The Sweet Under His Skin

by Portia Gray

  "I punched him," Calvin said softly, still looking down while pushing his glasses back up. "I made his nose bleed."

  She took his chin in her hand and made him look at her. "You punched a boy at school?"

  "Yes."

  "Calvin, why? Because he called you a nerd?"

  "And other things," he snapped back, which he usually did when he knew he was in trouble.

  "What other things?"

  "Aunt Arielle—"

  "What was so bad? Tell me why you felt justified in hitting that boy."

  "He called me a nerd. And a…pussy. And a fag." He knew the last two were terrible words so he said them very quietly. "He said he could hurt me. He said he'd kill me."

  Arielle's eyebrows went up. "He said that?"

  Calvin sniffed and finally looked her in the eye. "Yes."

  "I'm calling his mother," she insisted, pushing the covers off her legs.

  "No, you can't. She's gone. He lives with his dad and his dad is…not a nice guy."

  Arielle stilled. "Honey, his dad might not know he's raising a little asshole."

  Calvin sighed. "Yes he does. Because he's just like his dad. He's proud of him. His dad was there."

  "What?"

  "It was after school. Grady pushed me, called me names then went to get in his dad's truck. I could hear his dad laughing. I knew he wouldn't get in trouble. So I pulled him back and punched him. But Miss Whitman was there, and she grabbed me and gave me heck."

  Arielle could feel her blood boiling. "This kid's father thought that was funny?" Calvin nodded, sniffing. "What did Grady's dad do when you hit him?"

  Calvin bit his lip. "He called me a pussy."

  "Who called you that?"

  They both looked up, and Quentin was leaning on the door jamb looking dangerously curious. Arielle's tummy sank and she smoothed her hand over Calvin's hair, pulling him in for a hug. "Calvin got in a fight at school," Arielle said pointedly, hoping the look on her face indicated she did not need help from him and nobody needed to be roughed up or killed. "I'll take care of it."

  "You can't fight at school, Chuckles."

  "I got this, Quentin," she repeated. "I'll call the teacher, find out what happened."

  "What's this kid's name?" Christ, it was like she wasn't talking.

  Arielle was opening her mouth to answer but Calvin rushed ahead of her. "Grady Proudlock. His dad's a jerk and he's a bully. They both called me that word."

  Quentin's brows came together. "The kid's dad said it, too?"

  "Shit," Arielle breathed, knowing the situation was no longer under her control.

  "Yeah," Calvin said overtop of her. "So I punched Grady."

  Quentin did the worst thing possible then. He laughed. "You punched the kid? He punch you back?"

  "No, the teacher yanked me back onto the school grounds to give me heck."

  Arielle was getting up during this and crossing her arms. "Quentin, this isn't funny," she declared low and even. "He can't just hit people when they call him names."

  Quentin dropped the smile. "You're absolutely right. Chuckles, shame on you. I had higher expectations of you," he smirked.

  Arielle shook her head. "Don't make jokes about this."

  He held his hands out. "No jokes, you're right. You shouldn't hit people. Unless they've really got it coming."

  She put her hand over his mouth. "Stop talking. This is something I will handle, okay?"

  Quentin pulled her hand down by the wrist. "Only if you're talking to the teacher. If you need to talk to this little asshole's dad, I'm handling it."

  She sighed. "Quentin—"

  "Nope," he cut her off genially. "No bartering on this. You talk to the teacher. If that doesn't work, lemme know."

  "But Quentin—"

  "Arielle, you can try to convince me all you want. I invite you to get as creative as possible. But you're not talking to that kid's dad. He's clearly a prick." She felt her face redden at his 'creative' comment. It made him laugh. "Come on. The chef’s almost got your supper done. You need to eat, remember? It smells good."

  "Fine," she muttered, arms crossed, striding past him with a pissy-look that made him grin more. Then she heard whispering and turned back in time to see Quentin fist-bump Calvin, both of them grinning like idiots. Quentin realized they were caught first. He lost the smile, straightened up, hooked his thumbs on his belt and shook his head.

  "Disappointed in you, Chuckles." Calvin was still grinning as he darted past her down the hallway.

  "Please don't undermine me like that," she whispered as he approached, cracking a smile again that made her resolve slip just a little.

  "You're right, I'm sorry. I'm shocked he hit someone. And he shouldn't. He's too small. He's gonna get his ass kicked."

  "He shouldn't hit people because it's wrong," she corrected.

  "Like when I hit Clark Davidson?" She bit her lip. "Like us taking care of the guys that roughed up Calvin?" he added very softly. "Cavemen can't be reasoned with. If this guy's dad turns out to be a banker you can talk to him. But something tells me he's the senior asshole." He was probably right. Dammit.

  "Okay," she agreed. "You can talk to the dad if this teacher can't help."

  "Damn straight," he said, kissing her cheek. "Let's get you fed now. Give me shit later, okay? It's great foreplay."

  "So that wasn't Reuben?" Colton's voice was confused enough for the whole group.

  Quentin's head was spinning. For the second time that day the Dead Men were called back to the clubhouse for another meeting. Quentin had left Arielle and Calvin watching a movie with T-bone to haul ass back to the clubhouse on Bishop’s command.

  Henderson's revelation about the slumlord set off a hell of an investigation that Gage was still conducting, having picked it up again after making supper for Arielle and getting a call from some young thing working at the town office that was sweet on him.

  Tarquin Hamilton was described as a huge Mexican fucker. In Shanksville they said he said he was a regular-looking white guy. And at land titles they said they talked to a midget. All answering to the name Tarquin Hamilton.

  "This is such a pain in the ass," Quentin grumbled. “He’s hiding behind lots of faces. A fucking ghost.”

  "It's brilliant though," Dillon admitted. "Different fucker to each department, different towns. No corroborating witnesses if one gets pinched."

  "They all gotta be in on it, though. They're not just the face of Reuben. He's giving them all a cut because they're fronting the properties," Colton reminded them.

  "So we gotta find those properties," Quentin concluded.

  Gage was nodding, tossing down a pile of printed pages. "These are all the properties owned by Tarquin Hamilton. Some of them just have regular renters right now. But the five on top all are on an order to make improvements by local health boards. Three in Portus Felix, two in Shanksville."

  "Disrupting their supply chain would make me happy," Bishop quipped with a grin. The guys chuckled their agreement. "Tonight we hit the Portus Felix properties," Bishop went on. "Tomorrow night, the two in Shanksville. All of us at once, I don't wanna be caught outnumbered."

  Everyone was nodding, including Quentin. He felt a violent urge rising, and making a mess of a few meth cookers would likely feel pretty damn good.

  "Not you, Quentin," Bishop said over the noise in the room. "You stay home with your girl. Take care of her. Mandy seems to think you're good for her." That brought out a lot of knowing laughs.

  "Bishop, come on—" he began but the president silenced him.

  "You can protect her better than the prospect. You'll just be worrying about her the whole time anyway." He didn't like it, but the prez had spoken.

  "Never thought I'd see the day Quentin didn't want to spend the evening in bed with a broad," Flynn smirked.

  "And tell her thanks for finally putting out. Made you a much more agreeable bastard," Dillon had to add his two cents.

  "Fuck all of you," Quentin mutter
ed, scratching his eyebrow. He didn't like being left out. He really hated it.

  "It's okay," Dillon assured him with a shot on the arm, voice serious now. "We'll take these cooks out. Flush out Reuben, whoever the fuck he may be, get your girl free and clear. Yeah?"

  "I know," he answered as everyone else was getting to their feet. "I just want to be the one doing it."

  "She'd rather have you doing her," Dillon said, standing as well. "Look, she needs her rest, and she'll rest better with you around. As long as you leave her alone long enough to sleep. "Yeah, like he needed more to feel guilty about.

  "Bishop," Quentin said quietly, snagging his president by the arm as they left the clubhouse. “I can come. This won't take long."

  Bishop leveled his eyes on Quentin and spoke quietly. "I know, Quentin. But this is about someone watching out for your girl. And you're the best one for it. If we didn't get Reuben that means he's out there. And he might know where she lives if that sister of hers can be believed."

  Quentin nodded. "Yeah. You're right. Okay."

  Bishop winked. "Part of being a man; taking care of your woman."

  "I know, Dad," Quentin drawled back, smiling. "Have fun with the meth labs. I'll be somewhere much sweeter."

  Bishop cackled and gave him a shot in the arm. "Get to it then, asshole."

  He ignored most of the inappropriate comments that followed him out of the clubhouse and across the lot. Climbing on his bike he was still somewhat chafed to be left out, but as he rode through the twilight on his way 'home' he had to admit it he could be headed for places much worse.

  He pulled into Arielle's driveway, parked and let himself in the front door. He sent T-bone on his way back to the clubhouse and opened the front door with what he was beginning to think of as his key. When two dark heads turned his way he felt a curse on the tip of his tongue.

  The sister was here. Fucking great.

  "Hey," Arielle said warmly, getting up and heading to him. She wrapped him up in a hug and having her welcome him 'home' was the best way to forget his annoyance about the junkie sister.

  "Hey, babe," he returned, breathing deep while giving her a tight squeeze. Yep, calmer just from her.

  "They let Jolene out," she said. "She came here. Thelma's coming to get her tomorrow and she'll stay out there."

  Quentin nodded, rubbing circles on her back. "That's a good idea. These guys don't know about Thelma?"

  Jolene was shaking her head. "No, not at all."

  "Okay," he relented. Then his attention was all on his girl again. "How you feeling?"

  Arielle smiled. "Sleepy. I was waiting for you to get here."

  He grinned back, all warm and gushy in the span of thirty seconds. "Babe," was all he said and she gave him a soft peck on the lips.

  "Calvin went to bed an hour ago. Jolene's got the couch."

  "Where am I sleeping then?" he whispered into her ear directly, giving it a nip.

  She laughed—a throaty, husky sound—took his hand and pulled him behind her. "Good night, Jolene," Arielle sang out softly.

  Jolene turned up the volume on the TV one notch. "’Night, and try and not be too loud, please."

  Quentin shut the bedroom door, eyes on Arielle as she turned on the lamp next to the bed and pulled the blinds shut over the window. He shrugged his kutte off, unbuttoned his shirt and set them both on her dresser. She sat on the edge of her bed watching him, face unreadable.

  "What're you thinking?" he asked, sitting next to her and leaning over to pull off his boots.

  "I don't know," she said, reaching up and sliding off the wig.

  He liked the wig. He really did. That rock-girl cut was hot and suited her perfectly. She set it on the foam head, biting her lip and rubbing her scalp. Boots now off, he stared at the foam head for a split second before picking it up and carrying it to the bathroom, setting it on the counter and then shutting the bathroom door on it.

  Arielle looked perplexed. He shrugged it off. "It was looking at me." He sat next to her, reached out and ran his arm around her shoulders.

  "When's the last time you killed someone?" she asked out of nowhere.

  That made him sit up straight and swallow. "What?"

  "The last time you killed someone. I want to know."

  He linked his hands in his lap. "Uh…the dealer that had Jolene. That's the last guy I killed. No, wait. The guys that were coming here together. We killed a few guys then."

  Her head swivelled to him rapidly. "What?"

  "Yeah. The guy that bought your sister. Me and Flynn made sure he was…done. And then the guys that were coming to town to get her we shot down all at once." She was battling something, he could see it in her face and her eyes. "What're you thinking, babe?" he asked softly, holding his breath along with her. Shit, he was way out in unchartered waters here.

  "I'm surprised that it was so recent. But I'm glad that it was someone…so horrible."

  "I'm not sorry. Especially for the guy that bought your sister. I hate that kind of shit. I mean, that's human trafficking in my book. I really hate that shit." Before he was done talking she was pulling him towards her by the arm, bring his face to hers and pressing her lips tight to his. He kept his hands to himself for all of ten seconds before cupping her face with both hands and teasing her tongue. Usually he was happy to plunder her mouth. This time he wanted to entice her to do it to him.

  She did. Shy Arielle was gone, hot and sexy Arielle was on shift and climbing onto him, straddling his lap and holding him by the shoulders. He let his hands run up her back under her T-shirt, soft skin even more lovely than the last time he'd touched it.

  "You killed the guy that did that to my sister," she whispered, hands running over his chest and upper back, lips hot as she kissed his neck and collarbone. "Why does that turn me on?"

  He responded by kissing her hard when her mouth came close again, hands tightening on her hips. She ground down hard on the fly of his jeans and he had to chuckle. "Jesus, babe," he muttered. "I'm happy to kill whoever you want if this is the result."

  She kissed him back, and when he pulled her T-shirt off over her head he was aware of her pressing tight to him, not letting him see all of her. He pulled back from her kiss, making eye contact and holding it with meaning.

  "Arielle, please let me look at you. I'm gonna see you eventually, baby girl."

  She trembled a bit, biting her lip. "It's so ugly."

  He shook his head. "Impossible, Arielle. Nothing about you can be anything but perfect."

  She shook her head now. "It's ugly."

  "Let me see," he repeated softly, kissing her gently. He could ease back and just look down, but it had to be on her terms.

  She took a deep breath, then leaned away from him, her weight shifting back to rest on his knees. He let his eyes run down her slender neck, down to her chest. He inhaled, he couldn't help it, eyes going up to her face. "Babe," he said, raising his hand to run over the scar tissue. He kept his touch light, and she gasped. His attention flew up to her face, and her eyes were closed. "Does it hurt?" he asked.

  "When you touch it, it feels good," she whispered.

  "Really?" She nodded. Quentin looked down at the torn skin and stretched tissue, wincing inwardly. He'd never seen so much scarring in such a fragile place. It made him tighten his jaw, wishing this was something he could beat someone up for. But he couldn't agree that it was ugly.

  It was part of her, and nothing about her was ugly to him.

  He looked back up and she was watching him closely, worried. Her lips were between her teeth, her brows pinched together. Watching her face he traced his fingertips over the scars lightly, and gradually her expression eased and her breath hitched. It made him smile. As he kept at it, she kissed him again, lips sweet on his. Slowly her arms slid around his shoulders, pressing her close to him. He wrapped his arms around her just as deliberately.

  Quite suddenly she was gone, the heat of her away from his chest and lap, and she was kneeling on the f
loor in front of him. She reached for his belt buckle and he caught her hands. "Arielle," he said, thumbs running over the backs of her hands.

  "Let me," she whispered back.

  "You don't have to do this."

  She rose up over his knees and kissed him again. "I haven't done this yet. And she has. I don't want my sister to have anything over me."

  Quentin frowned. "Arielle, your sister's got nothing on you. I swear."

  "Then let me because I want to."

  As he tried to find reasons to stop her she unbuckled his belt, got his fly open and was freeing him of all clothing. His only thought then was why the hell he'd been trying to talk her out of it.

  Let it feel good, he told himself as she lowered her head. Don't hold out like she's some crawler, making her work for it.

  Stupid pep talk. The second her lips slid around his head and her tongue slid over him he gripped the blankets on either side of him, eyes nearly rolling back. It wasn't technique, it was Arielle and he wouldn't have been able to hold back for anything.

  "Fuck, babe," was the only thing he could say, closing his eyes as she licked and sucked, hand helping the sensations along until he was biting his lip to remind himself to be quiet. When he came it was painfully perfect, fast, intense enough that his neck cracked. Once his eyes could focus again he caught her head in his heads, her smile up at him too much to take. "Get on your back, babe," he grumbled. "I'm going down on you until you pass out."

  And he tried his best to do just that.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  There was no warning.

  No creaking floorboards, no turn of a door knob, no sense that something was maybe amiss. Arielle was dead asleep, and the next thing she knew she was wide awake, heart pounding, blood-curdling screams coming from the living room that made it all happen as fast as a wink.

  Quentin was already up and moving, pulling on jeans and whispering "Stay here."

  "What's happening?" she whispered stupidly, rubbing her eyes and trying to stand up.

  "Arielle? Sweetheart?" Quentin pushed her back to the side of the bed. Jolene was still screaming and it was making the hairs on the back of her neck stand.