Artist

by Juli Valenti

  Shakespeare nodded. “I can see that. Swellin’ is worse today so I’m pretty positive I was right in thinkin’ you’ve got at the very least a hairline fracture. Unfortunately not much can be done about it – just gonna hurt like a bitch for a while. Judgin’ by the color and swellin’ of near your eye there, that’s probably broken in some form too. After you fell asleep last night, I tracked your ribs, none of them seem broken or anythin’ more than bruised, but it was close. Could’ve been much worse … though it looks like it was.”

  “That bad, huh?” she asked, knowing exactly how bad she looked, which was just about two-thirds the way she felt as well. “I’m a walking poster for domestic violence.”

  “You know it’s not funny, right?” he told her, his words rhetorical. “I ain’t laughin’ … I fuckin’ hate that cocksucker and wish you hadn’t done such a damned good job practically tearin’ his throat out so I could do it myself.”

  “Don’t want you fighting my battles, ‘Speare. Help me clean up, maybe. Hold me afterward? Definitely. But not fighting them for me.”

  “I know, it’s one of the reasons I love you,” he said, taking another bite of his salad while she sat open-mouthed, her burger halfway toward her lips. He arched an eyebrow. “What? Did ya think I’d take it back?”

  Had she thought that? She didn’t think so … but hearing him say the words first, and so offhand like it wasn’t a big deal, had her feeling like she was in high school and experiencing first love again. Part of her wanted to jump up and down, doing a happy dance that the man loved her; the other part was in complete agreement with the first, with the exception of knowing she was hurting and couldn’t physically do it.

  “No … well … yes … no. I don’t think so,” she stuttered, gritting her teeth to keep from squealing or something equally embarrassing. “I think I half thought I was dreaming that part of last night. So much shit is fuzzy, and I remember it so clearly, so I assumed I must’ve been dreaming it.”

  “Not dreamin,’ darlin.’” He was grinning, his heart-stopping, breathtaking, utterly gorgeous smile of his, and she felt it to her toes.

  Instead of following through with the bite she’d been initially planning with the Big Mac, she put it in its container and set it on the bedside table, having to push things around to make room for it. Artist took a quick drink of the Coke he’d brought, and then reached for him. He hesitated long enough to add his salad to the table before coming willingly, her lips capturing his.

  “I love you, Shakespeare,” she told him seriously, her words a whisper against his mouth. Running her tongue across his lip, she pressed for more, ignoring the pain that shot through her jaw at the contact. Her hands traced his forearms, before slipping under the sleeves of his T-shirt, tracing up to his shoulders. His skin was warm, his muscles hard beneath her fingertips, and she wanted to feel him against her.

  “Off,” she demanded, tugging at the soft cotton, and he obliged, slipping it over his head with ease, revealing the span of his chest and stomach. Artist groaned, and he swallowed the sound, though he remained hovering above her. His hands remained planted on both sides of her head, holding his weight off her. Regardless of how she tugged on him, trying to cling to him and pull him to her, he didn’t budge. “I want to feel you,” she mewled and it was his turn to groan.

  “Baby,” he started, interrupted as she kissed him again. “Baby, as much as I want to feel your gorgeous skin, to touch you, we can’t. You’re so fuckin’ beautiful it’s killin’ me, but you’re also hurtin.’ I’ll be damned before I make that worse for you.”

  Artist ignored him, her lips silencing him as her hand trailed down his shoulder, to his chest, and farther down. She snaked her hand into the waist of his jeans, finding him hard and ready, despite his protests. This time he muttered something under his breath, something she couldn’t hear over the lust in her ears, and he pulled away to stand. She watched as he paced a few steps, turned, and repeated the motion the opposite direction. Shakespeare’s hand moved to adjust his erection and her mouth watered, wishing he’d just take the damned pants off so she could do it for him.

  “Fuck, Artist,” he breathed, his hands on his head as he continued his pacing. “I want to make love to you. I want to wrap myself in you, get lost in you. My cock is weepin’ for it; I need to be inside you. But until you can fuckin’ sit up without wincin,’ ain’t no way I’m touchin’ that beautiful pussy or anything. This is one Netflix and Chill nights that will be just that … even if I’ve gotta take a cold fuckin’ shower and beat off while in there to do it.”

  She could see from the iron in his eyes, and how serious he sounded, that he wasn’t going to budge on the issue. It frustrated the fuck out of her, but even as disappointment filled her, pain returned. Whether it had been masked from the lingering effects of the drugs or she’d merely forgotten about it in her need to have her man inside her, she wasn’t sure, but it was coming back with a vengeance. Her jaw was throbbing, the pain of gritting her teeth almost overwhelming.

  Nodding, she retrieved her hamburger and took a bite while she still could. The action must’ve appeased Shakespeare because he sighed loudly and returned to the bed, remote to his TV in hand. Flicking a button, it turned on, the black and red Netflix logo appearing on the screen.

  “Any requests?” he asked as he propped pillows against the headboard. Taking her sandwich, he helped sit her completely upright, before handing it back and leaning against them, his eyes immediately returning to the screen.

  “Something without sex, since my man is apparently cock blocking me,” she said dryly as she took another bite, refusing to look at him.

  He chuckled. “No sex. Got it.”

  A heartbeat later the program he chose began. “In the criminal justice system, there are two separate, but equally important groups: the police, who investigate crime, and the district attorneys who prosecute the offenders. These are their stories.”

  While Law and Order wasn’t the dessert she’d have chosen to order – Shakespeare being her favorite – It definitely chased a Big Mac just fine.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Why the fuck aren’t you in bed?”

  Startled, Artist almost tripped over her own feet; she gripped the corner of the countertop and closed her eyes, willing her heart rate to slow before glancing up at the voice.

  “Why the fuck are you in the Redemption kitchen?” she asked Titan, confused. It was the first time in the entire time she’d ever seen him in their compound without a function going on. And, unless there was a party – a very quiet party – going on at four thirty in the morning, and everyone was wearing pajamas, he was certainly in the wrong clubhouse.

  “Don’t answer a question with another damn question. It’s irritating as shit,” her brother returned, turning back around and grabbing a second bowl, placing it beside the first. He then moved toward the pantry cupboard, disappearing for a second and reappearing with a box of Count Chocula cereal.

  “Where did you get those?” she breathed at the sight of her favorite breakfast food. It was one of those holiday kinds, and they only came around Halloween time. Seeing as they were just a few days away from Christmas, they should’ve been long gone. In fact, she’d devoured her last box back in November, having stock piled when they first came out. Seeing another now was like an early present from Santa.

  “You’re not the only one who loves them,” Titan chuckled, proceeding to pour their bowls and dumping milk on top. He set them at the bar stools and Artist walked over slowly, more than willing to climb the stool in exchange for the food.

  Sometime during her and Shakespeare’s Netflix marathon, she’d fallen asleep. She had a good feeling he’d swapped her ibuprofen again, but she’d woken starving – the three quarters of Big Mac she’d eaten not enough to make up for two days with little sustenance. Her VP was fast asleep, his arm flung over his head and his breathing peaceful; she couldn’t wake him and the food by the bedside was cold and soggy, whi
ch had led her into the kitchen alone, wearing only Shakespeare’s T-shirt.

  “Ah. I knew we were related somehow,” she moaned as she took a bite, chewing slowly to keep the pain from coming back with a vengeance. It was still there, lingering in the background, but so far, it was staying away.

  “So…” he said, staring into his bowl. “How are you holding up?”

  “Truth or lie?”

  He snorted. “Some things never change. Truth, little sister.”

  “Emotionally I’m just ducky … for the most part. I mean, yeah, there’s guilt – the bastard was someone’s son, maybe brother or uncle. But I know I did the right thing. Branka came in my shop to kill me, flat out said it at some point during the whole fucking brawl. I’m not ready to die, and so I didn’t.”

  “And the spectacular Technicolor across you face? I swear to God it looks like you’ve got a fucking prism tattooed on your skin.”

  “Oooh, that’d be a pretty cool piece,” she said and he shot a glare her direction. “I’m kidding, I’m not going to tattoo my face. Anyway … it’s nothing.”

  “Christ, what is it about this club? Poet said the same goddamned thing when she got jumped and it’s fucking infuriating. It’s okay to say you hurt, ‘Ili. Ain’t anyone here but you, me, and the Count.”

  Artist looked over, taking in the sight of her brother. He was bare chested, wearing only a pair of baggy flannel pajama bottoms. The raven tattoo she’d given him only the day before was still red against the tan of his skin, and she noted bullet scars he’d gotten in the spring. As her gaze traveled up to his face, she noted the lines on his face and the bags under his eyes. He looked like he’d been punched once or twice, the skin beneath his eyes a dark purple. If she didn’t know him any better she’d say he hadn’t slept in a week.

  “You look like shit, Markie.”

  “I know. We’ll talk about me after we talk about you, so stop changing the damned subject.”

  She sighed and pushed the last of her cereal away. Her jaw was hurting again and the draw to the chocolate milk wasn’t strong enough to counteract it. “I hurt, okay? Actually, when I’m not drugged by my helpful boyfriend, it’s just this shy of unbearable. Though, I will admit I’m starting to get used to the constant throbbing. As long as it stays in time with my heartbeat, it’s fine. It’s when they hurt in opposite rhythms that it gets really bad.”

  “I haven’t fucking slept. I can’t get over the fact my baby sister got the shit beat out of her by a man I’d been in the same room with on more than one occasion. I should’ve killed the bastard forever ago. He always hit on Poet and threatened me but I’d never given the pussy much thought, and where did that get me? You almost fucking dying and killing him yourself.”

  “Markie … it’s fine. I didn’t almost die —”

  “Yes, you did. If you hadn’t shot first, you’d be dead. If you hadn’t thought to sucker punch the douchebag’s kneecap, you’d be dead. If you hadn’t struggled and flailed and knocked his gun away, you’d be fucking dead!”

  Her brother’s voice was raising with each word, all but shouting the last of it at her as his hand came down loudly on the counter. Knowing him as well as she did, she kept quiet until he turned his attention back on his cereal.

  “Well … I’m not dead. He is. All of this,” she motioned toward her body, “will go away. And don’t think any of this gets you out of that double date you promised. I’m excited and I can’t wait to see Shakespeare all dressed up.”

  Titan huffed a sound of disbelief. “You talked him into that? Damn he’s pussy whipped.”

  “Just like you,” came a feminine voice, and they turned, finding Poet standing in the doorway in a long, dark robe. “’Cause we both know if I ask you nicely to dress well for the date you signed us up for, you’re going to do the fucking same.”

  Her brother said nothing as her President came forward and kissed the back of his head, turning to her and wrapping her in a light hug. “You all right?” she whispered in her ear, and Artist was grateful she hadn’t made her rehash the whole thing again. Nodding, she smiled as the other woman pulled back and placed a hand on Titan.

  “I see you found my stash of cereal,” she said dryly and Titan ducked his head.

  “You have all the good shit,” he told her in answer. “All we keep in the fucking clubhouse is leftover pizza and canned shit no one ever makes.”

  “That’s ‘cause as soon as you buy something, your brothers will jack it faster than you can blink,” she said, snickering. “If you had a woman in the place, maybe real groceries would be kept around. Our men know better than to touch shit that might belong to us … It comes in handy, right Artist?”

  “Yep. All of a sudden I have big-ass men asking if they can eat something, whether it’s mine or not. It’s fantastic.”

  Titan shook his head, pushing his empty bowl away. “Damned pussy-whipped fucking dudes, I tell you.”

  There was no heat in his words as he said them; rather he sounded entertained, which made Artist smile.

  “To answer your original question, brother, no, I haven’t talked Shakespeare into it … I didn’t bring it up, honestly. But I know him. And, since he loves me and shit, he’ll do it.”

  Gazes snapped to her and she grinned, knowing she looked like an idiot but unable to help it. Of course, she immediately regretted it, pain shooting through her jaw and cheek, but the moment had been worth it. And when Titan opened his mouth to say something, his eyes narrowing on her, she merely shook her head and slid off the barstool.

  “I’m going back to bed. I’m sure there’s more morphine trying to be ibuprofen waiting on me. How about tomorrow night? We can go eat … and then, maybe, Poet, if I am still vertical, we can try to shop a little? I haven’t had a chance to Christmas shop.”

  Her President nodded in agreement and they shared a smile before she turned to leave the room. From behind her she could hear fierce whispering, a small smack – probably on one of the other’s ass – and then silence.

  “Artist! They’re waitin’ … you almost done?” Shakespeare’s voice sounded through the bathroom door mere seconds before the pounding of his fist. He’d been asking the same question for the last five minutes, and she gave him the same response as he had before.

  “Almost,” she called, rolling her eyes. It was half amusing, the way he was beating on the door, demanding to know if she was finished getting ready. It was domestic and … normal. The rest of it was just annoying. It had taken her much longer than she’d intended to shower, do her hair, and now her makeup. Every time she lifted her arm she cringed, the water spraying her face made it start throbbing again, it hurt to open her mouth and talk, and, if she were being honest, she shouldn’t have demanded to him they have their date so quickly after the incident in her shop. But, since she’d gotten herself in the mess, no way was she backing down.

  Staring at her reflection, she sighed. Even with the mountains of concealer she’d applied to her face, the bruising was still visible. She was hoping, vainly, that no one would look too closely, and, if they did, anyone she came in contact with would assume the coloring was either lighting or tiredness.

  Artist opened the door to find her VP sitting on the edge of the bed they shared, looking nervous and immensely uncomfortable. His hands were wringing together, his gaze toward the floor. When he spotted her, though, he froze.

  “You look … Christ, you look fuckin’ beautiful,” he breathed and the nerves she’d felt melted away.

  This was technically their first legitimate date. Sure, they’d gone out to eat together, but usually as an afterthought between working or club business, or late-night trips to Redemption Reigns. Tonight, they, along with Poet and Titan, had reservations at Je Suis, one of the higher-end restaurants in the center of downtown. That meant they needed to all step up their game - no leathers would be worn tonight.

  She glanced down, taking in the fourth outfit she’d put on, finally losing the gumption to ch
ange again. The dress she’d chosen wasn’t anything to write home about. It was a basic little black dress, a staple in almost every woman’s closet. This one had a bit of stretch in the material, making it easy to move, while maintaining its femininity; the black lace decorating the breast of the dress, along with the satin bow, was the perfect finishing touch.

  Artist had left her hair down, the easy finger waves she’d styled it with making it cascade delicately down her back. Between the dress and the makeup she’d usually feel fierce … if she hadn’t looked in the mirror.

  “Thank you,” she said, embarrassed, fidgeting. “You look great, too.”

  And he did. If one thing was certain, Shakespeare certainly cleaned up nice. The usually jeans and T-shirt-clad Vice President had completely shed his normal wardrobe. He wore a sharply tailored suit, black, with a crisply pressed white button up. A crimson-colored tie was perfectly placed around his neck, the pop of color complementing his skin and bringing his outfit together.

  “I feel like a monkey,” he retorted, standing. “And don’t get used to it. I’m practically itchin’ without my cut.”

  “Me too. I feel naked.”

  “That’s ‘cause you almost are,” he murmured, putting his arm around her and gently pulling her toward him. “Not that I’m bitchin.’ But it’s makin’ it awfully hard not to bend you over right here and see how short that dress really is.”

  “Do it,” she breathed, her heart speeding in response to the fire in his eyes.

  Shakespeare made an agreeing hum before kissing her and stepping back. “Can’t. We’re late. Come.”

  “I wanted to,” she shot back, enjoying the lift in his eyebrow.

  “Later,” he mouthed and she grinned, accepting the hand he extended to her and letting him lead her out the door.

  Because of her dress, Shakespeare commandeered the Yukon, only the second time she’d ever ridden in it. Artist couldn’t help but think it was surreal that the last time she’d been in the SUV she’d been horizontal and feeling as if she was half dying. And while she wasn’t anywhere near one hundred percent, at least she was no longer medicated or immobile.