by Portia Gray
To further shock the hell out of him, her tongue swept along his lip, making his arm around her back tighten. Enthusiastically his tongue slid along hers, and her mouth opened to allow him access. Quentin didn't even know a woman could do this with just a kiss. With her hands clutching him, her chest soft against his, her tongue giving as good as it was getting, he would do anything she wanted. Anything. Just to keep her kissing him like this.
He wanted this taste in his mouth for all time. He wanted her smell in his nose always. He wanted the feel of her breasts and arms and stomach available to his senses whenever he felt like it. He wanted to own every part of her he could.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Excuse me." Arielle flew from his grip like a magic trick, turning towards the sink as Aunt Thelma padded on the linoleum to the fridge. "I'll just get my glass of milk and, uh, go to bed."
It was painfully awkward to stand there with a raging hard-on and racing heart while Aunt Thelma poured some milk, gave them both a smile, then shuffled back to the other room.
He waited a beat, then said quietly, "Arielle—"
"You should go," she suggested, not turning around. "I'm sorry, that's rude but…you should go."
He nodded, hands on his hips. "Right."
"Quentin—"
"No, you're right. You've got a lot on your mind."
She turned then, and he wasn't unhappy to see her cheeks were still rosy and her eyes shone bright. "I…I liked that. I did." He knew she did, he was there for it. "But things are about to get weird for me."
Quentin nodded. "I can't imagine, babe."
"You said you'd help any way you could."
"And I will." Jesus, was that really him, desperate to be told he's a good boy?
"I need you to be a shoulder for Calvin. He won't tell me when something's bothering him, he doesn't want to worry me. But he'll tell you, I know he will. I love that he's coming out of his shell with you. I really like how…you are with him. I can’t give him what you can as a man. So can you be that for him?"
Quentin nodded, rubbing his chin. "Of course. I was already gonna be there for him, Arielle. We'll build the bike, he'll still have some fun kid-stuff this summer. And if his aunt needs anything," he said low, stalking to her slowly, noticing how her chest rose with her deep inhale as he did it. "I'll be here for that, too. Okay?"
She was arching back over the counter to keep distance between them, but it was thrusting her chest towards him. He kept his eyes on her face; it was a struggle but he toughed it out.
"Okay," she whispered, nodding.
"I liked that too," he admitted after a pause, letting his eyes take in her eyes, cheeks, mouth, all of it. "I'm going to want to do that again. But not until you're ready, babe. Because it probably won't stop there. I got a little taste of you just now, and I'm going to be remembering that for a long time to come." She inhaled sharply again, and his resolve was gone. His eyes scanned her chest, which made her inhale again. "I don't know what you're about to go through," his mouth was saying, his mind trying to imagine what her breasts would look like loose and in his hands. "But when you're through it, I'd like the chance to give you something really nice."
His meaning was clear. Her cheeks and neck got pinker and her eyes dropped from his as—swear to Christ—she licked her damn lips again. He tilted her chin up with one crooked finger, brushing his lips upwards across hers, his skin sparking from that lingering touch. She didn't open her eyes before he did, and he felt himself smile. She was so right there with him.
"Good night, gorgeous," he said quietly.
"Good night, Quentin," she whispered, suddenly blinking rapidly.
And to go against what he'd thought of himself up until that point, he did the right and smart thing and got the hell away from Aunt Arielle, taking his aching cock with him.
As he was unlocking his front door he felt his phone vibrate in his back pocket. He pulled it out, shoved his front door open, and flipped the phone open. Bishop didn't text, Bishop preferred to talk.
"What's up?" he asked as soon as he had the call answered, shutting his door behind him.
"Dealing in your neighborhood?"
Quentin nodded as he answered. "Yeah. Skinny white kids. One of them did the finger-gun shooting motion at me. I wasn't wearing my kutte and he didn't know who I was."
"Out of town talent," Bishop surmised. "Heard they're finding a lot of shitty meth on the streets. Two ODs in the last month, one kid almost died."
"Who would send dealers out into Portus Felix without warning about Dead Men?"
Bishop just laughed. "You get three guesses."
"Dante." Quentin should have known sooner it had something to do with the Nazi Lowriders gang.
"Bingo. Skinny white kids? I'm more than convinced now. Get to the clubhouse in half an hour."
Quentin snapped his phone shut, that pissed off vibe returning from before he'd set foot in Arielle and Calvin's cosy little world. He stared out the side window off his darkened kitchen, perfectly in line with where Arielle was still at the kitchen sink, he guessed wiping down the counters or some shit, based on how she was moving. As he watched she stopped, eyes gazing off into the distance, a small smile on her mouth as she touched her lips with one hand.
Quentin exhaled loud. The tingle of sweet hadn't kicked in this time, only because he'd been so fucking horny just looking at her. The thought of any asshole dealing drugs around Calvin made him see red. Knowing what other shit came with having dealers in your neighbor, having that anywhere near Calvin or Arielle made him homicidal.
He allowed a small smile that Dead Men Riders didn't like drug dealers in Portus Felix.
This might be kinda fucking fun.
Chapter Eight
Arielle swallowed, and it was like trying to pass a cotton ball down her throat. She almost panicked, then remembered what had happened. Blinking carefully against stark-white surroundings, she licked her lips, her mouth pasty and fuzzy-feeling. She took a deep breath and it felt like someone had parked a piano on her chest. She lived through surgery. Thumbs up all around.
Her environment slid into focus slowly. The first thing she saw was Calvin, already hovering close, like he'd noticed she was waking up. She gave a smile, lifting a hand to muss his hair. It took a lot of effort but she had to do it.
"Hey, Peanut," she croaked, coughing.
Calvin was on it. He snatched a glass of water off a table she couldn't see, holding it with the straw pointed at her. It made her heart hurt even as she smiled, taking a sip and nodding to show it was enough. He made the cup disappear, drawing even closer.
"Are you okay, Aunt Arielle?"
"Yeah, I'm good. How’re you? Miss me?"
"Yes," he answered automatically, making her chuckle.
Then there was a sniffle. Arielle turned her head to the other side of the bed, and Aunt Thelma was leaning against the wall, tears in her eyes and her cheeks wet. Arielle was too zoned out to wonder what could be wrong. "Aunt Thelma?"
"Oh sweetie. Honey." That was all she got before Aunt Thelma covered her face with both hands. What the hell?
"Aunt Thelma, you're scaring her," Calvin said softly, which made the older woman nod with a laugh.
"I know. You're right, Calvin. I'm sorry, Arielle."
Arielle's frown deepened. "What's going on?"
Thelma stared at her, then her grey-blue eyes went to Calvin. "Honey, go wait outside for me, okay? They'll kick us out of here soon and I need to talk to Aunt Arielle real quick."
Calvin did as asked without question, sauntering while still showing some reluctance. When the door clicked shut, Arielle gave Aunt Thelma her whole attention.
"What is it?" Arielle asked, feeling her heart give out a little bit.
Thelma half-sat on the bed, taking Arielle's hand. "The doctors got the tumor out of the right breast."
"Okay…"
"When they got to the left…well, there was more there than they first saw in the mammogram. So they…they had to
take the whole left breast."
Arielle's heart sunk further. "What?"
"I'm sorry, honey."
"They said lumpectomy. Can they just do that?"
Aunt Thelma shrugged helplessly. "They did, honey. I'm so sorry."
Arielle's eyes squeezed shut. "Why wouldn't they ask first?"
Aunt Thelma tightened her hold on her hand. "Insurance, maybe? Or maybe it couldn't wait, honey. The good news is, the tumors are gone."
She shook her head. "Oh God..."
"Arielle, we'll see what's possible after your treatments. Reconstruction. It's possible."
"Possible and expensive," she snapped bitterly. "Who's got money for that?"
"Arielle—"
"I'd almost rather they took them both."
"No, sweetie. This is what we've got to deal with. So we will, okay?"
Arielle took a deep breath, not wanting to look down. Not wanting the physical evidence to confirm what Aunt Thelma was saying.
Everything felt normal at the minute, that was the trippy part. She didn't feel like she was missing parts. She brought both hands up, lowering them onto her chest. It hurt, but she was concentrating on her hands. The one on the right came in contact with her breast, and it hurt but it was there. Her left hand kept lowering, settling on bandages, nowhere near level with her right hand.
She sobbed out loud suddenly, hands quickly covering her face. Aunt Thelma was there, kissing her forehead and trying to pull her hands away but she wasn't winning; Arielle wanted to be alone. She didn't want to worry about anyone else, she was going to be selfish and feel sorry for herself for a little while.
"Arielle," Thelma was whispering, kissing her forehead. "My girl, my beautiful girl. Talk to me, honey."
"I can't," she wailed, "I just can't. I just…I need to be alone."
"Arielle—"
"I'm sorry, I know that sounds horrible but I really do want to be left alone. Just…give me a day." She lowered her hands, begging Aunt Thelma. "Please. I can't…I can't deal with this yet. I need some time."
Aunt Thelma was biting her lip, shrewd eyes passing her over. Then she nodded. "Okay, honey. You rest. I'll take Calvin home with me. You take care of you, I'll look out for him. Okay?"
She nodded, thanking God for Thelma. "Thank you, Aunt Thelma. Just tell him I'm really tired and hurting."
"You got it, honey." Then Aunt Thelma put a hand to the side of her neck. "My girl, you are beautiful. You are special. You are a saint. I love you to death. It will take more than this to make you less of a person, believe me."
Arielle felt her face crumple again, but she nodded and grabbed Thelma's wrist. "Thank you."
Thelma kissed her cheek this time then left Arielle on her own, the room very quiet. Heavy. Oppressive.
Arielle wiped her cheeks. Controlled her breathing. Tried to take stock of what all this would actually mean for her.
She wasn't having kids anyway. Half-capacity breast feeding was not going to be a worry. And as far as men…well, the most attention she'd received on them was from her deadly-gorgeous neighbor the other night. She didn't believe what he said about anyone else noticing them. Except maybe Clark Davidson, and that was hardly a loss.
She pushed the blanket to her waist, wincing from the effort. It hurt the wall of her chest. Then she saw it and had to stifle another sob. The line where her breasts would normally tent the hospital gown forward was wonky, higher on one side than the other. She was incomplete now.
She pulled the blankets back up, dreading having to see it without the bandages. She didn't want to see the scars. She didn't want to know how ugly this was going to be. And she still had radiation and chemo to look forward to.
The door opened again, and when her surgeon entered the room she wanted to pull her pillow over her face and just stop breathing. When she'd first met Doctor Foster she'd been horrified. He looked good for his age, totally adorable and nice to boot. Seeing him now she just wanted to crawl into a corner and die.
"Miss Taylor," he greeted her softly, kindly.
She picked at the top of the hospital blanket, trying to stop the nervous fidgeting but unsuccessful. "Doctor Foster."
"I can tell your aunt gave you the bad news. I am so sorry, but once we started removing the tumors in your left breast, we found they were dense and tightly connected. They had attached themselves almost all the lobules in the breast, and we had to remove all of the tissue to be sure nothing was left behind. I am so sorry that you had to wake up to this reality."
She nodded. The only thing worse than an attractive man looking at your breasts while you're on his examining table and remarking, "This is unfortunate" was having that man describe your breast as tissue.
Quentin was wrong. They weren't nice. They were tissue that was killing her.
"I just thought if that was the decision, I would have the option of saying no," Arielle said, sounding younger than Calvin. Even though she'd told them to get rid of anything that was going to kill her. This as just a huge shock.
Doctor Foster sat on a stool that was tucked under the side table next to her bed. "I wish I could have done that. Another appointment, another surgery booked, more money on your insurance. I didn't want to risk giving you any trouble with the insurance company. Or another surgery for you, pushing the rest of your treatment further back."
Well, that was considerate and logical in a totally masculine way, she supposed. Just not very comforting.
"There are many options available as far as lingerie and prosthesis. I'd be happy to give you a few names. There's no reason for you to feel any less comfortable with your body. We've got a long way to go yet, Arielle. I want you to know that a positive outlook is going to help you come out the other side of this just as healthy and lovely as you were the first time I met you."
She blinked a few tears away, laughing dryly. "Is that part of med school? The bedside manner?"
He smiled and got to his feet, leaning over her slightly. "It's part of med school, but I happen to mean it right now. You're a beautiful woman, Arielle. We're going to make you better. Okay?"
She blinked a couple times. "Okay."
When Doctor Foster was gone Arielle was a little more bewildered than upset.
Quentin watched the blood swirl down the drain, his now-clean hands resting on the basin's edge.
That had been real good. Making headway on the drugs coming into Portus Felix, getting high up the ladder to see where the bankroll was coming from. This cook house had been the latest bit of Intel from a kid he and Dillon and Gage had grabbed the day before. The tweaker had squealed immediately, pissing himself to give all the goods he had, including the address of a meth lab. Inside Portus Felix town limits.
Quentin had been pissed. The balls to do it was insulting, and also gave him and his brothers the feeling those douchebag Nazi Lowriders weren't in on this. They were usually smart enough to set up shop outside of town limits. The kid they'd grabbed had the iron-cross tat on his arm and a swastika on his chest, but he wasn't hard in any way that indicated someone as shrewd as Dante would trust him.
Someone new, someone stupid. That could still be a dangerous threat to the protection Dead Men offered Portus Felix.
This ramshackle, tar-papered meth house had three people inside. They could assume the two cooks were smart enough to maybe have some kind of information worth easing out. Instead, both those bastards had clammed up tighter than a nun at a condom factory. Since they couldn't leave witnesses those two were dead and floating face-down in the nasty shit they'd been making.
The third one had maybe been there to keep guard on the cook, but he was a junkie. Scratchy and itchy and fidgety. He'd been willing to try and bargain for his life, the problem was he didn't know anything worthwhile.
He'd only started spilling when Quentin pulled out a fingernail. He gave up the name, saying he never saw him, but Reuben was what he called himself over the phone.
Reuben had hired this guy, told him to bring
a piece and make sure the cook went down without any trouble. Reuben paid well and had the cooks scared enough not to talk. But the guard was an addict, and they had no trouble spilling. When he'd passed out from pain Dillon finished him with a bullet through the skull—one they found in the house, serial number filed off, gloves on of course. Reuben had to have street connections, that was the good news. The bad news was he apparently was one scary ass mother fucker.
"You all right?"
Quentin raised his eyes to his president’s in the mirror over the sink. "Yeah. You kidding?"
Bishop smiled slow. "Call it a night, Quentin. Go dip your wick with a crawler."
He smiled back, shaking the water from his hands. "Yeah, I will."
Once he was on his bike, however, he headed for his house instead of the compound. The day before last Arielle had gone into the hospital. He hadn't seen her or Calvin since the kid's birthday, and he felt like it was his responsibility to watch over the house while they were gone. With those dealers in the area he wanted to make sure their place was okay.
Fucking. Lame.
The street lights were coming on as he eased the bike into his drive, killing the engine and swinging a leg over as a car pulled up in front of the neighbor's place. He unfastened his helmet, frowning at the cab that was idling at the curb. The interior lights were on, but he couldn't make out who was inside. So he waited.
The driver got out of his side, circling the vehicle to open the passenger door. He reached in to help someone stand up on the curb, and Quentin felt his inner possessive caveman go into overdrive.
It was Arielle. And she couldn't stand up on her own. And the fucking cab driver was touching her. Knowing it was irrational, he stalked down the driveway and grabbed the cab driver by the shoulder, shoving him away. The guy was about to lip him off, took a quick gander at his face and held both hands up. "I was just helping her, man."
Arielle was staring at him like he was out of his mind, and he was once again ashamed of his intuitive reaction. He ignored the driver, keeping his tone calm. "You okay?"