The Sweet Under His Skin (12 page)

"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?"

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?"