The Sweet Under His Skin (9 page)

"What are you doing here?" she snapped to hide her surprise.

Clark's eyes darted downward to Calvin then back to her. They looked enough alike that he probably assumed Calvin was hers. "I came over to apologize."

She waited, but that's all there was. "Okay," she returned slowly. "Not accepted."

Calvin looked up at her over his shoulder. "Is this the guy that hit you?"

Arielle was startled by the question, but her nephew was too smart not to have realized what happened, and who had done the damage in front of them. She ignored Calvin and looked back at Clark, waiting.

"Fair enough," he said, reaching into his back pocket.

Arielle tensed and yanked Calvin out of sight from the door, shoving him against the wall. It was an overreaction but she couldn't help it.

Clark froze, hand out. "No, no. I'm not here to…I brought you this." He found what he wanted from his back pocket and held it out towards her. It was a fat envelope.

She frowned, not reaching for it. "What is it?"

"Please. Just take it. Okay?"

"What is it?"

Clark tensed his jaw and looked irritated, lowering his chin to stay calm. "It's the ten grand, okay? Just take it."

"I don't want your money," she hissed, almost a whisper. "Are you insane? You think that makes it okay?"

Now Clark was a mixture of scared and confused. "Look, take it and make sure to tell your friend I gave it to you."

Arielle shook her head. "My friend? What the hell are you talking about?"

Clark bit his lip, then fought to keep his tone calm. "Don't fucking jerk me around, Arielle. Take this money and tell your friend to stay the fuck away from me."

It dawned on her so slowly she felt like smacking herself. Her friend who had done a little plastic surgery, that's what he meant.

Wait, Quentin told Clark to give her money?

"I don't know what he told you but I'm not taking payment for getting hit."

"Take the fucking money and call him off, dammit!" Clark roared. There was the rage she'd seen when he hit her, and it made her shrink back despite her anger.

"Easy, asshole." The voice was calm, odd, and she wouldn't have believed the effect it had on Clark Davidson if she hadn't seen it for herself.

The madman in her doorway turned to face the madman on her lawn. Quentin was calmly smoking a cigarette, his eyes were focused on her visitor in a way that she never wanted to see directed at her.

"Look, I brought her the cash—"

"Good. Took you long enough," Quentin cut him off, pinching his cigarette in the corner of his mouth and holding a hand out. "Let me see it."

At Quentin's voice Calvin moved to stand in front of her, and she clutched his shoulders to keep him inside the house. What the fuck was this maniac doing?

Clark descended her four concrete steps with the enthusiasm of a man walking the plank and slapped his apparent payment into Quentin's hand. Quentin was smiling, cigarette still hanging out, eyes on Clark as he opened the envelope. He only looked down to thumb through the contents. Apparently he liked what he saw. He nodded, taking the cigarette out from between his lips to say, "Good job, Clark."

"We're done here," Clark wanted verified. He looked over his shoulder at Arielle. "Right?"

"Eyes on me, asshole," Quentin snapped. Clark did as told. The envelope was poked into his chest. "Remember me when you think it's okay to hit anyone. 'Cause you pick the wrong person and you're gonna get it back worse. You got no game, Clark. You're gonna get your ass kicked every time."

Arielle could only watch as Clark Davidson straightened his back, clearly taking offence to that, but he was smart enough, or hurt enough, to just walk around the man dressed all in black with a serious-looking leather vest and not turn around. He climbed in his Audi and pulled away, eyes ahead the whole time.

Arielle couldn't piece this together. Had Quentin used her attack to blackmail Clark Davidson? Holy shit, that was all kinds of wrong. Her anger was piqued but she still bit her tongue as he crushed his smoke under his boot before sauntering up the steps to her open doorway.

"Here you go, babe," he said gently, envelope out. She could see, now that it was open, that it was stuffed with bills.

"What is that?"

He took a breath, looking at the envelope first then back up at her. "It's damages, sweetheart."

"I don't want his money. I don't want to be paid for what he did."

"It ain't payment. It's fair."

Words totally escaped her. "It's wrong," she insisted lamely.

He tilted his head, lowering the envelope. "Think of it this way. You stop cleaning people's houses, you take care of yourself, and get your fucking bathroom fixed. Okay?"

He shoved the envelope at her again and let go so abruptly she caught it strictly as a reflex. Then Quentin turned and trotted down her stoop, shouting a "See you at supper," as he made his way down her driveway.

Now she was really speechless. Keeping calm, she turned Calvin around to face her. "Calvin?" she said evenly, reminding herself it was his birthday.

"Yes?" He was intuitive, so he said it cautiously.

"What do you talk about over at Quentin's?" He furrowed his brow and bit his lip, looking totally busted. "Did you tell him I was sick? Did you tell him about the bathroom? Did you tell him I needed money?" He dropped his eyes when he nodded. Arielle closed her eyes and squeezed the envelope of hundred-dollar bills. "Calvin, that stuff is private."

"I know."

He sounded so upset about it she made herself exhale quietly and crouch in front of him, taking him by the arms and making him face her. "Peanut, I love you to death. I'm not mad at you. I'm glad you've got a new…friend and everything. But it embarrasses me that he thinks I can't take care of you."

Calvin's worried eyes met hers. "I'm sorry. He asked why you were cleaning houses, said you seemed too smart for that. I guess that's why I mentioned the bathroom, how you needed money to fix it because you had to save up for when you couldn't work... Because you were sick."

Arielle blinked a couple times. Well, explained that way it all made sense. Because when you ask an nine-year-old a question, they will give you the absolute truth if they have nothing to hide.

Quentin thought she was too smart to clean houses?

"Do you guys talk about me a lot?" She hoped like hell she didn't sound angry.

"He asks about you."

That was a confusing revelation. She didn't know if she liked that or not. No, she didn't. She certainly didn't like that. "Why?" she blurted out, to herself mostly. Calvin shrugged. She shook her head and stood, tossing the scary envelope of money onto her entertainment centre before ushering him out the door ahead of her. "Okay, buddy. We're going to miss that movie if we don't get a move on."

"Aunt Arielle?" he said softly while she locked the front door.

"Yeah, Peanut?"

"I'm sorry."

"Hey," she said playfully, taking his hand. "Birthday boys don't have to be sorry. Don't worry about it. Let's go watch a movie. It'll be fun."

His hair was wet from the shower, dripping water onto his back, and he was staring at the sad offerings of his closet wondering when in hell he got so stupid. A nine-year-old's birthday party. And he was worried about what to wear for fuck's sake.

Quentin yanked a dark-blue button down off a hanger, shrugging it on as he stalked down the hallway to his bathroom to run a towel over his hair again. He'd shaved. He'd put on fucking aftershave. Deodorant even, like this was the prom. Thank God he had a house of his own. Going through this at the clubhouse would really set the brother's bitch-tongues wagging. In the kitchen he paused by the bright red toolbox he had sitting on the scarred veneer table top, snagging one of those wrapping bows from beside it. Frowning, he unpeeled the paper from the back and fixed the sticky side to the top of the box. That was as much gift wrapping as the kid was getting.

Inside the tool box was a standard mechanics' wrench set. Nothing fancy, but it wasn't the Craftsman standard DIY shit either. They were heavy, chrome-plated like they meant it, mechanic-issue, and they weren't snapped in place in a plastic box. They came in a roll-up satchel. It was the real deal. He hoped the kid liked them.

Quentin pulled at his shirt front again, seriously wondering if it was okay to wear over to the neighbor's for supper, then checked himself with no one else around to hear him. "Seriously. What the fuck, man?"

His own voice made him feel better.
Just go over there, eat a fucking hot dog and leave.
Christ, he didn't have to write an exam.

Tool box in hand, he left the familiarity of his own house, strode down his driveway and started back up the neighbor's when a group across the street caught his eye. He counted five of them, all dressed in baggy jeans and undershirts. Tattoos showed on their arms but he wasn't close enough to see any detail. As he stopped to watch them, a car pulled to the curb, stopped while one leaned on the passenger window, handshakes were exchanged, then the car sped off again.

Quentin cranked his jaw down, wondering how the hell to play that shit out. He wasn't in his colors, didn't know who those assholes worked for, and would be outnumbered if he decided to explain why dealing on his street was a really fucking stupid idea. Plus, he was on his way to a birthday party. Wincing at how ridiculous that seemed, he pulled out his phone, flipped it open and set down the toolbox to send Bishop a text. He needed to use both hands.

Who's dealing in my hood? Handoff just went down in front of my place.

He closed the phone, shoved it back in his pocket and picked the toolbox up off the ground again, surveying over his shoulder as he continued on his way towards the neighbor's place. One guy saw him watching. Clearly new to the area. He gave a chin salute, then made a gun with his thumb and pointer, directing it Quentin's way.

Motherfucker—

Quentin was tensed and about to head across the street, numbers be damned, when a voice brought him back.

"Q? You came!"

He shot a wry smile at Calvin through the screen, climbing the steps and letting the kid open the door for him. "Of course, man. You think I'd miss your Bar Mitzvah?"

"Q, it's my birthday." The kid knew he was teasing, but he was still impulsive enough to react like Quentin meant it.

"Oh, right. Well I hope this gift still makes sense then," he muttered, holding the tool box out to Calvin.

The kid's eyes got huge behind his glasses. "That's for me?"

"Well I thought it was your birthday."

"It is!" he exclaimed, grabbing it away and spinning away with it through the living room. "Aunt Arielle! Q got me a present! It's heavy!"

"Be careful with it," Quentin heard Aunt Arielle answer as he followed the wake of nine-year-old-birthday-excitement through a small cramped living room and into an incredibly bright, overheated and great-smelling kitchen.

The neighbor was at the counter, cutting a hot dog bun open over a butcher block board before adding it to a piled-high stack on a plate. He had a moment to appreciate her legs in cut-off shorts again as she crossed to the fridge, grabbing a tub of mayo, bent over so her pert ass was on display, cheeks bottoms showing just a bit. She had no idea how high those shorts were riding up, he'd bet good money on it.

Arielle turned her face his way, and he caught something flicker across her expression before she gave him a plastered-on smile. "Hi, Quentin," she said, like she was uncomfortable with his name.

She didn't like him, it was obvious. That's what had crossed her beautiful, flawless face right then. And after seeing the proof he'd beaten that asshole into giving her money he can't say he completely blamed her. Still, he could play nice.

"Aunt Arielle," he returned, sugar-sweet. No woman had been immune to that selected tone. "You need help?"

She shook her head, crossing back to the counter. "No, I've got everything almost ready. If you want to find a seat on the deck I'll be bringing everything out soon."

He nodded, passing through the kitchen and heading out the back door. Calvin was at the patio table, the tool box still not opened but he was staring at it and turning it around in front of him, trying to figure out what was inside. Clearly he wasn't allowed to open gifts until after dinner.

"How's your birthday so far, bud?" he asked, plopping down into a seat as he realized there was someone else out there with them; an older broad, long hair that was black and silver, rolling dogs on the grill. At the sound of his voice she had turned, giving him an honest smile.

He stood, good manners coming back from some long-forgotten part of his past, returning the smile and offering his hand. "I'm Quentin. I live next door."

The woman took a few steps to shake his hand and was about to reply but Calvin was talking now. "Q's putting together a 1954 Harley Davidson Super Glide and he's showing me how they work."

The woman's eyes got wide as she smiled wider at Calvin then turned that smile on Quentin full-force, too. "That's awfully nice of him," she told Calvin as she took Quentin's hand. "I'm Thelma. I'm Arielle's aunt."

Quentin gave his best incredulous look. "Nah, I call bullshit on that."

Her smile slipped. "I'm sorry?"

"Sisters, maybe. Not an aunt. No fucking way."

She realized the con and gave a knowing smile, shaking a finger. "Very good, sir. I nearly believed it."

He barked a laugh and sat down as the returned to the barbecue. He set his elbow on the table, leaning forward towards Calvin. "What'd you do today, man?"

"Aunt Arielle made fancy breakfast for me and we went to a movie and then we had ice cream."

"Really? What's fancy breakfast?"

"Not oatmeal or cereal," Calvin answered logically. "We had bacon and eggs and toast. It was really good."

"What movie did you see?"

Calvin was explaining the ludicrous plot when Aunt Arielle carried a plate of buns and a bottle of ketchup out onto the deck. The manners were still coursing through him apparently, because he jumped up to take it all from her and set it down on the table. She didn't thank him, she just headed back inside to get more. He watched her leave while Calvin kept talking, rubbing his chin and once again appreciating those shorts.