Artist

by Juli Valenti

  Jason moved forward, trying to slam the door, but Cecili moved faster, her right hand flinging out to stop it as her other pulled the pistol from behind her back. She raised her arm, leveling the gun at him, her hand shaking.

  “I told you to get the. Fuck. Out!” she screamed, cocking the hammer back and re-aiming at him. He merely smirked at her, his striped Henley shirt pristine and mocking her with the Greek letters on the chest.

  “You’re not going to shoot me, little ‘Sissy,” he sneered, using Cori’s nickname for her, and she hated it. She hated he was standing in her best friend’s room, she hated he was standing at all, when her friend was lying helpless on the floor.

  “Watch me.” She lowered the gun, sadistically amused when his eyes glinted in chastisement. Before he could mock her, she fired, the bullet flying true through his kneecap.

  “No! Sissy, no!”

  As Jason fell to the ground, bleeding and swearing, Cecili’s gaze shot to Cori. She was kneeling on the carpet, her eyes wide in shock, her mouth open before a hand covered it. Her expression wasn’t one she’d been expecting. She’d thought her friend would be grateful, her gaze filled with hurt and relief that the man who’d been attacking her couldn’t anymore. Instead, Cori was horrified.

  “Cecili! You shot him! Oh my God, you shot him! You’re just as bad as the gang bangers back home!” her friend exclaimed, every word hurting Cecili more than the last. “Jason! Are you okay, baby? Are you okay? I’m so, so sorry!”

  “I … you were … What the hell, Core? He was beating the hell out of you. You told me you wanted to get away from him after he fucking raped you.”

  “I love him. Not that you’d understand what that means, to actually love someone. You’re like the fucking ice queen everywhere but between your legs,” her friend spat, now at Jason’s side, pressing her shirt on his knee wound. “Jason was right about you. I can’t believe I was friends with you, you … you … crazy bitch.”

  The fire-hot adrenaline that had been coursing through her veins turned cold. It was like a bucket of ice water had been thrown on her, leaving her shaking and weak, crumpling to the floor like Cori had been only moments before. Pain shot through her heart, an ache so tight she could barely breathe. Everything she’d thought she’d known was wrong; not only that, but had been way off the grid. She’d thought she was saving her friend, doing as she wanted, helping her help herself. But she hadn’t. Instead, she’d ostracized herself from the closest thing to a sister she’d ever had.

  But everything in her was screaming this was wrong. She was supposed to be a hero – she’d stopped the bad guy. She’d saved the girl.

  Except … this wasn’t DC Comics, and she wasn’t Wonder Woman. Instead, she was a girl with a gun, staring into the eyes of her ex-best friend while she professed her love to the man who beat her.

  How fucked up.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Come on, baby. Please wake up. Move, do somethin’ to let me know you’re still with us,” a voice whispered in her ear, and her eyes fluttered. She tried to open them, to see whose voice she was hearing, but they were heavy. What the fuck happened? Why did it feel like she’d been on a four-day bender again?

  Her head was throbbing in time with her heart, and something was trickling down her skin. Struggling, she tried again to open her eyes, using what seemed like a ton of strength to get them to slit open just a bit. A blur of black and cream filled her vision, followed by two splotches of green. Artist squinted, forcing her sight to clear, the blurs morphing into an outline, an outline she remembered.

  “Shakespeare?” she croaked, her jaw hurting as she spoke. “Where am I?”

  “At your shop, baby. We’re at your shop,” he murmured, so softly she could barely hear him. Blinking rapidly, his face came into focus, his forehead pinched in worry.

  Had she fallen asleep in the shop? Why was he here?

  Suddenly realization of why she was there, and what had happened came flooding back to her. She’d tattooed Titan. Branka had come in. She shot him; no, not just shot him, she’d killed him.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered, shooting upright and wincing as pain lanced throughout her body. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry, Shakespeare. Please … please…”

  Her words failed her. How could she put into words how she felt? She was scared, yes, of being caught by the police. But, more than that, she was afraid he’d look at her the way Cori had. If he shunned her, she wasn’t quite sure what she was going to do. Sure, her friend had covered just enough to keep her out of jail, telling the cops that Jason had startled her, making her scream, and making Cecili think someone had broken into her house, which was why she shot him. But that didn’t change anything between them; she didn’t say another word toward her, except to say she was leaving, moving out, and to never contact her again.

  “Shhhh. It’s all good, darlin.’ Boys here are takin’ care of all this, don’t you worry. We need to get you to the hospital though,” he told her, his arm snaking behind her to help steady her.

  “No. No hospital, I’m fine.” When he arched an eyebrow at her, she amended, “I’m not shot or anything. Just a little bruised.”

  “You’re more than a ‘little’ bruised, Artist. You look like you got fuckin’ jumped by twenty men with bats.”

  “No hospital, ‘Speare. I mean it.”

  Her VP sighed and ran his free hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. His eyes surveyed the scene around him, but when she tried, he shook his head, holding her chin gently, forcing her to keep looking at him.

  “No, baby. Tell me what happened.”

  “Um,” she started but stopped, swallowing hard. “I just finished inking Titan’s raven. I heard the door – I thought he’d forgotten something. But it wasn’t my brother. It was Officer Branka … the prick we met a few weeks ago. He told me I owed him an apology, to get on my knees. I tried not to. I kept thinking how I was going to get my gun … I know you told me to keep it on at all times, but I can’t work in it. It was under the table, in its holster. I’m so sorry, Shakespeare! I should have listened to you.”

  “It’s okay, really … keep goin,’ darlin.’ I need to know all of it,” he said gently, reaching beside him for gauze and alcohol. She watched as he soaked one of the pads before running it down the side of her neck. It shouldn’t have surprised her it came away dark with blood, but it did anyway.

  “So I tried to get to my gun but I couldn’t think of anything other than to keep him talking. He, um, pulled his piece and I was out of options so I did what he said. I got on my knees in front of him and apologized. I was afraid he might try something … well, anyway, he didn’t. Instead he told me that the devil rides in hell again.

  “He put the gun to my head and I hit him in the kneecap, hoping he’d go down. He didn’t but his shot went wide, missing me and hitting the wall. It bought me enough time to try to get away, to crawl over to get my Beretta. Then he was on top of me, his weight pushing me down on the floor, that fucking gun of his right there. I was flailing and managed to knock it away … He said something along the lines of one dead sweetie meaning nothing, but the old lady of a VP … I should’ve told him I’m not your old lady. I mean, yeah, we’re together and all … it wouldn’t have mattered though, I don’t think. After that he started beating me. Everywhere. Fuck it hurts,” she groaned as he ran another square of gauze down her cheek.

  “I could feel the world going dark and I hit him with the pedal to my tattoo machine. It got him off me enough to get my gun, and I shot him, but the fucker was wearing a vest … it did no good. He got his gun, aimed it, and I shot him. I meant to get his head … but I missed. I’m so sorry I missed.”

  Shakespeare said nothing as he continued cleaning wounds Artist didn’t know she had. There were dozens of pieces of gauze next to him, all covered in her blood, and probably Branka’s. Her head was throbbing and her eyes were tearing; no matter how she fought them, she couldn’t keep the tears from tracing down her c
heeks. Unsure what else to do, she finished telling him what happened.

  “I didn’t know what else to do so I called you…”

  “You did what you were supposed to, Artist. When a brother is in trouble, they call another to come help. Of course, you scared the holy fuck out of me. I’m still not likin’ what’s goin’ on here, to be honest with you. Your ear won’t stop fuckin’ bleeding, your face is different colors of purple, your chin is swollen - I think you may have a fracture there - and I haven’t even seen the rest of you.”

  Tears coursed her face, burning as they made contact with her broken skin. Judging by the sounds around her, several others were in her shop, though the main overhead lights of the building were off. Only the smaller work lights were on, from her table and the workstation across from hers. She desperately didn’t want the other men to see her cry. Hell, she didn’t want Shakespeare to see her cry.

  “Please help me,” she whispered, leaning her head closer to him. “Help me up. Help me get into the other room … please, Shakespeare. They can’t see me cry. They just can’t.”

  It was havoc on her pride – the fact she was so weak she couldn’t get off the floor without help. Honestly, she was surprised he hadn’t already moved her, at least placing her on one of the tables or chairs or something. But, she knew her VP, and she knew he’d want to make sure she was okay before moving her lest he make things worse. Shakespeare was always straight as an arrow, diligent, and level headed in a crisis.

  He did as she asked, wrapping one of his arms gingerly underneath her, using his weight to counteract her own. Her feet were touching the ground, though it was him she was leaning on. As soon as she was completely upright, the extent of Branka’s damage to her body was apparent. Artist’s ribs hurt, the panting breaths she was taking to counteract the pain excruciating. And, with every step he took, leading them farther away from the blood-soaked floor, her head swam, her vision blurring and blacking at the edges.

  “Tonka,” he called behind him, not turning to look at the man he was calling for. The brother must’ve answered, though, because he continued. “Bring one of the leather tables … She’s gonna fight me tooth and nail, but she needs to lay the fuck down.”

  The shuffle to the break room was slow going, painful, and, while she hated admitting how weak she was, she was eternally grateful when Tonka followed them in and placed the table in the middle. The brother put his arm on her shoulder, in either camaraderie or sympathy, she wasn’t sure, but she hid her wince at his touch. When he was gone, she stared at the leather makeshift bed, debating how she was going to actually climb on it. It was high, and seeing as how she could barely pick her foot up at the moment, it was going to be a feat.

  Shakespeare didn’t let her think on it too long; he slowly disentangled himself from her, before quickly moving in behind her, scooping her up as gently as he could and placing her on the table. He murmured something about being right back and disappeared from the room, only to emerge a heartbeat later, the jar of gauze, rubbing alcohol, and a bottle of water in his hands. The water he offered to her, to which she nodded, and he helped her drink.

  “I’m so sorry,” she murmured, mortified, ashamed of herself. She should be stronger, more like Poet. If it had been her President, she’d be upright and helping clean up the mess in the other room, not hiding out and needing a man to nurse her wounds.

  “Stop saying you’re sorry, darlin.’”

  “But … I’m so fucking weak. Here you are having to fucking baby my ass because I can’t do it my damned self. And … and I killed a man. I did it without thinking, without caring about the consequences. I took a fucking life so I wouldn’t die … and for what? You must be disgusted, being with someone as weak as me.”

  Shakespeare slammed the bottle of rubbing alcohol on the wooden dining table, the sound startling Artist. “You need to stop. For fuck’s sake, Artist. You survived a crazy fuckin’ asshole whose whole purpose coming into this shop, comin’ here tonight, was to fuckin’ kill you. You were supposed to be lifeless on the goddamned floor. He fuckin’ beat you; you don’t even know how bad you look right now. I got here first and I thought you were fuckin’ dead. You survived. You killed the asshole, which was a damned gift to him, because if he’d lived, he’d be wishin’ he was dead after I was done. Now, quit fuckin’ apologizin’ before I get pissed.”

  She knew she should keep her mouth shut, but she couldn’t. The memory of Cori’s face was forefront in her mind, and she needed to know, she had to know, that he wasn’t disgusted with her. “You’re not … I don’t know. Disgusted that I shot to kill? I mean … I did kill someone.”

  “Artist…” he sighed, turning to face her, his expression serious. “Do you have any idea how many deaths I’m responsible for? Even the slightest inklin?’”

  She shook her head. Everyone knew the stories. Shakespeare was known as the Bard for a reason; it was said that when he worked, it was straight poetry. And, he never failed, each and every time cementing his role in their world. From what she knew, his number was higher than many of the others, with maybe the exception of Fallen and her brother Titan.

  “I’ve ended more than I can count. So many that their faces all blend together, the days and years fallin’ away into a black hole of nothin.’ Hell, your first life is noble – your life for his. I can’t say that about myself. Can’t figure out why you’re so damned hung up on killin’ the bastard … and more so thinkin’ I care ‘bout anything other than your safety.” His words were matter of fact, void of any emotion, though she expected nothing less of the man. He wasn’t one who got hung up on the choices he made. It was hers she worried about.

  Shakespeare approached her, leaning down and kissing her softly on the lips before straightening, another alcohol-soaked gauze in his hands. Artist kept quiet as he worked, trying to clean the cuts on her face, the stinging making the throbbing worse. It was ironic to her she didn’t even know the wounds were there until he wiped at them and the alcohol cleaned the areas.

  Trying to keep her mind off what he was doing, she let her mind wander, cringing when the replay of Cori’s words flitted through her head. Sighing, she spoke. “Do you remember me talking about Cori? And about shooting someone?”

  He made a sound of acknowledgment and she took a deep breath, wanting to tell him what happened and why she was acting the way she was. No way did she want him to think she couldn’t handle club business, because she could, which she’d clearly displayed with Branka. The problem she was facing at the moment was reactive … a mixture of him, Cori, Jason, and the dealing with it all.

  “Well … Cori was my best friend in college. She was dating a guy, someone I wasn’t a fan of to begin with, but that’s beside the point. Ow.” She flinched as a new gauze scraped near her chin. “He got verbally and emotionally abusive pretty quick, but she was infatuated with him. After we graduated, we moved in together, and I found out he’d gotten physical. Little things to start, but escalating each time. One night, he raped her, leaving her for me to find sobbing and bloody … It wasn’t pretty.

  “Anyway, we got a restraining order and things got quiet … then one night I woke up to her screaming. I ran into her room and she was on the floor, not moving, him standing over her with his fist raised to hit her again. One thing lead to another and I shot him in the kneecap.”

  “So you saved your friend. Good shootin,’ too, choosin’ his knee. Bastard’s gonna have a hard time walkin’ the rest of his life. Doubt he’ll hit another woman. Bet your friend was relieved.”

  Artist shook her head, wincing and taking a couple deep breaths to keep from throwing up. Clearly moving was going to be difficult for her for a little bit. Damn it.

  “See, that’s the problem. I thought the same thing. I thought she’d be grateful, that I kept the bastard from hurting her more. But, instead, she was fucking horrified. She became a fountain of hateful spewage, telling me I was an ice queen who didn’t understand love. She told me how she
loved him… I still don’t get it.”

  Shakespeare stopped his cleaning to stare down at her for a moment, his face as confused as she still felt over the whole situation. “That’s some serious fucked up, darlin.’ She shoulda been thankin’ you for savin’ her fuckin’ life. Everyone knows beaters don’t get better, they get worse. Once they lay a hand on ya, it’s all over at that point.”

  “I know. She, as she put it, granted me the kindness of covering up what happened to the cops so I wouldn’t go to jail, telling them I thought he was an intruder and that her surprise was really out of terror rather than him beating her … but it was a small thing. She never talked to me again. Within two days she’d moved out, all her shit gone, with me left to pick up what was left of my morals and the pieces of myself. Even when the cops had come about her rape, they’d really done shit and it pissed me off. I couldn’t live in that world anymore … a world where shit didn’t make sense, and my gut feeling was worth less than nothing.”

  “So you begged Titan to let you prospect for the Bishops.”

  Though it wasn’t a question, Artist answered anyway. “Yep. I’d gotten the gun I shot Jason with after the restraining order, and spent a lot of time at the gun range learning to shoot it. And after hell broke loose, the decision made sense to me … but Titan always saw me as nothing more than his baby sister. Hell, he doesn’t even get my age right nine times out of ten, mis-telling everyone how old I am, and how old I was when he left. It’s sort of pathetic the more I think about it. Anyway,” she took a deep breath, needing to continue talking, desperate to ignore the burn of the alcohol path Shakespeare was leaving in her skin, “he kept refusing. When he got shot, and I went to Poet, I thought she’d say no. I’d heard rumors she was President of one of the motorcycle clubs and it was like … divine providence or some shit, except on bikes with leather instead of halos and loads of white.”