The Sweet Under His Skin (7 page)

"Can I help you?" Still had a few fucking manners, apparently.

"Clark Davidson." It wasn't meant to sound like a question, so it didn't.

"Yes?"

"Can I talk to you a second?" he asked for no good reason. He was already pushing the guy into his own house, hand right in the middle of his chest, slamming the door behind him.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Quentin didn't answer, casting his eyes around the ultra-white and bright, two-story entry way with a huge staircase curling up the left side. He gave a low whistle, his boot heels echoing on the stone floor. Might have been marble. What the fuck did he know from flooring?

"What do you want?"

Quentin answered with his own question. "You know Arielle Taylor?"

The first response were a few quick blinks. Then he found his mouth again. "Yes."

"You put your hands on her?"

The prick's eyes darted to a big arched doorway to his right, and Quentin didn't need a PhD to figure out that the guy's wife was home. "What?" Ass Clown asked, voice noticeably lower.

"You hit her?" Quentin took no such precaution with his volume.

The guy fish-mouthed, then finally found more words. "Look, I don't want any trouble, it just got a little out of hand—"

"Stop talking," Quentin advised.

"Look, whatever you want. I don't want any trouble. I'm sure we can reach an agreement."

Quentin raised his eyebrows as a new thought came to him. "Five grand."

Clark was surprised. "What?"

"Five-thousand fucking dollars. Or she tells your wife."

"I can't just give away five grand, my wife would notice that."

"Hell, maybe your wife would like a ride on my bike. She'd be glad to be shot of your weak ass I bet." More blinking, still not the answer Quentin wanted. "Ten then," Quentin suggested as though he was being agreeable.

Clark blinked exactly five times. "I don't have that kind of money just sitting around!"

"What do you do?"

"I-I'm an investment broker."

"And your wife?"

"She doesn't work."

"You got kids?"

"No."

Quentin titled his head. "No kids. No job. She has to suck your dick? That's her job? She hires people to clean this fucking house?"

"Please keep your voice down."

"Listen, you shit-heel peckerwood. Arielle needs the money. I don't care what you say, you're in a position to give it to her. So you will, and your wife won't find out. Got it?"

"I need time to put together that much cash."

"Get on it quick then, asshole. And you'll need to find another maid, because she ain't coming back here. And, make sure it’s a guy this time."

The guy was nodding, ridiculously agreeable. "Okay, okay. I'll get it. But how do I get it to you?"

"Don't give it to me, give it to her."

"What?"

"I know, that sounds bad. Look, just give it to her. And don't take your time, either."

The guy was resigned but pissed off. "All right."

"Oh, and one more thing."

"What's that?"

Quentin's right hook broke Clark Davidson's nose. His right jab caught his cheekbone, the rings giving it a little extra sting. The next right he made sure caught the guy's lip as he was about to fall, and he felt the silver on his fingers hit the guy's teeth. What a fucking great sound.

Clark Davidson hit the floor on his back, legs and arms pin-wheeling but failing to catch his weight very well. The blood hit his shirt instantly. Quentin saw his eyes well-up from the nose shot, and he covered his face with one hand while trying to get back up from a three-point stance, spitting blood out on the floor. A floor Arielle likely just finished cleaning.

Quentin’s dad beat his mom regularly. This was personal.

"Come on man, you wanted a fist fight. I'll let you get in a shot here and there. Have at 'er." Quentin pointed at his own chin.

Clark stared up at him like he was insane. "I don't want a fist fight," he snarled, angry now.

"You hit someone, you want a fight, asshole. If it's not the person you're hitting, it's someone on their behalf. If you don't want a fight, don't fucking hit people. Especially the ones way out of your league."

He let Clark stand up, but the bastard was laughing. "The maid? Arielle? Out of my league?"

The nose was gushing good. The lip was going to hurt a lot. He was going to have at least one black eye.
Fuck it, they might as well match
. Another good shot rocked him to the side but he didn't go down, just grunted.
Explain that all to the wife
.

"So far out of your league you don't get to say her name," he said very low and cold, calm. That was his scary voice and he knew it was effective one-hundred percent of the time. Clark Davidson finally got wise and buttoned his lip. "Ten grand. You don't have to see me again."

There was an angry stare-down, then a woman's voice cut through all the heavy breathing in the entry. "Is Arielle okay?"

Quentin's head came up to take in the tanned, yoga-toned blonde leaning against the entry, arms crossed, not even looking at her husband. Yeah, she heard all of it.

"She will be," he assured her, sensing the woman liked Arielle. That bode well for her.

She nodded, then Quentin turned for the door, shouting out "147 Bramley Road," as he left, making sure that door slammed behind him.

As he pulled back into his drive the neighbor was on her stoop, curled up with her arms wrapped around her knees, the kid nowhere to be seen. As he swung off the bike she got to her feet and strode towardshim, keeping the fence at arm’s length between them.

"What did you do?" she nearly whispered. She still hadn't even changed her cute little top; that ripped strap was fucking gutting him. At least the lip had stopped bleeding.

"Don't worry about it. He'll think twice before touching another woman ever again."

"I didn't ask you to do anything. Did you hit him?"

Quentin set his jaw, looking down at his helmet in his hands. That was when he noticed his knuckles were a bit scuffed-up. He hadn't even felt it. "Yeah. I fucking hit him. And I'd do it again."

When he looked up at those blue-green eyes he couldn't tell what she was thinking about him. Then she really shocked his shit before heading back into her house.

"Thank you," she said softly as she turned away.

Chapter Six

Arielle stored the Rocky Road ice cream at the back of the freezer and carried the birthday cake down into the basement. She meant to hide it in the small fridge that was only holding a few bottles of beer at the moment. Luckily Calvin was scared of the basement so she knew he wouldn't find the cake she picked up as a surprise for his birthday the following day. It was going to be way too much cake. None of the classmates invited to his birthday party were coming.

Talk about a whammy of mortification. Sure, it was July and summer break and usually the parents who could take their kids somewhere for R&R planned to leave as soon as the report cards were handed out. By now most of those families were out of town.

But not all of them, and that really pissed Arielle off. Then, with even deeper sadness, she remembered that Calvin never brought home a single birthday party invitation. She didn't know if he wasn't invited or if he didn't bring it home just because he didn't want to go. Still. Turning nine with Aunt Arielle and Aunt Thelma as the only guests at your party was pretty sad. At least she'd managed to find a motorcycle cake. She was sure he was going to love it.

She climbed the stairs to the kitchen again, noticing how out-of-breath she was from the effort. Arielle took a moment to sit a spell, knowing this exhaustion was another symptom. Two more days until surgery. Luckily she had this birthday supper to distract her from the approaching event that had her terrified stupid.

Calvin was reading outside again. Their frightening neighbor was gone so he was bored, had been for a few days now. Arielle felt relief every day that passed without that bike returning to the driveway but Calvin was clearly missing him.

Her cheekbone had swelled. It was still yellowed from the burst blood vessels. But her lip was healed now. And she was still furious about what happened. Not at Quentin attacking Clark Davidson. She was angry that she hadn't been able to do it herself.

When she'd confronted him on the driveway she's noticed his hands. He wore a lot of rings, and they would certainly hurt. But his knuckles had also been cut and bleeding, and she hoped it was because Clark Davidson had lost a few teeth. As much as the thought pleased her, it still made her nervous that Quentin had gone off on the guy like a guard dog. She didn't know what that meant. She didn't know the guy. Defending Calvin would have made sense. They were becoming‘bestest buddies’, after all. But her? She couldn't get rid of the fear she'd owe him one somewhere down the line.

And owing Quentin Bayle something, made her uneasy.

Arielle had only seen him twice since that day, which was about three weeks ago. The first time was the day after that incident. Calvin had been‘helping’Quentin that afternoon, and he had knocked on her screen door, didn't try to enter the house, just asked through the open screen if it would be "cool if Calvin had a root beer."

The second time was when he left on whatever excursion he was currently on. She was helping Calvin carry his library books to the car the day after school finished to turn them in for new ones, and Quentin was packing the bags on his bike.

The strangest thing happened. She watched Calvin interact with a friend.

"Where you headed buddy?" came Quentin's call.

Calvin smiled, bounding to the fence. "To the library."

"Yeah? They got Playboy there?"

Arielle cringed. Calvin tilted his head. "What's that?"

"Jesus Christ, Charlie. Sure you're a boy?"

"Yeah."

Quentin had laughed at that, standing next to his bike, hands on his hips. "Read me another one, buddy."

Calvin flipped open the paperback on top of his pile of library books and read aloud from a page.
"’The test of the machine is the satisfaction it gives you. There isn't any other test. If the machine produces tranquility it's right. If it disturbs you it's wrong until either the machine or your mind is changed’."

Arielle had been watching
Quentin’s face while Calvin read to him. He got very still, his smile faded a little bit, and Arielle would swear on a stack of bibles that he was not only listening but absorbing. Then he held out a fist. "Right on, little man."

Calvin bumped fists with him. "Where are you going?"

"Business trip. Gone a few days."

"Bring me back a birthday present?"

"Calvin—" Arielle was about to intervene but Quentin was answering.

"Oh shit, you got a birthday coming up?" His tone indicated he was pretending to have forgotten.

Calvin tilted his head. "I only told you a hundred times."

"Sorry man, I'm getting old. My memory's pretty bad."

"Q—" Calvin's exasperation actually cracked him up and Quentin mussed Calvin's hair over the fence.

"I'm on it, Calvin. Don't worry."

"Be careful, Q."

"I will, little man," Quentin promised with a dying chuckle. "Thanks." Then his head came up and she assumed Quentin was looking at her, it was hard to tell behind the sunglasses. "See you later, Aunt Arielle."

She gave an uncomfortable wave as she murmured, "Bye..."

Arielle wasn't sure what the hell was in her head, but seeing Calvin interacting with an arguably adult male was…pleasant. Hopeful. Arielle completely forgot that he'd manhandled her sister and scared the crap out of her on more than one occasion. It didn't bother her that he swore a lot and was most likely involved in criminal activity. Or that his reaction to someone hurting her was to go back and hurt them worse. None of it mattered because…he was good to Calvin.

And she really liked that. She needed that in their lives.

Shaking herself back to the present, Arielle finished putting away the rest of the birthday groceries, hoping Calvin appreciated hot dogs and tater-tots for many more years. He was such a cheap kid to please. She was so proud of the present she and Aunt Thelma had both put in to get him, too. In light of his sudden love of motorcycles, Arielle had found a motorized bicycle built for kids. He could still ride it like a regular bike but it also had a small motor, a‘junior bike’if you would. There was no way she could afford a dirt bike, nor would she want him riding one. This was a happy compromise, and with Thelma's help it was safely hidden out at the farm for the time being. He was going to love it, she just knew it. She couldn't wait to see his face.

That night as she was preparing chicken and potatoes for supper Calvin was watching TV, quietly entertaining himself as was his way. At the sound of a motorcycle pulling into the drive one house over he leapt to his feet and was out the front door before she could say, "Calvin—supper's almost ready!"

She shook her head, straining the potatoes, head back to avoid the steam, transferred them to a bowl, then plopped a dollop of butter on top. As she was turning to set them on the table she jumped.

She hadn't heard Calvin come back inside, pulling Quentin by his hand. For his part, Quentin looked reluctant to follow, but he did anyway. It wouldn't be hard for him to get out of Calvin's grip.

"Aunt Arielle?"

"Yes, Calvin?" She tried to sound comfortable with the man in her house—particularly the man who she’d been having steamy hot dreams aboutrecently—giving Quentin what she hoped was a friendly, innocent smile.

"Is it okay if Q comes over for my birthday supper?"

Arielle started, and Quentin's head cranked down quick to look at the kid holding his hand. "Wait, Calvin, buddy—"

"You said I could invite friends from school," Calvin reminded her, cutting Quentin off. "I don't have any friends from school. Q's my only friend."