by Portia Gray
"No, and you stay away from me, too!" Then he was gone, back through the door in a flurry of stomping feet.
She turned back to Quentin, eyes wide. "I have no idea what just happened."
Quentin's jaw was set, hands on hips. "I got it," he said low, pushing past her into the house.
Quentin got his breathing and pulse back to normal before knocking on the kid's door with his knuckle. More than being absolutely ramped up about Aunt Arielle, he was pretty much gutted by the look on Calvin's face on the patio.
There was no answer to his knock. "Can I come in, Chuckles?"
"Go away."
Guilty and a bit pissed off, that's where Calvin's answer got him to. "Nah man, you give someone an order like that you better be able to explain yourself. You can't just disappear and pout."
"Quentin!" Arielle hissed from the mouth of the hallway. "Just leave him be for a while."
Quentin shook his head. "Nah, I'm finding out what the hell that was all about. He's a kid, Arielle. He has to answer for shit."
"Let him be," she repeated.
Quentin felt his eyebrows go up. "What he just said felt like an accusation, of what, I've no idea. And he doesn't get to talk to you that way, either. He's in your house, it's your rules. You get respect. That's bullshit." She swallowed and bit her lip. He hated to think she might be a bit afraid of him, but at least she didn't appear worried he was going to take his belt to Calvin's butt or anything. "Calvin," he called out, turning back to the door. "I'm coming in, buddy."
He waited, got no answer, then pushed the door inwards. Calvin was on his side on his bed, curled up in a ball with his face to the opposite wall. Quentin stepped into the room, hands on hips, waiting. Still no response. "Calvin," he said, intentionally softening his voice. "What was that all about?"
Silence again. Quentin inhaled, putting his patience to the limit, eyes scanning the room and its diagrams of solar systems and pictures of stars and shit. New to the mix: a beauty shot of a Harley Davidson Softtail Classic. He guessed it was a 2003. There was also a shelf stuffed full of well-loved books, more than Quentin had probably ever held in his lifetime, never mind read. On top sat that damn Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.
Quentin picked it up, grinning at how pages were dog eared, even though it was a library book. "How many times have you checked this book out, Chuckles?" No answer, just a sniffle. Quentin lowered himself to his ass with a groan, leaning against the wall next to the door. He flipped through the marked sections, eyebrows high as he realized this book was a bit better than he had originally thought.
"'Other people can talk about how to expand the destiny of mankind. I just want to talk about how to fix a motorcycle. I think that what I have to say has more lasting value'," Quentin muttered to himself. He didn't like reading out loud, he was nowhere near as smooth with it as Calvin was. He flipped pages again, casting a look up at the lump on the bed. Nothing.
He cleared his throat, found another marked page. "'You look at where you're going and where you are and it never makes sense, but then you look back at where you've been and a pattern seems to emerge'." That one registered. Man, that one really registered. Flipped pages again.
Still, Calvin didn't stir. Quentin tried another one. "'The truth knocks on the door and you say—Go away, I'm looking for the truth—and so it goes away'. Puzzling."
Calvin sat up, that little face still screwed up with how pissed was, eyes red, and he slid his glasses back in place. Fuck it. Quentin was taking him to get new glasses, that pissed him off.
"What's going on, man?" Quentin asked gently. "You gotta tell me why you went off on me like that."
Calvin's lower lip shook when he talked. "It was just because you liked her. You're not my friend at all."
Well shit. If Quentin ever thought a kid this small and skinny couldn't possibly hurt him, he was dead wrong. That was a sucker punch to the gut.
"Why would you say that?"
"Why else would you pretend to be my friend?"
"Calvin, trust me, I'm a real shitty liar. I wasn't pretending anything." Fuck, this was complicated. Quentin set the book down, rubbing his eyes. "Why would I be here asking you to talk to me?"
"So Aunt Arielle doesn't get mad at you. Because you like her."
"I don't want you mad at me, Calvin." Maybe it was because he used the kid's real name, but he finally got eye contact. "Come on, man. We hang out, isn't that fun?" Calvin nodded. "Am I mean to you when your Aunt Arielle's not around?" Pause, then Calvin shook his head. Quentin saw it, plain as day. "Were guys nice to you just to get close to your mom?" Biting his lip, Calvin nodded. "Then they left when they didn't want her around anymore?" Again, a nod. Quentin got to his knees, bracing his elbows on the side of the bed. "Calvin, you're smarter than me. You're gonna be a better person than me. You won't do as much stupid shit as me. Technically, you shouldn't want me as friend."
Calvin looked panicked. "But I thought you were—"
"I am," he assured him. "And I'm the lucky one, buddy. Trust me. I like you, Chuckles. And yeah, I like your aunt Arielle. I mean, she's really pretty. Don't you think she's pretty?" Calvin made a face. "Hey, come on now. You know she is," Quentin said with a laugh, giving the kid's shoulder a knock.
"I guess," he admitted. Reluctantly.
"Dude, you can get as mad at me as you want. Call me names. Tell me I'm doing something dumb. But give me the chance to explain myself. 'Cause we're friends, and that's how it is with friends. I can do the same thing to you." He lowered his face and raised his eyebrows to show how serious he was now. "But I never want to hear you be mean to Aunt Arielle ever again, got it? Get mad at me all you want, but not her. She doesn't deserve that. Right?"
Calvin's eyes watered up again. "I know."
"Don't cry," he was saying, but before he knew it this skin-and-bones nine-year-old was throwing himself into Quentin, hugging him. Quentin froze, not sure about the decorum on hugging kids. Kids that weren't his. Fuck it. He hugged Calvin, patting his narrow little back. "You got a problem with me, you tell me, buddy," Quentin said. "I ain't a mind reader. You gotta have the balls to say it or just put up with it. Yeah?"
"Yeah," Calvin agreed, backing off him and perching on the bed. "I'm sorry, Q."
"Don't sweat it, Chuckles," Quentin replied, messing up his hair. "You just want to protect Aunt Arielle, too. That's good. That makes me proud of you."
Quentin had to grin at how Calvin sat up straighter, his little chest puffing out all proud. Quentin held up his fist. "We good?"
Calvin bumped it. "We're good."
"All right. Can I go kiss Aunt Arielle again now?"
Calvin made a face. "She's a girl!"
"I don't like kissing guys. That's my business, not yours," Quentin muttered, standing up. "Now go to bed. And stop cramping my style. I'm supposed to be a badass."
"You're not," Calvin informed him with great wisdom.
Quentin had to smile. "Go to sleep. You're still growing."
Arielle downed the last mouthful from the bottle of wine Quentin had bought for supper just as he returned to the kitchen. Thelma was watching TV, volume quite loud, and Arielle got to her feet from the kitchen table, worried.
"What happened?" she asked desperately.
"He thought I was only being nice to him to get in your pants," Quentin said bluntly. "I'm thinking your sweetheart of a sister had quite a few guys taking that angle with him. It really hurt him."
Arielle's eyebrows went up. "He told you all that?"
Quentin shook his head. "Believe it or not, I figured it out all for myself. That's what he was so pissed about. Getting mad at you, that was just the left over."
Arielle felt that one right in the heart. "Oh my God, that poor kid."
"He's fine, we're buds again. Forgiven and understood."
She sighed. "Thank you. Should I go talk to him?"
"Absolutely not," he said in a tone that startled her, made her look up into those unbelieva
bly blue eyes while her heart skipped a bit. "What? Why?"
He played with the hair behind her right ear, smiling now, just a bit. "Because I told him I was coming out here to kiss you again. I told him to go to bed."
Arielle's cheeks got warm. "Quentin, why'd you tell him that?"
"Why should I lie? That's the worst thing that kid's gonna see in his life? Me kissing his aunt?"
Well stop talking about it and do it was her stupid response, thankfully a silent one. Trying to figure out what to say, she absently licked her lips. She had to be more careful with that, apparently. Quentin growled and kissed her again, lifting her up to her tiptoes with his hands on her waist, making her feel small and petite.
She pushed away, taking a deep breath. "Quentin—" she whispered.
"Swear to Christ, Arielle," he muttered, hand pressing to her jaw, his thumb running down from her lip to her chin roughly. "We do that again without anyone else around and it's ending up in bed."
Full-body quiver that made her close her eyes. She might have stopped breathing. Then he let her go with another quick kiss on the cheek. "Spare keys? For the contractors?"
"Key holder by the front door," she answered almost robotically. "Kermit the Frog key chain."
He nodded and left her kitchen, the room feeling bright and airy again once he was clear of it. She had to close her eyes and cover her mouth, trying to fight what her body was thirsting for.
"Arielle."
She turned, seeing Aunt Thelma wide-eyed in the curved archway between the kitchen and living room. "What?"
"Go after him."
She frowned. "What?"
"Go after him. See what happens. You're going to be so sick in a week, and…it would be nice to have a happy memory to think about? Wouldn't it?"
Arielle was incredulous. "Are you insane?"
"Go after him," Thelma repeated. "Or by Christ, I will myself. I've never seen so much lean muscle on a man in real life!"
Arielle blinked, then had to grin. "Oh, Aunt Thelma."
"Go," she insisted, grabbing Arielle's arm and pulling her though the living room. "Let me just live vicariously for once and go do something maybe stupid but certainly tempting. Go." She pulled the door open and waited.
"Aunt Thelma—"
"Honey, go feel good. Even if it's just for a little while. Please."
Arielle's cheeks were blazing red, the wine in her blood making her feel a little too impulsive suddenly.
"I can't."
"Trust me Arielle, you can.You’re stronger than you think and more beautiful than you could ever imagine."
That was how she found herself striding up his walkway, to the stoop, and opening the screen door without knocking, wondering if she was drunk or crazy.
"What're you doing here?" Quentin sounded like he felt her confusion as well, having just flicked on the kitchen light, turning to his door when he heard her open it.
"I just…" she lost the words. Her heart was hammering, now that she'd done the really stupid part and followed him over here, set foot in his house alone. That's pretty much where her plan ended.
"Is everything okay?"
She took a deep breath, shaking her head. "I just…" Yep, second time she'd said that.
He came forward, hand going to the side of her face gently. "Arielle? Are you okay?"
She closed her eyes. Shit, that just figured. She was turned on, he was all about friendly concern and worry. This was a stupid idea.
Arielle opened her eyes, about to excuse herself and her odd behaviour, blaming it on copious amounts of wine, but he was still too close and dark and intimidating and exciting. She sighed, looking up at those eyes, deciding right then and there that they were breathtaking. Not scary; she'd never had them look at her in anger or intimidation. They were breathtaking and they almost hurt.
She leaned in and kissed him. He was surprised, easing back like he was worried she didn't realize what she'd done. But instead of letting him back away, she followed, pressing into his chest, sliding her arms around his shoulders.
Joy and triumph didn't quite cover what she felt when he wrapped both arms around her back. He deepened the kiss immediately, making a meal of her lips and taking control of her mouth. Her hands found his hair, his went to hers as well, holding her head in place firmly.
"I told you what would happen," he growled against her mouth.
"I know," she panted back, almost hating how desperate it sounded and how warm he'd already made her.
His hands shot down to the bottom of both ass cheeks, and on cue she popped up to his waist, letting him hold her weight as she squeezed her thighs to his hips. He held her there for a moment, kissing her more until she moaned, catching herself completely by surprise.
That was when he moved, carrying her through his darkened living room to the hall, through a doorway, kicking it closed behind him. How he found the bed she didn't know, didn't care.
Quentin lowered her to the edge of the mattress carefully, dropping to his knees in front of her, then gathering her up to his chest again, popping her backside off the bed and landing her in his lap like he changed his mind. His hands pushed under her shirt to slide over her lower back warm, rough, and fantastic. His mouth absolutely divine, the rest of her body aching to get the same treatment her lips and tongue were enjoying.
"I gotta see you," he whispered, mouth still on hers. "I gotta turn the light on. Please. I've been dying to know."
His words made her shudder, but what he was asking made her think, which froze her.
He felt it, felt her withdraw. His hands slid up her neck to cup her face in front of his, his breath smelling of beer, hot on her skin. It wasn't sickly, it was perfectly him and it tasted like he did and she was loving it, loving him.
"Please Arielle, let me watch you. You're so fucking beautiful. I've got to see."
She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, letting his words wash over her. He thought she was beautiful, he wanted to see her. This man who could have 'easy' without much trouble, was desperate for her. And the entire time all she could think was how her body had been mangled. How he'd undoubtedly be disgusted, and that would kill her.
"Please," he whispered again. "I could never see you as anything but perfect."
Tears stung her eyes, but before she could go back to that dark and ugly place she was replying, "Okay." She felt safe with him.
He lifted her from his lap easily, depositing her on the edge of the bed again. He leaned across her to flick on the light on the nightstand, and the room lit up warm and golden.
When Arielle had stayed here she liked the light of that lamp, it had been great for reading. For some reason it reminded her of her parent's cottage in Washington state. There was a lamp there that had been an old seventies relic delegated to cottage duty with a fringed orange shade, but the light it gave was so particular to how safe and cosy she'd always felt there. Quentin's lamp had the same glow.
But now the glow held him, in front of her, still on his knees. Her hands were on his chest, pushing into the neck of his shirt. The way his eyes were running over her made his words more believable. Well, if he wanted to see her she wanted to see him, too.
She undid the top button of his shirt, and he was quick to help, undoing the next four quickly in the time it took her to get her hands to function well enough to do the top one. Impatient, he pulled the shirt off over his head, cupping her face in his hands again and pulling her mouth to his.
Arielle's hands ran over his smooth chest. He was ripped, rock-solid, and he felt strong. She scratched her fingernails across it before he caught her wrists, chuckling—again, another trait that was so male she felt something deep behind her bellybutton quiver a little.
"Easy, babe," he murmured, kissing her softly. "I'm ticklish."
She smiled against his lips, that bit of personal information thrilling in its own way. It was like he was opening up all his secrets just for her.
He eased upward, forcing he
r back, squirming on elbows and ass until they were both reclined on the bed, his weight held off her with both elbows, chest on hers, his hips next to her on the mattress. His eyes were downright shining as he studied her, hand smoothing over her cropped hair, licking his lips at the sight of her. Or so it seemed.
"Aunt Arielle," he said absently. "Finally in my bed with me."
She smiled, wanting to cry again for some insane reason. "Quentin—"
"You'll let me give you what I promised?"
"What?"
"I promised you something nice, remember?"
Her skin lit off like wildfire. She could feel how her cheeks were blazing. "I remember." She was embarrassed that her voice shook, embarrassed that he heard it and embarrassed that it still made her all bothered to remember it.
"Good," he whispered and kissed her again before she could humiliate herself more. The kiss was slow but intense, to the point where she was winding her leg around his hip, turning her body into his to have as much of him as she could as close as possible. His rough hands slid under her shirt, fingers making lazy circles on her skin in such a concentrated pattern she was feeling it in other more private and sensitive places. That feeling and her own surprising passion meant she let herself get lost in the kiss, holding on for dear life and letting him sweep her away. From everything.
His hand slid up to her breast, the real one, and he groaned, hand cupping her along the swell of the bottom and side, pulling back from her kiss as her eyes slid closed, breathing fast. "I won't touch anything you don't want me to, okay?"
She didn't even have the ability pout and contemplate her bad luck of not being whole, all because his hand on her right breast was careful, attentive, and when he ran his thumb over her nipple her entire body jolted and she moaned, eyes flying open, her own response surprising her.
He was smiling down on her, eyes on her face. He'd been watching her react to that touch, and she knew her blush had probably increased three shades. But his thumb was still moving, and it made her scissor her legs against him.
She licked her lips, swallowing hard, eyes locked on his face. She was nervous and anticipating what he was going to do next, but it wasn't in her to request anything.