but he never let on about that, either.
“Downey got your statement?” Jayce asked.
“Yeah. She didn’t write any of it down though.” Fritter broke into his wide grin, playing with his hair, which was collected at the back of his head in a sloppy bun. “I flashed her, man.”
“Jesus,” Tank muttered, but he sounded amused.
“I woke up all groggy, saw this hazy vision of her standing there, I got hard. I just had to show her.” Fritter, for what it was worth, looking a bit regretful. “Still don’t know why I did that.”
“They got you on the good shit,” Jayce guessed, leaning his hip against the hospital bed.
“Was she at least impressed?” Tank joked.
Fritter shrugged his good shoulder. “She just kinda smirked.”
Buck cracked up at that and Jayce was laughing too. Yeah, Fritter was going to be fine.
“You didn’t see anything, huh?” Jayce turned their convo serious.
“Nah,” Fritter scratched his chin as he drawled it out. “Sorry. I was washing the truck. I had the radio on, the water running through the garden hose. Didn’t hear anyone pull up, just two popping sounds. Truck window broke, I kinda flinched and then I felt a burning in my shoulder.” His face got hard. “Ma was in the house. They coulda hit her, Jayce.”
“I know, brother. We’ll figure it out.” Jayce said it like a promise, and it was. For all the light-hearted joking, and the fact that Fritter was going to be just fine, someone still shot at a Rebel which meant they wanted to kill him. It could have been a little pot shot in retaliation for breaking up the drug drop-off the week before, that would be the Gypsys’ style, but they don’t do anything just to piss on someone else’s hydrant. It would have been collaboration between the Gypsys and G-Town. It had to be; delivered by the Gypsys at G-Town’s command.
“You want us to run out and get you anything?” Tank offered. “Magazine. Pair of underwear. Sweetbutt to take care of your raging hard-on?”
That cut them up again and Fritter shook his head. “No. But thanks. They say I’ll be out tomorrow.”
“Call us and we’ll send a cage for you,” Jayce instructed with another hand clasp.
“Yeah. They said no riding for likely about six months,” Fritter lamented, clasping Tank’s hand next.
“Just convalescing at the clubhouse for six months getting your dick sucked. You poor bastard.” Tank said dryly, making Fritter smile.
“Yeah. I’ll need the girls to make sure I’m okay.”
“Are you kidding?” Buck cut in. “Your mom ain’t letting you out of the house for a year.”
Fritter’s face changed expression very rapidly. “Shit, you’re right,” he groaned.
“You sure you’re set here for the night?” Tank wanted to make sure.
“Yeah. I got my burner, I’ll call when they release me. I just want to sleep more than anything else.”
“Take care Fritter,” Jayce called out as they left with a wave and a few more good-natured jabs at his manhood. Back in the corridor Jayce turned to face his VP and sergeant at arms. “I want people watching his mom’s house, making sure no one else comes back. And she’s gotta stay there. I think he’s fine here, but I don’t want people coming after his mom.”
“I’m on it,” Tank offered. “I’ll get a prospect to come with me.”
“Bring Rusty. He’s a bit more seasoned,” Jayce suggested. Then he turned to Buck. “I got half a mind to reach out to Thor and outright ask if this was him.”
Buck shrugged. “Can’t hurt if it’s over the phone.”
“Let’s head to the clubhouse. Tank, I’ll send Rusty to you. You head right to Fritter’s mom’s place.”
“You got it,” Tank answered as Jayce pulled out his phone. The VP was out of the ward by the time Rusty answered Jayce’s call.
“Meet Tank at Fritter’s mom’s place. We’re going to watch her place tonight, make sure these fucks don’t come back and hassle her.” He snapped the phone shut almost immediately and Buck had to grin. Watch guard on Fritter’s mom would be a great assignment; she was a great cook and spoiled rotten any “young” man that walked into her home. There was always fresh bread and cookies around, pie or cake if you were really lucky.
“Twist his arm, huh?” Buck asked, falling into step behind the Prez as he headed for the doors.
“Yeah. He said thanks instead of okay.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Gertie walked out of the art supply store almost a grand poorer but overjoyed. She hadn’t been excited about anything in a long time. Naughty thoughts about Buck notwithstanding, of course.
She’d found her brushes, but she needed everything else. So she grabbed a set of standard oils as well as bigger tubes of the primary colors plus extra black and white. She picked out a few smaller detail brushes, paint thinner, brush conditioner, a palette, mixing tray, and a few odds and ends she didn’t even know they made but she knew would be handy. She ordered a few medium-sized canvases, one large five-by-five one, and an easel. The bigger stuff she paid to have delivered to her apartment the next day since she’d walked the two blocks to the store from her condo. The rest she carried in a canvas bag on her shoulder. She also had a small six-by-four inch canvas to practice on in the meantime because she wanted to do something right away.
Gertie felt great. Happy. It wasn’t a big deal, but she’d always been happiest when painting. She’d lost herself for hours at a time doing that sunflower field piece and it wasn’t until she would finally set down her brushes and take a break that she realized her back and shoulders were aching. She couldn’t wait to care about something that much again.
On the way back to her condo she stopped for a smoothie at a café. On the sidewalk outside she felt a hand close around her arm, and before she could jump she was spun around to face someone she didn’t recognize. He let go of her arm at least but it didn’t stop her heart from jumping from zero to sixty in about a half a second.
Wait, yes she did recognize him. It was the same man she’d bought weed from, working so-called “undercover” for Buck. He remembered her, eyeing her up and down with a sleazy smile.
“What do you want?” she snapped, eyes darting around and hoping no one she knew would see her talking to a drug dealer.
“I got what you were asking about. If you want it.”
Gertie swallowed. She didn’t know if this was still something expected of her, but she had honestly heard that Oxy was pretty good shit. “How much?” she asked, softly.
“Two for fifty.”
“That’s steep.”
He shook his head, running his hand down his chest. “Not really, honey. You only need one with this kind. It’s a special mix.”
Buck had warned her about something being mixed into the weed she’d bought. There hadn’t been, but this was a hell of a coincidence. “Not out here,” she muttered. “Around the corner.”
Gertie’s self-preservation alarm was screaming at her but she turned and headed for the alleyway between the café and a music store, stopping behind a dumpster. Romeo was right behind her, grinning and biting his lip as he stepped right into her. “You don’t want to pay that much we can work something else out,” he said, hand running down her arm.
Gertie stepped away from him and pushed his chest with one hand when he tried to stay close. “Stay right there,” she snapped. “Cut the bullshit. I’m taking my money out and if you freak me out I might accidentally grab the pepper spray instead of my wallet.”
He raised both hands, palms out, the image of surrender. “No harm, no foul honey. Can’t blame a man for trying.”
She kept her eye on him as her hands dug into her bag. She found her w
allet without looking, pulled it open and lamented that she only had twenties inside. “I don’t suppose you carry change,” she muttered, pulling out three of them and holding them out to him.
He grinned, reached in his pocket and pulled out two tiny baggies. “I’ll bonus you a bit, how’s that?” He held them up. Four tiny, bright orange tablets in total. “Be careful with these though, honey. Only take one, and don’t take them with booze. They’re a little extra potent, more affordable for people who can’t say no.”
“That’s very charitable of you,” she replied, snatching the pills away and tucking them into her wallet which then slid back into her purse.
His dark eyes dropped to her body again as he rubbed his chin. “You sure you won’t mind making a bit of time? I like the way you’re put together.”
Gertie sighed. “I do too. Thanks. But no.” She outright lied, like the story would make any difference to him. “I have a boyfriend.”
“Right,” he nodded. “I won’t tell.”
“Get lost,” she snapped, and with a laugh he turned and lurched his way out of the alley in some weird, gangster, limping trot. Gertie waited a few minutes then followed, trying to see if he was lurking on the sidewalk waiting for her. Obviously she didn’t want him knowing where she lived. She hated enough that she’d given him two locations to associate with her. He likely knew she had to live or at least work close by.
Satisfied that he was, in fact, gone, Gertie turned back in the direction of home, her pace quickening slightly as she sucked on her smoothie. Her heart was hammering a bit harder than normal, but it eased once her doorman let her into her building and she was waiting for the elevator.
Back in her apartment she unpacked her art supplies on the largely unused dining table, smiling again at how excited she was to have a channel to focus something other than self-pity and loathing. She opened one of the tubes of paint and gave it a sniff, that smell bringing her back to a happier, simpler time. That tiny little practice canvas was calling to her, begging her to get messy all over its crisp white surface and create something brand new.
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