by Juli Valenti
“I’m glad she said yes,” he said softly, running a finger across her lips before leaning down and kissing her again.
“Hey, VP. All good out here. No one would ever know. Used that epic bleach alternative you keep on hand, Artist, so no one would ever think anything happened,” Tonka said, startling her.
“Thanks, brother,” she said, truly grateful she’d had people to come help her. If she’d been left to clean up the entire mess by herself, she’d already be in jail, not free to go home.
“Hells Redemption protects its own … especially from dirty fuckers who should’ve been taken care of long ago. Good shooting, Artist. Good shooting.” Glancing at him, she could tell from his expression he meant it. He was truly complimenting her on the shot that had ended the cop’s life. What a difference, she thought. “On another note, Poet brought the Yukon – said, if it was okay, she’d ride Artist’s bike back to the clubhouse, and you could drive our hurting sister home.”
“What about his bike?” Artist asked, smiling that he’d called her sister rather than brother. It was common around HR for them to automatically calling her bro or brother, same as they did Poet. She preferred it, but the term, in her weakened state, had her feeling all warm inside. Or that could be the pain making her woozy. She wasn’t sure.
“Titan’s gonna ride it.” This was spoken by Shakespeare, and shocked the shit out of her. For one, it was hard to believe her brother was there and wasn’t in the room flipping shit and yelling at her. The second was that her VP was actually okay with the Bishop driving his bike. A man’s bike was like a man’s woman – no one ever rode it but its owner. Artist didn’t mind Poet driving her bike; she preferred it make it back in one piece rather than staying out in front of the shop all night. But Shakespeare allowing Titan to take his?
“He’s here?”
Her VP nodded. “Yeah. I called Poet right after you called. He was with her. Could hear him barkin’ orders and shit, but our Pres wouldn’t take that from no one, let alone him. She told him we had it covered, it was Redemption business, and if he was gonna come along he could, but to stay the hell away from you until we got the okay. After he commandeered when Poet was hurt, she wasn’t gonna let him do the same to you, especially since you’re his sister and it would be ten times worse than it was with her.”
“Damn I owe that woman a cake … or a painting … or a tattoo,” she murmured softly, wanting to hug her President for playing middle man between her big brother. It would be just like him to barge in and yell, demand what happened, and then probably lock her in a dungeon after she’d stayed in the hospital or something. Especially with him not okay with her being a ‘biker’ anyway.
“Let’s get you home, baby,” Shakespeare said, leaning down and lifting her back into his arms, carrying her as if she weighed nothing.
“I think I like it when you call me that,” she told him. The world was beginning to topple with his movement and she rested her head on his chest, closing her eyes and listening to the blending of their heartbeats.
“I like hearin’ it from you, too … though under less fuckin’ terrifyin’ circumstances next time.”
Chapter Thirteen
The ride back to the clubhouse was torture. In reality, Artist knew the trip was only ten or fifteen minutes, but for the amount of pain she was in, it could have been ten or fifteen days, years, even. Every bump had her cringing, praying she wouldn’t get sick in the Yukon.
Shakespeare had gently laid her in the backseat, thinking it would be easier for her than laying down, and, while she was grateful, she was seriously doubting his decision. At least upright the world wouldn’t spin at each turn, and the sound of the tires rotating wouldn’t be screaming through the seats and into her ears. He no longer spoke, either. At first he’d tried to talk to her, get her to talk to him, keeping her mentally there with him. But after she begged him to stop talking, to stop making it worse, and to please, for the love of all that was holy, to go slower, he quieted. That didn’t stop him from glancing back every so often, not paying attention to the road, which forced him to slam on the breaks; a slew of curses were on constant repeat, and, judging by the hoarseness of her voice, they weren’t soft murmurs either.
After an eternity, the SUV pulled to a stop, and she heard the sound of the gate opening, before he inched forward once again. Long after the engine was off and Shakespeare had opened her door, preparing himself to get her out without causing too much pain, she remained unmoving. The thought of so much as lifting her hand was too much work.
“Can’t you just leave me here? Nice night to sleep on some leather,” she whispered, clinging to a vain hope he’d actually say yes. She wasn’t surprised when he merely smirked at her somberly, his arms stretching to slip underneath her. “Wait! Just … just help me get upright. No way are you carrying my ass into that place … Our brothers are in there.”
“Artist, don’t be stupid, darlin.’ You almost blew chunks at every fuckin’ pothole.”
“Because you were going about a hundred miles an hour over those ruts in the road. Jesus. This is a small town. There are children. Isn’t the speed limit, like, twenty throughout the entire freaking place?”
“Baby, I was only goin’ thirty … and the speed limit is forty-five.” The way the pet name rolled off his tongue melted her, causing her to forget her train of thought and the majority of her arguments over him carrying her. But, as he reached forward to lift her again, she remembered her key excuse.
“No. I don’t give a damn if I vomit spectacularly all over the entire clubhouse lawn, and subsequently have to clean it all up later. I’m walking. Either you can help me, or you can get the hell out of the car and let me sleep here.”
Closing her eyes, she steeled herself for more arguing. One thing she’d learned about her VP was he was stubborn as hell, and when he made a decision about something, he kept to it. Very rarely did the man ever change his mind, or change his course. He was as unmoving as the strongest oak tree.
When he didn’t say anything, she blinked her eyes open, peering up at him and seeing the struggle of his emotions flitting across his face. For the first time since she’d woken up to him on the floor, hurting and being doctored with gauze and alcohol, she could tell how much the entire situation had affected him. He was downright torn – between doing what he felt was right and respecting her enough to do as she was telling him. On top of that, worry pinched his brows, the lines around his eyes showing more than they usually did. Most days he looked much younger than the late thirty he was, but, in the dimness of the Yukon’s cabin, he looked much older. Artist desperately wanted to run her finger down the bridge of his nose, to lean forward and kiss away the expression marring his perfect-to-her features.
Sure, the man was always good looking; any woman with two eyes and half a brain could see that. But, if someone got close and truly examined him, they’d see that his nose was slightly crooked – having been broken too many times – and he had a scar at the corner of his mouth, though she wasn’t sure what caused it. Some would think they took away from his looks, but she thought they enhanced him. They told a story all of their own, and she loved them. She loved him.
Shit. She had not just thought that. She couldn’t possibly love him. Of course he’d been the one she wanted to find her, to hold her, to make everything better, but that didn’t mean anything. Children called for their moms because they knew that they’d protect them fiercely, taking care of them before themselves. But children love their mothers, her mind helpfully chimed in.
But … they’d only been dating for a couple weeks. And, yeah, they shared a bed, and a room, and space. And he was the first person she thought of when she woke up – though that could be because he was right beside her when she did. You also spent every day together for the six months prior to sleeping with him. He pushed you, tested you to your limits, forcing you to be stronger than you thought you were. He believed in you, empowered you, taught you to believe in you
rself.
I fucking hate you, she told her brain, trying to dispel the thoughts entirely. It must be the haze of the pain talking, her vulnerability taking shape in the form of emotions running wild. Crazy, rampant, errant, stupid emotions running the marathon of the century, apparently, since they weren’t stopping.
“Darlin?’ Artist? Are you still with me? Are you okay?” Shakespeare was speaking and she mentally shook herself, forcing the mental argument into a box and locking it with an invisible key to deal with later.
“Yeah. Dandy. What did you decide? Are you helping me up, or am I spending this fine night under the New Mexico stars?”
“Stubborn woman. I’ll help you up,” he sighed, surprising her. Apparently even the largest of oaks can have flexible roots. He reached out for her once more and pulled her into a sitting position. The quick movement, though the man had gone slow and tried to be gentle, made her head spin; she would’ve been upset about that, but it posed as a great distraction. As she got her bearings, Shakespeare climbed out of the car and waited. When she was ready, she inclined her head, and he helped her shift her weight up and onto her feet, keeping a hand on her to keep her steady as he guided her forward enough to shut the car door.
“You know, this would’a been so much easier if you’d just let me carry you,” he murmured as she hesitated a moment, blowing a breath through her teeth. She couldn’t say anything, for fear of losing her gumption to walk, so she just nodded. He was right, it would have been easier, but easy wasn’t the name of the game.
As a woman in an all-men’s club, it wasn’t acceptable to be less than strong. Poet knew it, just as Artist did. The minute weakness reared its ugly head, it was all the brothers would see - it would become ingrained in their heads. Forever they’d see the desperate, helpless woman rather than their equal. When they were injured, they grinned and bared it. Unless, of course, they couldn’t move, in which case they were carted off to the hospital, to a place of safety where they could manage the point of gritting their teeth and getting over it.
She and Poet were no different. They had to do the same, if not more, to prove they weren’t less than the men. It was bad enough dealing with things they couldn’t change – they’d never have the strength some of the men had. Tonka could probably lift a fucking tree if he wanted to, and no matter how much they trained and bulked up, they would never have that ability. Well, unless they went crazy and became female body builders, but that took time … time they needed to spend on club business, or working so they could continue doing said business. This, walking into the clubhouse on, mostly, her own two feet, was important.
So, they walked slowly, stopping when she needed to breathe. If it wouldn’t have hurt so badly there were times she wished she could double over, to put her head in between her knees … but doing that would be worse than staying upright.
Shakespeare was patient, never demanding she change her mind and let him carry her. He did, however, mumble several curses along the lines of her being stubborn as a “goddamned mule” and “a pain in the ass.” She didn’t mind his words, rather she enjoyed them. Instead of making her falter, they made her stronger, though if that was his ultimate design, she wasn’t sure. More likely than not he was genuinely annoyed by her stubbornness. He should’ve been used to it, having been around Poet as long as he had.
“Fuck, she looks like shit. What the hell’d that asshole do? Take a fucking crowbar to her? Why is she even upright?” The voice was familiar, but Artist couldn’t place it. With her head down, her entire focus on her feet and the hardwood below her, she couldn’t see who belonged to the feet in front of her, either, but she wasn’t going to chance it.
“Beat the fuckin’ piss out of her. He’s damned lucky she took him out; I would’ve made him wish he’d never come out of his mother’s pussy,” Shakespeare growled, anger lilting from his words as he adjusted his grip on her waist, careful not to hurt her. “And she’s fuckin’ upright because she’s got this stupid fuckin’ wish to prove she can hang with the big fuckin’ boys. Stupid, stubborn woman.”
“Does she even realize how bad she looks? At least half our men would be on their way to the hospital by now. Why isn’t she?”
“Because, like I said, she’s fuckin’ stubborn as piss. Refused any mention of goin’ to St. Agnes, which is where her ass belongs.”
“I’m right here,” she whispered, wishing the men would either continue their conversation while walking, or shut the fuck up. “Stop talking and keep fucking walking, boys. If you can’t tell, I was in a small skirmish and it fucking hurts, ‘kay?”
The brother in front of them chuckled, the sound finally registering: Cyrus. He must’ve been left at the clubhouse to hold down the fort, while the rest had sprinted to The Wicked Wing for cleanup duty.
“Tough as fucking nails, I love it. Get your ass horizontal, Artist. You’ll regret it if you don’t. And sorry for talking about you like you weren’t in the room – someone looking as bad as you shouldn’t even be conscious … or in this room. But not my business. I’ll have Reagan bring up some soup if you’re hungry.”
Her head must’ve been bobbing in agreement because the Secretary made a noise of acknowledgment before lightly resting his hand on her shoulder. “Respect and redemption,” he whispered, before his boots disappeared from her view, the loud footfalls magnifying the beat of her heart. The term was one of ultimate honor within Hells Redemption, something usually spoken at the bedside of a fallen member, or, worse, at the funeral of one who’d died during business. To hear it from one of the officers of the club, said about herself, was humbling. Tears tried to form in her eyes once again and she blinked rapidly, convincing herself they were in response to the throbbing in her body, and not the squeezing of her heart.
“Can I carry you yet, baby? Ain’t no one gonna see now,” Shakespeare breathed, his tone completely different toward her than it had been to their brother only seconds before. His words were tender, his intention heartwarming, but she still shook her head, declining. She’d made the decision to walk and she would until she either couldn’t, or was in their bedroom. He sighed, but didn’t argue, and helped her shuffle slowly down the hallway.
As soon as the wood of his door appeared, Artist’s body decided it was home and could stop working. She wavered on her feet, but managed to reach out for the molding, keeping herself up. Her VP’s hand reached under her arm and turned the knob, shoving it open, and, apparently tired of dealing with her bullshit, he scooped her up and carried her inside.
“Shit, ‘Speare, I’m going to get sick. Put me down, please,” she pleaded, praying she wouldn’t throw up on him and embarrass herself more than she already had.
Luckily, the motion was quick, and a heartbeat later he was setting her gently on the bed. Without speaking, he moved down and unlaced her boots, pulling them off and placing them on the floor. Her skinny jeans were next, though they took more finesse. He was careful not to tug too hard, and instead rolled them from the waist down, lifting her entire lower half instead of making her try to prop herself up. When he’d folded them and set them down, she expected him to help her sit up to remove her shirt. But, he surprised her by removing a pocket knife from his pocket and grabbing the hem of the fabric.
“No! I like this shirt!” she protested, though she knew it was stupid. From the small glances she’d gotten of herself, it was already covered in blood and likely ruined. But the hot-pink Van Halen shirt was one of her favorites, the fabric soft and the color still bright after multiple washes.
“Artist,” he said, almost chastising. “You know as well as I do that it’s gotta go. Whether I hurt you more by pullin’ the damn thing off, or cuttin’ it off, it’s still gonna end up in the trash.”
Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and nodded, hating the sound of the fabric splitting as the blade of Shakespeare’s knife traveled though it. At least he didn’t cut the pants. Her bra was cut along with it, though it had likely been fine, but she
put up little argument. Half of her felt like Jell-O now that she was horizontal, the other half throbbing to a beat of music she couldn’t hear. Luckily the world had stopped spinning and her stomach was somewhat calm.
Something warm ran across her skin, shocking her eyes open once more. Shakespeare hovered beside her, a damp white washcloth in his hand, which he trailed along her arm to her collar bone. Pulling it away, he tried to hide the blood already staining it, though she saw it anyway.
“Talk to me, Shakespeare,” she said, swallowing hard. The knowledge that she was going to look and feel like shit in the morning was closing in on her. She wanted to know how bad it all was, but she didn’t at the same time.
“Hmmm,” he murmured, dipping the cloth into the bowl of water he’d placed on the bedside table. “About what, darlin?’”
“Remember our first time together?”
“How could I forget. You were a fuckin’ angel.”
She smiled to hide the wince that tried to emerge as he ran the washcloth up the side of her neck. “Can I ask you something?” He nodded, his eyes intent on cleaning the blood from her skin. “Why’d you say you had nothing more to give me than your cock? I mean … well, I don’t know what I mean.”
“Because I don’t, Artist – you know that.”
“I don’t understand. That’s bullshit and you know it. You’re fucking amazing. I mean, look at you, cleaning the damned blood off me because I can’t do it my fucking self. How many nights have you made sure there was something for me to eat after I got off work, knowing I wouldn’t have stopped for food?”
“Babe, that’s just food. Doesn’t mean I can give you anything.”
“It’s not just food, though, Shakespeare. Please,” she gasped as the material traced her cheek, pain lancing through face, “tell me what you meant.”
“I meant I ain’t got shit. No family, no real job ‘cept the club. And look at you. You’re educated, top of your graduatin’ class at UCLA, smart as fuckin’ hell and not just book smarts either. You’re talented beyond belief and capable – fuck, you’re capable. I knew it long before we patched you in. Your ethics and morals are so strong … There’s nothin’ I believe in as much as you believe in everything,” he told her, his expression serious, his hand stilling as he peered down at her.
