by Portia Gray
She nodded, sighing and giving the driver an: It's-okay, he's a moron but I got this, head nod. "I'm fine, Quentin. I'm just exhausted and I wanted my own bed."
He nodded, taking her elbow. "I'll help you." She shied from his touch, but he didn't let go. "Arielle, just let me help you, babe."
She swallowed, then nodded and looked down at her feet. She was baggy flannel pants and an oversized sweatshirt. Seeing her basically ready for bed was…comforting. Close. "Get your keys ready, babe."
She dug in the pocket of a duffel bag she was holding, then handed her keys to him with no hesitation. Quentin gave the cab driver a nod, and held Arielle's arm as she walked. When he saw her wince he let go. "Everything okay?"
She took a breath. "Yeah. You were cranking my arm up a little high. It was pulling."
"Sorry, babe. I'll get the door for you." He took her bag, scooted up the stairs ahead of her and had the door open as reached the threshold. Instinctively he found a light switch next to the door that flooded the living room with light. "You crashing on the couch?" he asked, setting her keys on a hanger inside the door.
"No, the bedroom is closer to the bathroom. The one that's not full of mold."
Quentin nodded, then headed down the hallway ahead of her, knowing where her room was because this house was the reversed version of his own.
"Quentin," she protested weakly behind him, but he was already flicking the light on and setting her bag down on the bed.
"You got painkillers?"
She nodded, entering the bedroom slowly and stiffly. "Painkillers and antibiotics."
"Good." He left her to climb into bed, heading to the kitchen. He poured her a large glass of water and carried it back to the bedroom, setting it down on the night stand nearest the side of the bed she clearly slept on. The other side was shoved against the wall. Arielle was sitting on the edge, staring down at her hands, and when he said her name she flinched, then laughed nervously.
He crouched down on his heels, taking her hands in his. "Everything okay, babe?"
She nodded, rewarding him with full-on eye contact. "Just…really hurts right now."
He nodded, standing again. "I'll leave you alone. Get some sleep. Where's the kid?"
"Aunt Thelma's. I'll call tomorrow and tell them I was released early."
"Sounds good. Goodnight, Arielle."
She smiled at him, a pained and pinched one but a smile all the same. "Goodnight, Quentin."
On his way out he checked all her windows and the back door, making sure everything was safe and secure. Tightened the knob on the kitchen sink since it was dripping. And after the slightest hesitation, he snagged her keys and locked the front door behind him.
Arielle rolled to her side, half asleep, only to have the searing pain in her chest jolt her completely conscious quite rudely. She gasped, rolled onto her back again, then waited for the hurt to stop.
Jesus, it felt like she'd never be okay.
As sleep started to fade away to a distant memory, she became aware of a really great smell. It made her stomach actually gurgle. She put her hand over her abdomen, surprised to be hungry for the first time in three days. Then she heard a voice, low, not very familiar and not loud enough so she could discern what was being said. Her bedroom door was closed, muffling the sound.
Instead of being scared, Arielle sat up, already guessing who it was but still waiting to be wrong. She pulled the door open and made her careful way down the hall, the voice getting louder and confirming her fears. It hadn't been a hallucination from really good painkillers. Quentin Bayle had put her to bed the night before, and now he was in her kitchen apparently making eggs and bacon, going by her nose.
Arielle irrationally wanted him menacing and distant again. That was a hell of a lot less scary than this.
"Quentin?" she asked, as though the sound of her voice would make the apparition poof out of existence and she'd be alone in her house. He turned around, cell phone to his ear, then wordlessly pointed to the table. She then noticed that it was set for two, plates and cutlery, orange juice and coffee mugs. "What are you doing here?" she asked, but whoever he was talking to on the phone had apparently paused to let him talk.
"Nah nah. I'll go. I'll tell Henderson exactly what's up. Just ask him to give me a half hour to finish breakfast."
This was all said while Arielle sat on one of her chairs, feeling like maybe this wasn't her house. The orange juice looked really good, so she curled her hand around the glass and was about to drink when he spoke again, loud and jolting.
"Fuck you, Bishop," he exclaimed with a laugh. "We don't all have old ladies to cook for us, you know." Okay, that seemed a lot more like him. "Later, man." She heard the beep of his call disconnecting, then a hot pan was set on a pot holder in front of her. Bacon, fantastic, curled-up almost close to burnt, bacon.
She looked up at him, still feeling uncoordinated. "What are you doing here?" she repeated stupidly.
He smiled. "Eat breakfast. I could hear your stomach from the doorway."
Her cheeks warmed at that, and she had to drop her eyes back to the bacon as he put a bowl of scrambled eggs on the table too, then pulled two plates hot from the oven, putting one in front of her. He heated the plates?
"Aunt Thelma called," he shared cordially, sitting down across from her. "She was freaking out because she called the hospital and they'd said you were released."
Thelma already called the hospital? Jesus, Arielle had no idea what time it was. The clock on the oven said 11:30 AM, but that couldn't be right. Right?
"Wait—what? You answered my phone?"
"Didn't want it to wake you up."
She blinked twice as he pushed the eggs towards her. Her stomach growled again but she spoke over it. "What are you doing here?"
He set his elbows on the table, leveling his freakishly blue eyes at her, and tilted his head like he was talking to a puppy. "Babe, I just made you breakfast. You had a good nights' sleep, right?"
She blinked three times. "Umm... yeah. I did."
"I thought you should enjoy your rest at home, but you gotta eat. I was checking on 'ya and thought you were never waking up so I started cooking."
She rubbed her forehead as he shrugged and served himself some eggs. "You were checking on me? How long have you been here?"
He shrugged again, chewing a mouthful and taking a sip of juice. "I don't know. Nine-thirty? Ten?"
"You've been in my house the last two hours and I just slept through it?"
He nodded. "Pain killers. Must be the good shit, babe."
Her stomach growled again, and it made him break into such a wide and honest grin she nearly smiled back. Maybe she did let it slip a little.
"Just eat, Arielle. Relax. But don't get your hopes up for supper, unless you want this again. This is the only thing I can make."
She watched him pile more eggs on his plate, set the bowl close to her, then spear a few strips of bacon with his fork. Another gurgle in her belly made up her mind for her. Arielle spooned a small serving of eggs on her plate, grabbed a couple pieces of bacon, the whole while waiting to wake up from this seriously bizarre dream.
First bite of the eggs told her she was awake. "Oh my God," she moaned, "these are amazing!"
He chuckled, head down as though he was trying to pass for bashful. He failed at it miserably. "Wanna know my secret?" She swallowed while nodding. "Too fucking bad. You want these eggs again I have to come over and make them for you." She brought her eyes to his, startled, but he was smiling again. It made her laugh, catching herself unaware. "There she is," Quentin muttered. "Mellow Aunt Arielle. I like her a lot."
She looked away on that, her fork playing over her plate. Uncomfortable. But not in a bad way. Uncomfortable because he was in her kitchen again, helping her, taking care of her. Just steps from where he'd kissed her. Why'd she let him do that? And more to the point, why'd she stop him?
Now, more than ever before in the past few days, she was acutely
aware of what had been taken from her. The way Quentin had kissed her, held her, everything he said promised more closeness, intimacy, all something she'd wanted when she sent him away. Now that was nothing she'd be willing to participate in ever again. He couldn't see her now. God, the way he'd gone on about her chest…that was all there was to his attraction. Well, it was mangled and half-gone, nothing he'd want, he just didn't know it yet. And why the hell should it matter? He terrified her.
She picked up a piece of bacon, eating it bite by bite, watching Quentin as he cleaned the eggs off his plate, knife and fork politely working together for every last morsel. More than his table manners, she liked his hands. His silver rings were interesting because there was nothing metrosexual about him despite the jewelry. His hands were actually beautiful, now that she was really looking. And she remembered how he'd held her, how strong those hands had been. She felt a lump in her throat.
She should have slept with him. That could have been her last fling. She might have really liked it if she'd known that was the final chance, just let herself go with it. What an insane thought. Clearly, she was still under the influence of pain killers.
Knowing her cheeks were likely bright red now, she finished the strips of bacon and polished off all the eggs quickly. She declined the offer of toast but let him pour her a mug of coffee.
"Aunt Thelma and Calvin will be here shortly after noon," he informed her, carrying her plate to the sink. "Go have a shower, I got the dishes." Then he pointed at her meaningfully. "Did you take your pills?"
"No, not yet."
"Go take them while you got food in your stomach."
She frowned. "Quentin, why are you doing all this?"
"What?"
She waved her arm carefully across the kitchen, getting to her feet. "Breakfast. Putting me to bed. Arranging Calvin's drop-off with my aunt. What…what are you doing?"
In two long strides he was in front of her. He tried to pull her against him but she resisted, not wanting him to notice anything strange about her build. He seemed okay with holding both her hands instead. "I'm in a position to help you. I'm gonna help you. You took on Calvin. You didn't have to but you did. And from what I can see, your Aunt Thelma's the only one helping you and she lives an hour away."
Arielle took a deep breath. "My sister robbed you."
"Yeah, she did."
"Did you sleep with her?" She wasn't sure what made her ask that. It just occurred to her that Jolene had been with him and probably kissed him. And Jolene wasn't chopped up. She was still whole and all woman.
"Not exactly…" was his frustrating answer. That had to mean yes. Arielle covered her face with both hands. She was having a nervous breakdown, that had to be what was going on. She'd only ever been jealous of Jolene because of Calvin. Up until now.
"Hey, you want honesty, I'll be honest. I saw your sister naked. She gave me a blow-job. That was it. The only reason I took her to my room was because she reminded me of you. And the whole time my thought was that she wasn't nearly as perfect."
Arielle pushed at his chest, and he wisely stepped back. "I think you should leave," she instructed.
"Arielle, what?" He caught her hands again, stooping his neck to look her in the eye. The caring expression was enough to sting. "Should I have told you I met your sister and played Monopoly with her?"
"Of course not."
"Then what, babe? The last time I saw you before you went in the hospital you were in my arms, soft and sweet as hell, enough to kill me. I finally had my hands in this gorgeous hair and I was sure I was in heaven. Is it just the pain right now? You want me outta here to give you peace or what? I'll fuck off, just tell me why."
Maybe she could use the practice explaining what was wrong with her. "You know these breasts you were so in love with?" He just blinked. "Well, they had to remove one. So you'll forgive me if I'm not in the mood to play house right now."
He took a deep breath, and to his credit he kept his eyes on hers. "Jesus, babe. I'm sorry. What can I do for you?"
She was incredulous. "Nothing," she snapped. "There's nothing you can do for me. You like my body? You like my hair? Well guess what. My body was just butchered and my hair's going to fall out, too. So I'm down to absolutely nothing on the pro side, all cons."
He tilted his head, lips tight. "Arielle, babe—"
"Don't," she said, pushing his hands away from hers and escaping his arms by side-stepping him. "Thank you for breakfast. Thank you for your help last night. Once Calvin and Thelma are here I'll be fine."
His hands were on his hips, face blank, but his eyes were…pitying. That was the worst part. She felt tears in her eyes as she begged, "Please, don't. Just…go."
He crossed the kitchen to leave but paused beside her, eyes on the floor and hands on his hips. When he spoke it was back to that cold, indifferent tone she'd forgotten that made ice slide down her back. But it was a good tone, until she absorbed what he said before leaving.
"You really think the physical is the best part of you, you've got your head wedged so bad it's a wonder you can breathe, babe."
Chapter Nine
He'd been pissed off and miserable for over a week. Okay, maybe Quentin was usually pissed off and miserable. But now he had a reason and he didn't like the reason.
Concern. Worry.
For a woman.
It was a weakness he'd judged in other men, and now he was suffering from the same stupidity. To prove he was a complete sap, he was meeting with Henderson again to find out what the guy had learned the past week.
Henderson's office was nice, the kind of place where he wasn't sure he should sit on anything. So he stayed standing, and Henderson did the same.
"The house is owned by a landlord," Henderson told him something he already knew. "The landlord should be paying for necessary upkeep."
"I know, but he's a slumlord. And an asshole. And she's taking care of a kid and she's sick besides, man. She's got some cash to get the work done, that's not a worry. If it's not enough, which would surprise the shit out me, I'll cover the rest."
Henderson looked at him like he thought Quentin was losing his mind, too. "All right. So I have a mold remediation guy lined up. She has to be out of the house for that. Once everything is all stirred up it gets dangerous. Then I'm on the waiting list for a smaller crew I've worked with before, they do renos more than new construction. I trust them, they do good work."
Quentin nodded, taking the two business cards. "So the mold guys are booked?"
"Day after tomorrow. When they're done call this contractor, he's got her name on a list right now. Tell them the house is ready for them, they can give you an idea when that will be. The important thing is to get rid of the mold. If it's dangerous, they need it gone soon."
"Right," Quentin nodded, tucking the cards into an inside pocket of his kutte. "Thanks Henderson, I owe you one."
Maybe it was because he said that, but the guy must have felt some kind of buddy vibe. "Who is this woman? A family member or...?"
Quentin wordlessly kept his eyes on Henderson's and eventually the well-dressed man that matched this office looked away. Their relationship was through Dead Men killing the man that had raped and killed his wife, nothing else.
"Thanks again." Then Quentin left the office, striding past the receptionist who visibly stiffened in her chair behind the desk, shrinking down to hide or something.
Quentin asked for some names of people who could do a bathroom reno, Henderson took it from there. He didn't have to, but with the way buildings were going up around Portus Felix it was hard to get on a list without an inside contact.
If Henderson was confused by this request, Quentin was downright crazy over it. He never went to bat for a woman like this outside of one of his brother's old ladies. The club would move heaven and earth for their women. Arielle wasn't his. She'd made it very clear she had no interest in being anything with him.
He could see through her bullshit; all she had was that ki
d. And if being around women like Mandy Lane taught him anything, it was that motherhood was nice but it couldn't be the end-all of a woman to have a kid and raise him. If that had been true Mandy would have become half the woman she was when her son had died, and that wasn't what happened. At all.
Arielle was no different, he could tell. He could accept it if she said he scared her or disgusted her. But she didn't say that, and he knew it wasn't the case. He was there after Calvin's birthday supper, he knew very well she was still a living, breathing woman. So why all this shit then?
He yanked his helmet on forcefully, fastening the chin strap. It was one thing to be able to knock the snot out of a guy that made her bleed, or entertain her nephew with more than textbook learning. It was being close to her, that's what he wanted. Probably because she kept pushing him away. Mandy was right. He never did anything the easy way.
His neighbor was a fucking mess of complications. A kid. A sickness. A fucked-up self-image he would never come close to understanding. He didn't have tits. But he supposed breasts must be important to the female identity or some shit. Women paid to add plastic to them, perk them up, and bought whatever clothes made them stand out. He had no fucking idea what a removed breast looked like. He'd never known anyone who went through chemo, either.
Point was he didn't care. He was hell-bent on his own mission to show her she was wrong not to let him in. There was something appealing about really, really having her all to himself. Nothing his brothers had already had a taste of. Nothing they ever would have a taste of because she wasn't like that. And she was way out of their league.
It wasn't a scary thought; for Quentin Bayle, scary was better than a double-dog-dare.
He headed right home from Henderson's office, eyes scanning Arielle's place. Nothing was moving inside, her car was in the drive. From what he could tell through unabashed spying Aunt Thelma had stayed until the night before, leaving that very morning and not bringing Calvin with her. So the kid was home, Arielle was recuperating, and well enough for Thelma to cut out. This was good news.