The Sweet Under His Skin (15 page)

Quentin's words, however sweet they might have been, barely registered because she was crying so hard. His hands rubbed her back in comforting circles, so much so it wasn't even unpleasant to have her face mashed against his leather.

"Ahem. Maybe I should…come back another time?"

She felt Quentin's entire body stiffen, and she took the chance to pull away, wiping her eyes and looking up at him. His face had gone slightly arctic, and she stepped out of his embrace at the sight of it. Sniffling, she turned to face whoever was standing at the open front door.

It was no one she recognized, but the leather vest he wore was certainly familiar. He wasn't tall but seemed imposing anyway, maybe it was his solid, stocky build. Maybe the steely gaze he had on her. Maybe it was because he was grinning at her like he was considering eating her for lunch. It wasn't a happy grin, it was a slightly terrifying grin. Then he turned that grin on Quentin.

"Well introduce me, Quentin."

Quentin cast his eyes her way, looking indifferent again. "Bishop, this is my neighbor, Arielle. Arielle, this is Bishop. He's president of the Dead Men Riders MC."

"Oh," she said, manners kicking her voice into a false-friendly gear. "Nice to meet you."

Bishop came forward at that, frowning almost comically. "I know that's a lie. But it's sweet of you to say."

His hand mauled hers when he shook it, and his touch seemed wrong. She didn't know what it was but he instantly had her uneasy. Not realizing it, she edged away from him, closer to Quentin. Bishop's beady eyes caught the movement, and something shifted in his face and his gaze swung up to Quentin.

"I can see why you're keeping this piece secret."

"Ain't like that, Bishop. She's my neighbor."

"This the neighbor you punched out a civilian for?" Arielle held her breath because something in the way he asked it implied a threat somehow. Arielle guessed Bishop didn't like Quentin punching people randomly. "Don't deny it," Bishop went on. "I heard about it. You think you can keep that kind of shit from me?" His eyes came back to Arielle. "Don't worry. I ain't mad. I feel you, brother." Arielle held the eye contact until Bishop slid his sunglasses on. "We're leaving soon. Get ready."

"Give me twenty minutes," Quentin requested.

"Twenty, huh?" Bishop looked her up and down. "Doesn't seem like long enough."

Quentin laughed, moving in front of Arielle now. "I told you it ain't like that."

"All right, all right. Twenty minutes and then we're rolling."

"I'll be there."

Not a word was said as he left, but Quentin turned back to her. "Sorry about that. He wants to make sure you're not…well, the kind of broad that steals my wallet."

Arielle nodded. "I understand. I guess."

"Go get your stuff packed, Calvin and I will load up the kitchen. Then I'll bring your shit here. Yeah?"

"Okay." She caught him by the elbow. "Are you in trouble? For hitting Clark Davidson?"

Quentin gave her that wild smile then kissed her forehead, catching her totally off guard. "Nah, babe. Takes more than that to get me in trouble."

Chapter
Eleven

Quentin waited for Bishop to razz him about Arielle in front of the guys, but he said nothing. That was the first thing that made him nervous. The second thing that made him nervous? No one seemed to know who Reuben was.

The guy was a complete ghost—he'd avoided everyone's radar. Bishop arranged to meet with Dante and the Nazi Lowriders at first, thinking it was them, only to find out for certain it wasn't. Dante was pissed he had someone on his turf putting his customers in the hospital. Bishop tersely reminded the fucker that it wasn't his turf, so of course they agreed to disagree on that for the time being.

Now Dead Men was hitting the highway for Woodbourne, hoping the Black Disciples street gang, who the club dealt guns with, had any information to shed on the problem. Bishop had called in Nomad back-up again, since they were stepping out of Dead Men's own territory for a spell. As Bishop, Colton, Quentin, Gage and Dillon had pulled up at the planned meeting spot; another shit-hole roadhouse, they saw their brother's bikes already in the lot.

"Shit," Gage muttered. "They're not gonna want to leave. I bet they're already balls deep."

"I don't have a problem with staying for some hospitality," Bishop drawled, unfastening his helmet. "Anyone else have any reason to play it celibate tonight?" He turned his fucking smart eyes on Quentin. "Quentin? You got somewhere else you'd rather be?"

Quentin didn't know what was up Bishop’s ass, and it wasn't in his nature to worry about it. As long as he did what he was told he knew his place in the club and the function he served. "Me?" he scoffed, hanging his helmet off his handlebars. "Are you kidding?" At Bishop's question all of the Dead Men members on this run had paused to look at him. Quentin felt his skin shrink just a bit. "What?" he snapped.

"Heard you gave a girl your high school ring," Dillon quipped, the big man smart-ass tone chaffing Quentin as much as his smirk. "You got to third base there yet, Quent? Can I smell your fingers?"

As the crowd cut up around him his shook his head and got off the bike. "Fuck all of you," Quentin said, smiling right along with them but kind of wanting to punch the prick all the same.

A roadhouse like this one was basically an MC clubhouse without a club in residence. The same shit went here as it was in any clubhouse, except here you had to pay for your booze. Feeling Bishop still eyeing him up, Quentin's eyes trolled the room for offered distractions. Just to shut everyone up.

"Red," he snapped, catching a tall, dark-skinned fake redhead as she was passing by. She turned on a platform heel, hand on her hip which was jutted to the side.

"Something I can do for you, handsome?"

Getting close, he cast his eyes down her lean shape, then back up to her face. She was pretty, he decided. She'd do. "You lonely?"

She tilted her head with a smile. "I am a little lonely, tonight."

"You working?"

"Nah, sweetheart. I'm here for my own recreation."

He nodded, taking her hand. "You ain't lonely anymore."

All day he'd only been thinking about Arielle, crying her heart out and letting him hug her while she did it. He had been trying not to focus on how she physically felt, but he had noticed something missing. It didn't freak him out; his only worry was that she would change her mind about having him that close.

But for that moment she'd just stayed there, letting him wrap his arms around her like that. She was all warm from her shower, smelling great. He'd love to see her that way every fucking possible morning, if he could. No make-up, hair in a towel as evidence she'd just been naked in the shower. Nothing done to impress or attract attention, only beautiful because she was beautiful without extra effort.

Not like the bitch bent over the sink in front of him. Her hair was nice, not authentic. Her nails felt good when she scratched them under his shirt across his chest, but they were plastic. Her face was pretty but under the lights of the bathroom he could tell it was the effect of many layers of make-up. Even her eyelashes were after-market.

He didn't even bother with the breasts. She hiked her skirt up, assumed the position against the sink after a quick clinch, and he was barely aware how he ended up inside her. All because he'd done this a million fucking times and it was all the same. He didn't want the same.

He wanted Arielle.

The woman he was with was making sounds, and as he realized he'd been thinking about his neighbor he felt her body clench around him, holding him inside while she trembled. It was real enough to take him with her, and he grunted once, hard, one hand tight in her hair, the other on her lower back. Her eyes were all soft and happy as she caught his reflection in the mirror, and he cursed himself out. Even thinking about Arielle he'd gotten all Casanova on his roadhouse slut. And apparently it was quite effective.

"Sugar," she moaned. "I don't know who the fuck you were thinking about just then, but she's a lucky woman."

It was like a fist to the gut, to be found out that easily by some slut who'd known him for all of ten minutes. And more than frightening that he was that fucking transparent around his brothers.

No wonder Bishop had been giving him the sideways-eyeball all day.

He couldn't even get angry with this piece. He just pulled out, slapped her hip with a "Thanks doll," and set to cleaning himself up while she shimmied her skirt back over her hips and left the washroom. It hadn't been great for him, just a release he hadn't even wanted in the first place. May as well have just jerked off in the sink.

He found his brothers at a table. He fell into a chair next to Bishop, exhaling loudly. His prez turned to him and gave him a long hard look. Quentin frowned. "The fuck, man?"

"Making sure you're okay and that your dick is doing what it’s supposed to be doing. Not kissing the feet of some pussy back home."

Quentin just squinted back, not joining in the quorum. "That's funny. You calling anyone pussy-whipped."

The silence was tight and sharp at the table. He knew that was uncalled for. He liked Mandy first and foremost, and there was no way implying your first-in-charge was pussy-whipped fell under the 'good idea' category. But it would also get everyone off his fucking back.

He was going to kill Flynn for the trouble his big fucking mouth was causing.

"Easy, Quentin," Dillon called from across the table.

Bishop's eyes were pinned on his own, but Quentin never looking away first. His own hard-headed stupidity was far more powerful than his common sense, and he wouldn't let these assholes think Arielle was…what? Less than she was? Worthy of their lowly talk and subsequent dismissal? As in, a woman he'd actually deserve? Whatever. This was exactly the reason he hadn't wanted his brothers to know about her.

"You bringing my old lady into this discussion?" Bishop wanted it clarified.

"Never," he answered evenly, not blinking. Message sent. Bishop nodded once, his jaw set hard. Message delivered.

Quentin ignored the raised eyebrows around the table, but he did catch Flynn's crazy fucking grin before he downed the shot in front of him.

Quentin was going to make that bastard sorry.

Chapter
Twelve

"Now Arielle, I want you to just relax. Make sure you're comfortable."

"Does it hurt?" Arielle whimpered, and she hated sounding so scared but it was just her and Doctor Foster at the moment.

"No. It's not going to hurt. It might feel warm. You'll likely feel tired after. Your skin could get red, and if you get nauseous don't worry, that can happen, too. Just take some Gravol and you should be fine. "

She nodded, hands twisting at her hospital gown. "Why is this scarier than the surgery?"

Doctor Foster smiled down at her, his hand beside her head. She felt his thumb stroke her temple. "I'm right here with you, Arielle. Don't worry, okay?"

Arielle felt her heart trip just a little bit. She didn't know if any of this was appropriate, but she wasn't uncomfortable.

She was very comfortable with it, actually.

"Am I going to glow in the dark?"

"Maybe," he said in all seriousness.

She felt herself grin. "That'll make it hard to sleep."

"I'll get you one of those masks for your eyes. You'll be fine."

She appreciated him wanting to make her laugh. "Sounds good."

"All right. Let's get this over with, yeah?"

She nodded, forced her hands to stop fidgeting. Doctor Foster had been so careful in explaining everything to her during her lead-up visits—for the past month—to the radiation therapy. When he decided she was healthy enough he eased her into the next step, told her how it was going to happen and how it all worked. Arielle was still terrified. They were aiming a beam of radiation at her good breast and her lymph nodes. That was scary. That was so, so scary. The machinery was loud. And it didn't matter where Doctor Foster was. She was alone inside it.

Arielle kept her eyes closed, willing her body to keep still. She could hear the noises around her, the instructions to hold her arm this way and then keep still. She was on a robotic setting, her brain done for the time being. This was medicine. This was going to make her better.

When the treatment was done Arielle was left alone to get dressed again. With growing acceptance she picked up the specialty brassiere that Aunt Thelma helped her pick out. One side was a regular bra cup, the other completely padded to match the size of the regular cup. She was comfortable wearing more form-fitting clothes with it, like the T-shirt she'd paired up with denim shorts that day. She was still extra nervous that the padded cup could slide up and go wonky, but it hadn't happened yet.

As she was buttoning up her shorts Aunt Thelma was knocking on the door. "Come in," Arielle called out, sitting back on the vinyl-covered bench to catch her breath.

Aunt Thelma looked nervous. She was giving her 'everything's going to be all right' smile but Arielle was…too exhausted for that.

"Hey, honey. How'd it go?"

Arielle shrugged as she shoved her feet into her flip flops. "I don't know. No point of reference, really. I kind of feel like I've been put through the microwave for a while. I feel warm, in a weird way. Tired, but that's nothing new."

Aunt Thelma nodded, trying to be of comfort but knowing that anything she said likely wouldn't help too much. Arielle had the overwhelming urge to assure Aunt Thelma that everything was okay, which was kind of a crazy concept. She was the sick one. Why did she need to make anyone else feel better?

"Did you want to go for lunch, or would you rather just go home?"

Arielle was already shaking her head. "I need to sleep. You and Calvin go for lunch without me."

"Okay, honey. Let's get you home."

Arielle was silent on the drive, and as she got out of the vehicle in the driveway she heard the back door of the car open, too. Calvin was going to ride shotgun with Aunt Thelma, but before he climbed back in he wrapped both arms around Arielle's waist and hugged her tight.