by Portia Gray
Quentin and Flynn wordlessly sauntered to the clubhouse doors, thirst driving them through throngs of familiar faces and willing bodies. The prospect at the bar saw them coming and wisely set up whiskey shots without having to be asked. First one went back smooth, second one even better. Third one down and that annoying twitch in Quentin's neck lessened. Then he and Flynn surveyed the evening's distractions.
"How's that blonde, man?" Flynn asked.
Quentin knew which one he meant—she was newer, meaning she was the only one Flynn hadn't hit yet. He shrugged. "Nice tits. Bit of a stiff ass. Mouth is better than anything else."
"Good enough," Flynn grunted, heaving away from the bar and making his way to the blonde in question.
Quentin kept his recon going, looking for a particular girl to start the night off. There was lingering sweet tingling along his jaw, and he had to get rid of it before he lost his damn mind.
The black-haired bitch he wanted was occupied with a Nomad at the moment. The rules of hospitality dictated they had first crack as out of town guests.
He raised his eyebrows with disappointment, head tilted in defeat there and continued his search. When the door opened he felt himself stand up straighter, instantly hard behind his fly.
New meat, right off the fucking bus by the looks of her. Her skirt was short and denim, ripped at the bottom. Her tank top was tight, ripped a bit at the neck to show off her decent cleavage. It was her hair he noticed as she swept sunglasses off her face. Shit, her hair was chestnut-brown, glossy as hell and almost to her ass. Just like the sweet piece he had living next to him.
He downed one more shot and headed right to her. The club’s Queen tried to deflect him, seeing the look on his face.
"Quentin, take a breath. We don't know who that is," Mandy said.
"Does it matter?"
Mandy raised an eyebrow. "Use your brain, honey. Only head-cases walk in here on a Friday night. Alone."
Quentin was still staring. No one else had caught a whiff of her yet. "Fuck Mandy, give me a break. I won't kill her, and who better than me to show her the error of her ways? She'll learn. Tomorrow."
Mandy huffed. "Your funeral, Quentin. Just make sure she's out by morning."
"You got it, doll."
His obstacle gone he strode to her fast, eyes starting at her feet and riding up when she caught sight of him. She tossed her hair back, smiling at him with only half of that mouth. "Hey," she said breathily, not even intimidated by him. "Buy a girl a drink?"
He ran a hand over his mouth and down his chin, eyes on her chest. "I think I can do that. What you drinking, beautiful?"
She moved a half-step closer. "Whatever you're having is fine."
She may be fresh meat to Portus Felix but she certainly wasn't a stranger to this. He gave her another scan and jerked his head to the room. "Then come on in."
She trailed behind him through the crowd to the bar. He held up two fingers to the prospect who quickly grabbed another shot glass. Quentin leaned on the bar facing the girl, and she mirrored his posture, close enough that their knees were touching.
"What’re you doing here on a Friday night, babe?" Quentin asked, downing the whiskey and propping his head on his hand like he was dying to hear the answer. As he hoped she laughed and her chest shook with it.
"I was feeling…kinda sorry for myself," she said, setting her empty glass on the bar. "I've been trying to be a good girl lately."
"Is that right?"
"Yeah."
"That sucks."
"It does," she agreed, copying his overly familiar tone.
His dick kicked again as he realized she had ocean-blue eyes like his neighbor, just not quite as big and roundand… innocent. "You're terrible at the whole good-girl thing," he noted playfully.
"No, I'm not."
"Brutal."
She leaned closer, stepping into him. Half his brain wondered what the hell she was on, because she didn't look drunk yet. The other half of his brain was fixated on the additional skin he could see between her breasts. "It's not my fault. I keep running into people who are bad for me."
"You do, sweetheart," he said, done with the cutesy shit. He grabbed her wrist before she could set her hand on his chest. "You have any idea where you are right now?"
She smiled, not missing a beat despite his no bullshit face and cold tone. "I'm in your clubhouse," she said slowly. "We're having a drink. And then you're going to fuck me."
He worked his jaw, staring down the stranger and remembering Mandy's words for no reason. "We've got girls here that don't give us any trouble. Are you gonna be trouble, babe?"
She leaned closer to his ear, her breasts pressing against his arm, and he felt his eyes close. Fuck, they were real. "I'm only as much trouble as you want me to be."
Quentin guessed she was about two levels away from rock bottom. Sure she looked halfway put together, but clearly she was spiralling down. Like he gave a shit; these were the girls you could basically do whatever you'd like with.
"Let's go," he said, and her smile widened.
"Right behind you."
Like a good girl she followed him down the hall to the dorms, knowing her way around an MC clubhouse apparently. It should have made him nervous but it didn't.
In his room he flicked on the lights and locked them inside. When he turned to her he realized she was carrying a bottle of Jack. "Where the fuck did you get that?"
She took a swig, wide-eyed, and nodded to the door. "At the bar. It's almost empty, don't worry."
He tried to grab it from her but she playfully held it behind her back. She was being cute, but something in her face went hard when he was this close.
Quentin grabbed her by the back of the head. "Hand it the fuck over," he barked.
She flushed. He saw her cheeks actually get pink, and her lips parted so she could breathe. All right then; it was going to be this kind of evening. He yanked the bottle from her hand, took a mouthful, then sank to the edge of the bed. "Take off your clothes," he instructed roughly.
No hesitation; she swept the tank top off, unbuttoned the skirt and let it hit the floor at her ankles.
"All of it," he prompted, and she unhooked her bra, which fell straight to her feet as well. When she started pulling the panties off she turned around, giving him the ass view as she bent to work them all the way down, stepping out of them, giving him a flash of the view with parted legs.
He took another drink. Her legs were a little skinny for his taste, but the ass was plenty nice. Unfortunately from this angle he could see the track marks on the backs of her knees. When she turned around she became stock-still, awaiting his next instruction.
"Come here," he said before taking another drink, leaning back on his elbows. She approached him, completely confident in her nudity, reaching for his belt buckle. "On your knees," he snapped, and she complied, dropping to the floor between his feet before unbuckling the leather at his waist. From here he figured she didn't needing any more help from him. She bit her lip while working his pants open, reaching inside and finding him hard and ready.
"Wow," she whispered. "That's impressive."
"Not what I want your mouth doing," he instructed, and without another word her head dropped down as she wrapped those lips around his erection. He took another drink, eyebrows high as he realized she knew what she was doing. No problem with the deep-throating and the girl's tongue had skills, too.
Another drink and his eyes were closed, feeling the build-up. Her hand was working his balls, the suction just right. "Fuck," he muttered, "that's perfect." He came hard, back jerking, grunting, and opening his eyes with a laugh. "Damn," he was saying, then stopped when he noticed the room was swaying around him. "Wait. What the hell?"
"Something wrong, baby?" she was cooing, but he couldn't focus on her. He shook his head, blinked his eyes, and tried to see straight.
"What the fuck?" Even sluggish like this his brain had one moment of clarity. He looked at the bottle. "Wha
t the fuck did you do, bitch?"
She was still between his knees, wiping her bottom lip. She just grinned as his head got too heavy and hit the mattress, the world slowly fading to black.
Chapter Three
Arielle was woken rudely by loud pounding on her front door. She figured it was a drunk local and waited for them to realize they were at the wrong house. Then she considered Calvin being startled awake this late and she got to her feet groggily, and half-stumbled to the front door to see what the hell was going on.
She flicked the porch light into action, grabbing the cordless phone off the entertainment centre at the same time in case she had to call the cops. Then she peered out the peep hole.
And immediately considered going back to bed.
"Arielle? Fuck you, Arielle. I know you're in there, you turned the light on."
Shit. She groaned, fighting back the urge to drop to the floor and kick her feet in a tantrum. That's what she felt like doing, and being considerably older than six didn't make her feel any different about her sister showing up in the middle of the night with what was likely to be a tsunami of drama trailing after her.
How the hell did she know they even moved?
Arielle took a deep breath, set the phone back on its charger, and flipped the dead bolts over, figuring it wouldn't do to wake the local wildlife and draw any attention to herself. Jolene thrust herself against the door, apparently Arielle was taking too long, and swung around, locking the door behind herself.
"Thanks, Sis," Jolene whispered.
"Oh, now you remember the eight-year-old in the house?" Arielle whispered back. She flicked the foyer light on, wanting to make sure Jolene wasn't entirely fucked-up. She seemed steady, but she still dressed like a slut. Her skirt was short enough to show ass cheek—which it was—and her shirt was ripped down the front so far Arielle could see the mole she had right between her breasts. "Jolene, what do you want?"
"I took a cab to your old place. Some guy told me where you'd moved to."
Arielle sighed. Small town. She already knew how it happened; Jolene showed up at the old condo just as politely as she had here, woken up some poor resident who had informed her where she could find her sister.
"Then you took a cab here? Do you need cab fare? Because we're kinda tight for cash Jolene—"
"I know, I know. Don't worry little sister." Her sister's eyes were too wide and bright as she dug in her bag, breathless with excitement. "I'm here to help. Look."
She pulled out a black, well-creased wallet and flipped it open. "I hit the mother-load. Look at this." Arielle felt her stomach sink as Jolene pulled out a heavy wad of bills. "Look at this! How much do you think this is? Looks like about two-grand to me!"
Arielle watched her sister lick her lips as she regarded the handful of money. She was so excited her pupils were wide…too wide.
"Shit Jolene, what are you on?"
Her head jerked up, contrite. "What? What’d you mean?"
"Your eyes, Jolene. You're spun right out. What did you spend some of that money on?"
Jolene licked her lips again. "Just a little something. I needed it. I was on a fucking bus all day!"
"What did you take?"
Jolene sighed. "It was just a bit of coke. Nothing too serious."
"Pot isn't too serious. Cocaine is fucking serious, Jolene."
Jolene gave her a wide-eyed look of regret. This was the thing about her little sister; she wasn't just a horrible bitch when she was messed-up. She was easily agreeable, self-deprecating and apologetic to a fault. Arielle knew it was an act, part of her manipulative personality, but right then Arielle was too tired to stay strong. She was always tired these days.
"Look, just…tell me whomever you stole this wallet from is far, far away."
"Oh, don't worry. When he wakes up it'll take hours before he knows it's gone."
Arielle rubbed her face. "Shit. Tell me you stole it while he was in the bathroom?"
Jolene looked at her feet. "Just a little Dramamine in some J.D."
Arielle groaned. "Fuck! I hope this was just some regular guy you conned into a motel room tryst, Jolene. If this was someone scary like last time—"
Jolene shook her head. "No, I swear it. This guy sold…fucking, hot tubs. I can't remember. He wouldn't shut up about them."
Jolene was a terrible liar but Arielle didn't have energy for an argument. "Extra blankets and pillows should be in one of these boxes somewhere. Sleep on the couch, and keep it down. Calvin will be up early for cartoons, so…expect to be a sad sack in the morning."
"Okay." Jolene grabbed her in a big, warm, booze-smelling hug. "Thank you, Arielle!"
"Just go to sleep." With that she left her sister in the living room and stumbled back to the waiting comfort of her bed.
"Auntie Arielle?" the voice was cautiously polite. "Auntie Arielle? It's nine o'clock."
She opened one eye, smiling at the sight of Calvin in his pyjamas, standing next to the bed, hands resting on the mattress as he looked at her with curiosity. "What's up, Peanut?"
"You better come. Mom's making breakfast."
Arielle sighed, closing her eyes and willing herself to just pass out for a week. She'd managed to forget about her sister while sleeping. It had been glorious.
"Okay," she grumbled. "I'm getting up. Go watch TV."
She'd always lectured on the dangers of Calvin using the stove without supervision. The truth was she'd trust him to operate the gas range before Jolene.
At least she couldn't smell any burning as she yawned and stumbled to the living room. Calvin was nestled in some blankets on the couch, immersed in cartoons. She pattered into the kitchen, taking note of the mess all over the countertops. She hadn't unpacked all the kitchen wares yet, so boxes were partially unpacked, anything Jolene didn't need were discarded wherever it fell or was set down.
"What are you making?" she asked, setting herself down in a chair at the kitchen table, yawning yet again.
Jolene smiled at her brightly, flour on her cheek. "Pancakes. I found your pajama pants in a box while I was looking for pillows. Hope it's okay."
Arielle hadn't even noticed that Jolene's denim skank skirt was gone. "It's better," she assured her sister. "Calvin doesn't need the birds and the bees talk early, just because he got an eyeful of where he came from." Jolene just laughed, flipping the pancakes she had in the skillet. "Did you actually sleep?"
Her sister didn't look at her as she shrugged one shoulder. "I guess. A little."
Arielle shook her head, crossing her arms on the table and letting her head fall forward onto them. "Christ, I'm so exhausted."
"I know Arielle. That's why I'm here! I'm helping."
Arielle had to admit that breakfast smelled awesome. She dragged her sad ass off the chair and set the table, getting the butter and syrup, dishes and flatware while Jolene prattled on about all the fantastic things she'd seen and where she'd been the last three months.
Breakfast was served at the kitchen table, with Jolene asking Calvin all the polite questions an aunt would ask when visiting. It was a strange demographic, but it worked for them for whatever reason. Calvin helped load the dishwasher, and Jolene sat staring at him while Arielle brought two mugs of coffee to the table for them. Jolene was shaking her head as she took a sip.
"He's so awesome, Arielle. He's so smart!"
Calvin could hear her of course, but he just sniffed and pushed his glasses up his nose, his ears turning a bit red.
"He is smart," Arielle confirmed. "Teachers all say he's the brightest in the class. Right, Peanut?"
"Yes, Aunt Arielle."
"I'm so sorry you're sick, Arielle." Jolene said quietly. "It…it should be me getting sick."
Part of the manipulative personality again, but Arielle wasn't playing into that. "We have no say over this stuff," she said. "I just wish I didn't lose all of mom and dad's money fighting for custody," she said it quiet, but Calvin was smart enough to know what they were talking abo
ut.
Jolene set her coffee down. "I wouldn't take his money, Arielle." Arielle just scoffed. "I wouldn't," Jolene hissed through clenched teeth.
"You'll steal it from strangers but not your son? That does makes you a good person."
Jolene fell silent, her lower jaw thrust to the side to show she was pissed. Now we were getting to the ugly truth; the fact that Jolene was still half-gone and the addiction was very much in control.
"You know what?" The ugly side finally spat out. "You win. Sit here and feel fucking sorry for yourself. Play‘mommy martyr’and collect all those fucking sainthood points. But don't you ever imply I don't care."
"You don't," Arielle said back.
"Fuck you, Arielle."
Arielle got to her feet. "Get out."
Jolene looked shocked. "What?"
"Get out of this house."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
"You never mean anything. You show up here at three in the morning, wake up your son, show a handful of stolen money at me and expect it to make anything better? You're not welcome here until you're straight, Jolene. I can't have you in here with…stolen property and controlled substances. You need to leave." She saw tired, and overly cranky, but she meant every word. This was as close to an intervention as her sister was going to get.
Jolene's eyes welled up, ready to play for the sympathy. Arielle had seen it too many times. "I'm sorry, Arielle," she whispered, standing slowly like she'd just been beaten. "I'll go."
Calvin had quietly slipped out of the room to watch TV, and Jolene left much the same way. Arielle's heart was pounding hard and her blood was roaring; but it never lasted long. She felt the exhaustion again and had to sit down, calming herself with even breaths. She didn't have energy to waste this way, not in the morning anyway.
When Jolene returned with her bag she put a pile of money on the table. "At least take this, okay? Put it in an emergency fund or something."
Arielle eyed up the money. It was all different denominations, crumpled. She didn't want to know who Jolene got it from. And she certainly didn't want it on the table she ate her meals on.