The Sweet Under His Skin (8 page)

Holy shit. Arielle and Quentin exchanged a very grown-up what-the-hell-do-we-do-about-this look, and she was honestly at a loss.

Maybe he wouldn't want to come to a nine-year-old's birthday. If he didn't, that would totally gut Calvin. And she did feel sorry for the kid that two old ladies were the only people attending.

Quentin read her mind, and at that moment again she felt a warm
whoosh
of affection for the guy who was bringing out an awful lot of these
whooshes
strictly through how incredibly awesome he was with her nephew.

"I'd love to come your birthday supper, Charlie. If Aunt Arielle's okay with it."

There was, of course, only one answer for that. "Sure. Quentin, you're welcome to join us."

He nodded once, then dropped those eyes back down on Calvin. "There you go, buddy. I wish you'd told me it was your birthday, though. I barely have any time to get you anything," he was scolding, heading for the door with Calvin following.

"I did tell you," Calvin was insisting, and was almost out the door before Arielle called him back.

"Calvin," she said, laughing. "Supper. You can go get dirty later."

"Oh yeah." Calvin ran back to the table, and Quentin cast a smile across the room at her.

"You're welcome to stay tonight, too. For supper…if you want," she said lamely, knowing it was rude to stand there with a table covered in food and let someone just leave.

"Nah, thanks Aunt Arielle. I'm still technically on the clock here. But thanks. I'll see 'ya tomorrow."

He left then, and the kitchen got bigger and brighter. She exhaled, then caught Calvin staring up at her. "What?" she asked, taking her seat.

"You look weird."

"Calvin, that's not very nice."

"Not in a bad way. Your smile looked different." She didn't even know she'd been smiling. "Are you warm?"

"Why?"

"Do you feel sick?"

"Calvin, what's with the twenty questions?"

He shrugged and picked up his fork. "Your cheeks are all pink."

She put a hand to the side of her face not healing from being punched. It did feel warm. Actually, she was warm, and she hadn't been until Calvin dragged Quentin into her house. Or maybe this was another symptom. It could be.

Yeah, definitely a symptom.

Chapter Seven

"Where are you, Quentin?" the blonde asked breathlessly, tossing waves of curls over her shoulder and staring down at him with a flushed face and heaving chest.

He had a bottled blonde with huge fake tits riding him, and he was completely, absolutely distracted by other things that were nowhere near his dorm room at the clubhouse. Things that looked fantastic in cut-off shorts and an old 49ers T-shirt, her hair pulled to a ponytail at the side of her neck. Things that smelled great and still cooked fucking chicken with potatoes for supper.

That house had smelled like her. He hadn't been expecting that, but it was all over the place. And it smelled good.

Quentin shot a look up at the blonde. "I'm right here, baby. Who told you to take a break?"

She smiled, rolling her hips again. He was pretty sure she'd really come just then. If not, it was a hell of a fake. Well, good for her. But it wouldn't be a win unless she got him there, too.

Quentin tried to keep his head out of his head, eyes trolling up her tanned skin, over her breasts which were close to the best money could buy, her tight stomach, and her long-nailed fingers playing with her own nipples, throwing her head around and arching so far she looked about ready to break her own back.

He closed his eyes. Her show wasn't doing much for him. But closing his eyes just meant he was seeing Arielle—the fucking neighbor again—in her shorts and bare feet, one tanned leg bent towards to the one holding her weight like she was nervous to have him in her house. He couldn't blame her for that. But then she'd smiled at him and…damn. It was all he could do to get his ass on his bike and head to the clubhouse immediately.

Which, of course, brought him here.

"Fuck, Quentin, baby. You feel so good."

He grit his teeth, sat up, wrapped an arm around her lower back and tossed her to the side onto the mattress. He flipped her over by the hips, pulled her up onto all fours and sunk deep into her roughly on one thrust. She gasped. He did it again and she whimpered. He did it again and something changed.

"Fuck, Quentin. That hurts." He did it again. "Quentin, ease up. That hurts."

That was all it took. He planted deep, came hard—mousey, angelic neighbor Arielle nowhere in his mind—all because suddenly this girl wasn't into putting on a show for him.

"Christ, Quentin," she muttered as he pulled out, flopping next to her on his bed with his arm over his eyes. "You're not really packing a small calibre weapon there. You gotta ease up."

"Shut the fuck up and leave," he answered with indifference, ignoring the berating comments she dished out as she pulled on her miniscule outfit. It was all noise.

Once she was gone, he wished she'd taken the stink of her perfume with her. The smell of the neighbor's house was completely gone from his head now, and that was too bad, even if he had come here to get rid of it.

Fuck…that sweet. It wasn't just tingling his jaw anymore. It was sparking on his skin and messing with his fucking head.

He liked that kid. A lot. Being away for a few days with the guys made him realize what a tragedy the loss of innocence could be. One day he's listening to a kid give his take on motorcycle philosophy, and the next day he's doubling up on a whore with Flynn during a quick pit-stop at a roadhouse on the side of some nondescript highway. It wasn't that he was getting old on this shit at thirty-three-years-old. It was that he was getting old enough to see how stupid it could all be.

He scrubbed his hands across his face then got to his feet. He yanked the condom off, tossed it, washed his hands in the bathroom, then dressed again. No more pussy tonight, but maybe enough tequila to knock him right the fuck out.

It wasn't hard to be a hero to a nine-year-old living in that neighborhood. But that didn't mean Quentin wasn't scared shitless at what that kid had said while clutching his hand in that kitchen.

I don't have any friends from school. Quentin's my only friend.

Sure. Quentin, you're welcome to join us.

At her words he'd been a fucking teenager again. It was all he could do to fight down a grin and leave. The invite for supper that very night? Nearly killed him to say no.

Out in the clubhouse he scanned the room, headed for the bar, and demanded tequila. The prospect put the bottle and a shot glass on the beaten and shined up wood. Quentin ignored the glass, tossed the cap at the prospect and carried the bottle with him over to the sofa where Mandy held court, legs and arms crossed, watching the evening's proceedings and debauchery.

Quentin plopped next to her, sprawling out to lean into her shoulder, legs out straight in front of him, ankles crossed over each other. He took a deep pull on the tequila, relishing that harsh burn. That knocked the
sweet
right out of him.

"I give, Quentin," Mandy said wryly.

"What?"

"What's up with you?"

He made a face. "What’re you talking about?'

She smiled slowly but didn't push. "Still got your wallet, babe?"

He had to laugh, a short bark that he honestly meant. "Very funny."

"Flynn tells me you punched a guy out last week."

He made another face as the second swig of tequila went down. "That's all he has time for or what? Gossiping with the women?" Flynn had seen his hands the next day, knew he'd clocked someone good and it wasn't club business.
Fucking mouth on that guy
.

"What was that for?"

He shook his head. "Not important, Mandy."

"We didn't tell Bishop," Mandy assured him. "So you're gonna tell me what that was about and I'll have your back, honey."

Quentin sighed, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose. "It really didn't matter."

"Tell me or I tell Bishop about your non-commissioned fisticuffs."

Mandy was only nice for so long before resorting to blackmail. "My neighbor cleaned the guy's house. He got handsy. She said no, he hit her. At least twice. Her cheek was bruised, her lip was split."

Mandy put her arm behind him on the sofa, angling towards him and running her hand through his hair. "Is this neighbor the one Flynn said is‘
so fucking hot, she can make a man comejust from one look
’?"

"For fuck's sake."

"Easy, Quentin. I'm just looking out for you. I watch out for my boys, you know that."

"I know," he admitted, leaning into her more, letting his eyes close.

"She's a civvie, right?"

"Yeah. A lot."

Mandy chuckled, the movement of shaking her head rocking him a bit. "You never do anything the easy way, do you?"

Quentin grinned up at her over his shoulder. "I'm not doing anything, Mandy. Don't worry."

"You're beating up strangers for her," Mandy pointed out.

"She's got a nephew she takes care of. He's decided I'm…cool, I don't know. He wants to hang out with me. Help me with my bike." He shrugged. "That's it."

"How old's this little prospect?"

"Eight. Smart kid, Mandy. He's already five times smarter than me. But I'm able to teach him things. And that kinda…makes me proud. That I know something this eight-year-old doesn't. Bikes."

She kept playing with his hair and he let his eyes close again, taking another oversized shot of tequila. "So, you like the kid or you like her?" Mandy asked gently.

He shrugged. "Dunno. I like the kid, that's it. But I wanted to hit that fucker that hurt her. I didn't expect that."

"Just be careful, hun. A bitch that takes your wallet's one thing. A bitch that takes your heart is much more trouble."

"I know," he said, patting her leg. "You remember how it was with Pamela, right?"

Mandy gave a short burst of laughter. "How could I forget?"

"I made her miserable, Mandy."

"I'd say it was an equal effort on both sides. You did a good job making each other miserable."

He stewed on that, but not for too long. He craned his neck back to look at her again. "Why didn't I just marry you, huh?"

Mandy smiled and squeezed his face with one hand. "Baby, you couldn't handle this."

He grinned back. "You're right."

"Go get some sleep, Quentin. And before you decide anything with that hottie neighbor, I want to meet her."

"Mandy—"

"I mean it. You're not as tough as you think, hun. Trust me. If she's gonna cause you pain I'm not letting that happen."

"You take such good care of me."

"Of course I do. I take care of all my boys." She concluded their chat by kissing his temple then pushing him upright again. "My old man's giving you the eye, Quentin. I better go over there and calm him down."

"Be good, Mandy."

"He hasn't complained yet," she replied immediately, eyes on Bishop as she stood on her spiked-heel boots and worked that tight denim-clad ass across the floor. As soon as she was in grabbing distance, Dead Men's president had her in his arms, laying a possessive kiss on her that everyone in the room could read loud and clear.

Quentin was smiling. The true love she had for Bishop was something to be admired.

Envied.

He cringed, taking another deep pull on the bottle. He didn't want an old lady. Been there, tried it, got the fucking scars to prove it. No thank you. Ink your initials on a piece of ass and she owned you. He was not interested in that.

Not to say he wasn't interested in taking a taste of Aunt Arielle. She was attractive, not what he was used to. Exotic, really. Not around solely for sexual service to the club.

That was unnerving, now that he thought of it. Shit. He might have to actually try with her...

Bishop still had his old lady in his arms. They had their foreheads resting against each other, Bishop was talking and Mandy was grinning at him, her hands slowly circling his shoulders. Damn. A woman that into her man… it must be really… nice.

The morning of his birthday Calvin woke Arielle up by jumping on her bed. "Auntie Arielle! It's my birthday!" His excitement made her grin. Calvin never got this animated. He was acting like a kid, and she loved it.

"I know, Peanut," she groaned, sitting up and grabbing him around the ribs, tickling him. "What does the nine-year-old want for breakfast?"

"Bacon."

"And?"

"Eggs."

"And?"

"Toast."

"And?"

"Please?" he concluded, giggling as she tickled him. He could have gotten away, he just didn't want to.

"Okay. Go watch TV, I'll be right out."

"Okay!" he bounded out of her room, and she took a moment to catch her breath. She felt really tired this morning. But a fancy breakfast was absolutely imperative, especially for a birthday.

It was ten o'clock, which meant he waited to wake her up. He had likely been reading in bed since about 6:00 AM. It gave her a little pang to realize he was worried about her. He was so courteous. Calvin even tried to help with breakfast dishes, but she reminded him that birthday boys didn't do dishes. So he happily parked in front of the TV while she cleaned up.

By noon they were both showered, dressed, and she was taking Calvin to the afternoon matinee of some classic science-fiction movie he wanted to see. She was tucking her wallet into her purse when there was a knock on the door, and Calvin answered for her as she slid her feet into flip flop sandals.

"Um, Auntie Arielle?"

She looked up at Calvin's careful question, and her heart leapt up into her throat.

Clark Davidson.

Hewas standing on her stoop, that was the first cause for panic. Then she took a moment to realize he was beaten. Both eyes were healing from bruises, blood pooling in his orbital sockets. His nose looked…different, as well. It had been broken, most definitely. She just stared, mouth hanging open, suddenly and guiltily, admitting to herself she definitely owed her neighbor a supper. And hot dogs seemed like not quite enough.