by Juli Valenti
When they arrived at the restaurant, Poet and Titan were waiting outside. She hardly recognized her President, dressed in a sassy, thigh-length purple dress, cutouts strategically placed to emphasize her figure. Poet had paired it with black Louboutins, the red sole visible as she moved. Artist suddenly felt a wave of self-conscious flow through her; she’d chosen a pair of silver ballet flats rather than heels, knowing there was no chance she could maintain composure in them and not look like a train wreck.
Her brother cleaned up nicely as well, donning a well-fitting suit in navy, with a black button down beneath it. He’d opted to forgo a tie, but that he was done up made her chuckle. What had he said about being pussy whipped?
“Our reservations were for ten fucking minutes ago,” Titan grumbled sourly, clearly unhappy about his new hen-pecked status, and she smiled brightly.
“Sorry we’re late, brother. Took time to hide the shit on my face,” she told him dryly, pleased to see his expression change at her words.
“Come on, the hostess is still holding our table,” Poet said smartly, cutting the conversation quickly and leading them inside.
The inside of Je Suis was dark, the lighting dim and shadowing the entire dining area. Walls a deep chocolate, they complemented the light oak of the hardwood floors. Black linen tablecloths with matching rolls of silverware adorned the tables, and the smell of the food emanating from the kitchen had Artist’s mouthwatering.
Glancing around at the other diners, she was pleased they seemed to blend in. So often, especially with living in a small town as they did, they often stuck out. Their leather was an undeniable testament of who they were, their patches and attitudes giving off the vibe of the not so up-and-up business they conducted. Here, they fit; as far as anyone around them knew, they were just two couples out to eat. Maybe on a blind date, or married with children at home. Maybe they were high school sweethearts coming together. The sky was the limit.
The men ordered soda while Artist and Poet ordered white wine, both pleased with the atmosphere as well as the concept of a night out. It had been a long time, since Cori, that she’d even gone out with another woman, and as they talked, she realized how much she had missed the camaraderie. They joked about how uncomfortable the boys seemed, both talking in grunts and short sentences, as well as the food choices on the menu. For once there was no talk of club business, or upcoming events, or even the past few weeks. It was refreshing as hell, though they knew it was only a short reprieve.
After they ordered their food – the men ordering steak, Artist pasta, and Poet a chicken specialty – Artist watched as Titan’s gaze snapped to Shakespeare. His posture straightened and he leaned forward, pegging the other man with a hard stare.
“So … you’re sleeping with my sister.” It wasn’t a question, though Shakespeare inclined his head slightly. “Not sure I like the idea, which you already know. The last thing Cecili needs is a biker man who treats her like a piece of ass with little care to her or her feelings. She isn’t some damn sweetie who needs to ride on the back of a man’s bike. She’s better than that. Now, obviously I can’t change her mind. She seems to like you and you her, but I swear to God, you hurt her and I’ll fucking kill you.”
Silence filled the table, no one moving as Shakespeare ran a hand over his face. Her VP took a deep breath before speaking.
“Not just sleepin’ with her. I fuckin’ love her.”
Poet flashed a grin, which Artist returned, before they turned their attention on the men. The women knew this conversation had to happen, had seen it coming – it was the conversation that should have happened weeks ago, instead of their childish brawl in The Wicked Wing. Of course, then, the concept of love probably wouldn’t have been on the table.
Her brother shook his head, as if to clear it. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You heard me, brother. I fuckin’ love her – the stupid-ass, pussy-whipped, think about her all the damned time, kind of love. I worry ‘bout her when she isn’t within my line of sight, and not because she’s a woman,” he said, sending a glance toward her before turning back to Titan. “I worry because I fuckin’ love her. So you can sit here and threaten me all you want about what Artist needs, but know that I already know.
“She needs a man who can let her be herself, one who can back the fuck off when need be. She’s fuckin’ brilliant and can deal with shit without help – and she only needs a man who can accept that, and be willin’ to help when she asks, because, when she does, it means she really needs a hand. And, she needs a man who gives a fuck, who loves her regardless of anything. That, my brother, is me.”
Titan blinked rapidly and Artist’s heart swelled. His words, the way he seemed to understand her in ways her brother certainly didn’t, practically melted her insides. She was grinning, smiling so hard her face felt like it would break, the accompanying throb easy to ignore.
Reaching under the table, she squeezed his leg before he took her hand in his. Meeting her eyes, he lifted it to his lips and placed a soft kiss on the back before entwining their fingers. Knowing her brother saw the gesture, that the entire room and anyone who could have been watching saw it, made it even better.
Grinning, she leaned her head toward him, whispering, “I love you, too.”
The waitress appeared before her brother could formulate a response, setting their plates in front of them and refilling Artist and Poet’s wine. It smelled delicious and she had to remind herself to maintain her manners by eating slow, though her stomach roared with hunger. Artist had planned on eating before getting ready, but time had gotten away from her and she’d forgotten. Now she was pleased she hadn’t. Her lamb ragout over pappardelle pasta well worth the wait.
As they were eating, she felt, rather than heard, Shakespeare’s cell phone vibrate in his pockets, just as Poet’s rang in her purse across from her. She immediately lost her appetite, knowing something was coming in mere seconds that would cut their double date short.
She watched as her President retrieved her phone and redialed the number, the ringing cutting off before she got the chance to answer the call. Shakespeare also pulled his out, glancing at the number before looking expectantly at Poet.
“Talk to me, Fall,” she said in greeting and Artist held her breath. Shit. If the Sergeant was calling, shit was seriously hitting the fan. The entire club knew they were out for the night, for once having a legitimate night off of all Redemption business. “Fuck, yeah. Where?” she paused again, curiosity making her crazy. “Of course. How long do we have? Yeah? That’s fanfuckingtastic, Sarg. Seriously. And your timing does blow, but we’ll be there. Give us a bit to run to the house to change and shit, and make sure the bastards don’t fucking move.”
Poet hung up and looked from Titan to Shakespeare, then to Artist before back to Titan. “Club business. We have to cut this short, babe.”
Without requiring further prompting, the Bishop nodded, pulling a credit card from his wallet and handing it to her before standing. “On me, like always. Call me when you can so I know you’re breathing, all right?” He pinned Artist with a hard look. “You too.”
She nodded and Shakespeare stood, extending his hand and shaking Titan’s hand. Though neither man said a word, a look passed between them, and then he was gone. Her VP sat back down and they stared at Poet, waiting for the news that would change their night. Hopefully for the better.
Chapter Sixteen
“What’s goin’ down, Pres?” Shakespeare asked, sparing no time for bullshit. He was obviously impatient as well, which was comforting.
“That was Fallen. He got the bastards that shot our girls,” she told him and Artist felt excitement and anticipation swirling in her stomach, though she remained silent. Poet would tell them everything, and she wanted to know all of it. “Apparently he and Tonka were out at the club tonight, originally looking for answers and they decided to chill and have a couple drinks. So, there they were, minding their own business, laughing and shooting the shit whe
n behind them three Diablos started fighting with some assholes. They started bragging about the last time they’d been there, and how they came in shooting, taking down scarier men than them.”
“Fuckin’ idiots. How have they managed to stay under the radar this whole time if they been braggin’ about being behind the hit? How do we know they ain’t just talkin’ big to scare some rednecks?”
“That was going to be my next question to Fallen, but he answered it for me,” Poet said, nodding, a small grin on her face. “See, something you haven’t seen just yet, Artist, is our boy? Well, he doesn’t like anyone talking shit about Hells Redemption, whether they have a vested interest or not. So, he persuaded the guys to talk.”
“And by persuaded you mean…” Artist trailed off, already knowing what their Sergeant had done. She was actually sad she hadn’t been there when he’d done it; she would’ve taken a perverse pleasure in helping.
“Damn right. Fallen and Tonka called the twins to come out, just in case, and cornered the fuckers in the bathroom. When he asked them, they denied it first, but after pegging one in the foot at close range with his Browning, they sang like fucking canaries. Hell, he even got them to agree to handcuffing each other and climbing in the van the boys brought in. He’s got them at a warehouse off of I-60, not that far. He said he’ll keep them … occupied, while we head back to the clubhouse.”
“The clubhouse?” she asked, confused. Everything in her was screaming to get out there, to beat some answers out of the pieces of shit that hurt her friend.
“Well, unless you’re wanting to go balls to the wall in that adorable little black dress – you’re going to have to tell me where you got that, by the way. Anyway, let’s get on. I assumed you brought the Yukon, ‘Speare?”
The VP nodded. “Yep, course. Ain’t no way she can ride in that hot little thing. I’ll go bring it around,” he told them, reaching into his wallet and producing his credit card as well, placing it on the table and kissing Artist on the head and disappearing.
They made quick work of the check, though Poet refused Shakespeare’s money, instead charging the bill in its entirety to Titan’s card. When Artist asked about it she merely grinned and shrugged, saying she was listening to her boyfriend for once. She couldn’t help but laugh at that, grateful the men knew what they were getting into when they signed on for them. Neither of them were first inclined to listen, always following what they thought was right; but, the men knew it or they would’ve burned rubber long ago.
Anticipation buzzed through the SUV as Shakespeare navigated them back to the clubhouse. None of them spoke, each thinking about the confrontation coming. Artist was like a child the night before Christmas – she’d almost lost hope that the doers would be found, that it had all died with Branka. The idea that killing him without getting more information could’ve been a mistake wasn’t lost on her. If she’d managed to keep the bastard alive, she may have gotten their names. But, it seemed, for once luck was on her side in that regard. The assholes outed themselves.
When they arrived, she and Poet practically sprinted out of the car. As they made their way inside, she was entertained to note that her President had shed her expensive shoes, instead moving faster barefoot.
Artist had the zipper to her dress down before she’d reached hers and Shakespeare’s room, not giving a damn that one of her brothers could see her. She had the dress off, standing in only her panties when her VP entered the room. He stopped in mid-step, taking in the view of her bent over, rummaging through the bureau for clothes.
“Fuck. Why does shit keep coming between me and that fine ass tonight?” he asked, startling her.
“Because you refused to make love to me last night. Karma’s a bitch.”
“You were in pain, damn it, maddenin’ woman. I was tryin’ to be a gentleman.”
“Well, if it makes you feel better, I’m still in pain, Shakespeare. It’s all about the handling of pain. And, right now, I’m barely feeling anything. Adrenaline is a wonderful thing.”
Snatching a pair of boot-cut jeans from the drawer, she slipped them on quickly. A black bra and sweater followed, the material loose enough she could move, but fitted enough she wouldn’t get stuck on anything. Her holster came next and she checked the Beretta she favored, pleased to find it was already loaded with a fresh clip. Lastly, she donned her cut, already feeling more at home and comfortable.
“Take these,” Shakespeare demanded, already dressed in his signature jeans, though he’d swapped his usual T-shirt for a long-sleeved thermal. “Don’t worry, I ain’t givin’ you morphine this time. Need you focused on shit, and pain can take that away if you ain’t careful.”
She did as he asked, chasing the pills with the glass of water he handed her and slipping into her boots. “Alright, toots, ready to go?” she asked, pleased to see he was ready, extending a second gun in her direction, along with an extra clip for the Beretta. Without needing to be instructed, she slipped the Ruger at the small of her back, grateful she hadn’t put on leggings, despite the pinching from the fabric. The lack of elasticity in the waistband of her jeans held the weapon firmly against her skin, the material tightening to hold it steady.
Artist followed Shakespeare to the garage, where Poet was already hiking a leg over her bike and turning the engine over. They followed suit, the roar of the three engines almost deafening, but bringing a large smile to her face. It was music to her ears; the sound of revenge, the sound of redemption, and the sound of Hell coming to meet it all out.
They rode out, their formation standard and by rank. Poet, as President, held point, with Shakespeare just barely behind her to her right. Artist rode behind them, not at all bothered to be in that position. She’d be lying if she said that the weight of her Harley was nothing, that it was as easy as breathing, but it was taking a lot of effort on her part to keep upright. The vibration beneath her was comforting, but the strain of holding the bike, of shifting gears, was taking a slow toll on her body, and she was grateful for the ibuprofen Shakespeare had given her.
Focusing her thoughts on their run, she kept her eyes firmly on the backs of her brothers in front of her. They rode like well-oiled machines – when one moved, the others moved. When one slowed, the others slowed. The rhythm of the road made the trip fast. As they pulled up to the warehouse Fallen had the men locked in, Artist had to shake herself, her mind entranced with their ride.
“’Bout damned time. Should’ve known better than to let you go change, ‘Speare,” Fallen called from the doorway. Through the darkness, Artist caught the glimpse of blood on his hands informing her the Diablos hadn’t gone easily. Yet, the smile on his face told her he wasn’t exactly angry about it.
“I know. Couldn’t decide what T-shirt I liked best,” the VP retorted dryly.
“Where?” Poet asked, cutting straight to the point and ignoring the banter between the two men.
The Sergeant’s posture shifted, the easy-going friend and brother they all knew disappearing, and the scary man he truly was appearing. His eyes hooded instantly, the grin on his face vanishing as if it had never existed. He looked older and every bit as ruthless as she knew him to be.
“Inside … waiting.”
Their President nodded. “Good. Artist, I know you want to do some serious damage, and I’ll let you, but I want some fucking answers first. No one pulls the shit they did without thinking they have a reason, regardless of how stupid it is. And, either way, they will not be walking out of this damned warehouse. Shakespeare, because she wants this,” she said, motioning to Artist, “I want you taking her back. Fallen, you’ve got mine like you always demand. Tonka will keep watch on the entire fucking place, and your backs. Got it?”
“Yes,” Artist said immediately, understanding the role she’d been given and appreciating it. In most situations, the SIA would take point and deal with the dirty business unless he was needed somewhere else – Poet giving her the honor of taking care of it was an offering, an agreement tha
t she took Teagan’s injuries personally. Now she needed to ensure she wouldn’t let them all down.
The sound of their boots along the concrete floor echoed through the warehouse amongst the curses and grunts from the three men lying prostrate on the ground. As she neared, she could see the one closest to her already bleeding, the side of his face a mess. All were bound with a crude rope, their hands tied behind their backs, and their ankles fused together.
Glancing around, Artist took in the space. From what she could gather, judging by the wooden crates marked medical supplies, they were in the club’s storage warehouse. It was used to hide things that needed to be held, though in plain sight. She knew if the crates were opened one would find what they advertised, everything from gloves and prescriptions and basic painkillers to gauze and splints and more. Yet, if anyone dug deeper, they’d likely find other things. Guns, ammunition, occasionally drugs, and more would be hiding inside fake bottom compartments, unseen.
She’d never been inside this one, but she’d been in one similar on the other side of town. Several of her prospect runs had her guarding the place, watching the door when brothers needed to get shit for business or for runs. It hadn’t been her favorite thing to do, standing at the door and waiting for someone to see them or get curious and investigate themselves. Nothing had happened, but caution was the better part of valor in their line of work. Any fuck up could see any or all of them dead or in prison, especially since they all had some sort of wrap with the police. Even she, the newest and ‘cleanest’ of them all, had a criminal record; her shooting Jason had been ruled accidental, but was still wrapped up, just in case.
