The Sweet Under His Skin (51 page)

Arielle turned to Mandy. "Let Flynn report it in. No one needs to get in trouble."

"Fuck it," Flynn bit out, putting his phone away. "Let's just go."

There was another long pause that Mandy broke up. "You're doing the smart thing, hun," Mandy assured her and headed for the door. "I'll wait outside and have a cigarette. So no hurry."

Arielle stood staring at the archway connecting the kitchen to the living room, momentarily forgetting she wasn't alone. That changed when Flynn cleared his throat. She jumped.

"Go get ready," he suggested, and it sounded harsh. But then again, that's how he always sounded. "She's right, you know. You have to know how to use one of these things, because those guys coming to get your sister know how to use them real good."

The shine in his eyes was scary. She swallowed hard. "Thanks, Flynn. I'll keep that in mind."

The roadhouse hunched close to the highway, just outside of Shanksville. A no-tell-motel was right behind it, a strip of rooms facing the shared parking lot, one level. Dead Men filled it, bikes parking in front of the rooms from one side to the other. The roadhouse manager was a friend, had been for years, always made sure Dead Men had the best hospitality if they ever had to stop over this close to home.

Quentin pushed open the door to his room, nose wrinkling at the stuffy smell. It was clean, it had just been closed up on a hot day with the blinds drawn. He flicked on the window AC unit, tossed his saddlebag on the bed and before he realized it he was dialing Arielle. She picked up after three rings.

"Everything okay?" he barked after she greeted him.

"Yes, Quentin. Everything's fine. Why?"

"Took you a while to answer." Right as he finished speaking he heard a pop, followed by a long echo. "Where the hell are you?"

"Um, we're in some kind of clearing in the woods. Mandy's showing me how to use a gun." She said it simply, and he took a moment to absorb all that.

"Babe, you don't know how to shoot?"

She allowed a laugh as another gunshot sounded. "No, Quentin. I'd never touched a gun until that one you shoved in my hand when that guy broke in."

He raised his eyebrows. "Shit, babe, you are an innocent, aren't you?"

"Plenty of people live without guns, Quentin," she answered as another shot sounded.

"Who's shooting now?"

"Mandy," she answered. "She's pretty good."

"Somehow that's not a surprise," he mumbled with a smile. "You wearing what I left you in?"

"Yes."

He smiled wider, remembering the tank top and jeans she'd had on. Those jeans were amazing on her ass, now that there was some ass to be seen. "What gun'd she give you?"

"A Colt Pony?" It was a question, like she wasn't sure the strange terminology made sense.

Now he was really grinning. "Shit, babe. That's hot. I'm imagining that right now. I bet you look cute as fuck holding it, too."

"Quentin, take me seriously. I'm going to be an ass kicker."

That made him laugh. "Yeah, babe, you are. Don't stay out much longer. Get home and safe soon, okay?"

"Okay," she replied, so agreeable. "Are you behaving yourself?"

He hung his head, shoulders shaking with a silent chuckle. "I am, actually. As soon as we checked in I called you, babe."

"No whores, Quentin. I mean that."

Quentin brought his head up again, catching his reflection in the mirror across the room. He was fucking beaming like a loon just from talking to her. "What I got to do to prove I'm all about you, babe?"

"Sleep alone tonight," was her immediate answer.

"You got it," he came back just as quick.

"I miss you," she added softly. "I know it's one night, and it hasn't been that long but…I miss you." Again, Arielle Taylor made him feel like a teenager.

There was a knock on his door, and it was edged in slowly. Quentin motioned Dillon to come on in, waiting in the doorway with one hand on hip, the other on the door knob. "Listen, I gotta go. But you know I'm missing you too."

"You are?"

He looked away from Dillon and said softly, "Yeah, babe. I call you later."

"Okay. Be careful, Quentin."

"Always. Bye." He snapped the phone shut and stood, choosing to ignore the smug grin on the bastard's face. "What's up?"

"Jimmy's got some Intel on Reuben. Bishop wants us all over at the roadhouse right away."

"'Kay." Quentin shoved his phone back in his pocket and made for the door, letting his brother lead the way.

"How's the woman? Lost? Wandering around aimlessly without you? Forgetting how to tie her shoes?"

"Shut up," Quentin snapped back.

"Christ, a call from a girl and you're blushing like a cheerleader."

Fuck. He was so damn transparent. "Jealous?"

"Of that girl?" Dillon shrugged. "I know better than to answer that question."

That made Quentin laugh, and they crossed the parking lot to the roadhouse's back door, walked down a side hall for employees only and into the empty bar room. The rest of his brothers were there, along with the proprietor of this fine establishment. A few women who served a familiar purpose were lounging on a sofa across from the bar where the men were, in waiting he guessed.

Jimmy clasped fists with Dillon in greeting, and then did the same to Quentin with a shoulder grasp. But his eyes didn't come to Quentin's and he let go of his hand fast, wiping his palms on his jeans and saying brightly, "What can I get my guests to take the edge off, hey?"

Jimmy had been a member of the Dead Men Riders until he fucked up a sting the club had going on a pimp. He got drunk, passed out, didn't call for help. A brother died because of it and he lost his kutte and ink. He ran this roadhouse but managed to be about fifteen years sober at the same time. He was the most mellow cleaned-up drunk Quentin knew, but right now he was humming from nerves.

Quentin's eyes cut to Dillon, and he saw that he picked up on the same thing he did. Quentin brought his frown around to Bishop to find that his prez had an eye on their host as well.

"Everything okay there, Jimmy?" Bishop asked, almost jokingly.

The guy laughed, putting a bottle of Jack Daniels on the bar next to some Patron. "Of course. So what's been new with you guys?"

Quentin didn't sit, neither did Dillon. Actually, Dillon crossed to the side of the bar closest to the door and Quentin drew closer to Bishop, putting himself somewhere between the twitchy bartender and his prez.

"You know, just another day above ground," Bishop said slowly. By now the other Dead Men had picked up on the vibe, and were getting to their feet. Colton went to the door of the kitchen and a few other Dead Men were checking the front windows.

"You guys okay?" Jimmy asked, scratching his cheek and nose, very jittery. "You're making me nervous."

"I think you were already getting nervous when we walked in, Jimmy," Bishop was replying when they heard bikes.

"Who is it?" Dillon asked one of his brothers by the window.

"Mexicans," he replied, reaching for his piece immediately and they all did the same, Bishop reaching across the bar to grab Jimmy by the back of the neck and slamming his head against the wood top, pressing the muzzle of his pistol to the guy’s temple.

"What the fuck is this?" Bishop asked like he was inquiring about a questionable addition to his restaurant bill.

"Nothing personal man, they asked me to let them know when you were here. That's it."

"In exchange for what?" Bishop shouted.

"So they don't deal their shit here and they'll tell Reuben I'm sacred ground, man," Jimmy was sputtering. "That guy's dealers are fucking crazy, I can't have them around here. Mydaughter works here, man. C’mon."

Bishop and Quentin shared a look, and Quentin headed for the arrangement of ass on the sofa. "Okay ladies, you're dismissed early. Let's go."

Definitely pros. They didn't squawk or shriek, just headed for the kitchen door Quentin was holding open for them in a single, orderly line.

Bishop let Jimmy up, barking out, "You fix this you son of a bitch."

"How?"

Bishop circled around the bar and grabbed Jimmy's shirtfront. "You go out there and tell them to fuck off."

"Are you nuts? They'll probably kill me."

"It'll give me time to figure out how to fix this fuck-up you created," Bishop returned like he was agreeing with him. "And if they don't kill you, I might do it." With that he shoved the man out his own front door and shut him out, locking the dead bolt.

"What do we do?" Dillon asked, shutting the last of the blinds on the front of the roadhouse.

Bishop shook his head. "Latin Kings reached out for this meet. Don't know if this is their trap or if Reuben caught wind later on."

Quentin flicked his safety off. "Let 'em in, I say."

"Wait," Dillon shouted, rushing forward. "If the King’s are working with Reuben we can't do anything else to piss Reuben off. We should at least find out how the Mexicans and Reuben are connected." Bishop’s jaw was working, but he was stewing it over. "At least talk to him," Dillon added, calm.

Bishop looked to Quentin, and all he could do was shrug. "A chance to find out more about this fucking ghost, man," Quentin said, agreeing with Dillon.

Bishop finally nodded. "Okay. Quentin, you're with me. Dillon, you too."

Both of them nodded, Quentin pulling the open door before raising his hands and stepping into the dying sunlight, gun in sight. He felt the tingle he always got when he was doing something stupid, something that was going to maybe get him killed. It was excitement.

The Latin Kings were just standing in a cluster, arms crossed, no weapons drawn. Their leader, Sanchez, was at the head of his crew, their numbers eight to the Dead Men’s seven. Quentin had a moment of confusion, then shouted over his shoulder, "Bishop."

His president stepped out behind him then moved next to him, hands up as well. That's when Sanchez started walking forward. At the same time Dillon took Bishop's other side.

Quentin knew Bishop could handle Sanchez so he kept his eyes on the Mexicans still just standing there like they were at a fucking barbecue.

"So, how's it going,
ese
?" Bishop asked with some sarcasm.

Sanchez shrugged. "I think we've got a common nuisance, Bishop."

"How's that?"

Sanchez spared Quentin and Dillon a glance. "This midget-shit called Reuben. He's ruthless but well connected. He wants to work with us. I'm entertaining the idea out of respect for his stepfather. I just want to know the Dead Men’s view on him."

Bishop raised both eyebrows. "Drug dealers ain't usually our friends."

Sanchez nodded. "Unless they're bastard Neo-Nazis?"

Bishop sighed. "That's our business. We're trying to bring Reuben out. That's all."

Sanchez nodded more. "You don't know which one he is," he said with a slight smile. Quentin felt his skin prickle.

"Do you?" Bishop asked.

Sanchez chewed the inside of his lip for a moment. "Yeah, I do."

Quentin wanted to beat it out of him quite suddenly and it took effort to stay put.

"Midget or the soccer dad?" Bishop asked.

Sanchez laughed. "Soccer dad? That's a new one."

"Who is it?" Bishop repeated.

"We're both business men, Bishop. What's in it for me if I tell you?"

Bishop sighed. "I ain't letting you in Portus Felix."

Sanchez shook his head. "We both want Reuben gone. He's reaching out to us for transport. But he knows about Lowriders men in his crew."

That brought their attention around. "What?" Bishop snapped.

"He knows he's got two rat dealers. After Jimmy called me this afternoon, I got another call from Reuben. He told me to surprise you here. He wants us to tear you up, I just want to know why."

"Do you want to work with Reuben?" Bishop wanted it clarified.

"That guy's too fucking greedy and way too angry. Might work in big cities where the territory needs defending. But in our towns, Bishop, it's always a hostile takeover. Which means blood. And you and I both know that doesn't work."

Bishop gave Quentin and Dillon a look. Quentin shook his head, Dillon shrugged.

"Reuben's looking for his step-brother. He was sent here to find a junkie who owed him over forty grand," Bishop shared. "Now spill—which one's Reuben?"

"You kill the step-brother?" Sanchez asked.

"Never seen him," Bishop answered immediately. "Who's Reuben?"

Sanchez grinned. "All right. Fair enough. Since we both want Reuben gone, it would be helpful to know who you're looking for. Tarquin Hamilton is a midget. A Mexican midget," he clarified with a nod, turning away and heading back to his crew.

Bishop turned on his heel and headed back inside, Quentin and Dillon backing in and watching the Latin Kings climb on their bikes and fire up their engines.

"What the fuck was that?" Dillon muttered as they headed back inside.

Quentin shook his head. "No idea. But I think, for the moment, we got some Mexican friends. Sorta."

Chapter Twenty-nine

"Calvin, can you help me with the dishes?" Arielle called to the living room.

Calvin returned to the kitchen, not thrilled to be helping but not complaining, either. She handed him the dishes to dry, then he stowed them away in the cupboards he could reach.

"So," she said, trying to keep her tone light and all this isn't a big deal. "That was a bit of a different day today, wasn't it?"

"Yeah¸" he agreed, drying a small group of forks before dropping them in the drawer. "But it was pretty cool. Flynn's really good at shooting. And so is Miss Mandy."

"Yes… If I'm going to have a gun in this house I need you to promise that you will never under any circumstance touch it."

He nodded again, eyes a bit wider. "I won't, I promise."

"I would hate for you to get hurt, Peanut. I'm putting it in the drawer in my nightstand. I'm hiding the ammunition though. I want your word you're not going looking for it."

"I won't, Aunt Arielle. I promise."

She nodded, holding up her hand with her little finger crooked. "Pinky swear."