Artist

by Juli Valenti

  This time Artist couldn’t help herself; she reached out and grabbed her hand, squeezing enough to let her know she was there, offering what she could. She couldn’t take the memories away, and she didn’t want to. She just wanted them to hurt a little less.

  “It was obvious she was going to die, ‘Ili. It was obvious but still I tried. Then the gunshots stopped, though the men were still yelling. I couldn’t pick out a lot of what was said, my own pain making my eyes water and my hearing fuzzy, but I made out one line: ‘Los paseos del diablo en el infierno.’”

  “The devil rides in hell.”

  The girl nodded. “We had somehow found ourselves in DH territory. It was them. We all know it.”

  “We do know it. The problem is finding which ones did it. Who ordered the fucking hit and which pricks were behind it.”

  “Can’t y’all just take them all out?”

  The mix of innocence and venom in her friend’s words shook her. And she’d verbalized what they’d all been thinking. Unfortunately, while they all hated DH, it wasn’t a plausible outcome. Annihilating an entire motorcycle club, no matter who was the doer, couldn’t go unnoticed. And, while Hells Redemption had a lot of shields in their pockets, it was bigger than them. Police, DEA, FBI, everyone would jump on the chance of take down. Which was exactly what would happen; if HR took out the Diablos, they’d be next … only in the form of the fucking cops.

  “You know we can’t, Teag. As much as we all wish we could, we can’t. The heat of that fire would destroy everything in its path, regardless of who was involved directly. You, me, ‘Speare … probably even Titan and Train. The Bishops would be screwed by association. We can’t have that.”

  Teagan sighed. “I know. Just find the bastards, Cecili. Find them for me. Find them for Cora.”

  “I’m going to do my damnedest.”

  A familiar-looking brunette nurse popped her head in the door and Teagan’s face brightened a bit. “Sarah! You’re saving me from the wicked bitch? God, who spit in that woman’s vagina? She’s as bitter as a dude with no dick.”

  Sarah ducked her head, probably to hide the smile on her face. “Fallen told me that Beatrice was giving all of you a hard time so I asked to be transferred over to Greenspan temporarily,” the girl told them as she pressed a couple buttons on the monitor. “I’m assuming you were talking about what happened, which is why the BP monitor went crazy?”

  Artist nodded. “Sorry. Needed to get information. We’re done now, though. This hooker won’t get too excited now … That is until Train comes back to check on her.”

  The nurse looked horrified at the ribbing name but Teagan blushed, shocking Artist. It was a day of firsts, for sure – she’d never seen her friend anything but bubbly and happy. In the span of an hour she’d seen her hurting, sad, and now even embarrassed. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think her Redemption sweetie had a thing for the Bishop.

  Chapter Nine

  After Artist had left Teagan’s room, she nodded to Cain and Vinci, before making her way down the hallway. She was supposed to meet Shakespeare in a half hour; he was doing some of his own investigating, and with the drive, she was still going to be late. Greenspan County Hospital was farther away than St. Agnes, though better equipped in dealing with critical patients. Easy injuries went to Agnes – basic bullet wounds, stitches, etcetera. Multiple gun shots, crashing patients, and the like were taken to Greenspan.

  Deciding to text Shakespeare to let him know she would be a few minutes late, she hesitated when she caught Train walking toward her, the echoing of his boots almost rhythmic in the corridor. His face was drawn in concentration, a bouquet of wildflowers in his hands that seemed completely out of place amongst his leather and black clothes. When his gaze met hers, his steps faltered, his eyes dropping from the flowers to the floor, then back to her.

  “How’s the back?” she asked first, trying to keep her grin suppressed. It was no easy feat, though, when he merely nodded and mumbled that it was healing fine. Unable to help herself, she smiled and asked what she’d wanted to in the first place. “Those for Teagan?”

  She arched an eyebrow when he met her eyes again, and he sighed, obviously seeing no way out of answering the question. “Yes, they’re for your girl.”

  “What’s your angle here, Train? I mean … A Bishop visiting a Redemption sweetie? Why?”

  “Well … Poet mentioned to Titan that y’all had a couple girls in and we volunteered to take turns watching them. It’s fucking wrong to clip the sweeties. They don’t have a hand in any business shit.”

  “So … the flowers?”

  The larger man sighed again. “I … like her.”

  Artist couldn’t help herself; she laughed, her voice bouncing off the walls around them. The man was so uncomfortable with her interrogation it made him seem a good ten years younger, and not at all like the badass biker he was. It seemed that he, too, was acting like a high school girl with a crush. It was … weird. And hilarious, all at the same time.

  “Look, man, it’s cool to a point. I’m not sure what hoops you may have to jump - after all, she’s a sweetie, though she never should have been. But, I’d be wrong not to point out that she’s my best fucking friend. Those flowers can help her in ways she deserves, but you hurt her and I’ll kill you – war or no war between the Bishops. And if you’re just looking to screw, lose the buds. It sends a bad signal to girls.”

  Train’s handsome face hardened before he spoke. “I don’t want to fucking hit the sack with a sweetie. I want to fucking talk with a fiery redhead that gives as good as she gets in a conversation. Do you know how long it’s been that I’ve had a woman call me on my bullshit? A long-ass time. And I like it. Teagan is good and I just want to talk to her. So you can save your threats, Artist.”

  She held her hands up, chuckling. “Good. Go talk to my girl, cheer her up. She needs it. And get your ass back in my chair in two weeks. In the meantime, don’t fuck that piece up.”

  With that, she walked away, still laughing to herself. She made her way out to the parking area and to her bike, finding a tall shadow leaning against it. Her hackles immediately stood on edge, her hand reaching under her cut for her Beretta, when the shadow moved, revealing Shakespeare.

  “Jesus, ‘Speare. Trying to give me a heart attack. And what are you doing here? We were supposed to meet in a half hour. Are you stalking me now?”

  She watched as her VP stood and took the few steps to close the space between them. Unspeaking he reached out, grasping her chin and pressing his lips to hers. Artist sighed and leaned into him, returning the kiss for a moment before stepping back.

  “Forgot Greenspan was so far out of the way. Figured you might have a hard time after talking to your girl so came to meet you instead. Besides, got a lead I want to check out not too far from this place. Cyrus is waitin’ on the street for us.”

  Lifting her arm, she caught his neck and pulled him down for another kiss before releasing him. “Thank you,” she said softly, then backed away and climbed onto her bike. Shakespeare followed suit, swinging a long leg over the seat of his bike and starting it, the collective roar of their motorcycles overpowering the hospital parking garage.

  Artist followed as he led the way back to the street and Cyrus merged with them on the street. This was unfamiliar riding status for her; she wasn’t quite sure where to position herself and a part of her wished she’d asked Shakespeare before they’d taken off. As Cyrus was her superior, she let off the gas so he could take the right hand spot beside Shakespeare, and brought up the rear. She could tell from the glance her VP gave her from his position in the front that he wasn’t happy about it, but she shrugged. Rules were rules, and she refused for the brothers to make concessions for her merely based on who she was screwing. Even if they were married, the officers took point. It would drive Shakespeare insane, but it was what it was.

  They rode, turning down streets and riding some more. It wasn’t long before Artist was completely
lost, and grateful she wasn’t being expected to lead them. She was also happy that Shakespeare hadn’t made her ride all the way back to town just to come this far out again. After what seemed like forever, the men in front of her slowed to a stop and she did the same, breaking and popping her kickstand out before climbing off her bike. Just as she was about to ask what they were doing, a man stepped out from the building beside them.

  “About time, Shakespeare,” the man sneered, but her VP said nothing, as Cyrus nodded in greeting. The man turned and took Artist in, his eyes moving from her feet to her head, the look in his gaze hungry and making her feel slimy. “Who is this beauty in leather? Certainly the only woman who wears leather around HR is Poet, unless you’re outfitting the ass these days.”

  “Watch your words, Branka,” Shakespeare growled, stepping forward yet not in front of her, which pleased her.

  “I’m Artist.”

  “I didn’t ask your profession, sexy. I asked who you were.”

  “That is her name, asshole. Meet Artist, member of Hells Redemption.” Cyrus was grinding his teeth, obviously not a fan of the man before them, which made her think. His name had sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place him. She certainly hadn’t met him before.

  “Cut the shit, Officer Branka. You said you had information.”

  “Ah, that I do,” the cop said, finally peeling his gaze off her to meet Shakespeare. “But, I’m not sure I’m going to give it to you, VP. You see … since that little stunt your president took me on, you remember, don’t you? The one where your men killed other men in cold blood? Ringing any bells? Yeah, that one. You see, I was just minding my business later, and, to my surprise, was approached with a better deal. And, what, with Poet off the table with that Bishop douche, what other incentive was there for me to stay loyal to Hells Redemption when other clubs pay just as well, if not better.”

  “Poet was never goin’ to sleep with you,” Shakespeare said, no inflection in his tone. He sounded bored, but Artist could see he was pissed.

  “A man could hope. But since she followed her pussy to dirty dick … now, I could be persuaded to change my mind for a chance with this one,” the man added, turning back to Artist and moving toward her. This time Shakespeare did try to step in front of her, but she put a hand on his arm, stopping him.

  “You listen, and listen well. I don’t know who the fuck you are, and I don’t really care. I’m not free ass for the taking and certainly not for someone like you. And if you really thought ass for information was a legit way to trade, you know shit about our club. I’m honestly surprised Poet has let you live this long,” she told him before turning to her men. “Has he always thought his dick was golden?”

  Cyrus chuckled. “He never had the balls to say shit like this to Poet. He knew she’d fucking cut it off and feed it to him.”

  “That’s what I thought,” she said, nodding and turning to face the cop. “Know the same goes for me, Officer. You so much as touch me and you’ll be eating cock for the next couple days, all while mourning the fact that it wasn’t enough for breakfast.”

  Branka paled before his face turned red, then purple, his teeth gritted. She’d struck a chord, but she didn’t care. And she could tell the minute he spoke that any information he had wasn’t going to be given to them.

  “Bitch, you’ll regret that,” he spat at her, to which she smiled sweetly back. He turned to Shakespeare. “You listen, and take this message back to your whore of a president. If any of you so much as breathe in the direction of the Diablos Hermanos, I’ll bring the wrath of the county on your ass. I don’t even care if it isn’t your club, or your order. If any bullets fly in their direction, my superiors will know Hells Redemption was behind it. Every single one of you will go to fucking jail, got it?”

  “Are you threatenin’ me, Branka?” Shakespeare asked, advancing on the smaller man as he grasped the Colt .45 under his arm. “I think you forget an important piece of that puzzle. We go down, I got enough on you to bring you with us – for much longer than all of us put together. I seriously advise you to rethink your pride and back the fuck down before you end up in the ground, along with your new bankroll.”

  The man sputtered in answer before turning and disappearing, clearly unhappy but with nothing better to say. What a pussy, Artist thought, half expecting a puddle of piss to trail him. How men like him became cops, especially dirty cops, was beyond her. He was far better suited for a desk job; he didn’t have the heart, the heat, or the balls to actually do anything. Then again, with someone the size of Shakespeare, along with his reputation, even the strongest of men would probably think twice.

  “Good call bringing Artist, Shakespeare,” Cyrus murmured. “How’d you know he’d turned?”

  “Fucker has less brains than a goldfish. His meet place is all but a mile away from the DH compound.”

  Artist turned as Cyrus did, looking around and taking in their surroundings. Most of the DH dealings were done back toward Greenspan, their flop house, for a lack of a better term – the place HR hit last spring when they’d shot Fallen. But their main compound was, as she was noticing now, just down the street.

  “What a fucking dumbass,” she said aloud, amazed that anyone would be that stupid. It was bad business to do any form of club dealings like this within reach of the compound. If someone ended up being undercover, or serious about revenge, having innocents and home too close was just asking for trouble. Even she, someone new in the club world, knew that.

  “We didn’t get the lead he has,” Cyrus mentioned as they mounted their bikes once more.

  “Nah, but he confirmed our suspicions. DH was behind the hit.”

  “I could’ve told you that,” Artist huffed. “‘Los paseos del diablo en el infierno.’”

  Both men’s heads snapped in her direction. “Where’d you hear that, darlin?’” Shakespeare asked.

  “Teagan. It was one of the only clear things she heard after the shooting before she passed out. ‘The devil rides in hell,’ right? Clearly a DH indication … Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Yeah, that’s a DH saying, for sure. But only their officers would recite it. It’s their code for declaring war. Fuck. Fuck,” Cyrus swore, starting his bike. “We’ve gotta tell Poet. Shit’s legit going down. And if they’re declaring war, real war, we’ve gotta get ready.”

  “We’ve been at war a long time. ‘Least now there won’t be any black and white with it.”

  “Shit,” Poet said, pacing the length of the chapel room. Artist had just relayed Teagan’s account of what had happened, along with the incident with Branka. “Speare, we’re going to have to shut that shit down. If they think they can win a war between us, they’re sadly mistaken and they know it.”

  “What are the chances it was just a punk ass spewing words to put us on edge?” Artist asked, having been chewing the thought over in her head the entire ride back to the compound.

  “I’ll put some feelers out, look into it. It wouldn’t actually be that bad of a thought process for them – throw out their code for war, hoping one of our boys would hear it,” Fallen remarked, nodding in her direction. “Good catch, newbie. Nice to know you’re more than just a pretty face.”

  Artist smiled when he winked, swallowing her ire at being thought of as a pretty face. She knew he was kidding, which spared him the elbow to the nuts she wanted to give him.

  “Either way, we prepare. Artist could be right. It could just be bullshit. And I still want to know the shooters, because they’re in the ground already, they just don’t know it yet. War or no war, they’re dead before any other guns are fired, agreed?”

  The men agreed. Personal attacks above all were revenged. Inaction proved nothing but cowardice in their eyes, and they’d all be damned if they let another club think they could take out some of theirs, sweeties or otherwise, without recourse.

  “Where does Reno stand?” It was Tonka who’d voiced the question, but it was a good one, one Art
ist was interested in hearing the answer to as well.

  “Apex, Sorrow, and Monday are still here. They’re going to see this to wherever it ends. Apex will also call for backup should we need it. Crisp was sent back to Reno. Apparently his Pres wasn’t impressed with his attitude.”

  Artist tried to feel bad that the douche had gotten himself the boot, but she couldn’t. And he must’ve done more than just proposition her to get his ass kicked back to Nevada.

  “Artist, any idea when Teagan and Felicity might be released?” Poet asked her and she shook her head, turning her gaze to Fallen.

  “Sarah got transferred to Greenspan – your doing, I’m assuming, which I appreciate on her behalf – so she might know. Why, Pres?”

  “We’re going to be tight on men for the time being with two on constant watch for them.”

  “Well, from what I saw at the hospital today, could probably ask the Bishops to help on that front? Seems Train is sweet on my girl. And while I’d feel better to have one of our own with her at all times, I believed him when he said he liked her,” Artist told them.

  Poet nodded. “Good. I’ll check with Titan. We already know the Bishops won’t side with the Diablos. If they have the manpower to spare, they’ll probably help. Nice call. If that’s all for now, we’ve all got work to do.”

  The men filed out of the chapel, and Artist made her way to her own room. She was due at the shop in a little over an hour and she wanted to change, get the smell of hospital and dirt off her. If she’d had a bit more time she would’ve loved to shower, but she hated keeping her clients waiting. After all, they were her bread and butter, and while she wasn’t hurting for money, she hadn’t gotten that way by slacking at work.