The Sweet Under His Skin (4 page)

Quentin caught up with the bitch quicker than he would have thought, and when he had her by the shoulders he couldn't help but shove her up against the side of the cab hard. "Where's my wallet, bitch?" was all he said. His voice was cold and calm, totally at odds with how anger had his head buzzing.

Her eyes were wide, terrified. That made it a bit better, but not much. He pulled her away and slammed her back again. "Where's my wallet? You think you can come to my town on the back of a brother's bike, steal my roll and get away with it? There's no fucking way. Where's my wallet? Or we're all gonna take it out of your ass, sweetheart."

She swallowed hard. "It-it's in my bag. All the cash is there, I swear."

He yanked the bag off her arm, handing it behind him. He didn't know who took it, but someone started going through it. Not only was he robbed but he was also fucking humiliated with an audience.

"Got it man," Joel said, dropping the bag to the ground. He heard it, didn't see it.

Quentin gave her one more shove. As he did it, he heard a little voice, clear as a bell, crying out, "Stop it! Please!"

He turned, ready to tell the person to shut-the-fuck-up, when he saw the neighbor on her front stoop catch that kid by the arm before he could launch himself down the stairs. He looked scared but he also looked angry enough to take a piece out of Quentin.

His own reaction was beyond peculiar. For the first time in, who knew how long, he felt absolutely ashamed. He looked at the kid's blue eyes, big and worried behind those glasses, and then turned to the woman he had cowering in front of him.

"Don't touch him," she begged, mistaking his blank look. Apparently she thought he was going to hurt the kid. She sputtered, hands fluttering around until they rested on his chest, pushing under his kutte. "Please. I can make it up to you. Just…leave them out of it. Please."

Quentin grabbed her wrists and shoved her hands away while his brain processed through this fog of rage. That kid called his neighbor his aunt. And this bitch kinda looked like the neighbor; it was what made him take her to his room the night before.

"That's your sister and your kid?" he guessed.

She licked her lips, trying to step into him again. He shoved her off. Keeping his madness at bay, because he knew that was a hell of a lot scarier, he extended one finger, almost touching the end of her nose. "You're fucking lucky." She winced as he brought his face closer. "I see you in this town again, your sister here gets all the trouble intended for you."

"Please—" she whispered on a sob, but he wasn't in the mood for listening.

"Get the fuck out," he instructed, cold and calm again. She nodded, opened the cab door. He turned back to Joel, grabbed the bag off the lawn and tossed it in after her then slammed the door, just missing her fucking ankles. The cab sped away faster than he'd ever seen a cab move.

Joel was holding out his wallet. Quentin yanked it away, opened it and thumbed through the bills.

"Fuck," he muttered.

"How much did she get?"

"About four-hundred." He shoved the wallet back in his jeans pocket.

"Should we go after her?" Joel offered.

"Nah. Fuck it. My own fault, right?"

"Not entirely," Joel quipped. He turned to a guilty-looking Nomad, still sitting on his bike next to Flynn. "No more traveling pussy, right Sonny?" The bastard had the sense to look just as embarrassed as Quentin was.

Quentin had no idea how Sonny convinced Joel to let him bring the bitch along to Portus Felix. But it didn't matter. He was stupid for not listening to Mandy.

"What about them?" Joel asked quietly, jerking his head the direction of the neighbor.

Quentin sniffed. "She's terrified of me."

"And?" Joel raised his eyebrows. "What if she calls the cops?"

Quentin narrowed his eyes over the Nomad president's shoulder, catching sight of the neighbor pushing the kid back in the house. "I'll talk to her."

He pushed passed the huge Nomad prez, stalking across the grass to the stoop. Somehow the neighbor heard him, and she shut the screen door, whirling back around and holding her arms to the sides like she was blocking the door, protecting the kid.

The shame flared up again. Christ, he'd never hurt a kid, but clearly she didn't think so. "Your sister's a real fucking problem," he observed.

She shook her head, her breathing making that chest rise and fall. It was nicer than her sister's, he could just tell. Less tainted. "She…She doesn't live here. She's, uh, a drifter."

"She the kid's mom?"

"Yeah. But I have custody."

"He's pretty fucking lucky then, isn't he?"

"She doesn't live here," the woman repeated, still scared. "She just shows up every year or two."

Quentin felt his shoulders relax, just slightly. He was still pissed, but this woman with her big doll eyes had him keeping himself in check. "Relax, babe. I'm not gonna hurt you or the kid. But she can't show her face here again."

"She just shows up. I never ask her to."

He watched the way she calmed herself down, impressed with that self-control. Most women didn't have that. But he also couldn't stop looking at her tits; she had some thin-strapped shirt on with matching pajama bottoms, so he knew very damn well there was no bra underneath. His palms were itching to feel them.

"What'd she give me? Do you know? Am I gonna start looking for a vein in an hour?"

She took a deep breath. "She said it was Dramamine. It's an anti-nausea medication, makes people tired. Shouldn't be mixed with alcohol."

"Well that explains why I'm not sick then," he muttered, rubbing his aching head. Then he stopped. The anger was gone. He felt calm again. His hands weren't even shaking anymore. Quentin cast a wary eye to his neighbor, and it made her slink back from him further. "How'd you do that?" It was a surprise to him that he said it out loud.

She frowned. "What?"

"Quentin, you ready to go or should we leave you two alone for a while to talk more shit?"

Quentin felt his lip curl as Joel shouted but he was right. He had to get out of there; this woman was making him antsy. Without another word he crossed the lawn to Joel.

"Wanna go beat up some Nazi shitheads?" Joel asked with a big grin.

Quentin nodded, heading for his bike. "Let's do it."

"You sure? She's got a nice rack. And that whole purity thing is fucking hot."

"Forget it man, just…leave her alone."

The request was strange enough that Joel knew enough to not say another word; just climbed on his bike. As Quentin turned the engine over he looked back at the neighbor's house.

But she was already gone.

Chapter Five

"Thank you so much for helping with this," Gwen Davidson said amiably, pulling out her wallet. "Last minute house guests, you know how it is."

In an effort to put more cash in the bank before treatments Arielle had started cleaning houses. It was exhausting work, but she could pick the hours and be home by the time Calvin was done with school. Plus the extra money was needed for house reasons: the main bathroom of her rental was constantly growing mold on the ceiling. There had to be an air leak in the wall somewhere, carrying humidity to the back of the drywall. There was no bathroom fan, either. When she confronted her landlord he'd told her—in a rant laced with plenty of four-letter words—that he'd only pay for the materials. She'd have to hire the labor.

In other words, the more expensive part. She wasn't in a position to argue. Other properties for rent were even worse, and anything‘in between’this rent and the kind of rent she couldn't keep up with, without a full-time job, just didn't exist. She was stuck in that damn house, stuck cleaning other people's houses, and that damn bathroom was going to cut into her savings no matter what.

Which brought her to this point. The Davidsons were the first to take her on, and their gorgeous home in Portus Felix Heights was super-easy to clean. Minimalist, no knick-knacks, and Gwen Davidson tipped handsomely because it was always an on-call basis. This particular day Arielle had just finished cleaning a small one-bedroom wartime house inhabited by an elderly lady who couldn't see all that well when she got the call. The Davidsons were expecting company on the weekend, so she'd appreciate it if Arielle could stop by that afternoon.

Of course she took it, but now she kept checking her wristwatch. Calvin was likely home ten minutes ago. She knew he'd just wait in the backyard and read, but that biker next-door still made her plenty nervous.

Being in the Davidson's house made her nervous, too. It wasn't because of Gwen; the woman was wonderful, she just didn't like cleaning and had married a rich guy. It was her husband that gave Arielle the creeps. He had the kind of eyes that made you feel dirty. And not in the good way. The one time he'd been there while she worked she felt the need to take a shower. She preferred to be gone before he came home.

Gwen tipped her fifty dollars this time. Arielle was glad for it, smiled her sincere thanks for the unexpected hundred-fifty dollars that came her way that day, and then hurried to her car.

She pulled into the driveway about half an hour late. The neighbor's bike was in his driveway, and she swallowed the lump in her throat at the sight of it. His garage door was open too, but she kept her eyes adverted.

She and Calvin had avoided him the past five weeks, and he'd kept to his side of the fence since the day Jolene flew the coop. Just as well; Arielle still didn't believe him that he meant them no harm. Now, knowing he was home, it sent her into a tailspin of panic and she rushed into the backyard, calling Calvin's name.

He didn't answer.

Arielle climbed the four steps to the patio, seeing his backpack on a deck chair. He'd been here. She checked the back door, it was locked. She circled to the front door and it was still locked, too. Shit.

Arielle was reminding herself not to think the worst. Maybe he'd gone for a walk around the block. Or a friend had come by. She unlocked the front door and checked the answering machine. If a friend had invited him over, that friend's parents would make sure she knew where he was. Right?

No messages on the machine. She held a hand over the centre of her chest; the panic was rising. She rushed the front door, purposeful steps taking her down the driveway, around the end of the fence and up to her neighbor's garage. It was open, but it was empty. A bike frame was resting in the middle of a pile of tools on the floor, but other than that it was really empty.

She left the garage, forced enough courage on herself to stride past the dead-plant flowerbeds—noting death and killing surrounded this man—up the steps to the front door, and knocked on the storm door when she couldn't find a doorbell. As she waited she wrapped her arms around her waist, torn between hoping like hell he wasn't inside and begging fate to put him there with an idea of where Calvin was.

The house was silent. But his bike was in front and the garage left wide open; he couldn't have gone far. Arielle returned to her house, walking through again, and seeing no signs that Calvin had made it inside. The only indication he'd been home was that backpack on the patio.

She wanted to go looking. But she also wanted to be here in case he came home while she was out. God, this was frustrating. And the scariest part was that she only had her frightening neighbor to turn to for help.

Arms still tight around her middle she sat on the stoop, willing her pulse to slow down. She couldn't get stressed; her body wasn't doing well with stress lately. After the drama with Jolene she'd needed the next two days to get her energy back.

Calvin just went for a walk
, she told herself.
Out of character, absolutely
. But she just had to wait for him. She couldn't panic yet.

Quentin watched the weird little kid from next door agonize over which soda to pick from the cooler at the corner store. Christ, you'd think he was picking a weapon to go into battle with.

"What's the problem, Charlie? Spoiled for choice or what?"

The kid pushed his glasses up his nose and looked up at him. "My name's Calvin."

"Calvin, huh?"

"Yeah. But you keep calling me Charlie."

Quentin couldn't help but smile. "Sorry, kid. You just look like a Charlie to me. Get the lead out and pick your drink, man."

"I don't know what I want."

"Why not?"

"I don't get to drink pop too much."

Quentin raised his eyebrows. What the hell kind of upbringing was this kid having? "You ever tried root beer?" Calvin shook his head. "Try it. Your mind will be blown," he muttered wryly. Calvin looked at him, chewed it over, and grabbed a plastic bottle of Hires. "Good choice. Let's go."

Quentin had been in his garage when the kid walked home from school, slowing down while crossing Quentin's driveway, staring inside and not watching where he was going in that totally absorbed way that only kids had. Then he'd watched the little bastard walk down to the street every five minutes looking both ways and waiting a minute before going back up to his aunt's house.

Clearly she wasn't home yet and the kid was locked out. After about five of these sad little excursions Quentin finally dropped his tools and asked the kid if he wanted to get a soda or something. He was going to drive Quentin nuts if the aunt didn't show up soon.

He didn't know if Calvin had never had the‘strangers’talk or what, but the kid just shrugged and said "Okay" so agreeably Quentin was taken aback. So here they were, buying soda and walking back down the street to their houses. Quentin cracked open his soda, trying to remember the last time he'd had this shit without booze in it, swallowed a mouthful and struggled to find something to say. He was shit with kids. And this one was an odd one. So damn quiet. Weren't they supposed to be loud and as annoying as fuck?

Turns out he had no reason to worry. Couple gulps of root beer and the kid opened right up. "Are you building a motorcycle?"

Quentin nodded. "I am. An old one."

"Why? You already have a motorcycle."