by Portia Gray
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."
Holy shit. Arielle and Quentin exchanged a very grown-up what-the-hell-do-we-do-about-this look, and she was honestly at a loss.
Maybe he wouldn't want to come to a nine-year-old's birthday. If he didn't, that would totally gut Calvin. And she did feel sorry for the kid that two
old ladies were the only people attending.
Quentin read her mind, and at that moment again she felt a warm whoosh of affection for the guy who was bringing out an awful lot of these whooshes strictly through how incredibly awesome he was with her nephew.
"I'd love to come your birthday supper, Charlie. If Aunt Arielle's okay with it."
There was, of course, only one answer for that. "Sure. Quentin, you're welcome to join us."
He nodded once, then dropped those eyes back down on Calvin. "There you go, buddy. I wish you'd told me it was your birthday, though. I barely have any time to get you anything," he was scolding, heading for the door with Calvin following.
"I did tell you," Calvin was insisting, and was almost out the door before Arielle called him back.
"Calvin," she said, laughing. "Supper. You can go get dirty later."
"Oh yeah." Calvin ran back to the table, and Quentin cast a smile across the room at her.
"You're welcome to stay tonight, too. For supper…if you want," she said lamely, knowing it was rude to stand there with a table covered in food and let someone just leave.
"Nah, thanks Aunt Arielle. I'm still technically on the clock here. But thanks. I'll see 'ya tomorrow."
He left then, and the kitchen got bigger and brighter. She exhaled, then caught Calvin staring up at her. "What?" she asked, taking her seat.
"You look weird."
"Calvin, that's not very nice."
"Not in a bad way. Your smile looked different." She didn't even know she'd been smiling. "Are you warm?"
"Why?"
"Do you feel sick?"
"Calvin, what's with the twenty questions?"
He shrugged and picked up his fork. "Your cheeks are all pink."
She put a hand to the side of her face not healing from being punched. It did feel warm. Actually, she was warm, and she hadn't been until Calvin dragged Quentin into her house. Or maybe this was another symptom. It could be.
Yeah, definitely a symptom.
Chapter Seven
"Where are you, Quentin?" the blonde asked breathlessly, tossing waves of curls over her shoulder and staring down at him with a flushed face and heaving chest.
He had a bottled blonde with huge fake tits riding him, and he was completely, absolutely distracted by other things that were nowhere near his dorm room at the clubhouse. Things that looked fantastic in cut-off shorts and an old 49ers T-shirt, her hair pulled to a ponytail at the side of her neck. Things that smelled great and still cooked fucking chicken with potatoes for supper.
That house had smelled like her. He hadn't been expecting that, but it was all over the place. And it smelled good.
Quentin shot a look up at the blonde. "I'm right here, baby. Who told you to take a break?"
She smiled, rolling her hips again. He was pretty sure she'd really come just then. If not, it was a hell of a fake. Well, good for her. But it wouldn't be a win unless she got him there, too.
Quentin tried to keep his head out of his head, eyes trolling up her tanned skin, over her breasts which were close to the best money could buy, her tight stomach, and her long-nailed fingers playing with her own nipples, throwing her head around and arching so far she looked about ready to break her own back.
He closed his eyes. Her show wasn't doing much for him. But closing his eyes just meant he was seeing Arielle—the fucking neighbor again—in her shorts and bare feet, one tanned leg bent towards to the one holding her weight like she was nervous to have him in her house. He couldn't blame her for that. But then she'd smiled at him and…damn. It was all he could do to get his ass on his bike and head to the clubhouse immediately.
Which, of course, brought him here.
"Fuck, Quentin, baby. You feel so good."
He grit his teeth, sat up, wrapped an arm around her lower back and tossed her to the side onto the mattress. He flipped her over by the hips, pulled her up onto all fours and sunk deep into her roughly on one thrust. She gasped. He did it again and she whimpered. He did it again and something changed.
"Fuck, Quentin. That hurts." He did it again. "Quentin, ease up. That hurts."
That was all it took. He planted deep, came hard—mousey, angelic neighbor Arielle nowhere in his mind—all because suddenly this girl wasn't into putting on a show for him.
"Christ, Quentin," she muttered as he pulled out, flopping next to her on his bed with his arm over his eyes. "You're not really packing a small calibre weapon there. You gotta ease up."
"Shut the fuck up and leave," he answered with indifference, ignoring the berating comments she dished out as she pulled on her miniscule outfit. It was all noise.
Once she was gone, he wished she'd taken the stink of her perfume with her. The smell of the neighbor's house was completely gone from his head now, and that was too bad, even if he had come here to get rid of it.
Fuck…that sweet. It wasn't just tingling his jaw anymore. It was sparking on his skin and messing with his fucking head.
He liked that kid. A lot. Being away for a few days with the guys made him realize what a tragedy the loss of innocence could be. One day he's listening to a kid give his take on motorcycle philosophy, and the next day he's doubling up on a whore with Flynn during a quick pit-stop at a roadhouse on the side of some nondescript highway. It wasn't that he was getting old on this shit at thirty-three-years-old. It was that he was getting old enough to see how stupid it could all be.
He scrubbed his hands across his face then got to his feet. He yanked the condom off, tossed it, washed his hands in the bathroom, then dressed again. No more pussy tonight, but maybe enough tequila to knock him right the fuck out.
It wasn't hard to be a hero to a nine-year-old living in that neighborhood. But that didn't mean Quentin wasn't scared shitless at what that kid had said while clutching his hand in that kitchen.
I don't have any friends from school. Quentin's my only friend.
Sure. Quentin, you're welcome to join us.
At her words he'd been a fucking teenager again. It was all he could do to fight down a grin and leave. The invite for supper that very night? Nearly killed him to say no.
Out in the clubhouse he scanned the room, headed for the bar, and demanded tequila. The prospect put the bottle and a shot glass on the beaten and shined up wood. Quentin ignored the glass, tossed the cap at the prospect and carried the bottle with him over to the sofa where Mandy held court, legs and arms crossed, watching the evening's proceedings and debauchery.
Quentin plopped next to her, sprawling out to lean into her shoulder, legs out straight in front of him, ankles crossed over each other. He took a deep pull on the tequila, relishing that harsh burn. That knocked the sweet right out of him.
"I give, Quentin," Mandy said wryly.
"What?"
"What's up with you?"
He made a face. "What’re you talking about?'
She smiled slowly but didn't push. "Still got your wallet, babe?"
He had to laugh, a short bark that he honestly meant. "Very funny."
"Flynn tells me you punched a guy out last week."
He made another face as the second swig of tequila went down. "That's all he has time for or what? Gossiping with the women?" Flynn had seen his hands the next day, knew he'd clocked someone good and it wasn't club business. Fucking mouth on that guy.
"What was that for?"
He shook his head. "Not important, Mandy."
"We didn't tell Bishop," Mandy assured him. "So you're gonna tell me what that was about and I'll have your back, honey."
Quentin sighed, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose. "It really didn't matter."
"Tell me or I tell Bishop about your non-commissioned fisticuffs."
Mandy was only nice for so long before resorting to blackmail. "My neighbor cleaned the guy's house. He got handsy. She said no, he hit her. At least twice. Her cheek was bruised, her lip was split."
Mandy put her arm behind him on the sofa, angli
ng towards him and running her hand through his hair. "Is this neighbor the one Flynn said is‘so fucking hot, she can make a man comejust from one look’?"
"For fuck's sake."
"Easy, Quentin. I'm just looking out for you. I watch out for my boys, you know that."
"I know," he admitted, leaning into her more, letting his eyes close.
"She's a civvie, right?"
"Yeah. A lot."
Mandy chuckled, the movement of shaking her head rocking him a bit. "You never do anything the easy way, do you?"
Quentin grinned up at her over his shoulder. "I'm not doing anything, Mandy. Don't worry."
"You're beating up strangers for her," Mandy pointed out.
"She's got a nephew she takes care of. He's decided I'm…cool, I don't know. He wants to hang out with me. Help me with my bike." He shrugged. "That's it."
"How old's this little prospect?"
"Eight. Smart kid, Mandy. He's already five times smarter than me. But I'm able to teach him things. And that kinda…makes me proud. That I know something this eight-year-old doesn't. Bikes."
She kept playing with his hair and he let his eyes close again, taking another oversized shot of tequila. "So, you like the kid or you like her?" Mandy asked gently.
He shrugged. "Dunno. I like the kid, that's it. But I wanted to hit that fucker that hurt her. I didn't expect that."
"Just be careful, hun. A bitch that takes your wallet's one thing. A bitch that takes your heart is much more trouble."
"I know," he said, patting her leg. "You remember how it was with Pamela, right?"
Mandy gave a short burst of laughter. "How could I forget?"
"I made her miserable, Mandy."
"I'd say it was an equal effort on both sides. You did a good job making each other miserable."
He stewed on that, but not for too long. He craned his neck back to look at her again. "Why didn't I just marry you, huh?"
Mandy smiled and squeezed his face with one hand. "Baby, you couldn't handle this."