The Sweet Under His Skin (54 page)

"Please," she sobbed, hand hitting the screen door. "Please let me in. I didn't know where else to go."

Quentin sighed, his head reeling. No way he wasn't calling Bishop, but first he wanted to know what the hell she'd gotten herself into. So he unlocked the storm door, scanning the yard and deciding she was alone. So Quentin yanked her into the kitchen by her arm.

"All right," he snarled, propelling her to the kitchen table and basically tossing her into a chair. "Fucking talk. And swear to Christ you tell me one more lie I'm tossing you back to whoever had you last. Because I'm done with you. Like, three weeks ago."

When she saw the state Jolene was in, Arielle's panic kicked in and she rushed to her, hugging her close. She'd clearly been beaten up, and her clothes were torn. She was already crying before Arielle got her arms around her.

"Jolene," she mumbled with concern. "What the hell happened?"

"Let her talk," Quentin growled, and Arielle's head snapped up in surprise. She'd rarely heard this tone from him.

"Quentin—" Arielle began but he cut her off.

"She has to talk, she has to tell us what she did so I can figure out the best way to deal with it," he answered her unasked question. His eyebrows went up like that might soften the blow of what he was about to say. It didn't. "Then I gotta hand her over to Bishop and he'll lock her up at the clubhouse."

Arielle got to her feet. "No, Quentin let's just take her to Thelma's—"

"You don't want her dragging her shit to Thelma's any more than you want it here, babe," Quentin assured her. "Here's the thing. She doesn't owe people some money anymore"—He indicated who he was talking about by jabbing his finger in Jolene's direction—"She stole from a very bad guy. Then she got arrested. Now, a smart person would stay in jail where guards are around to prevent themselvesfrom getting dead. Your sister"—Another forcefulpointing—"ran away, and we have no idea who the hell bailed her out. Now, she's only got one thing to barter with the guys she owes money to." His cold eyes slid to her sister. "She knows about the dealers we have informing to the Lowriders, and somehow those assholes after her, know about it too. Hours after you told her and she got bailed out, another gang told us that Reuben's men knew about it too."

"I didn't—"

"Not a word," the finger and the eyebrows came up again. "This girl also knows about the guy I killed here, and he wasn't a nobody, Arielle," Quentin reminded her. "We're all a little jumpy about her being unaccounted for."

Jolene kept her mouth shut this time when Quentin paused, and he drew closer, crouched down in front of Jolene, making her shrink away from him. Arielle couldn't see his face but she could guess what the expression might be. "Talk," Quentin advised. Still no sound. "I'm trying to help you,Jolene," Quentin said calmly. "If I just hand you over to Bishop saying you wouldn't cooperate…I'm not sure what'll happen."

"Quentin!" Arielle was getting pissed, then she turned and realized Calvin was in the doorway. "Calvin, go to your room for a bit, okay?"

Of course, he was agreeable to a fault so he nodded, pushing up his glasses and doing as he was told.

"Talk," Quentin repeated once they'd all heard Calvin's door close.

"There's a guy in town I used to party with," Jolene said hollowly, staring at her hands in her lap. "He had money. He's married but she's a stick in the mud and we always had fun together. Usually we'd hook up at a hotel, do some blow, party all weekend." Arielle's eyes closed. "He's the one that introduced me to Reuben in the first place. He'd gone to Woodbourne for work, got hold of me because he knew sometimes I was out there. I met Reuben at a party."

Quentin took a measured breath and Arielle pulled a chair out from the table to sit as well.

"What's Reuben look like?" Quentin asked. "Is he a midget?"

Jolene was nodding. "Yeah, he is. I mean, I didn't get it. How people were so scared of him, but his stepfather had great connections and a bit of a soft spot for Reuben. That's what they said, anyway."

Quentin was nodding with her now. "Okay, now we have two people saying that. Who bailed you out? How's he know Reuben?"

Jolene shrugged. "They were making money together. Some scam to set up cooks in Portus Felix and Shanksville. Reuben sent Clark in and Clark bought the properties, then when he was forced to renovate the meth cooks moved in. It was a sweet deal."

"The guy that bailed you out?" Quentin said quickly, clearly excited now. "What's his name?"

"Clark…Davidson. Yeah, that's it. Clark Davidson."

Arielle felt her stomach drop, her blood slowed. "Holy shit," she whispered.

Quentin frowned at her. "Clark Davidson…why does that name sound familiar?"

Arielle swallowed. "You beat him up for me, Quentin. That's the guy that got
handsy
when I was cleaning his house."

Quentin blinked twice, then it hit him and he said the weirdest thing. "Soccer dad. Son of a bitch."

He got to his feet, pulling out his phone and heading for the living room. Jolene reached across the table for Arielle's hand and she let her sister take it. "He bailed me out, but he was pissed, too. He thought I might have told the police about him. He beat me up, told me if the cops find out about him he'll know it was me that ratted."

Arielle squeezed her hand. "He should hope it's the police that come for him, Jolene."

"Don't let them hurt me," Jolene sputtered, eyes darting to the doorway, but Quentin was still in the living room.

"They won't, Jolene. They want to keep you safe."

Jolene shook her head. "They don't trust me, either."

Arielle made a somewhat humoured noise. "How can they, Jolene? You keep running off and every time you do you make it worse."

Jolene nodded, lip quivering. "I know. I'm sorry, Arielle."

"All right," Quentin snapped from the doorway, phone being shoved back in his pocket. "Get up, Lindsay Lohan. I need you at Dead Men right now."

"Why?" Jolene demanded, sounding terrified. Arielle stood and reached for Quentin's arm.

To her surprise he let her lead him towards the archway, still close enough to keep an eye on Jolene. "Is she in danger?"

"If she's out on the street, yeah."

Arielle sighed, tilting her head. "I mean with the club, Quentin. She's scared you guys might hurt her."

Quentin sighed too, putting a hand on each of her arms and lowering his face to hers, speaking softly. "Arielle, she needs to be locked up so she doesn't run, that's true. But I want her there to keep her safe because you care about her."

Arielle scanned his eyes and his expression, not finding any avoidance or falsity there. "Okay," she relented, not happy but agreeing for the moment.

"She needs to be smart. So you gotta keep her that way. She ain't been that way on her own, babe. You and me, we're the team that's gonna make sure she doesn't get hurt. But I need you to help me with that. She loves you. She's gotta hear it from you."

Arielle felt each word almost like a cut, yet at the same time it made her stand up straighter. She nodded. "You're right," she said softly.

He smiled slightly, kissing her forehead. "That's my girl," he said sweetly, making her smile a bit.

Arielle turned back to her sister, who was still at the table, her leg bouncing, her heel tapping frantically on the linoleum. She was biting her thumbnail, staring into space. Arielle sighed and approached her, crouching down much like Quentin had, but Arielle held her hands on Jolene's lap.

"Are you high right now?" she asked quietly.

Jolene's eyes came to her, and she didn't need to hear an answer. Her pupils were wide, crazed-looking. But at least she told the truth as she murmured, "Yeah."

"How much? Is it going to make you really sick tomorrow?"

Jolene shrugged, looking at her hands again. "Nah. I'll feel like shit, but it won't be like…DTs."

"Then you have to go with Quentin to the clubhouse. Keep to yourself. Don't call anyone, don't make trouble. Just try to keep a low profile. Can you do that?"

Jolene was nodding, the tears building up again. "Yeah."

"Good. Now you need to be smart and start trusting these guys, Jolene. Because I do. They've been good to me and Calvin. So please don't give them any more trouble, okay?"

Jolene stood, so Arielle did too, and they hugged each other tightly. Jolene was sobbing loudly, shaking the both of them.

Arielle just felt…scared.

Chapter Thirty

Quentin followed the van they sent for Jolene to the clubhouse. When they arrived Mandy was first to the vehicle, taking Jolene by the shoulder kindly and leading her down the hall somewhere to sleep it off. Jolene was wary but in no position to argue.

For Arielle's sake Quentin pressed that Jolene was high and needed to sleep. He didn't want Bishop scaring the crap out of her just yet. They had another link to Reuben they could easily follow up on; Clark fucking Davidson.

The guy had seemed so straight-laced Quentin still couldn't believe the guy partied with tramps and blow. Although, they did appear to have the same taste in women.

He found Bishop at the bar immediately. "You ain't gonna believe it, man," Quentin started with, shaking his head. "Second confirmation that the midget is Reuben, plus I know who the other stand-in for Tarquin Hamilton. And he's a Portus Felix native."

Bishop looked ready to give Quentin shit for stowing the junkie away, then he blinked a few times. "What?"

"He's the one Jolene called for bail. He's how she met Reuben. And Arielle used to clean his house."

That earned Quentin a couple of surprised blinks. "You gotta be shitting me."

"Months ago Arielle came home one day, shirt torn, lip split, upset. He got grabby, she said no and he hit her twice. I stopped by, evened the score and convinced him to make a financial donation to make it right."

"Shit, Quentin."

Quentin shook his head, hand already up. "I went civilian, no colors. Swear, Bishop. But chances are good he already knew who I was with, right? I mean, we live here."

"Who is this guy?"

"Clark Davidson. He said he was a financial advisor, lives in a pretty nice place. Jolene confirmed the eviction and reno scam, too. He told her about it."

Bishop was stewing on all this, it was obvious. "Well shit. Reuben knows about Lowriders’ men and we know who his other stand-in is."

"Should we tell the Lowriders about that? Give him a chance to alert them, pull them out?"

Bishop shook his head, meeting Quentin's eye. "No need. Lowriders found their guys dead this morning."

Quentin sucked in a breath. "Shit."

"Their pissed, but Bishop had been calling Dante last night and he was MIA. Said his phone was out of range, and now he's seeing the missed calls so we're covered."

Quentin nodded. "Good."

"You and I are gonna find this Davidson guy. If Dante continues to get pissed, we hand him over to them. Make the peace that way. I don't mind anyone taking out Reuben's guys."

"Me neither."

"You remember where he lives?"

Quentin felt his lips twist into a grin. "Oh yeah. I remember."

"Good. Grab Dillon, let's head there right now," Bishop decided, shoving away from the bar.

"You got it." Quentin headed for the hallway, catching Dillon at the doorway. "We gotta go. Found one of the guys that was posing as Tarquin Hamilton."

"Really?" Dillon was as surprised as Bishop.

"Jolene told me where he is. He's how she met Reuben in the first place."

"What a
small
world it is," Dillon quipped with a grin.

Quentin groaned, shoving the bastard ahead of him. "Jokes like that are beneath you, man."

This time when Quentin rolled towards Clark Davidson's neighborhood he wasn't alone and the kutte was uncovered. Bishop and Dillon followed his lead. The ugly stuccoed eyesore of a house looked the same as he backed his bike into a diagonal park job, brother to each side of him.

Bishop hung a helmet off his handlebars. "Jesus Christ. This is his place?"

Quentin removed his sunglasses, hitching them in the neck of his button-down. "Yeah. I figured he was some kind of investment high-roller, but if there's a bit of drug money at work here, it all makes sense. Plus, I blackmailed ten grand from him."

"Is he married?" Dillon asked, eyeing the street on either side of the house.

"Yeah. Although, she might be gone. I got the impression she was kinda done with him." Quentin ran a hand down his chin, the rush of adrenalin hitting him right then. "So we keep him here for the entire interrogation?"

"If the wife is gone, for sure," was Bishop's fast answer.

"What if someone calls the cops?" Dillon said as they made their way up to the door. Even after all the noise they still stood out, and the skin on the back of Quentin's neck was tingled. He always took that to mean someone was watching.

Bishop shook his head. "These neighborhoods? They know the folks that don't really belong. They can smell it like bloodhounds. They know this guy ain't level. I'd put money on it." Bishop knocked with the brass door knocker. "I can only imagine some of the folks this guy has stopping by."

Quentin sniffed. Bishop might be right, but this neighborhood made him nervous for the same reason Dillon was a bit jumpy. They shared a look and Dillon nodded. He got the same feeling Quentin did.

The door was opened and Quentin felt the phantom anger creep back. Out of the three men on the prick's stoop, Clark's eyes went to Quentin first, and he looked about ready to piss himself even before Bishop shoved him into his cold and empty marble foyer. Dillon got the door shut before Clark started sputtering.

"I haven't been anywhere near the maid," he was whining as Bishop and Quentin herded him back into some kind of living room. But there was no fucking TV in it. "I swear, I haven't seen her in months."

Quentin put a hand on his chest and shoved him into his own sofa. "Sit," he barked, circling around the back of the sofa. Bishop remained standing in front of him, staring down. The bastard didn't know which way to look.