The Sweet Under His Skin

by Portia Gray

  "Yeah. But you keep calling me Charlie."

  Quentin couldn't help but smile. "Sorry, kid. You just look like a Charlie to me. Get the lead out and pick your drink, man."

  "I don't know what I want."

  "Why not?"

  "I don't get to drink pop too much."

  Quentin raised his eyebrows. What the hell kind of upbringing was this kid having? "You ever tried root beer?" Calvin shook his head. "Try it. Your mind will be blown," he muttered wryly. Calvin looked at him, chewed it over, and grabbed a plastic bottle of Hires. "Good choice. Let's go."

  Quentin had been in his garage when the kid walked home from school, slowing down while crossing Quentin's driveway, staring inside and not watching where he was going in that totally absorbed way that only kids had. Then he'd watched the little bastard walk down to the street every five minutes looking both ways and waiting a minute before going back up to his aunt's house.

  Clearly she wasn't home yet and the kid was locked out. After about five of these sad little excursions Quentin finally dropped his tools and asked the kid if he wanted to get a soda or something. He was going to drive Quentin nuts if the aunt didn't show up soon.

  He didn't know if Calvin had never had the‘strangers’talk or what, but the kid just shrugged and said "Okay" so agreeably Quentin was taken aback. So here they were, buying soda and walking back down the street to their houses. Quentin cracked open his soda, trying to remember the last time he'd had this shit without booze in it, swallowed a mouthful and struggled to find something to say. He was shit with kids. And this one was an odd one. So damn quiet. Weren't they supposed to be loud and as annoying as fuck?

  Turns out he had no reason to worry. Couple gulps of root beer and the kid opened right up. "Are you building a motorcycle?"

  Quentin nodded. "I am. An old one."

  "Why? You already have a motorcycle."

  "I do," he replied. "But I like them. Why have one when you can have two?" He had the same edict when it came to women too.

  Calvin looked up at him, dead serious. "But you can only ride one at a time."

  Fuck. Outwitted on logic by a kid. "You got me there, Calvin. I never thought of that."

  The kid shrugged. "I guess a back-up is smart."

  "Yeah, a back-up."

  "Can you show me how they work?"

  Now he was really surprised. "What?"

  "Motorcycles. I already know how combustion engines work. I like how you can see all the parts on a motorcycle, too. In a car they're hidden. But you can see the guts of a motorcycle. It's cool."

  "You know how engines work, hey?"

  "Yeah. I learned on the internet. But if I help you I can see how it all works together. If you'll show me," the last part was added shyly because Quentin had stopped walking and was staring at the kid, wondering what the hell was happening. "You don't have to," Calvin said, starting to walk again.

  "Hey, hey, kid. Why you running? It's okay. You can help me. I'll show you how to put a bike together, sure." He felt ridiculous, intimidated by fifty pounds of awkward child. "If your aunt says it's okay," he added with a finger jab in the kid's shoulder.

  The kid puckered his face. "She'll say no."

  "That kind always says no," Quentin muttered.

  "What?"

  "Nothing. Come on, let's keep walking. Maybe your aunt's home by now."

  Calvin did as told, downing a good portion of root beer before letting go with an impressive belch. He covered his mouth and giggled, the most kid-like thing Quentin had ever seen him do.

  "Nice one, Charlie—Calvin," he drawled when the kid opened his mouth to correct him. Shit, the kid was actually making him laugh.

  The aunt was home, all right. Sitting on the porch, clenched in a ball of stress and worry. She darted to her feet and descended on the kid like a dark-haired, long-limbed momma bear as soon as she saw him. "Calvin, thank God. Where have you been?"

  "We went to the store," the kid said, letting himself be hugged and petted and fawned over. Clearly he was used to it.

  "I was worried sick," she said, crouching in front of him. "I told you, if you get home before I do, read on the patio and wait for me. Right?"

  He nodded, then burped again. It made Quentin chuckle and the aunt grabbed the nearly-empty bottle. "I told you about soda, Calvin."

  "Yes, Aunt Arielle."

  "The door's open. Now go inside and I'll talk to…our neighbor."

  "His name's Quentin," Calvin said, scooting around her and heading for the door. "Thanks for the soda, Quentin!" He called out before flying through the front door.

  Bayle-green eyes hit him like a shot to the gut; she was so pissed he felt the look stab him in the center of his eyes. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

  Quentin took a step back, reminding himself that getting in the face of a civilian didn't help anything. "He was waiting, pacing up and down the driveway looking for you. It was driving me nuts. We just walked down to the store. Unclench, sweetheart."

  Her jaw set and her eyes flashed. "Excuse me? You don't take people's kids and walk them to the store. And for your information, he can't have pop because he'll be up all night!"

  "He's a kid, it's not a school night. So what?"

  The blood was rising in her face and she was getting plenty worked up. The abstract part of his brain found it pretty fucking hot, actually. "I am not taking parenting advice from you. But if you must know, if he can't sleep I can't sleep and I have work to do in the morning. I need him agreeable and rested when he comes with me, okay?"

  Quentin shrugged. "What’re you telling me for then? I thought I'd keep him entertained, that's it. Who doesn't let their kid drink fucking soda? How was I supposed to know that?" Okay, Calvin sort of told him that. But whatever. "Thought I was helping. Don't worry, you won't get another favor from me again. I promise, babe. Okay?"

  She turned and stomped away, and he of course noticed her ass in the workout pants she had on. Her ass looked great when the rest of her was mad.

  Arielle loaded the bucket full of cleaners into her trunk, sighing. Cleaning other people's houses on a Saturday really didn't make her want to rush home and clean her own. One small house and a one-bedroom condo done and she was wiped.

  Calvin had been perfectly well-behaved. He finished two books that day. It was a good thing she took him by the library before they started work. Arielle was a bit worried at his choices though. One was a text book from a technical college about automotive engines, another was about the history of motorcycles in America, and he even grabbed Robert Pirsig's Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry Into Values.

  She had picked up the last one at the check-out desk, turning it over. "Peanut, I don't think this is what you think it is."

  He just shrugged and insisted on getting it. She wasn't entirely sure if he'd grasp the concept, but she wasn't going to stunt him. As for the other books, mechanical knowledge could be handy; what did she know? She couldn't even change an air filter in her car.

  Arielle scrubbed, dusted, vacuumed, polished and buffed all day. Calvin found a quiet place out of the way to read. It worked a treat, really, thankfully. She couldn't afford daycare. If she had to pay for that too she'd just stay home and hope the money would last.

  Calvin helped carry her stuff to the car without complaint. When they climbed in to drive home he finally spoke. "Um, Aunt Arielle?"

  "Yeah, Peanut?"

  "Would it be okay if Quentin showed me how to put together his motorcycle?"

  She was about to put the car in gear, but she froze first. "What?" She had to look at him to confirm she wasn't imagining it.

  "I want to see how to put a motorcycle together, and he's building one."

  "Why the sudden interest in motorcycles, Peanut?" Arielle hoped she sounded curious and not horrified.

  "They're cool. And you can see all the parts to them. In cars and stuff it's all tucked away inside. But you can see it all on a motorcycle." He eagerly pulle
d open one of his books. "I know how engines work. I know what all the parts are for. I just want to see how they all go together."

  She looked at his sandy-haired head, bent over the pages, flipping through to what he wanted to show her. She was so fucking torn. Her only hope was that this neighbor would be horrified at the thought of teaching an eight-year-old how motorcycles work.

  "See? This is a 1954 Harley Davidson Super Glide. That's the bike that Quentin's putting together. Isn't it cool, Aunt Arielle?" His eyes were wide and she had never in her life seen him excited about anything.

  "I don't know, Peanut," she said, pushing his hair off his forehead. "I doubt Quentin wants an eight-year-old hanging out with him."

  Calvin shook his head. "He said I could help, but only if it was okay with you."

  Ouch. Double, no, triple—ouch. And yet, it showed respect at the same time.

  Arielle bit her lip. "You really want to fix a dirty old motorcycle?"

  Calvin shook his head so emphatically it moved the car. "Yes, Aunt Arielle. I do, I really do. Can I? Please?"

  She exhaled slowly, those big blue eyes actually lit with excitement. "I have to talk to him first, okay?"

  Calvin huffed, unimpressed. "He said you were the kind that always said no."

  She frowned. "What?"

  He pushed his glasses up and faced forward. "He said people like you always said no."

  She closed her eyes, shaking her head and venturing a guess as to what the biker next door had actually been implying. "I just need to set rules, Peanut. If he can't promise me he'll take care of you I don't want you over there. Okay?"

  Calvin's eyes were big again as he turned them on her. "Really?"

  Arielle couldn't help but smile. "I've never seen you eager to do anything before, Peanut. It kind of makes me happy."

  Calvin grinned. "I just think motorcycles are cool."

  "I know, they are. But they're a responsibility, too. You have to be careful when riding them. But…if you know how they work, maybe when you're old enough you'll have a lot of respect for them."

  Calvin nodded. "I really want to do this this summer, Aunt Arielle."

  She smiled down at him. "Don't forget, you'll also be visiting Great Aunt Thelma."

  "I know. But that's only a week, or less, right? Then we're back here?"

  Arielle nodded, then turned back to the steering wheel. "You bet, Peanut."

  As soon as they were back at the house, pulling into the driveway, she noted that Quentin's garage door was up again. Calvin noticed, too.

  "See Aunt Arielle? He's working on the bike!"

  "Okay, Peanut. Just calm down a bit, okay? I have to talk to him first, remember?"

  "Okay. But Aunt Arielle, I really really want to do this." He was begging her not to mess it up. She had hoped that wouldn't kick in until he was sixteen.

  "I know, Peanut. But there's gotta be rules. You get that, right?"

  Calvin nodded and opened the car door. Because he never got excited she'd also never seen him disappointed before. It stung. Calvin had never asked her for anything. He didn't expect much, actually. He was as far from spoiled as most kids in this part of town.

  "Unload all the stuff for me, okay? I'll go talk to…" she took a deep breath. "Quentin."

  "Thank you Aunt Arielle!" he squealed, hugging her around the waist before taking her keys to open the back door.

  As she made her way up the neighbor's driveway rock 'n' roll music of a decidedly older decade greeted her, and she heard the metallic clang of a dropped tool. As the door she heard his voice cut through a Clapton guitar solo.

  "…Come on, you bitch. Don't be that way." She heard him snarling from where he was crouched on the far side of a hunk of metal.

  "Um…hello?"

  Another tool was dropped as he scooted to his feet as though startled. Not that it really showed on his face. He just took her in during the course of one long, meandering body scan that made her skin... tingle. Honestly, those eyes were so piercing she felt like they could see right through her clothes. And it was making her secretly squirm.

  "Yeah?" he asked, unaffected.

  "Calvin wants to help you build a motorcycle."

  With the ease of a cat he braced his hands on the frame to lean over a bit. "Yeah."

  "Do you really want his help?"

  He blinked once. "Why not?"

  "If you just said it off-hand, tell me now. If in a week you're going to be tired of him hanging around, tell me now. Because he's the most excited I've ever seen him. He got three books about motors at the library today—well, two books about motors. And if you decide you don't want him around it's going to absolutely crush him. So if you can't see yourself hanging out with that boy this summer you have to let me know right now. Before he's any more invested in this idea than he already is."

  He cranked his lower jaw hard to one side. "I said he could help. He's quiet. He's not a punk."

  She took a step closer. "Like I said, if you brush him off it will kill him. You've got to be serious about this because Calvin takes everything seriously."

  He nodded. "I get you, Aunt Arielle. Sometimes I might have to leave town for a few days without warning, but if I'm not working or on the road I'm putting this bitch together. If he's here to help, great."

  She felt her back get straighter. "Good. But I have a few rules."

  He rubbed his forehead roughly. "Of course you do."

  Arielle ignored that and she was doing her best to ignore those dimples that kept appearing every time he smiled at her. Which was a lot. Almost like she amused him. "I know it's hard not to curse. But let's not get too creative or specific, okay? Can you try and stick to the basics?"

  He raised an eyebrow. "The basics?" he grinned.

  "He's heard the usual words before, knows not to use them. I'm more worried about the words he might not know yet that…men like to use for slang."

  One side of Quentin's mouth curled in a smile. "Man slang, hey?"

  "Yeah. Second, I don't want him in your house. For any reason. It's nothing personal, I mean, the state of your garden, you know, uh… I just don't know what's in there, okay. Backyard and garage are fine, but no going in the house."

  He sniffed, still half-smiling. "Okay."

  "And just remember that he's eight. Well, soon he'll be nine, but he's impressionable. He thinks motorcycles are cool, he probably thinks you and your friends are cool, just…take it seriously when you talk to him, okay? He's social circle is small, which means now you're a big part of it."

  The smile was gone by the time she finished. He was nodding, studying the floor. Then he looked up at her. "I've been around kids a few times before. It's not magic to me, sweetheart. Tell him he can come over whenever he wants, as long as it's okay with you." She nodded, turned to leave, then faced him again.

  "Calvin said you told him he could only help if he had my permission." He nodded. "Thank you for that, by the way."

  Then she was off down the driveway again, not feeling too much better about the situation but at least confident that her scary neighbor maybe actually liked Calvin. Even just a little bit.

  "Sorry this part is so boring, Charlie," Quentin muttered, the last bolt finally easing up on the bitch act and letting go. "But we've got to get all this shit off the bike before the frame can be sandblasted."

  "I know," Calvin said agreeably, perched on a milk crate with a paperback in his hand. Jesus, this kid was ridiculously easy-going.

  "What you reading?"

  "I thought it was about motorcycle maintenance. But it's not."

  "What is it?"

  "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance," came the casual reply.

  "What?"

  "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. It's written by," he flipped the cover over, "Robert Persig."

  "Not sure how zen factors into motorcycles, kid."

  "It's more of a manifesto, I think."

  "A what?"

  But the kid w
as reading to him now, and Quentin stopped, hands on hips to listen. "’The place to improve the world is first in one's own heart and head and hands, and then work outward from there’." Calvin looked up at him, sliding glasses back up his nose. "You're a mechanic, you work with your hands?"

  Quentin was still trying to figure out what kind of fucking eight-year-old tossed around a word like‘manifesto’. "Yeah, kid. I'm a mechanic."

  Calvin nodded as though this pleased him, then went back to reading.

  Quentin felt his eyebrows rise, then he shook his head. "So, what else do you do for fun, kid? You play any sports or anything?"

  "No," Calvin didn't seem sad about this. "I always get picked last in school. And that stuff is really expensive. I don't want to worry Aunt Arielle."

  Quentin couldn't help himself, and the kid started it, so…"What's your Aunt Arielle do?"

  "She's cleaning houses so she can get the bathroom fixed." Just like a kid to explain everything without really saying anything.

  "She seems kinda…smart to be cleaning houses. What's up with that?"

  "She's sick."

  Quentin waited for more detail, but nothing was being added. The kid was immersed in that book. "Sick how? Like, a flu?"

  "Cancer."

  Quentin felt the ground actually move under his feet. "She's got cancer?"

  "Yeah. They fired her from her job because she was going to have to leave anyway, to be sick. But she has to have the mold removed from the bathroom."

  "No she doesn't," Quentin quipped. "It's not her house. Her landlord has to deal with that shit."

  Calvin shook his head, looking up again and sniffing. "He said she had to pay the people. He was buying the supplies."

  Quentin felt his vision go red for just a second. He knew that landlord was a piece of shit slumlord. And he was making this broad pay labour on his fucking property.

  "That ain't right," he muttered, turning back to the frame, frowning.

  "She's not going to make enough before she has to go to the hospital for an operation," Calvin shared. "She thinks it'll be about five grand. She's only saved enough for us to live on while she gets better. So she has to have more than she does. But it won't be enough."