The Sweet Under His Skin

by Portia Gray

  He parked his bike, yanked his keys from the ignition and started up to his front door when a sniffle caught him off guard. Calvin was on his stoop, his shirt ripped at the collar, dirtied up, blood at his nose and broken glasses clenched in his hands.

  Quentin had to blink for a moment, affirm that was what he was seeing, then take in the kid's face. He'd been crying, you could see the tracks down his cheeks. His hands were clenched tight, and he looked…fucking furious, actually.

  Quentin paused, scanning the area for a moment, but it was just the two of them. Calvin looked up at him and his lower lip quivered.

  "Calvin, man. What happened?" He asked gently, not wanting to push or make the kid uncomfortable. He plopped his weight on a stair next to him, elbows on knees. Calvin didn't answer. "Are you hurt?" Still silence. Quentin sighed, scratching his head. "At least tell me if I'm getting warmer, colder, buddy. How bad are you hurt?"

  "Not bad," Calvin finally whimpered.

  "Who did this?"

  "I don't know."

  "You dunno as you didn't recognize him or you dunno because you didn't see him?"

  "I didn't recognize them."

  Quentin's jaw cracked he bit down so hard. "Them?"

  "These guys were across the street. Three of them."

  Quentin's hands tightened into fists. "What'd they look like?"

  "They weren't as old as you or Aunt Arielle, but they were older than me. They were all in jeans and T-shirts. They had tattoos on their arms. I was just sitting here waiting for you."

  Quentin's vision flashed red and he rubbed his eyes to calm down. "Where's Aunt Arielle?"

  "She's been sleeping. I didn't want to wake her up. Or scare her."

  "Buddy, I'm so sorry. You sure you're not hurt?"

  "They broke my glasses. On purpose. These are expensive, Q. Aunt Arielle worked so hard to get them specially made for me."

  Quentin put his hand on the kid's narrow back, rubbing back and forth. "Hey, you don't have to worry about that kind of thing. We'll get you new glasses. As long as you're okay."

  "No one's ever hit me in the face before."

  Quentin pulled his face around to him by the chin, and Calvin struggled a bit like he didn't want Quentin to see him upset. Yet, he'd waited here for him.

  "Calvin?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Are you good at remembering phone numbers?"

  "Yeah."

  Quentin believed that. The kid was a breathing sponge. "I'm going to give you my cell number, okay? The next time you see these fucks, you head inside, head to the backyard, wherever you think you'll be safe, and call me. All right?"

  Calvin nodded. "I didn't want them to know where I really lived. I'm sorry, Q." His little face crumpled up first, then his body did the same thing and somehow he ended up tucked into Quentin's side, under his arm, in a ball of knobby knees and skinny arms. Quentin froze for a split second, then decided fuck it. He wrapped his arm around Calvin's shoulder, giving him a tight squeeze.

  "You did the right thing, man. You did good."

  "I'm scared to tell Aunt Arielle."

  "I know, buddy. But she has to know. You know how much she loves you."

  Calvin nodded. "She's going to be so worried. She won't let me out of the house."

  Quentin snorted at that. "You're probably right. Just make sure I'm here if you're out front, yeah?"

  "Okay, Q."

  "Let's go tell Aunt Arielle. I'll stand right next to you, okay?"

  After a slight hesitation Calvin nodded, getting to his feet. Quentin did the same with a groan, and to his surprise Calvin took his hand as they walked down his driveway and up to Arielle's stoop.

  Calvin opened the screen as Arielle swung the inner door open. "Calvin, why'd you let me sleep so long?"

  Quentin was struck mute for a second, mostly because he hadn't seen her in a week. And he'd fucking missed her. Her hair was in a dishevelled ponytail, pillow creases on her cheeks, still in flannel pants and a sweatshirt and she looked absolutely…fucking beautiful.

  Then Arielle saw Calvin's face. "Oh my God, what happened?"

  Calvin's mouth, eyes and cheeks scrunched up again, so Quentin played interpreter. "I came home and he was at my door. Said three kids roughed him up. He's mostly upset his glasses got broke, I don't think he's too terribly hurt."

  Arielle heard his words but she knelt in front of Calvin, taking his face in her hands. "Peanut, why didn't you come tell me?"

  Calvin swallowed, tears in his eyes. "They weren't just bullies, Aunt Arielle. They were bad guys. I didn't want them to know where you and I lived."

  Arielle took a deep breath and hugged her nephew tight, eyes going up to Quentin's. She was scared, seconds away from panicking.

  "I told him to call me if he sees them again. He's gonna memorize my cell number."

  She frowned. "I don't want trouble, Quentin. I should be calling the police."

  "Don't do that, babe. Trust me, that will bring trouble."

  "Quentin—"

  "Look, I'm already onto these guys. Have been for almost two weeks. Roughing up a kid is the least they could do. Sweetheart, where you're living now, the cops only come to one out of three calls. We have a way of dealing with this kind of thing."

  Her eyes never left his face, and when he was done talking he had to force himself to swallow. Christ, he'd actually missed her and been worried about her even more than he thought.

  "Okay," she surprised him. He was taken aback with how quickly she listened to him, placing her trust with him. "Were these kids that did this?"

  "No," Calvin whispered.

  Before she could go off again Quentin was talking. "They're about twenty, I'd say. Saw them the other night, knew what they were up to, and the club's looking into it."

  "What are they up to?" she asked pointedly.

  "I think they're dealing."

  "And beating up nine-year-olds," she said.

  Quentin had no answer, but he felt the anger rise again. "I'll make them pay for that."

  Arielle held his eyes, and he realized he absolutely loved the way they flashed when she was pissed. "Make them hurt for this."

  Chapter Ten

  Arielle stood staring at her reflection in the mirror of her en-suite bathroom, just out of the shower. Her hair was stuck to her skin, wet and dripping. She shoved it back over her left shoulder, making herself stare at the scar.

  She'd done this every morning the past three days, once she'd felt like taking a shower wasn't going to do her any damage. She still wasn't up for shampooing her hair, she basically let it get wet, tied it up in a towel then knotted it on the back of her head once it was half-dry. She was making herself face the scars and get used to not doing her hair all at the same time.

  The right breast had one tumor removed, and currently sported a small cut that needed only three stitches, on the outside swell. When she pressed her hand over it she could feel that something had been taken out, something was missing, but maybe over time the pocket left behind would fill.

  The left was the horror show. She knew it looked awful right now, it was healing and red but the swelling had gone down. She had no signs of infection. But her chest was half-gone. Taking a deep breath she covered the sliced and stitched skin with one hand, looking herself in the eye. She was tearing up.

  They'd give you pain killers, antibiotics and tell you to keep the site clean. But no one told you what to do when you were freaking out about losing a piece of your body. She squeezed both eyes shut, reminding herself it had been just over a week now. She wasn't ready to accept it yet, but that didn't have to mean she wouldn't eventually. And who knew? Maybe some rich bastard would fall in love with her, marry her and buy her a new boob. Why not?

  There was a timid knock at the door, and she flicked the bathroom fan off to hear. "Yeah?" she asked, knowing it was Calvin.

  "Aunt Arielle? Can you come out for a minute?"

  "How come?" She cringed to think he might have spilled
something terribly messy. She didn't have the energy to clean up.

  "Um…Q's here. He wants to talk to you."

  "Shit," she whispered, but shouted back, "Okay, Peanut. Give me a minute."

  She did the hair turban-towel thing, dried off, dressed in a sweatshirt and flannel pants and decided that putting in an effort was going to send him the wrong idea. Better to see the reality and break his interest in her, assuming it even still existed. She just hoped her edict for Quentin to hurt the guys that pushed Calvin around didn't come across as a request of her friendship, but from Calvin's instead.

  Quentin was in her hallway, the condemned bathroom door open, light on, staring up at the ceiling while nodding. "Yeah, man. I see it. It's disgusting. We gotta take care of this. Go pack a bag for a few nights away from home, 'kay buddy?" Calvin was in the hall next to him, staring up at Quentin and adjusting his taped-together glasses.

  "What?" she asked, thinking she'd heard that wrong.

  Quentin brought his eyes down from the bathroom ceiling to her, and she wondered again at how impossibly blue they were. Then she reminded herself his eye color mattered very little in the grand scheme of her life. "Mold remediation guys are here tomorrow, they'll tear all this shit out. Make sure it's done safe, so it doesn't get that shit all over the house."

  Arielle's anger climbed slightly. "I didn't call a mold remedial—whatever you just said, team."

  "No, I had a friend do it. He builds houses, knows the right people. They're fitting your project in as a favor to him. Which is a favor to me, I guess."

  "Which means somehow now I owe you for this," she finished.

  He grinned. "I guess it does, babe. What a fucking shame."

  "I can't leave the house. I can't afford to be in a hotel for a week while this gets done."

  "More like three days. But don't worry about it. You and Calvin are staying at my house."

  She sucked in a surprised breath. "We certainly are not."

  He had the nerve to laugh at her. "Relax, babe. I'm not gonna be there anyway. Tomorrow night I gotta do an overnight run, they'll likely be done by the time I get back. I'll stay at the clubhouse in the meantime. You won't even see me." All logical, kind, and practical solutions. Dammit. He could tell she was struggling to find an argument. "Don't worry. I hid the guns, knives, bodies, even the sex swing. The kid'll never find them."

  She shot a panicked look to Calvin but he was gone, already packing, apparently. "Listen, this is an incredibly generous offer, but—"

  Quentin stood very close to her, dropping his voice low enough for only her to hear. "If this shit growing in the walls is poison, that's kinda scary. The only reason I'm offering my place is so that this all feels like no big deal to Calvin. He's still in this area, my house is almost exactly the same, the only thing it's missing is Aunt Arielle. And you're close enough to see what's going on over there without having to pack him up in a car and drive over here."

  Tingles and a colossal belly-whoosh on that. Great. "I…I don't know what to say."

  "You say 'Thank you, Quentin, you're a gentleman and a kind soul. I wish more men were made like you. Also, you're a hell of a kisser and so fucking handsome, built like a Greek God, I don't know how I'll live next to you without throwing myself at you every day.'"

  He was laughing and she shoved his chest, breaking into a smile despite her need to keep distance from him. "Stop that," she muttered.

  "What?"

  "Being almost…charming."

  "Honestly, babe, I don't know how to turn it off." She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "Come take a look at the house. If it freaks you out, stay anywhere you want. I just think this is easier."

  "Okay," she agreed, "okay."

  "And just keep an open mind about the sex swing, that's all I ask."

  "Stop it," she repeated, with a wide grin.

  "Come on, take a look with me." He was staring at her so casually, his posture so relaxed she wasn't looking at the leather or the patches for once. She just saw the kind guy living next door.

  "Okay," she relented, fighting the need to laugh anyway. "Lead the way."

  Down her driveway, up his, hair still in a towel and her pyjamas on display but he didn't even seem to notice she was a walking slob. She'd been as far as his front door before, now he was opening it and ushering her in ahead of him.

  It was the same as her place, just with a reversed layout. Whereas her living room was to the right of the entry, his veered left with the kitchen beyond. Bedrooms down the hall on the right. Even the flooring appeared to be the same, but his was…better cared for, actually.

  Arielle didn't know what she'd been expecting, but it wasn't this. Sure, the furniture had been well-loved. There was no kind of decoration anywhere, which smacked of bachelor pad, but it was…clean. Tidy. Not a lot of stuff crammed into shelves or corners. Mail, newspapers, photos; nothing that gave any insight into the man standing behind her.

  "So, this is the…sitting room." He shrugged. "Whatever the fuck you call it. Kitchen is at the back. My bathroom is not growing toxic shit, so you can take a bath if you prefer." Arielle nearly cried at that. She did want to take a bath. Very much so. He caught whatever her face did right then. "Hey, I know girls like their baths." He said it like it was ludicrous, which made her laugh and not cry. "I swear this place is clean, nothing crazy happens here. This really is the place I go when I want quiet, babe. And I've never had an overnight guest here, either." He raised his eyebrows so Arielle would catch his meaning.

  She did. Loud and clear. "Okay," she replied quickly, not needing him to spell it out.

  "Two bedrooms. Just like your place. Spare room is just a fold-out sofa but the kid's young enough it won't break his back."

  "I can't pay you back for this."

  His face got serious, very serious in a way she didn't think she'd seen before. "Who said you had to, Arielle?"

  She took a shuddering breath, not sure what his angle was, what he wanted or expected. And she knew he wouldn't say it now. It would come later. She knew this would cost her something. But she just nodded. "Okay. It's not like I have a lot of options."

  "Don't give me that shit. I'm doing something nice. See it for what it is. Say thank you."

  "Thank you," she whispered, surprised to be ashamed by her reaction. And the fact he just spoke to her like that. And he was right.

  "Pack the stuff you want to bring here. I'll carry it over for you. If you want food in the fridge, let me know and I'll—"

  "No, no," she cut him off. "Thelma stocked us up before she left."

  "Okay." Head tilt in the general direction of her place. "Calvin can help me bring it over here."

  He was still standing close. Still looking down on her like he had been this whole time, but when he wasn't talking it made her squirm. He had a limited concept of 'personal space'.

  "How're you doing?" he asked eventually, voice close and comfortable. Concerned.

  "I'm…I'm okay. It doesn't hurt as much anymore."

  "And how are youdoing, Arielle? I know it's only been a week but…you were pretty upset."

  An angry snap-back was on the tip of her tongue, but the soft expression on his face and all the ways he'd been helping her made her stop. "I'm going to be okay. I need to get used to it. I didn't know it was going to be so drastic. They made that decision in the operating room. I only found out when I woke up."

  He reared back a bit on a softly hissed "Jesus." It made tears spring up in her eyes again. "Arielle, I'm sorry." Initially she'd hoped the revelation of her surgery would be too much information, too fast, making him back off. But he was invested, for whatever reason, and now she was the one that didn't know how the hell to handle it. "Hey," he whispered as her face crumpled, pulling her against his chest and into his arms. "It's all right, babe. You get through this, you're gonna have a beautiful life, I know it."

  Quentin's words, however sweet they might have been, barely registered because she was crying so hard
. His hands rubbed her back in comforting circles, so much so it wasn't even unpleasant to have her face mashed against his leather.

  "Ahem. Maybe I should…come back another time?"

  She felt Quentin's entire body stiffen, and she took the chance to pull away, wiping her eyes and looking up at him. His face had gone slightly arctic, and she stepped out of his embrace at the sight of it. Sniffling, she turned to face whoever was standing at the open front door.

  It was no one she recognized, but the leather vest he wore was certainly familiar. He wasn't tall but seemed imposing anyway, maybe it was his solid, stocky build. Maybe the steely gaze he had on her. Maybe it was because he was grinning at her like he was considering eating her for lunch. It wasn't a happy grin, it was a slightly terrifying grin. Then he turned that grin on Quentin.

  "Well introduce me, Quentin."

  Quentin cast his eyes her way, looking indifferent again. "Bishop, this is my neighbor, Arielle. Arielle, this is Bishop. He's president of the Dead Men Riders MC."

  "Oh," she said, manners kicking her voice into a false-friendly gear. "Nice to meet you."

  Bishop came forward at that, frowning almost comically. "I know that's a lie. But it's sweet of you to say."

  His hand mauled hers when he shook it, and his touch seemed wrong. She didn't know what it was but he instantly had her uneasy. Not realizing it, she edged away from him, closer to Quentin. Bishop's beady eyes caught the movement, and something shifted in his face and his gaze swung up to Quentin.

  "I can see why you're keeping this piece secret."

  "Ain't like that, Bishop. She's my neighbor."

  "This the neighbor you punched out a civilian for?" Arielle held her breath because something in the way he asked it implied a threat somehow. Arielle guessed Bishop didn't like Quentin punching people randomly. "Don't deny it," Bishop went on. "I heard about it. You think you can keep that kind of shit from me?" His eyes came back to Arielle. "Don't worry. I ain't mad. I feel you, brother." Arielle held the eye contact until Bishop slid his sunglasses on. "We're leaving soon. Get ready."

  "Give me twenty minutes," Quentin requested.

  "Twenty, huh?" Bishop looked her up and down. "Doesn't seem like long enough."