Artist

by Juli Valenti

  “Who gives a damn if you’ve got blood family or not. Let me tell you something about family,” she told him, taking a deep breath to remain calm. It bothered her he thought so low of himself and she needed him to see him the way she did. “Family is fucking bullshit. They have expectations, a box to stick you in, and if you don’t fit that mold then they write you off. Blood is just a fucking liquid. This,” she lifted her hand slightly, motioning toward the room, “is fucking family. You came with an entire club full of people willing to take a bullet for you. A family made not of blood, but of steel – and steel can withstand blood.

  “As for the rest of it, formal education or no, you’re fucking brilliant. Your knowledge of computers could best some of the top men in the CIA. Hell, none of us even know how you know the shit you do. You’re tactical and, with a single damned look, can assess a situation, the potential of all outcomes. You’re talented, even if it’s not with a set of acrylics and canvas.”

  “I’m glad you think so highly of me, darlin,’ but I … fuck, I don’t know. I just won’t ever be as damned good as you. Even fuckin’ now, beat to all shit, hurtin’ like hell, you demanded you fuckin’ walk into the goddamned club because one of your own could see you. That’s dedication and strength if I ever saw any. And, yet, through all that, you felt fuckin’ bad for killin’ the asshole who was gunnin’ for you. You’re good. You’re angel and devil rolled into one, the logic to chaos. It’s fuckin’ beautiful.”

  “I love you, Shakespeare,” she murmured, meaning it. But as soon as the words escaped her lips, she froze, terrified. What the fuck had she just done? She’d just told the man she’d been sleeping with for two weeks, her VP, that she loved him … without any indication he felt the same damned way. How stupid could she be? Men, especially the brothers of the club, didn’t want love. They wanted devotion, obedience, and strength. Artist could only give the first to the club – devotion was a strong word, one she wouldn’t even pair with a relationship. The second she constantly failed at, always being too headstrong and stubborn for. As for the latter, she reached for it, but couldn’t always get there. And yet, none of that could take back the words.

  You don’t want to take them back, her mind told her, and she agreed, but she still shouldn’t have said them.

  “Um,” she choked, having no idea what to say that could possibly wipe the unreadable look from Shakespeare’s face. “I, um … fuck. I’ve got nothing. I won’t take it back, because I mean it … I do. And I understand that you don’t feel the same way. Jesus, it’s only been two fucking weeks. Blame the word vomit on the pain … yeah … because. Fuck. Never mind. If you’ll help me up I’ll go back to my room.” She knew she was rambling, but the man wasn’t saying anything, instead staring at her as if she’d grown two heads and a snout. On both of them. And green ooze was pouring from them … or blood … or a ball and chain piercing.

  “Shut up.” Her eyes snapped to his face, finding his eyes crinkled at the edges, though not out of worry. “Shut the fuck up, Artist. I ain’t ever heard anyone say those words to me before … Give me a fuckin’ second, okay?”

  Artist smartly nodded, her entire body rigid, afraid to move. No one had ever told him they loved him? Why the fuck not? Surely Ezekial or his mother had at some point … but then, remembering the stories Poet had told her about E, none of that seemed likely. The crazy-ass biker had been off his rocker long before he brought Shakespeare back from wherever he’d been found. And the woman he’d called his mother had been a strung-out Old Lady who hated her position; she’d eventually hightailed it away from the club and gotten married traditionally. The woman’s only saving grace had been that E had already been dead when she left.

  Shakespeare’s lips lowered, softly capturing hers, and even through the haze of her pain, she felt it down to her toes. Pulling away slightly, he hovered, before kissing her again. His hand moved to cradle the left side of her face, the one with the least amount of damage, though his skin barely grazed her own. He didn’t press for more, simply content to steal small presses of their lips, the movement gentle and tender and warming her heart.

  “I love you too, darlin.’ You’re the light in the fuckin’ darkness in this damned place,” he whispered, kissing her once more. “I loved you the day you walked through the damned front door, demandin’ to know where a bucket was to wash the bikes. You ground me, babe, and when I thought you were dead today I almost lost my fuckin’ mind. Respect and redemption.”

  His murmured words were a salve, a balm which coated her, warming her. Lifting her head slightly, she kissed him so he wouldn’t see the tear that trickled down her cheek.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A knock sounded on the door the next afternoon, a heartbeat before the Sergeant in Arms’ head appeared. “Can I come in?”

  Artist nodded. “Of course.”

  “You look like shit, brother,” he emphasized the word, which made her smile. He still saw her as an equal rather than the bruised woman she was lying in bed.

  That morning she’d demanded to see herself, forcing Shakespeare out of the way of the bathroom mirror. Her movements were slow, still ridiculously painful, though she no longer felt like she was going to puke every time she moved her head. Small improvements. Artist had immediately regretted it, her face a montage of watercolors – as if someone had taken a paintbrush to it, but only used the purple, blue, and green hues. The coloring trailed down her neck, to her shoulder, and collarbone. A cursory glance showed the same bruising along the entire right side of her ribs; the left had a spattering of colors, proclaiming Officer Branka’s right-handedness.

  “I know, I saw. Thanks.” She grinned back, agreeing with him. “Feels just peachy, too.”

  “Want me to fill you in? Or would you rather not know?”

  “Come, sit. Tell me.”

  She watched as Fallen came inside the room, pulling the chair from the nearby work table to the bedside. “Where’s your man?” he asked, his eyes moving from the remnants of her bloody shirt to her jeans, taking in the rest of the room.

  Artist sat up straighter, pulling on the dark tee shirt she’d taken from Shakespeare’s drawers after she’d taken a haphazard shower. “He said he was going to get food. He not in the kitchen?”

  He shook his head. “No. It was probably his bike I heard a little bit ago … Maybe he left to get food.”

  “You’re stalling. Talk, Fallen.”

  “All right,” he breathed, sitting down and looking at her, his piercing hazel eyes almost looking through her. “Shakespeare filled the rest of us in after you fell asleep last night. Was Branka drunk?”

  Thinking back, she remembered his weaving, the dragging of his feet, his stumbling. “He was either drunk or high on something, for sure. His eyes were bloodshot, he could barely walk, and I think his speech was slurred. I’m sorry, shit’s a little fuzzy – I’m pretty positive our VP swapped my ibuprofen for something stronger.”

  Her Sergeant nodded. “He did. Anyway, so yeah. We get what happened. When we got there, I don’t know if Shakespeare told you, but we thought you were fucking dead. You weren’t moving, Artist. Branka was dead, gun still in hand, and there you were … looking all small and shit with the prick’s blood around you. Anyway,” he said, his word used as an eraser, taking the thought out of his mind, “you weren’t, thank fuck.

  “You have to realize, none of us had a damned clue what we were walking into. Shakespeare was going fucking nuts. So yeah. He went straight to you, getting you to come to. We took care of the body – he isn’t going to be found. Your shop is clean. But, Artist, I need to know what the hell was said between the two of you. Was it a direct hit from the Diablos? Was he acting on orders, or was he acting like a fucking pansy because you hurt his feelings in front of some men?”

  “I think it was both, Fallen. He was going on and on about me owing him an apology for running my mouth to him – which, for the record, it wasn’t like I said all that much. I don’t know if V
P and Cyrus told you what all went down when we found out he’d flipped for those sons of bitches, but it wasn’t a big face off. Yeah, I pissed the dude off, but I have that effect on men who think I’m property … just ask Crisp.”

  Fallen grinned. “I remember you pulling down on the Reno VP. No one could forget that. It was pretty fucking epic. Stupid as hell, especially for a prospect, but epic nonetheless.”

  “But yeah … Branka kept talking about it like I’d told him his mother was fucking the club or something. But he said something that made me think twice toward the end. He had the gun out and I was on my damned knees like a little bitch – ugh, I hate that I couldn’t come up with a better way to try to diffuse the situation – and he was about to kill me. He said that a dead sweetie wasn’t enough or something of the like. He added that the old lady of the VP would be different. Then that stupid fucking phrase about the devil riding in hell again. I wasn’t supposed to be able to repeat it, for sure … but I don’t know if that was him running his mouth, trying to make me scared or something, or if it was a legit hit.”

  Her brother remained quiet for a few minutes, clearly thinking. The man looked tired, and, he probably was. Fallen hated not being in the middle of the action, taking it upon himself to always be the first in the line of fire – always for Poet, but usually for everyone else too. It was ironic to her that their snuff man, the one who took out those that needed to be taken out regardless of the circumstances, was him. He looked too damn pretty to be dangerous, but she knew he was. More than dangerous … His decorative exterior just made it easier for him.

  “I don’t have shit to go on yet, but I’m going to go with my gut. It had to be the Diablos. And I’d bet my fucking life that Branka was involved in the shooting that killed Cora, but he’s not the main player. We’ve gotta find the starting point. I’m assuming you’re going to want to be in on this shit when we find out?”

  Artist didn’t hesitate. She nodded, leaning forward to look Fallen in the eyes. “I already planned it when it was Teagan. No one hurts my friends. Now? It’s fucking more than personal, it’s a vendetta. Those assholes are going to burn when I find them.”

  “Damn straight,” he agreed, and she yawned. “By the way, your man slipped you morphine, courtesy of Sarah. Sorry about that, but since your stubborn ass refuses to go to a goddamned hospital, we’ve gotta get you resting and healing if you’re going to do a damned thing club wise.”

  She opened her mouth to argue, to get angry, though her body was growing heavy, the constant, grinding ache in her bones lessening. What she was going to say, though, was cut off by Fallen’s hand shooting up.

  “Don’t want to hear it, Artist. The drugs came straight from Poet’s order. You’re going to take a nap and you’re going to like it. And you aren’t going to argue when Shakespeare gives you more either. While you’re sleeping the entire fucking club is going to be tracking these pricks down. We’re going to find them, and when we do, you’re going to be able to stand without hating your life. Capiche?”

  Nodding, she stared at her Sergeant as his expression turned serious once more, all easy going and humor evaporating. “Every brother in this club is pissed. No one corners one of ours and does what happened to you. Not a fucking soul. They’re all going to die; meanwhile, Hells Redemption is going to take care of what is ours. And you, Artist, are one of ours. Now sleep.”

  Without her permission, her eyes blinked rapidly before her eye lids drooped. She vaguely heard Fallen get up, replace the chair, and gently lay a hand on her shoulder. Artist was asleep before the door shut behind him.

  Artist awoke with a start, frustrated the instant the haze of medication faded from her sleep-heavy mind. The nerve of Shakespeare! He thought he could drug her? And why? She was doing just fine.

  The bedroom door flung open, and the center of her frustration appeared, holding two takeout bags and a two liter of soda. He smiled sweetly when he saw her, but she didn’t return it.

  “Why the hell did you think it was okay to drug me? Swapping fucking ibuprofen for fucking morphine? Really?” she said in lieu of a greeting, and he smirked before sighing and shutting the door behind him.

  “Baby —”

  “Don’t fucking baby me, Shakespeare. Jesus, I don’t even know how long I’ve been out. A day, two?”

  “Artist, relax. You’ve only been asleep a couple hours. And as for swappin’ the meds, you can bet your ass I think it’s okay. Tell me, if I hadn’t, what the hell would you be spendin’ the day doin?’ Inkin’ at the Wing? Liftin’ at the gym so you think the next time some asshole tackles you that you can flip him off? And don’t even think about denyin’ it. If trainin’ you taught me anything, and last night, it’s that you’re stubborn as fuckin’ hell, obsessed with bein’ strong, and hate bein’ idle. No way would you’ve listened to any of us and spent the day in bed. I was just proactive about it, fast forwardin’ through the argument to get to the best end result.”

  She opened her mouth, shut it, then opened it again, trying to formulate an argument, but couldn’t. Closing her mouth, she pushed herself into a sitting position against the pillows and crossed her arms. She hated that he was right. If he hadn’t forced her into la-la land, Artist would’ve gone about business as normal, or, as normal as it could be when it hurt to breathe too deeply.

  Shakespeare moved around the room, unloading the bags of food on the table and placing something black on his dresser.

  “What’s that?” she asked, pointing when he turned to look at her.

  “Your cut. We left it at the shop last night, along with your holster and Beretta. Thought you’d want it so I stopped by on the way to get,” he paused, checking his watch, “an early supper. Frame’s got the gun and rig – put him on cleanup duty. When you get it back, the leather is gonna shine and feel like butter.”

  Frame was one of the newer prospects, coming in about a month before. Fallen had actually put him up for voting, which was odd for the Sergeant. He usually had little interest in bringing in new members, unless they were an asset; it stood to reason the man had talents they’d yet to discover that only he knew.

  “You stopped for my cut?” she breathed, fighting the tightening in her chest. She hadn’t realized it didn’t come home with her, but seeing it across the room now hurt. A biker who leaves or loses their patch isn’t a member … so for her to have left it behind, whether intentionally or accidental, made her want to throw up.

  “Patches stay with their owner,” he stated firmly, his gaze moving from her face, to her shoulder, then back to the leather on the dresser. “You had no choice but to leave it; it was my job to get it. Plus … I know how much that vest means to you.”

  “Thank you,” she said, hoping he caught the entirety of her words. She was thanking him for saving her membership, for bringing it back because he knew what it meant to her. She was thanking him for remembering something she should’ve never forgotten. And, above all, she was thanking him for thinking of her, for doing something he didn’t have to.

  “I come bearin’ more than that,” he added, taking a variety of boxes and containers from the food bags. It looked like he’d bought multiple restaurants; the choices just kept coming.

  “Did you buy Mary Poppins’ bag? Jesus, does it even have a bottom?”

  “I didn’t know for sure what you liked or what you may be hungry for so I stopped at a couple places. You have your choice of a Big Mac, a deluxe somethin’ chicken sandwich, two types of fries, some bacon salad thing that was more expensive than the entire McDonald’s order, a loaded baked potato, some chicken nuggets with, like, six kinds of sauce…” he trailed off, looking up at her, his forehead creasing. “Is that okay?”

  A vulnerable Shakespeare was a sight to see, a rare treat. For some reason he was so worried over what he’d bought that it was the cutest damned thing she’d ever seen. Moving slowly, she leaned forward and grasped his shirt, tugging him toward her. He bent, propping himself up on the side of t
he bed, and she kept pulling on him until his face was directly in front of hers.

  “You’re so fucking cute,” she told him honestly, beaming at him. He frowned, but his lips immediately turned up into a returning smile as she lifted and kissed him softly. The moment was interrupted as her stomach roared loudly; clearly, she was hungry.

  Her VP chuckled and stepped back. “You need to eat, darlin.’ Which one?”

  “The Big Mac, please,” she said, eagerly snatching the box from him and taking a bite. As her jaw closed, she discovered chewing hurt like hell, but her stomach and taste buds were in heaven, both of which canceled out the pain. Taking another bite, she noted Shakespeare wasn’t eating and she arched an eyebrow, darting her eyes from him to the spread of food. Artist almost spit her food when he picked up the salad.

  “What the hell are you doing?” she asked around the mouth full of bread, cheese, veggies, and more than likely fake meat. For some reason she didn’t care she was being unladylike, not waiting to finish the bite before taking another.

  “I ate here before I left … I’d been goin’ on twenty-four hours of barely anythin’ and little sleep. Coffee and rum can only get people so far … myself included,” he explained and she fought not to feel guilty. She’d forgotten he’d been on a run the day before; it hadn’t even crossed her mind. That he’d answered the phone had been something she expected; Artist shivered as what-if’s filled her, imaging what could have happened to her if he hadn’t.

  “Thanks again for the food,” she murmured, changing the subject. “My stomach is appreciative … My jaw hates you.”