Artist

by Juli Valenti

  “That fucking hurt, you know,” she murmured against his lips, relishing the feel of his hands on her waist, his fingers holding her firmly.

  “I know, I saw. I’m so fuckin’ sorry you thought that.”

  “Don’t do it again, no matter the reason. If you don’t want me, that’s fine, but don’t fucking sleep with me and immediately kick me out. Got it?”

  “Got it,” he answered, pressing his erection into her. She moaned into his mouth, their tongues tangling and his hand holding her head. A loud banging tore their mouths away as they turned toward the door, finding Poet with her arms crossed, glaring at them.

  “Sweet, you two. But if you don’t mind, I’d rather you not fuck on my table. Either get to work or get to your room, if you don’t mind.”

  “You’re the boss, Pres,” Shakespeare said, kissing Artist once more softly before taking her hand and tugging her to stand with him. “My room sounds pretty damned good right now.”

  “I second that,” she added as he lead her through the doorway and passed Poet. “And, Pres? Thanks, for this.” She motioned to her cut.

  “No problem. Sucks ass when they don’t fit right, and, when you get a second, thank Titan. Your brother footed the bill for it.”

  Shakespeare led her down the hallway and back to his room, shutting the door and locking it behind him. Artist expected him to attack her, to throw her on the bed, but he surprised her.

  “I want to fuck you, but I’m not gonna. We’re gonna pick up where we left off before shit went south,” he told her in explanation as he delicately removed her cut, placing it on his desk before lifting her tank top over her head and throwing it on the floor. Unbuttoning her jeans, he pulled them down, his breath catching when finding her still without her panties. But he still didn’t act; instead he took her hand and guided her to his bed and stripped himself down as well.

  Sweeping the blankets aside, Shakespeare turned off the table lamp and crawled into bed beside her. He lifted his arm and Artist needed no urging. She went willingly into his embrace, her head resting once more on his chest as he pulled the covers over them. His skin was warm beneath her cheek, his grip strong where it rested on her hip, holding her.

  “Weren’t we just here?” she hummed, allowing her body to relax against him.

  “Somethin’ like that. Only this time you ain’t goin’ anywhere, Artist.”

  Abruptly she sat up, peering down at him. His eyebrow arched in question. “You called me Artist. You rarely do that.”

  He chuckled and grasped her hand, pulling her down once more. “I’m not gonna call you ‘darlin’ all the time … I know your name, I know you. I give a fuck. If I didn’t, you’d always be babe, or sugar, or sweetie, or some other shit. Gotta remind you that you ain’t a sweetie.”

  “I don’t mind ‘darlin,’” she murmured, smiling.

  “I know,” he said softly, nuzzling his face in her hair. “Darlin.’”

  Artist remained where she was, awake, long after they stopped talking and Shakespeare’s breathing had evened out. Her mind was running a million miles a minute, despite her body being beat and exhausted. It wasn’t until his snores began to fill the room, loud in her ear still resting on his chest, that her mind began to shut down. And this time, when sleep took her, she didn’t dream at all.

  Chapter Eight

  The alarm blared entirely too early. It took Artist a moment, and a few slaps at empty air, to remember that she wasn’t in her room, and it wasn’t her clock bleating in the room, demanding her eyes to open. Giving up with a sigh, she sat up, sleepily entertained as Shakespeare did the same, both rubbing their eyes. She watched as he stood and stumbled toward the dresser on the other end of the room, silencing the alarm.

  According to the glaring red numbers, it was eleven in the morning. Before, Shakespeare used to have her up and working out by five. Then the firing range after that until her limbs ached and her body screamed for relief. Apparently all that was done to test her worth, or to train her, one of the two, though she was betting on the former. The fact that he’d been able to drag himself up to be there for it all was almost impressive now that she really thought about it – it wasn’t uncommon for the brothers to be working until early morning.

  “How hard was it to get your ass out of bed to make me work out?” she voiced the question running through her head, genuinely curious. Hell, she’d usually been in bed no later than midnight – most nights closer to nine or ten – and it had been brutal. One of the many things she’d cursed him over.

  “Fuckin’ torture,” he replied as he shot a small grin her way before digging through his drawer and retrieving a pair of boxers. “Shower?”

  Artist nodded. “Sure. Let me run and get some clean clothes.”

  “Hurry that ass up.” He tossed one of his shirts to her, for which she was grateful. The last thing she wanted was to put yesterday’s clothes back on just to run to her room.

  As predicted, his shirt was more like a night gown and she sprinted down the hallway, grateful that, for once, none of the brothers crossed her path. Once inside her room, she smiled, amazed at how different it felt than it had when she’d been in it the night before.

  Tossing the doubts she had out of her head, she went straight to her closet. She pulled out a pair of soft, heather-gray leggings, and an electric-blue sweater dress. Snatching the gray riding boots from the floor, she dropped the items on her bed. A pair of panties followed the pile, along with a bra and socks. Idly she also grabbed the plastic bin of shower necessities she kept within reach – she’d learned early on not to keep it in the bathroom. The boys seemed to like the way her soap cleaned their skin, or smelled, or something, and always jacked it when they could.

  Eying the pile, Artist knew there was no way she could carry it all, and, before she could think twice about it, she dug a pink duffle bag out from under her bed. After throwing everything in the bag, she left the room, hoping Shakespeare wouldn’t think anything about her ‘overnight bag.’ Men tended to have issues with girls and their stuff – the ‘moving in’ and ‘taking over’ crap. Hopefully he would realize she just needed an extra set of hands and didn’t have them available without asking for unwanted, mouthy help in the form of two hundred-pound bikers.

  “About damn time, woman,” her VP said in greeting as she opened the room to his door without knocking. He was sitting on his bed, looking delicious with his messy, slept-in hair and phone in hand. On the bedside table were two cups of coffee, which surprised her.

  “You went to the kitchen?” she asked in answer, nodding toward the mugs. He shook his head.

  “Coffee maker.” He motioned toward the single cup maker on his desk. “No club shit ‘til hot caffeine. The best-kept HR secret.” He handed her one of the mugs as she dropped her bag, the sound loud in the quiet of the room. “What’s that?”

  “I didn’t have enough hands,” she murmured, almost embarrassed. Covering the color she knew was a heartbeat away from filling her cheeks, she sipped the brew. It was wonderfully warm, and light in color – another surprise to her. She’d assumed he’d drink his coffee black, not with cream and sugar. “Don’t worry,” she added when he said nothing, “I’m not moving in. It’s just clothes to wear today and shower stuff. Some of us aren’t lucky enough to have our own showers and the boys steal my body wash.”

  Still Shakespeare said nothing, drinking his coffee and taking her in. Artist shifted her weight from foot to foot, wishing he would say something. Instead, he stood and turned, making his way into the bathroom and starting the shower. She heard the water running but didn’t move. Part of her demanded she strip, to join him in the shower. The other half forced her to stay.

  You’re being fucking stupid, dude, her head told her. He told you last night he wants you – does he have to spell it out for you? Get it tattooed on his ass for you to believe him? Stop acting like a chick and start thinking like you have a dick.

  Steeling herself, she placed her mug
down on the table and took the steps to the bathroom. She tugged his shirt over her head as she moved, dropping it carelessly onto the floor. But when she entered the room, the water still running, she found him not inside the shower but outside it, his arms crossed and his hip against the counter. He was gloriously naked, his erection thick and tall as his eyes roamed her body.

  “I repeat myself,” he murmured, his gaze moving from her breasts to stomach and lower, before flicking up to her eyes. “’Bout fuckin’ time. Don’t know what man got you confused - ‘bout yourself, fucked with your confidence – but I can’t constantly remind you I fuckin’ want you.”

  “I don’t know what you —”

  Shakespeare held up a hand, stopping her words. “Don’t lie to me, Artist. And I ain’t askin’ or bringin’ it up right now. But one day I will. Right now, we’re goin’ to take a shower, then we got work to do.”

  Before she could say anything further, he grasped her arm and pulled her to him, pressing her against his bare body. He gave her only a heartbeat to relish the feel of his skin and his lips were on hers, forceful and strong, his tongue demanding entrance into her mouth. Artist opened to him, allowing his tongue to explore, her own meeting his like a battle to be won. Their kiss was a war, a fight of wills and desire. Their mouths spoke words unheard, promises and future conversations, and he swallowed her moan as it sounded.

  When he broke away, they were both breathing heavily, and he backed her toward the shower. She went willingly, her arm reaching behind her to slide the shower door open. Shakespeare led them under the water, the heat cascading down their skin. He released her for a moment, shutting the door behind him, and in the next second her back was against the tile wall, his mouth back on hers, claiming her.

  “Yes?” he murmured against her lips as his hips pressed against her.

  Air seemed to have dissipated in the shower, Artist’s chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath to find words. Failing, she nodded. Luckily it was all the man needed as his hands gripped her hips, pulling her legs around his waist and thrusting into her. He’d wasted no time on foreplay and she hadn’t needed it, his kiss making her wet. Her body was tight, creating a friction between them as he moved inside her, filling her, his mouth capturing hers, and his tongue mirroring his cock.

  The touch of his skin against her breasts, the occasional spray of hot water, and her back hitting the cold tile, had her every sense alight, her body burning. And the harder he thrust, her back pressing into the wall, had her reaching higher, sounds tumbling from her lips as he took her.

  “Fuckin’ asshole got you thinkin’ you’re nothin,’” Shakespeare groaned against her lips. “When the hell you gonna realize you’re so much more. Fuck, Artist. You feel so fuckin’ good. I ain’t ever gonna get enough of you.”

  “Well if you aren’t a sight for sore eyes,” Teagan croaked from her hospital bed. The usually vibrant redhead looked exhausted, and, even worse, battered.

  Once they’d finished in the shower, Shakespeare tried to prepare Artist. He’d told her that while her friend was no longer in critical condition, her condition still wasn’t good. He’d told her she was bruised to shit and still hooked up to monitors; Artist told him she could handle it. Seeing her friend now, though, her resolve wasn’t quite as strong.

  Artist could feel tears trying to sting at her eyes and she blinked quickly, forcing them back. The last thing she was about to do was embarrass herself by crying. No, if Teagan could sit there and look her in the eyes, not a tear streak on her cheeks to be seen, then she could suck it up and do the same.

  “You look like shit, girl,” she told her friend, trying to keep her voice light, sarcastic, though she wasn’t sure she succeeded.

  Luckily, Teagan laughed. “Damn, coming in here trying to make a girl feel less than beautiful. Shame on you and the girl code.”

  It was Artist’s turn to chuckle as she made her way closer and perched on the side of the hospital bed. She took a few moments to take everything in: the purpling bruises on ivory skin, the tube in her arm that led to bags of liquid on an IV stand. The sheets were covering the bullet wound bandage on her side, along with the matching one on her stomach, which Artist knew was there also.

  “So … bagged Shakespeare, from what I hear, huh?”

  Artist’s gaze snapped to her friend’s face, finding her lips drawn in a large smile. “How did you know?”

  “Just because I’m in the hospital doesn’t mean no one talks to me, silly girl. Besides, I’ve warmed many a bed in HR. While the boys may not love me or want to marry me, many of them care for me. I think they feel especially bad about all this,” she lifted her arms, motioning to the room, “so they tell me things. Heard some pretty epic things from Tonka.”

  Her face warmed, knowing a blush was coming, so she remained silent. For some reason, she could talk about any of this with her brothers, but throw a girlfriend into the mix and she was like a high school girl with her first boyfriend.

  “Hmmm,” Teagan sounded. “Judging by that pretty pink in your cheeks, I’d say they were true. Damn, dude, I’m impressed. Still riding that pony after the boys walked in? Sounds like something I would do … only better since it was you. I’m so proud.”

  Artist watched as the girl wiped at her eyes, still grinning. A small smile pulled at her mouth and she couldn’t help but chuckle, remembering the looks on the brothers’ faces when they saw her.

  “Poor guy was caught between being embarrassed and being impressed.”

  “Who, Shakespeare?” Teagan asked, snickering.

  “Tonka. And what was I supposed to do? These men already see me as lesser because I don’t have a dick between my legs. Hiding wasn’t an option. Besides…”

  “Oooh, there’s a ‘besides?’”

  “It felt too damn good to stop.”

  Both girls broke into giggles, cathartic and girlish. They laughed until Teagan clutched at her stomach in pain, the machine behind her head beeping loudly.

  “Oops. We have about two minutes before the wicked bitch of the north nurse comes in. They don’t like it when I get excited.”

  “We’d better keep the boys from coming in here then,” Artist remarked sarcastically, though her words lacked the previous playful quality.

  “Especially Train. He was here earlier … which surprised me. Wasn’t expecting any of the Bishops around these parts. Helluva job on his back, girl!”

  The mention of her brother’s VP reminded her she hadn’t spoken to Titan, nor had she texted him back. One issue at a time. She was also reminded she had come for more than basic girl talk.

  “Train, huh? Interesting,” Artist said, taking a deep breath before speaking again. “Hey, we’re going to have more time to catch up soon, but I have to ask some questions – is that okay? Poet figured you’d want to talk to me about … what happened … before one of the boys...”

  Teagan nodded, her face losing its previous sparkle as reality fell around her. For a moment, Artist hated herself for making the light in her bright friend dim again, but she needed answers. They needed answers. And, the only way to get any of them, to find who was behind all this shit, was to get all the information. Once they got the bastards everything could go back to normal, or, well, as normal as life ever got for any of them.

  “Give me a rundown. A Teagan special, all details. Nothing left out, ‘kay?” Her friend smiled a little at the mention of one of her specials. Teagan was especially good at knowing everything within the club – all the gossip, the low-down secrets no one else knew, so when she told one of her special stories, one usually got way more than they bargained for. This time, way more was exactly what she was hoping for.

  “Well, you were at the party. About two hours or so after you flipped shit on Crisp – I’m going to want to know what that was all about, by the way – some of the Reno boys decided it was time to go. You’d long since disappeared and I had nothing better to do so when Apex invited me along I said yes. So did
Felicity and … Cora.” Teagan swallowed hard before continuing. “We went to a club, you know, no big deal. We drank, we danced, same shit different location.

  “Apex and I were getting pretty hot and heavy – damn that man can kiss! – when suddenly the whole damned place went crazy. It was like the old days, Artist. You know the stories. Cookouts, family parties, whatever, when suddenly bullets are flying all over the place. That’s what happened. I knew what the sound was and I dropped to the ground. Apex dropped beside me for a moment before demanding I get up with him, get safe. I listened; that’s what us sweeties do, you know, we listen. When the Reno pres demanded I move, I moved.

  “I followed him behind one of the pillars, and he took off, rushing to the other boys, his guns out. I saw Felicity crying in one of the corners and refused to be like her. Artist, I may not be like you or Poet, but damn it, I couldn’t be that girl. I couldn’t crawl and hide like I was told. So, for the first time in my entire club life, I ignored orders. I found a gun on the floor and gave cover fire, sure to only shoot where the sounds of the guns were coming from. I don’t know if I hit anyone. I just kept firing until the gun stopped shooting.”

  Teagan stopped for a moment, breathing deeply, and wiping at her face with her hand. She was shaking and it took everything Artist had not to reach out, to touch her, to offer some semblance of comfort she could. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. If she did, she was afraid the girl would stop, and she needed to know everything. When she’d regained some control, Teagan started again.

  “Everyone was yelling, cursing, and I saw Cora on the ground in the middle of the room. She was crying and trying to get up, but she couldn’t, so I sprinted toward her. I could feel my own stomach burning, my side was on fire, but grabbed her under the arms, and using all the strength I had, I pulled her. I dragged her as far as I could, kicking off my shoes to get better leverage, and dragged her even more. I knew I was hurt, but she was more important to me, you know? When I thought we’d be relatively safe, I tried to help her. You know I’m in nursing school. I tried to apply pressure to the bullet wound in her stomach, but she had them everywhere. I just didn’t have enough hands … her thigh, her stomach, her shoulder. I just didn’t have enough hands.”