by Portia Gray
Hot dogs made a great meal in his opinion. The potato salad and potato tots or whatever the fuck they were called were all pretty good, too. Calvin was so excited to have people paying this much attention to him he wouldn't stop talking, but it was fine because the kid was so easy to razz he made it fun. Aunt Thelma was a fucking riot, too. Quick, sassy, and just as willing to tease Arielle as she was to tease Calvin.
"Did your Aunt Arielle ever tell you about the first time she saw ET?" Thelma asked Calvin as Arielle cleared the table. Quentin had offered to help, she declined.
"Aunt Thelma," Arielle warned with a sharp look.
"She was ten. And she was so scared she wouldn't go to sleep without the bedroom light on."
Calvin shot Aunt Arielle a disbelieving look. "Really Aunt Arielle?"
"ET was scary," Arielle insisted. "I hated that thing. Why'd they have to make him so ugly?" As Calvin and Thelma collapsed into giggles Arielle put a hand on her hip, exasperated. "I was ten, remember?"
"I'm nine Aunt Arielle, and ET isn't scary."
Quentin was covering his mouth, not laughing out loud, and Aunt Arielle shot him a look. "Well maybe you aren't scared of anything but creepy, ugly little slimy alien guys tend to give me nightmares."
Calvin lost it, and Aunt Thelma put a hand on Arielle's elbow. "Oh sweetie, we're not picking on you."
Arielle's feathers got ruffled. "I know that, Aunt Thelma. Jeez," then she stalked off with the rest of the plates, and Quentin tried not to watch the way her butt twitched under her shorts when she was ticked off. Luckily he had good peripheral vision.
"Q, are you scared of anything?" Calvin asked seriously, hands politely folded on the glass tabletop in front of him.
Quentin raised his eyebrows. "Of course, Charlie."
"Like what?"
He leaned closer. "Aunt Arielle kinda scares me."
"Q, she's a girl," Calvin reminded him.
"Exactly. Girls are scary."
The cake was brought out, a sugary sweet store-bought one shaped like a motorcycle, which was kind of a kick. They had it with Rocky Road ice cream, which seemed quite appropriate given the cake. All washed down with root beer, Calvin's favorite soft drink.
Once those festivities were done, Aunt Thelma sent Calvin to the shed to get his gift from her and Aunt Arielle. The motorized bike was a hit, Calvin totally over the moon at the sight of it, asking Quentin how cool it was.
"Very cool buddy," he assured him. "Very bad ass." Calvin beamed and Quentin couldn't help but smile back. Then Calvin tore into the toolbox, pulling out the satchel and unrolling it loudly on the glass patio table. "Be careful, Charlie," he said. "Don't break the table."
"Cool!" the kid was shouting. "Aunt Arielle, look! Q gave me tools! Like the ones he uses!"
Aunt Arielle's eyes were startled when they came up to his. "Quentin—those are expensive, aren't they?"
Quentin shrugged. "Not really. And there's no point getting tools unless they're the good ones, right Charlie?"
The kid beamed, picking up a wrench and making a surprised face. "They're so heavy."
"That's the real shit, buddy. You'll need them for that new ride of yours, right?"
"That's too much, Quentin."
He cast his eyes up at Arielle, easing up on the smile. "Really, it wasn't much, Aunt Arielle. Glad he likes them, that's all."
Arielle was fighting with it, then Aunt Thelma put a hand on her elbow. "It's a great gift, Quentin. Very kind." Quentin nodded, eyes going back to Arielle.
She found her manners under Aunt Thelma's gaze, looking so much like Calvin right then it nearly made him smile. "Yeah. That's very generous, Quentin."
Arielle had never been more uneasy in her life. After supper Calvin wanted to play Trivial Pursuit. It was an old edition, the year of release was 1982. But Calvin loved the game, and Aunt Thelma and Aunt Arielle had stopped letting him win two years ago. Arielle suspected he had a photographic memory, and it wasn't so much understanding that had him kicking their ass every time but more that he remembered the answers from the first time he heard the questions.
Quentin agreed to stay and play with them.
Arielle was surprised by that. He nearly won, too, not even opting to let the nine-year-old birthday boy win. Then Calvin decided he wanted to watch Ghostbusters. He loved old cheesy comedies from the 80s, so they dusted off the VCR and put the old VHS tape in the player to watch.
Quentin agreed to stay for that, too.
Now she was sitting on one end of the sofa, Calvin tucked under her arm, Quentin on the opposite end of the sofa, legs out straight in front of him, crossed at the ankle. Aunt Thelma was dozing off in an armchair.
She was staring at the climax of the movie—tense, jittery—all because of the man sitting as far as possible away from her on the sofa. So the movie was getting a ridiculous amount of her attention.
She didn't like how mushy her insides got when Calvin opened his gift from Quentin. She didn't like the whoosh in her gut to see Quentin and Calvin laughing and talking like good friends, teasing each other over Trivial Pursuit of all things. And she didn't like feeling comfortable with his big, scary and sexybody in her living room. So she forced herself to stare forward at the TV like nothing was disturbing her. That is, until—
"Arielle," Quentin whispered, and she started, turning her attention to him physically. He nodded down to Calvin.
She dipped her head down to her shoulder. Calvin had crashed from the sugar-high, and he was so completely out his mouth was hanging open. She had to smile, shifting her arms to scoop him up.
"Can I help?" Quentin whispered, and she shook her head.
"Nah. I've done this before."
Calvin was a skinny kid. She carried him like a toddler, his arms over her shoulders, legs to each side of her hips, holding him by his bony butt.
She set him in his bed after pulling the blankets out of the way, took off his socks, then covered him up, turning the light off while shutting the door behind herself. Aunt Thelma was still sleeping on the chair. Quentin was gone. Covering a yawn she stumbled into the kitchen, cringing at the thought of washing dishes but—
Surprised, she stopped in the entryway. Quentin Bayle was at her sink, dishtowel over his shoulder, running water and squirting dish soap into the stream. "What are you doing?"
He turned to her, smiled, then turned back to the sink. "Seems pretty obvious, Aunt Arielle."
"You don't have to clean up, Quentin. I'm happy to do it."
"Nah, go watch the rest of the movie. You should rest."
She set her teeth. "Quentin, I know Calvin told you about my, well—"
"Cancer," Quentin said, casting her another shot of those blue eyes at her over his shoulder. "Yeah, he did. He's worried about you. And I'm worried about him. So take a load off, Aunt Arielle."
She sighed, taking the towel off his shoulder and standing beside the second sink. "I'll dry," she insisted, knowing she likely wouldn't win this argument.
He just grinned into the sudsy water, wiping at the cutlery first. "Stubborn," he muttered.
"Pardon?"
"Nothing, babe."
She took the first handful of cutlery from him and dried it all off before storing it away in the right drawer. It felt domestic and familiar but she refused to let it be comfortable.
"So where is it?" he asked casually, handing her the next bundle of clean but wet forks.
"What?"
"The cancer. Where is it?"
She met his eyes, surprised. "Oh. Uh, well…"
"Sorry, that's a private question."
"No, no. It's fine. You get sick and you get used to people wanting to know intimate details about you pretty quick," she admitted, putting away the dry forks.
"You don't have to tell me."
"It's breast cancer," she said softly, returning to his side at the sink. His head came up quickly, and she didn't miss the way his eyes sank down to her chest. "Really?" she said, voice sharp with anno
yance, bringing his attention back up to her face.
"Sorry, sorry. That's just…that's a damn shame." He did look like he was in mourning and his eyes went down to her cleavage again.
"Jesus Christ," she muttered, taking the plate he just finished washing.
"Sorry," he repeated, not hiding a laugh or those mischievous dimples.
"It's not funny."
"Of course it's not," he agreed, eyes back on the sink, nodding in agreement. "Trust me, babe, it pains me to think of anything happening to them."
"Wow."
"What?"
"You're a pig."
He shrugged. "I'm fucking honest, Arielle. You tell any straight guy that those babies are about to be altered in any way and he's thinking the exact same fucking thing. You know I'm right." He looked at her sideways as she put the plate back in the cupboard. "Every guy who's seen you has clocked them, trust me. It's true that we all like breasts, but, babe, you've got an impressive set and I've only seen them under your clothes." She didn't even get mad. She felt her cheeks flame as she took the next plate. She hoped like hell it wasn't showing how much he flustered her. "And Calvin said you're having surgery," he said next, handing over the next plate.
"Day after tomorrow. I have to fast for twenty-four hours ahead of time so, it worked out well for Calvin's birthday."
The next few dessert plates were cleaned and dried wordlessly. Gradually she was standing close enough that their arms brushed against each other, and that stupid whoosh ran through her each time.
"Listen, I can't offer much in the way of comfort, I know," he finally said, voice surprisingly low. "But if I can help with anything, you get in a bind where you need someone to watch the kid for a few hours or you need me to take in your fucking mail or whatever, let me know." He held up a dessert plate. She grabbed it, but he didn't let go.
Arielle slid her eyes over to his blue gaze, swallowing. "I don't think that will be—"
"I want to help, Arielle. And if you're suspicious of my motivation, don't be. I like that kid. He's funny, kinda weird, but that just reminds me of... well, me." She smiled at that. "I can tell you come from good people. And what's happening here is the shits. Good people should have help when they need it. So, I'm offering you my help. Whatever you think I can handle."
It was a good speech. A great speech, actually. And she believed every word, even though she wasn't sure how the read the expression on his face or in his eyes.
"Okay, Quentin," she whispered, and he let go of the plate so she could dry it. He nodded, satisfied, then began washing the dirtier dishes to wrap up the cleaning. The rest of the work passed wordlessly, and Arielle concentrated on getting her heart to stop flopping over.
Good people should have help when they need it. So, I'm offering you my help.
She liked that he wanted to help, especially since she didn't have to ask for it. That was…really sweet actually. She wasn't used to that.
Arielle was watching his hands as he washed, the tattoos that ran up his forearms, the heavy silver rings he hadn't bothered to take off first. She liked looking at his hands. They moved deliberately, deceptively slow in appearance. But she'd seen what they could do. The evidence had been on Clark Davidson's face. The thought of how he'd done that, for her, had a very different effect on her as they stood side by side, almost joined at the hip, doing something as mundane as washing dishes. All of that done without her asking. And how do you pay someone back for that?
She remembered how alone she had felt sat in her car after coming back from the Davidsons’. But now, because of him, she had someone to fight for her while she struggled to stay alive.
"I'm keeping the money," she said softly. "I won't deposit it, I'll put it in my safety deposit box."
He nodded, attention on the suds in the sink. "That's good. You shouldn't be scared of your own fucking bathroom. Are you getting it fixed?"
She shrugged. "I will. I'll have to start calling around after the surgery."
"Forget it. I'll do that."
Her mouth flopped open, and she shook her head while she tried to put the words together. "What? No, that's fine. You've done too much for us already. I'm sure I'll be able to handle it."
"Babe, let me make the calls. I'll make sure the work's good and that they won't jerk you around on the price or the time line. Right?"
His eyes met hers again, blue and calming, which couldn't be right. He was dangerous, his eyes should not have a calming effect on her. Especially when he was offering her a favor.
"Are you a criminal?" she blurted, and if the question was a shock he hid it very well.
He actually laughed. "Have I been in jail?" She nodded but he didn't look up to see it. "Yeah, I've been in jail. A few times for different things."
"This group you're with, the motorcycle gang—"
"It's a club, babe. Not a gang."
She swallowed. "Sure. This club, is that…your job? How you make your money?"
He was grinning wide as he finally broke eye contact. "I'm a mechanic. I fix vehicles. I got the tax forms to prove it." Then his eyes stayed on her until she nodded. Suddenly he pulled the plug on the sink, making her jump a bit.
"Th-Thank you," she stammered, offering him the dishtowel to dry his hands. He did so while she held the end, which was odd. She'd expected him to just take it from her. This meant she was looking up at him, and he was looking at her, too. She was fidgety as she realized it, not sure if letting go meant she was intimidated. Or wondering why she was over-analyzing everything so much.
"Thanks for letting me come over," he replied, and she had to remember the last thing she'd said.
"Oh," she said stupidly, nervous, "no problem. It's…it's nice to see Calvin with an adult male influence. I'm terrified I'll make him a hen-pecked mess."
"And I'm the opposite of that."
She had to laugh. "Yes. I'd say you are." He was done drying his hands, so she set the towel on the counter. "Well, good night, Quentin," she said, not sure what was supposed to happen next.
He tilted his head a bit, almost like he was curious, then took a step closer. Like an idiot, she didn't back away. His eyes ran over her face, and that blue stare was unsettling but not because it was scary.
She felt herself inhale deeply. His hand went to her cheek, then to the side of her jaw, tilting her chin up a bit. His hands were rough, very warm from the water. They felt over-sized on her skin.
Arielle might have stopped breathing. She wasn't sure, she had other things to worry about. Like how his eyes tracked the motion of her tongue licking her lower lip. Why'd she do that? Without knowing how, she found her hands on his sides. Maybe she meant to push him away. Well, she failed.
He was too close. He was warm. He smelled…really good, actually. And that shirt on him was incredibly flattering; she'd noticed how it brought out his eyes right when he arrived.
When his face softened the faint lines at his brow lightened a bit, but she could still see them. They were nice. They gave him a lot of character. He was freshly shaved, maybe that was what she smelled, aftershave. His short hair looked soft and looked a little wild, but it suited his eyes and laugh and smile and presence perfectly.
He lived, smelled, looked and felt unlike anything she'd ever known in her narrow existence. Being this close to all that unbridled life was…exciting, as it turned out.
One of his hands was on her shoulder blade, and it ran downward, pulling her in. She didn't resist; his eyes were on hers and it was like her skin was being peeled raw. Sensitive. His shirt against her bare arms was like a touch of him.
"Um…" she tried to say something intelligent, but that was where it ended.
The hand still on her jaw slid to the back of her neck, reeling her against him, and just as her body collided into his she found her mouth swallowed up by his lips.
There was a lot happening at once. His chest against hers was hard and warm, his arm looping around her lower back strong and tight. A possessive ges
ture, almost. More aggressive than she was used to.
But she didn't worry about that. Because his mouth, his lips, oh good God that was the best part of it all. Jesus…
Christ.
Aunt Arielle was a sensory experience he never anticipated. Quentin had kissed plenty of women before who were happy to be getting it on with a Dead Man. None of them were cute girl-next-door types who blushed when they realized he was checking out their rack; a blush than ran down their neck and onto the skin in question. Who became breathy and flustered just with eye contact. Who would lick their bottom lip and have no clue how that action could drive a guy insane.
Of course he was aware that her hands were on his waist. He was waiting for her to push him off. She didn't, and when he eased her closer her hands fisted the fabric of his shirt, and he knew she didn't realize she had done it.
She was staring at him. It was making him warm. Making him hard, actually. But he wasn't going to focus on that. He could see her bottom lip was still wet from where she'd licked it, and he pulled her right to him, the mouth that met his sweeter than that store-bought birthday cake.
Something kept him in check, and for some reason nibbling at her like soft-serve ice-cream was more than he thought he deserved. The repetitive motion of brushing his lips on hers, the way she would catch his lower lip between hers, all of it was an amazing give and take. Sure he had her crushed to him, immobilized in his grip, but she had him ensnared.
He parted his mouth from hers reluctantly, to say the least, and gazed down on her. Her face was slack, pink, and she had to blink her eyes a few times to see straight. That was a hell of an ego boost.
Quentin waited for her to tell him what to do. Whether it was to tell him to fuck off, kiss her again, carry her to bed, or kiss her feet—he was going to do it.
But with those flushed cheeks, breathy voice and fucking cute face Arielle didn't tell him what to do. She just whispered, "Quentin," which made him take her mouth again, moaning to finally have his hand in that fucking gorgeous hair, barely believing how warm and alive it was.