by Portia Gray
"Fuck," he muttered, wrench banging against a support for no reason other than the fact he was pissed. He looked back at the kid, perched on that crate with his scrawny legs crossed, chewing his lip as he read. Shit, he didn't care, Quentin told himself. You don't care, there's no reason to give a shit. And it was a lie. "When's her surgery?"
"Next week. I have to go stay with Aunt Thelma." His tone told Quentin exactly what he thought of this particular family member.
"What's wrong with Aunt Thelma?"
"She's weird. And loud."
Quentin laughed. "Charlie, you're sitting in the company of weird and loud right now."
"It's loud at her farm," Calvin complained, returning to his book. "She has seven roosters."
Quentin snorted at that. "That would be annoying. But you know Aunt Arielle just wants you somewhere safe so she can get better."
"I know," the kid was resigned to the fact. "I never said anything to Aunt Arielle. I don't want her to worry about me. Stress is not good for recovery from surgery."
Quentin studied the kid again, chewing his own lip now, too. Shit, this kid was smart and kind of funny and life was likely really going to suck for him. That was too bad.
"Listen, kid," he said, not sure how to word this or why he felt the need to even say it. "I know it likely scared you when you saw me giving your mom shit. And I'm sorry about that."
Calvin studied him thoughtfully before answering. "She stole from you. She does that. I thought you might hurt her, which made me mad. But I also hoped it might scare her enough to stop being how she is."
Quentin had never felt so young and yet old at the same time. The kid was some kind of walking sage. "Read me another one," Quentin asked, turning back to his project.
Calvin cleared his throat. "’In a car you're always in a compartment, and because you're used to it you don't realize that through that car window everything you see is just more TV. You're a passive observer and it is all moving by you boringly in a frame. On a cycle the frame is gone. You're completely in contact with it all. You're in the scene, not just watching it anymore, and the sense of presence is overwhelming’." Curious eyes came back to him again, and Quentin was struck not only bythe words but also by the kid’s earnest expression. Fuck, had he ever been this innocent?
"What's up, kid?" he asked, not sure what this face meant.
"Safety is an illusion," the kid said. "You think you're safer in a car compared to a motorcycle. But the truth is you're blinding yourself to what's really out there. So when you feel safe, you're actually just…numb. Placated. Like a farm animal. On a bike you're actually there, not just watching from a safe distance."
Quentin blinked a few times. "Calvin, you're freaking me out, dude."
Arielle was fighting to keep herself calm as she drove home. Her heart was racing, her cheekbone stung from being punched, and her lip was bleeding from the slap. Mostly, she was so shocked and upset she felt like she might hyperventilate.
Gwen Davidson's house guests were gone, so she'd called for the post-reunion clean up today. Glad to have the work and the tip Arielle had raced right over, even though it would mean she was late getting home. The fact that her nephew could stay at Quentin Bayle's when she was late getting home was a relief. And the fact that it was a relief made her uneasy.
Gwen Davidson wasn't there. Her husband Clark let Arielle in, his leering eyes and smarmy comments making her squeamish. But she set to cleaning the guests' quarters, kitchen and living area right away.
Clark Davidson followed her. Clark Davidson asked her if she did yoga since her yoga pants fit her so well. Clark Davidson tried to grab her ass and Arielle shoved him off, telling him it was inappropriate in her most diplomatic tone while choking on the urge to call him a dick and run away.
He'd grabbed her by the upper arms, and she struggled, ripping one of the straps of her top. She told him firmly to let her go, fighting free of his hands. This earned her the slap.
She'd been shocked. Her hand covered the sting he'd left her with, and he mistook her pause for some kind of permission. He grabbed her again, she scratched at him and pulled away. Then he'd punched her. Closed fist. To the cheekbone. It brought stars to her eyes, and she fell to the ground as the front door of the house opened. She left her supplies, only grabbed her bag, and ran to her car passed the very startled and concerned Gwen Davidson.
Now, through a haze of appalled shock, she found herself at home, not sure how she made it there and hoping she hadn't caused any accidents on the drive. She parked in the front of her driveway, staring up at the house, realizing she'd left her stuff behind, and lamenting that it would cost about two-hundred dollars to replace all of it.
Arielle let her forehead hit the steering wheel as she tried to steady her nerves. She didn't want Calvin to see her like this. Her hands were even shaking.
She was all alone and there was nothing she could do.
There was a knock on her window. She raised her head, not sure what she was expecting, but it certainly wasn't the gorgeous but deadly biker-next-door. Startled, she wiped her eyes, pulling her keys from the ignition and unbuckling her seatbelt. He pulled her door open, and she shied away from him, heart starting to race again.
"What the fuck happened to your face?" His tone was cold and angry.
She cringed, holding up a hand. "Please step back and give me some room to get out of my car."
He did, pulling the door the rest of the way open. She moved to keep her right cheek away from him, but the split lip was leaking down her chin and denying it was there wasn't an option.
"Arielle," he demanded again. "The fuck happened to your face?"
She closed her eyes, feeing that now familiar exhaustion rising. She just wanted a bath, but... shit. That bathroom was all broken and messed-up and she was scared to use it. The last thing she and Calvin needed was toxic mold.
"Arielle? You're bleeding, sweetheart. Who did this?" He also grabbed the ripped strap on her top.
She avoided his gaze, not sure how to answer nor why the hell he should care.
"Aunt Arielle? Are you okay?"
She turned her head to the back side of the car, realizing Calvin was there, watching. That's when Quentin hissed, bringing her attention back to him, knowing he saw her cheek.
He grabbed her chin, surprisingly gentle, turning her head back the way it had been. "Jesus Christ, who did this?"
She pulled free of his grasp. "A client. And it doesn't matter because I'm sure I'm fired now."
"Give me his name," he snapped.
"No," Arielle answered emphatically, slamming her car door closed, finding her backbone again. "Back to your side of the fence, Mister Bayle."
"Aunt Arielle—"
She held her hand out to Calvin, shushing him with the motion but feeling bad because he was only scared. For her. "It's fine, Calvin. You have nothing to worry about." Her eyes went back up to Quentin's, those icy blues sending a chill through her. "Go home," she asked. "This has nothing to do with you." He set his lower jaw to the side, an angry expression that made her re-examine her voice when she spoke again. "Please, I don't want trouble. I'm not going back."
"Then tell the cops," he said, following her to her front door.
"Come on, Calvin. Inside." She held her hand out to her nephew, shaking it. "Right now."
Quentin followed her. "Call the cops, Arielle. That shit ain't right."
Arielle pushed the door open, ushering Calvin inside, shutting the screen door and whirling on the scary man standing on the bottom step of her stoop. "Listen to me," she hissed, "this is none of your business, okay? I'm not going back. She paid me for this visit, I'll happily take the one-hundred dollar tip, and I won't go back because her husband's a creepy asshole. But that's how I'm handling it, it's my call, and you have no say. You're my neighbor. You're nice enough to let my nephew hang out when I'm running late, and I appreciate it. But this is mine, not yours."
"Men don't hit women," he snarle
d.
"I remember you handling my sister with such tender care right in front of my house," she snapped back. "Do not hand me that kind of hypocrisy."
"I never hit her. I gave her shit, I manhandled her, but I never did that," he returned with a gesture to her face. "I never tried to pull her clothes off, either. Was that what this was about? He wanted in your pants?"
"Just stay out of it—" she whispered desperately, cut off when he pulled her purse off her shoulder. "—Hey!" Quentin avoided her hands easily, turning away and going through her stuff. "Stop that," she hissed, following him down the steps. It was futile; he was big and scary. Her fight was sad, really.
"Clark and Gwendolyn Davidson. Fucking Portus Felix Heights, yeah." He turned, holding up the check. "This is them, right?"
Arielle clasped her hands, pleading. "Give me back my stuff."
He shook his head. "Nah. I don't think so, babe."
"Quentin—" she was cut off as her purse was shoved back into her stomach.
"Don't worry," he muttered, tucking the check into his pocket. "I'll make sure you get what you're owed. I promise."
The look in his eyes made her blood stop in her veins, her heart freezing mid-beat. Abstractly she was glad he wasn't pissed off at her, and at the same time she didn't want anyone else getting hurt.
"Ice, on your cheek. Do it. That bitch is gonna swell up," was the last thing he said over his shoulder as she stalked down her driveway and then back up on his own, on a mission.
She didn't wait to watch. She hustled back inside, cringing when his bike began to rumble. She peeked out the side window, only catching a glimpse of Quentin Bayle flying off down their street.
"Are you okay Aunt Arielle?"
She looked down on Calvin, who was staring up at her with obvious and grave concern. She dropped to her knees, wincing as his eyes noticed her ripped clothing, split lip and cheek. "Sweetie, I'm fine," she assured him. "I'm sorry if all that scared you."
"You're bleeding though," he insisted, close to tears.
She pulled him into her chest, cheek on top of his head. "Baby, I'm fine. I promise. There was a bad man, I got away from him, and he's never coming here."
"Is Quentin going to hurt him?"
Arielle wanted to strangle that bastard right then. "I don't know," she admitted, knowing it was no use lying to him. "I don't know."
His response all but cut her. "I hope he does."
The wind whipping across his face did nothing to cool Quentin's anger as his Dyna roared through the neighborhood he still didn't entirely think of as home. All he could see was that split lip he wanted to taste. That bruised cheek he would have loved to have touched. He couldn't do any of that, but he could make the asshole hurt that put his hands on her.
The wartime rentals and shanties he could relate to eventually gave way to newer stucco houses, condos and housing developments. The address that matched the fucker's check was a huge, white, two-level monstrosity. He pulled the bike to a stop at the curb, popped his lid off and studied the area. Other than his bike, the noisiest things on the street were all the lawn mowers being operated by Mexican illegals hired cheap by landscaping companies.
Still astride his Harley he pulled out his lighter and a cigarette, lit it and cast a look of disdain at the house he'd been after. There was an Audi SUV and a squat little BMW sports car in the driveway. If he'd been the melodramatic sort, he'd say the place made him want to throw up.
It was hot. Fuck, it was hot. But he had a fleece on over his kutte. This wasn't club business, this was personal. So the colors had to stay hidden.
Couple drags down on the smoke, he swung his leg off the bike and slid off his shades, hooking them on his shirt front as he took a walk up to the big-ass porch. He put the heavy brass knocker stuck to the glossy black door to good use, shrugging his shoulders to arrange his hoodie. Best to look presentable.
The door was swung open by a stooge in Dockers and an orange polo shirt. He had‘ass clown’written all over him, and that was before he gave Quentin an appraisal that suggested he thought Quentin smelled pretty bad.
"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."