by Reid, Penny
I chewed my lip; feeling conflicted about my very logical explanation. Explaining the kiss away via alcohol-induced madness made my head feel better, as though the world had been righted on its axis, and inalienable truths still existed. It also made my heart plus all the girly parts of me feel bad, like when you find out Santa is a myth or that Superman doesn’t really exist.
Throughout my lecture on the culpability of alcohol, Quinn had watched me with preoccupied oblectation and, when I finished, he audibly sighed. “What just happened had nothing to do with alcohol.”
I decided to cling to inalienable truths. You can’t be disappointed if you cling to inalienable truths. “You can’t be certain of that,” I turned away from him, tugged on the hem of my shirt, and searched for my notepad, not especially wanting to have this conversation. “Our impulsivity control is still currently compromised by the introduction of alcohol into our systems.” I searched the floor for my hair tie.
“Is that why you kissed me back? Because your impulsivity control was compromised?” I could feel his eyes on me as I abandoned my pursuit of the hair tie and walked to the table holding my discarded notepad and portfolio case. I picked them up.
“Logic dictates that both my participation and yours was due, in large part, to the consumption of alcoholic beverages.” I glanced at my watch unseeingly then crossed to the door. I needed to leave and sort through the events of the day and evening. I wasn’t feeling particularly stable or steady the longer we talked, despite my cool bravado.
He stepped in front of me before I made it to the exit, halting my escape and holding up his hands so I had to take a step back. “Let me be clear about something: I kissed you because I wanted to. I’ve been thinking about kissing you since I first saw you in the lobby of the Fairbanks Building weeks ago.”
His declaration, if one could call it that, caught me completely by surprise, and therefore, a small, surprised sound escaped from my throat. My upstairs brain and my downstairs brain engaged in a game of risk, and it was downstairs’s turn to roll the dice.
I shifted on my feet, not certain what to say or do, so I took a deep breath, releasing it slowly, and met his gaze. My stomach twisted at the slightly guarded expression he wore; his eyes seemed to be searching mine.
I cleared my throat. “You just said it shouldn’t have happened.”
He hesitated for a moment, as though considering a chess move, his eyes still wary. “It shouldn’t have happened.”
I tilted my head to the side, ignoring the very obvious fact that I was beginning to pick up his mannerisms, and challenged him. “And do you think it would have happened if we hadn’t been drinking?”
He pulled in another audible breath; I watched as his chest expanded, and his gaze dropped to my mouth. “Eventually.”
I blinked at him, twice. “I…” I couldn’t get out another word. North was down and south was up. “I don’t know what to say.”
He pulled his hand through his hair again and mumbled so that I could barely make out his words. “I don’t have much experience with this.” His features were serious, cautious.
“With what?” I blurted.
“I want to take you out.” He swallowed and added, “Out to dinner.”
“I…” East was west and west was somewhere in the Andromeda Galaxy. “You want to take me out for dinner?” This was some kind of mistake. My eyes were wide with confusion and disbelief. I was certain the next words out of my mouth were going to result in my complete mortification; but being a glutton for punishment, I said them anyway, and my voice cracked on the last word. “Like a date?”
He didn’t smile; he didn’t look amused; he just nodded his head and repeated, “Like a date.”
I stared at him for an indeterminable amount of time, waiting for him to take it back or clarify that he was referring to the dried and candied food date not the event date or for someone to wake me up from this bizarro perpendicular universe. Finally I said, about ten decibels too loudly, “YES!”
In actuality, I yelled it. I yelled the word yes.
Quinn let out a breath. “Good.”
“YES, I’LL GO OUT ON A DATE WITH YOU, QUINN SULLIVAN, TO A PLACE WHERE WE HAVE DINNER.” I couldn’t stop the shouted words. I was having an out-of-body experience, which, for some reason, made me shout my sentence.
He laughed lightly. “Good! I’m happy to hear it.”
I nodded, not speaking until I was sure I had control over my volume. “Ok then. That’s that.” Not really sure about proper protocol in cases such as these, I stuck out my hand for him to shake.
He studied my offered hand and enclosed it in his own, tugging me forward instead of shaking it. He leaned down and kissed me again, this time just a quick, brief brush of his lips against mine, and then he straightened. That small but enchanting kiss made my toes curl, my spine shiver, and my heart jump to my throat. I instinctively swayed forward as he retreated.
I blushed for the seven-hundred-and-thirty-first time. “I should go.”
“You don’t want to stay for the concert?”
“Oh.” I’d completely forgotten about the concert.
He pulled my notebook from my grip and motioned toward the picture window. “The first act should be starting soon.”
I hesitated.
“Let’s finish eating; then we’ll watch the concert. We can leave whenever you want.”
I glanced around the room. Much had happened in an extremely short period; the events warranted analysis.
Quinn tugged on my hand where he’d entwined our fingers until I met his gaze; his eyes were warm and unguarded, even sparkly. “I promise: no monkey business and no more compromising impulsivity control…” His now trademark sexy, meandering smile shone down at me, and then he added, “Unless you want to.”
I could only nod, rendered mute by the glittering intensity of his grin, and allow myself to be coxswained in the direction of his choice.
* * *
True to his word, there was no monkey business. Even though we both consumed additional alcoholic beverages, neither of us initiated any physical intimacy beyond brief touches every so often. From time to time, Quinn would brush my hair away from my shoulders or face and lay his arm along the back of my seat.
It felt strange to listen to a concert rather than to be actively engaged in it; we didn’t sing or dance or clap. In fact, we spoke through most of it; it might as well have been background music on a stereo system. At one point, we ignored it altogether and spent forty-five minutes debating my good-bad-stupid-lazy philosophy.
It was Quinn’s belief that, if I included both good and bad, I should add intelligent and motivated. I countered that the absence of stupidity implied intelligence, but the absence of bad did not imply good.
When he caught me yawning for the second time, he decided it was time to take me home. A black Mercedes met us when we arrived downstairs; to my astonishment, we were greeted by a familiar face.
It was Vincent—Vincent the limo driver who helped me move the contents of my belongings from Jon’s apartment and had taken me to Elizabeth’s apartment on my worst day ever. I couldn’t believe my eyes at first, but then, as he held the door open, he winked at me. I could only stare at him dumbly.
Quinn and I spent the first half of the car ride in separated silence, sitting on opposite ends of the long leather bench seat. My brain hurt. It was tired of trying to keep up with so many changes and gauging the appropriateness of my reactions. Nevertheless, I attempted to sort through the last several hours. I glanced at the back of Vincent’s head, and once or twice, he caught my eye in the rearview mirror. At some point, I would need to ask Quinn if he’d arranged the limo that had taken me home all those weeks ago, or if Vincent’s presence tonight was merely a fluke.
At a stoplight, Quinn pulled me out of my musings by unbuckling my seat belt. I met his gaze, the clear blue of his eyes appearing opalescent in the dark car; he silently pulled me to the center of the bench. He wrap
ped his arms around me, guided my back to his chest, and fastened the middle buckle around me. I felt warm and safe, which, paradoxically, made me shiver and made my heart race with apprehension.
When we arrived outside my building, Vincent the driver opened the door and offered his hand. I smiled up, then down at him as I climbed out. “It’s good to see you again.”
“You too. You are looking very beautiful.” His brown eyes twinkled at me under the street lamp; he brought my knuckles to his lips and gave them a kiss, just like he’d done before.
Quinn stood from the car behind me and I walked forward, turning to continue my conversation with the driver. “And how is your wife? Your grandchildren?”
“Ah, the days are long but the years are short.” He shook his head and looked to the heavens.
Quinn looked from him to me, then back again. He raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. I said my farewell to Vincent, and Quinn placed his hand on the small of my back and guided me to the steps of my building. We stopped at my door and I fished my keys from the portfolio case.
“How do you know Vincent?” One of Quinn’s hands was in his pocket; the other was scratching the day-old stubble on his jaw.
“I was meaning to ask you about that.” I paused as I separated the front door key from the others. “Vincent was driving the limo that took me home on the day I was downsized.”
Quinn’s eyes clouded over then his brow lifted in sudden understanding. He looked away from me and to the door of my building.
I eyed him suspiciously before I asked, “Did you arrange for the car that day?”
He hesitated then nodded, still not making eye contact. “Yes.”
“Why did you do that?”
He met my gaze. “You seemed… upset.” He sighed.
“You didn’t even know me.”
“But I wanted to.” He countered, shifting closer, his hand lifting and tucking a curl behind my ear.
I swallowed with effort and lifted my chin to maintain eye contact as frenzied warmth twisted in my chest. “Why didn’t you just talk to me then—ask me on a date?”
Quinn’s eyes narrowed and considered me; he looked particularly hawkish as he said, “I don’t date.”
I frowned at him, but before I could process his response, he bent and kissed me for the third time that night. This one was different; not the slow, savoring sweetness of our first kiss and most definitely not a quick caress of lips like our last. This one was hungry, immediate, and demanding.
He fisted his hand in my hair and backed me into the door of my building, trapping me in place. It was the kind of kiss that drove away all coherent thoughts; like a bloodthirsty wolf chasing a bunny rabbit. My body responded in a way that I didn’t know possible, my back arching, wanting to press every inch of myself against his taut form, with the painfully delightful ache in my lower stomach winding its way around my limbs.
Just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over; he ended by nipping at my bottom lip and waiting for me to open my eyes so he could stare into them. I felt him slide something into my pocket.
He smiled almost imperceptibly. “I had Jamal pick up your cell from the office. I’ll call you tomorrow so we can make arrangements for dinner.” I opened my mouth to respond, but he stopped me with another quick kiss. Quinn took my keys out of my hand and opened the door; he pushed on it and guided me inside, placing my keys into my palm.
I complied mechanically, pausing at the steps to glance back at him hovering just outside the door. He was still grinning in that secret, quiet way of his. Then, he turned and was gone.
* * *
I walked into Elizabeth’s apartment feeling like a zombie. I needed brains. The Quinn Sullivan rollercoaster had left me completely exhausted. Nevertheless, instead of sleeping, all I wanted to do was sit, stare into space, and obsess about everything that had occurred. I embraced this desire to obsess because I knew it was what normal people did.
Elizabeth was lying on the carpeted floor with her legs up against the wall in an excellent Viparita Karani yoga pose. She was listening to music on oversized headphones that were connected to her stereo system via a remarkably long cord.
Elizabeth had an impressively strange record collection and would frequently relax by listening to records while sprawling on the floor, contorting into yoga poses, knitting, or reading medical journals. She loved boy bands, and had vinyl records for most of her collection, starting with New Kids on the Block. She must have noticed the movement of my entrance because she turned just her head and gave me a quizzical smile. She brought her legs down from the wall, sat up straight, and pulled off the headphones. Her eyes moved over me in open assessment.
Elizabeth frowned. “Were you just with Jon?”
I shook my head, and then I sat dazedly on the couch. I picked up a decorative pillow and clutched it to my stomach. “No, I was with Quinn.”
She shot up and claimed the seat next to me on the couch; I could hear the faint sounds of a One Direction album coming through her headphones. “Oh my God. What happened? Was this for work? Where were you guys?”
My face fell to my hands and I shook my head. “Elizabeth, you are not allowed to take concurrent shifts at the hospital ever again.”
I started by telling her about bumping into him on Wednesday at Smith’s, and I included the ambiguous arrest details Quinn had given me about the alleged girl-drugger from Club Outrageous.
I covered our somewhat unpleasant exchange on Thursday, and the fact that I was now forced into the bondage of carrying a cell phone.
I ended with a very short version of our day, our training session, and then the after part where everything went from calm to a cavalcade of crazy.
When I told her about the sex conversation, she hit my shoulder and said, “You didn’t!”
When I told her about the kiss, she gasped, her eyes grew wide, and she covered her mouth.
When I told her that he’d asked me on a date, she started bouncing up and down on the couch. “Who called it? I called it! That’s right, uh huh!”
I skipped over most of the concert, and when I told her about Vincent and what I learned regarding Quinn’s part in arranging the limo, she frowned, blinked, and said, “I guess that was nice of him in an overreaching kind of way.”
Then, I told her about his last comment of the evening: that he doesn’t date.
Her frown grew more pronounced, and she leaned back into the couch and crossed her arms. She was silent for a moment then sighed. “You know, I kind of guessed that about him.”
It was my turn to frown. “What do you mean?”
“Some guys just aren’t boyfriend material.”
“Well, then, what kind of material are they? Suede?”
The corner of her mouth hitched as one of her eyebrows lifted; she gave me a knowing look. The problem was I didn’t know what I didn’t know. I shook my head at her. “What? What’s that look for? What don’t I know?”
“He’s a Wendell.”
A Wendell.
“What is a Wendell?”
Elizabeth quickly added, “He’s a hottie player—a Wendell—someone you don’t date.”
“What am I supposed to do with a Wendell?”
She pushed me on my shoulder. “Janie! You have mind-blowing sex with a Wendell! You have your way with him and spend hours in orgasmic paradise taking advantage of his hard body and each fantastic orifice and pleasure-causing appendage until you get tired of him.”
I blushed and glanced at my hands. “I don’t—I mean, I don’t think—”
“Yes. That’s right. Don’t think. Just let yourself have a good time.” She covered my hand with hers and patted it until I met her gaze. “You deserve this. Repeat after me: I, Janie Morris, deserve splendiferous orgasm therapy with Sir McHotpants.”
My eyes widened and I took a brave breath. “This is madness.”
Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. “Say it!”
I shook my head. “I can’t! I can
’t say it!”
“You’re not just going to say it; you’re going to do it—with frequency!”
I laughed in spite of myself. “You want me to have intimate relations with a man-whore.”
“Alleged man-whore. And, yes, I do.” Her face turned serious. “You’ve only ever been with Jon and…” She huffed. “And I know he wasn’t so great in the bedroom department.”
“I never said that.”
“You never had to. The fact that you didn’t say anything at all spoke volumes.”
I bit my lip. The truth was that I thought Jon was fine in the bedroom department. Just fine. He was… just… fine. And what was wrong with fine?
“Janie, sex can be great. It can be really great and fun and amazing. This thing with McHotpants—this could be a great thing. This could help you become more comfortable around guys and experience what sex and physical intimacy can be like when it’s really good. Wendell—I mean, Quinn—Quinn is being honest with you about his intentions. When you get tired of him, you don’t have to worry about his feelings; how great is that? Then, when you meet a non-Wendell who you like and who likes you, you’ll know how to command yourself in the bedroom.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think I can be that person. I don’t think I can have sex with someone without knowing that he cares about me and wants to be with me for… without something more. I know it sounds Victorian, but I don’t want great sex if it doesn’t come with— with—”
“Love?” Elizabeth supplied, her voice tinged with sarcasm.
I twisted my lips to the side. “Mutual care, respect, compassion, and commitment, and yes, hopefully all of that adds up to love of some kind.”
The truth was being that person, the person who could value the physical aspect of a relationship more than emotional commitment and consistency, scared me. The untamed and unpredictable nature of it scared me. It reminded me of my mother, of how she abandoned her family with alarming frequency in favor of temporary sex partners. It was important to me that I never have anything in common with that woman. And if it meant that I ended up without a partner at all, or if I spent the rest of my life in a staid, passionless albeit reliable and dependable relationship, then I was really ok with that.
