The Sweet Under His Skin (17 page)

"And that's it. It was hug. The best I got so far is a kiss, all right."

Mandy pressed her lips together, still looking worried about him. Quentin was starting to feel like a caged animal. He liked Mandy, but the chick-chat was starting to make him itchy.

"I know you're worried. But I don't want this to be a big deal. I don't want any of these assholes knowing because they might scare her off. She's not…she's not in the life, Mandy."

"But you want her in yours, Quent."

"That's why I'm going gentle."

Mandy went up on her toes to kiss his forehead. "Don't want you to get hurt, darlin'."

"Thanks, doll," he said instead of arguing. "I gotta get home and shower. I've got the engine put together and the kid's pretty excited to get it running."

"Okay. Go get some rest, too."

"I will." Quentin kissed her cheek and left her, jogging across the compound to his bike. He made his own personal best time getting back to his driveway, yanking the garage open before heading for his front door. As he did he heard squealing tires across the street again, and he stopped to watch the same three fucking punks make another fucking deal on his street.

Phone out again, he sent a text to Bishop.

Dealers are back and they're here right now.

Then Quentin waited. It was a hell of an accomplishment, especially as he was reminding himself that these were the pricks that likely roughed up a nine-year-old. His phone chirped and he checked the screen.

On our way. Stand down.

He snapped the phone shut and shoved it in his pocket, opening his front door and heading for the kitchen to grab a beer. He barely had the cap off when there was a banging on the screen door. Smiling, he knew it had to be Calvin. He tipped the bottle back and made for the door, grin broadening as the kid saw him and smiled back.

"How was your trip?" The kid's manners were absolutely impeccable.

"It was a productive and uneventful outing, thanks, kid," he found himself replying, pushing the door open. "But the best part is, that engine's ready to hum, buddy."

"Is it?"

"Abso-fucking-lutely. You ready?"

"Yes!" Calvin tore down the steps and careened into the garage, stopping short at the doorway.

Quentin was right behind him, but seeing the scrawny prick standing in his garage wiped the smile right off his face. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Quentin snapped, not missing how Calvin edged into his side when he spoke.

"Is this a '56?"

"'54," Quentin corrected. "We caught up now? Good. Get the fuck off my property."

The kid had the gall to laugh. "Dude, I'm just appreciating the bike."

"Get out," Quentin repeated, still not sounding all too terribly angry. Inside he was a rolling rage but for now he'd let the pipsqueak wonder what exactly he was capable of.

"You might have noticed us across from your house," the kid said, leaning on the standing tool chest Quentin had as the only real flat surface in the entire garage.

"I noticed that. Good of your to bring it up. I think that should probably stop before you get hurt."

The kid laughed, eyes going down to Calvin. "You're bodyguard's a pussy, dude. Cried like a girl."

Quentin stalked forward, tossing the beer bottle to the corner of the garage. It smashed. The fucker jumped. Quentin smiled. "I can see you're a bit slow, so I'll use an educational aide this one time," Quentin muttered, picking up his crescent wrench from the tool box next to the boy's elbow. "This town does not belong to ass-wipe shitheads that get off on beating up little kids." Quentin said amiably. "Calvin," he added calmly, "go next door, okay?"

The kid took off running down the driveway around the fence, then back up his own without another glance. Not that Quentin let his gaze leave the shithead in front of him; they were in a lock-down glare.

"I'll give you one warning," Quentin offered, then swung the wrench and caught the guy's temple with it. He fell to the side, and Quentin circled around, shrugging off his kutte and setting it on the tool chest.

"Here's a chance to get up and walk away, take those pricks out there with you," Quentin offered. The boy tried to get up and charge him, which got him another crack to the cheekbone. Fuck, if the kid didn't smarten up this could very well get him killed.

Too late. Footsteps were rushing up his driveway, and Quentin brought his head up just in time to face the guy's two friends, one holding a tire iron and the other clutching a bike chain.

"We don't let dealers in Portus Felix," Quentin informed the late guests to the party. "Be smart. Keep breathing. And get the fuck out of town."

Before he could reach into his waistband for his piece, the other two rushed him. Little fuckers were fast, and he went down to one knee with a couple punches.

On a swing he saw coming just in time, Quentin caught the bike chain with his hand, pulling it away from the kid's grip, knowing it probably tore his hand up even more the initial flash of pain he felt, but it was a fight and it wouldn't really hurt until later. As the kid stumbled Quentin connected with a right hook, the bike chain now basically an accidental brass knuckle. That prick went down.

Quentin got to his feet, the third guy still standing in attach posture with the crowbar in hand. He looked a bit tougher, granted. But Quentin could hear approaching Harley pipes, so he knew he was minutes away from having back up. The prick swung, and Quentin raised his arm, the crowbar glancing off his forearm. It hurt like a bitch but better that than his head.

The guy looked at the crowbar, then back to the man in black who was now advancing with a smile lighting up his face. Quentin knew he looked nuts, it was enough to make the guy second-guess his next move. Long enough for Quentin to notice Arielle standing in the driveway shouting, “Get away from him, you bastards!” just before the third skinhead came at her with a wooden bat.

The bastard behind Quentin started getting up, and with one shot from the chain-wrapped hand Quentin dropped him back to the concrete and headed straight to Arielle.

The sound of an ash wood bat hitting a human skull was…sickening, to say the least.

Quentin dropped the bathe’d taken off the skinhead. Her whole body was suddenly shaking. She looked up at Quentin. He was bleeding from his lip and a cut eyebrow. The eyebrow was really bleeding, actually.

"You're…bleeding," she blurted stupidly, heart starting to calm down, adrenalin beginning to ebb away. She was tired again, realizing she'd been asleep when Calvin jumped on her bed, freaking out about Quentin getting beat up by three guys in his garage. She didn't call the police. She told Calvin to hide and went outside. Was she absolutely fucking insane?

Quentin held his hands out to the side. "Arielle? What the hell were you thinking?"

She shook her head. "I wasn't. Calvin said you needed help, you said to never call the police. I just came out to make sure...I don’t know… God… I…"

He sighed, and she noticed his hand was also bleeding. The sound of bikes grew deafening behind her. Turning, she saw five Harleys pull into the driveway.

She turned back to Quentin, panicking now. "Shit, what have I done?" she whispered.

Quentin approached her, hands up, palms facing her. "Don't worry, Arielle." He put a hand on her shoulder. "Go back to your place, babe. Rest up, okay?"

She nodded. "I'm sorry," she muttered.

"Don't be sorry. Nothing to be sorry for. Go home and get some rest, okay? I'll check on you in a bit."

She nodded, finding it odd that he escorted her down the drive to the point where that ineffectual fence ended, passed his…friends? Colleagues? Like he was protecting her from them.

Every one of these five men were wearing vests like Quentin's, but their expressions were all varied. Arielle recognized the man who'd caught her in Quentin's arms in his living room. He was still sitting on his bike, grinning at her unnervingly. The one with the dark eyes and unreadable smile she'd first seen the day she discovered Quentin was her neighbor was also staring at her, sliding his sunglasses off and not making any effort to hide his surveillance. One older fellow with a grizzled beard was just stroking his facial hair, studying her like a science experiment. A very young guy looked minutes away from laughing, eyebrows high from surprise, but it seemed he was more amused by Quentin than her. The fifth kept his sunglasses on, chewing the inside of his lips.

Behind her, she vaguely caught Quentin instructing his friends to "Get those assholes out of sight in the garage."

Arielle cast her eyes away as the scary biker bad-asses all seemed to dismount their bikes at once. She allowed Quentin to lead her up the stoop to her own house, hand warm on the centre of her back. She wasn't an invalid for God's sakes, but that touch was incredibly reassuring anyway.

Wait, she was an invalid. Her body reminded her of that, and why she had been napping in the first place. Her stomach rolled, and as soon as she kicked her shoes off at the door she had to run for the washroom, getting to the toilet just in time to let the remaining bile from her stomach evacuate. It hurt. She had nothing to throw up.

"Aunt Arielle?"

She closed her eyes, resting her head on her arm. "I'm okay, Peanut. Please don't worry. The radiation made me sick, honey."

"Are you sure?" his tiny, concerned tone cut her.

She was opening her mouth to reply when another voice cut in, her humiliation reaching new levels of awareness.

"She's gonna be fine, Charlie. Do me a favor and give me a minute with Aunt Arielle?"

"Okay, Q," Calvin agreed as though that made him feel better. Then he vanished from the doorway of the en-suite washroom. Arielle flushed the toilet immediately, getting to her feet and heading for the sink to rinse her mouth and splash water on her face. God, he'd been right outside the room while she was puking? Wow, she was such a fucking catch.

He partially closed the door so the enclosed space was that much smaller. Hands on his hips, head hanging lower than usual he asked casually, "How you doing?"

She laughed at that. He was bleeding down the side of his face, dripping off his jaw, and he was asking how she was. "I'm fine," she said softly. "Are…are you okay?"

He frowned. "Me?"

She pointed to his head. "You're bleeding," she informed him for the second time. He moved closer to her, checking out his reflection, crowding her without even touching her. That's when he noticed how chewed up his hand was, for the first time apparently. He seemed surprised by it. She could smell him again, leather and dust and heat from sunshine. Sweat. And the metallic tang of blood.

She was pinned between him, the vanity and the toilet. She stayed small, watching him inspect his eyebrow. "Shit," he was muttering, looking around and noticing this wasn't his washroom.

"Here," she said, opening the cabinet behind the mirror. She grabbed the cotton balls, rubbing alcohol and bandages. "You should wash your hands, too."

"No, Arielle. Go to bed. I'll fix this at my place."

"Wash your hands," she instructed. His eyes tracked the set of her jaw and the one eyebrow she had cocked, then he nodded. He soaped up his hands, hissing as the cuts from the bike chain were rinsed out, then took the hand towel from her and froze with it.

"I'll get blood on it."

"It's white. I can bleach the hell out of it."

He dutifully dried off, then moved to leave the bathroom. "Sit," she snapped, and something must have shown in her face because he did as asked, lowering the lid on the toilet and parking it. She wiped up the blood with the alcohol and cotton balls, then put a small adhesive bandage on the cut that split his eyebrow. "How's that?" she asked, realizing he had been absolutely silent the entire time.

Arielle cast her eyes down to his, and if the room had been big enough she would have taken a few steps back. She didn't know what his expression meant; it wasn't blank. It was the opposite. She couldn't tell if the set of his jaw meant he was angry or determined. The way his eyes lit off could either mean he wanted to hit her or…kiss her.

She did move away, suddenly. She was sick. She just threw up. She did not want to remember how incredibly wonderful he was at kissing. Or just plain touching her.

"Arielle," he said softly, catching her hand. "How are you? Really?"

"I'm fine," she replied, trying to pull her hand free. He gripped it tighter.

"Arielle," he baited her. "Mandy told me she came by. You're getting sick from this?"

"I'm being treated with radiation. It makes people sick."

He stood quickly, startling her, and she was almost out of room to back away. Just as quickly he picked her up in both arms, toed the bathroom door open and carried her back to her bedroom. He set her back on her bed, then threw the blanket over her again.

Arielle was stunned, unable to talk, almost unsure how she even ended up here again. He crouched on his heels next to the bed, reaching out and smoothing her hair back. It had the unsettling effect of being sweet, comforting, thrilling and a bit scary all at once.

"Get some rest. You need anything send Calvin over to see me, or have him call me."

"Okay," she agreed, already knowing she couldn't argue with him.

"I'll need him not at my place for a while," Quentin went on ambiguously. "We need to... take care of a few things. I'd feel better if he was inside the house."

Arielle closed her eyes, guessing what all that meant. She should probably be grateful she wasn't one of those three idiots that decided to pick a fight with her neighbor.

"Okay," she repeated, snuggling into her pillow. She watched his face as she did it, the lines between his eyebrows almost disappearing. He held her gaze, and she felt herself relax right then.

"You trust me to keep you safe?"

Her heart tripped over itself when he asked that. On a soft breath she answered without even thinking. "Yes, I do."

When he smiled it warmed his whole face, even those blue eyes.

"These are the guys that broke Calvin's glasses," he said softly. "I'll make them hurt, babe."