by Reid, Penny
He stopped in his tracks. Quinn met my gaze, his own betraying stunned surprise.
“What?” I pushed.
He shook his head as a reluctant smile pulled at his lips. His hand found mine and started pulling me until my feet moved. “Your turn,” he said, blatantly deflecting my question.
“Not yet. I want to know more about the logistics of this.” I couldn’t help myself. The whole concept seemed suddenly both absurd yet strangely efficient. “How many are we talking about? What percentage of the women in Chicago are ready to have sex with you right now? What happens if one of them needs to travel? Do they have a phone tree? Is there a coverage plan or a backup plan for emergencies?”
Quinn covered the bottom half of his mouth with his free hand as his shoulders started shaking with silent laughter.
I continued, feeling a little better knowing that he was able to laugh at himself. “Is there entry criteria? An established search committee? An interview process? Skills test? What kind of radius do you require? Do you have one circling the block now? Do you always keep one nearby? Was there one at the restaurant? At the bar maybe?”
“Janie, seriously—it’s your turn.” His tone was authoritative, but I could see that his eyes were lit with amusement, and he was trying very hard to keep a straight face.
“My turn?” My eyebrows lifted in confusion; despite my attempts at making fun of his arrangement, I was still feeling lingering dejection from confirming Quinn’s somewhat sordid sexual history; well, it was sordid compared to my history, which made it sordid by comparison. “You already know everything. I’m a one-slamp kind of girl.”
“Why did you and Jon break up?”
I thought about the question, but I was distracted by the reality of Quinn’s confession. Quinn never dated.
No—he said he ever needed to.
Was I ok with that? What was a man-whore really? Was it such a bad thing if all the practice with slamps meant he was good in bed? If we ever slept together, would I need to cover myself in cling wrap and Lysol to protect against his plethora of contracted STDs? Did he have any STDs? Were we going to sleep together? If he had unlimited access to veteran slamps, was he even interested in sleeping with me, novice that I was? Did I want to sleep with a Wendell, especially after finding out about the multiple slamps-in-waiting? Was I going to become one of his slamps?
I was pretty sure I didn’t want to become one of Quinn Sullivan’s many slamps.
As an aside, I noted that “One of Many Slamps” would make a good band name or, at the very least, an album name.
“Janie?”
My eyelashes fluttered and I looked around the sidewalk unseeingly. “Yeah?”
“You and Jon; why did you split?” I noted his voice was quieter, almost coaxing. We started up the staircase for the el.
I responded without thinking. “I’m not really sure what the real reason was for our split, but I’m pretty sure the catalyst was him cheating on me.”
“He…” Quinn stopped on the stairs and pulled on my hand until I met his gaze. “He cheated on you?”
I nodded. “Yes. But, to be fair, he said he was drunk and it only happened once.”
Quinn’s eyes were wide with what looked like disbelief. “I can’t believe he cheated on you.”
“Yes, well… I think I have some insight as to why, but I’m still processing the possibilities.” I pulled my hand from his and tucked my hair behind my ears. I started up the stairs again so I wouldn’t have to look directly at him when I spoke. “But there were already other issues before that. For one, he is wealthy.” We reached the landing and passed our transit cards through the gate.
Quinn’s eyebrows shot up at my statement. “What does that have to do it?”
“For one thing, our priorities never seemed to align. He could, and did, spend money on whatever he wanted. I was—and am—always careful with all my purchases. Second, I always felt like I had a handicap; it felt like I was perpetually taking advantage of him or like I owed him if I accepted whatever he gave me: money, gifts, help. If I didn’t accept his help, it always led to bad feelings and uncomfortable discussions where I always felt like I was the problem.” My mind began to focus on our current conversation rather than the conversation of two minutes ago. I decided I would work through my slamp issues at some point later. “I’m determined to stay within one standard deviation upward of my own socioeconomic sphere.”
Our train arrived, and he waited to speak until it slowed to a stop. Quinn’s expression straddled the triple border of bewilderment, determination, and alarm. “So…” he said, but then he huffed out his breath and pinned his gaze on me with sudden intensity. When he spoke, I was surprised by the argumentative tone in his voice. “Would you ever date someone who earned less than you?” He ushered me onto the el and to a seat by the sliding door; when we were seated, his arm went behind me along my back and against the window.
I nodded immediately. “Oh yes, absolutely; I don’t have a problem with that. My concern is being with the type of person who has enough wealth to decide on a whim to take off from real life and travel around where ever and expects that I’ll be able to do the same simply because he has the means to fund it. Or who buys me extravagant gifts, like a car or expensive jewelry, for no reason, and that troubles me.”
I felt a sudden shiver as if someone was watching me. I turned my head and surveyed the train. I looked from left to right and found only a smattering of what seemed to be college students. It was the same inexplicable sensation that I’d experienced in the club weeks ago.
“What is so wrong with that? If you’re in a relationship with someone, why can’t he buy you things and take you places?”
When I brought my attention back to Quinn, it took my mind a moment to sort through his words and their meaning; my attention still sharpened to the perception that someone was scrutinizing my movements.
I licked my lips and shook my head slightly to clear it. “I want to be financially independent. When I was with Jon, I didn’t like having to constantly justify or explain that. One time Jon bought me a car—a really nice car—and he couldn’t understand that it wasn’t appropriate for him to do so.”
“Why wasn’t it appropriate?”
I ignored the persistent impression that I was being watched, deciding it was my randomly overactive imagination, and pursed my lips in response to Quinn’s question. “You know why.”
“No. I really don’t. You’re going to have to spell it out for me.” He echoed my words from earlier; his expression strangely stiff.
I huffed. “Because how can I possibly reciprocate? What do I have to offer?”
“Yourself.”
I wrinkled my nose. “That makes it seem like I’m selling myself.”
Quinn tilted his head to the side, studying me openly, and then he asked, “Now who is keeping score?”
I opened my mouth to respond, closed it, swallowed, and said, “It’s not the same thing, and I can’t believe you’re taking his side in this.”
“It is exactly the same thing,” he countered. “If no one is keeping score in a relationship, then it doesn’t matter, does it? I should be able to give you whatever I want without having to worry about you feeling guilty or like you need to reciprocate.”
I frowned, studying him, really trying to absorb his logic. “Reluctantly, I admit that you have a somewhat valid point,” I said hesitantly, but before a look of triumph could completely claim his features, I added, “It’ll take me a while to process and potentially adjust to this perspective, though.”
Quinn’s gaze moved over my face, and a small smile curved over his lips. “I promise not to keep score with you if you promise not to keep score with me.”
I gave him a long, sideways stare. I considered his proposal. It seemed fair. I nodded just once and stuck out my hand. “Fine. Deal.”
A slow smile and a genuine look of victory brightened his expression; his eyes were as mischievous as ever when
he shook my hand and said, “What should I buy you first?”
I poked him in the rib.
Chapter Thirteen
We were still engaged in easy conversation when we arrived at my building, so it didn’t actually occur to me to bid Quinn goodnight at the door. We spoke about his upcoming business trip to New York planned for later that week, which naturally brought up the fact that Gotham City is based on New York City. We then talked about our favorite cities, both real and fictional.
However, once we were climbing the stairs to the small apartment I shared with Elizabeth, I felt a little flutter of nervousness at the passive invitation I’d offered.
Quinn was coming upstairs. We were going upstairs together.
I felt I should warn him that the place was small and my belongings were haphazardly strewn about and not at all organized. I wanted to explain that I was currently sleeping on the Ikea pullout couch/futon in the center of the living space, but I didn’t know how to bring it up.
I also wanted to tell him that I wasn’t going to be his slamp, and even though mind-blowing sex with him sounded very tempting, I was pretty certain I wanted a non-Wendell man, even if the sex would be just lukewarmly mind-blowing. Scarlet heat consumed my face with each step up the stairs, and our conversation lulled as I approached my door.
“So,” he said.
I stopped abruptly in front of the door, turned to face him, and gave him a tight-lipped smile. He leaned against the doorframe leisurely, crossed his arms in front of his chest, and allowed his eyes to blaze an unhurried trail over my face.
“So,” he repeated. He looked calm, confident, and confoundedly sexy.
“So…” I sighed, then pulled my gaze away from his, and glanced at the keys in my hands. “Listen, I—I had fun tonight. You—you’re good to talk to, and I had a nice time, but I would like to pay you for my dinner.”
His hands came up between us. “Janie, no keeping score, remember?”
“Yes, but it wasn’t a date and I know it wasn’t a date and I understand that you don’t date and I’d like to be friends with you, but—”
“You want to be friends with me?” His voice sounded a little dark, perplexed.
“Yes.” I lifted my eyes to his, but only briefly. His expression matched his tone. I sighed. “Listen—you should…um, you should come in so we can talk about…” I turned to the door and unlocked it with slightly shaky hands. The earlier scarlet heat turned into an inferno as I struggled with the lock. “We can talk about labels and Wendell and dinner and slamps and—oh thank God.” The door opened and I launched myself inside, calling behind me, “Come in—come in. I’ll make some coffee.”
I flipped on the light in the hall and turned on every light on my way to the kitchen. I heard the closing of the door and hesitant footsteps behind me. I rushed through the process of boiling water and scooping the already ground beans into the French press. When everything was prepared, I walked to the couch—my bed—and noticed that Quinn’s jacket draped across one corner of it. The sight did strange things to my stomach, and I’m not going to lie, to my lady bits. They may have clenched.
I hurriedly took my jacket off, almost sweating by this point, and tossed it on top of his. He was walking slowly around the small space, glancing at the bookshelves that contained my comic books and Elizabeth’s record collection. He took out a Backstreet Boys LP and turned to me with a questioning frown.
I laughed lightly. “Oh, that’s Elizabeth’s. I live with my friend Elizabeth; you met her at that bar the night you…um, well this is her place, and I’m just crashing here—on the couch, actually—until we find a new place big enough for both of us.”
His eyes drifted to the couch as he replaced the record. I tucked my hair behind my ears and cleared my throat. It was strange having him in the apartment.
Admittedly, I was just a transient visitor, and the décor and style represented nothing of me; even so, I felt like he didn’t belong here, in my life. It was as if he was surrounded by an otherworldly glow that filled the diminutive space and cast everything but him in shadow, including me. He was too big, too handsome, and too graceful. He didn’t fit in our small, inadequate world.
The thought made me sad, and I firmed my bottom lip with resolve. His eyes met mine just at that moment, and he frowned at my expression. Holding my gaze, he crossed to me and I crossed my arms over my chest. He seemed to hesitate at the movement but continued his approach nonetheless, and stopped just two feet from me.
Silence stretched as his gaze moved over my face; at length he spoke. “Who is Wendell?”
I blinked, startled. “Wendell?”
“You said you wanted to talk about labels, dinner, and Wendell.”
“Oh, yes. Wendell.” I turned, picked up our jackets, and placed them on the arm of the futon; then I sat with my legs tucked under me and my arm draped along the back of the couch. “Please—have a seat.”
He sat with one of his legs under him so that our knees touched and his arm covered mine; his large hand rested on my elbow, and I focused on my breathing.
“So, who is Wendell?”
I nodded, biting my lip, not really sure how to have this conversation without putting all my oddities on display. As usual, the mouth started moving before the brain could send up a warning flare.
“You are Wendell. Or, rather, you are a Wendell and I can’t be a slamp, so what I’d like to do is talk to you about dinner and labels.”
One of his eyebrows rose and I felt him stiffen; his mouth opened as though he were going to interrupt me, but I, having said this much, gathered my courage and continued with loud urgency.
“The thing is—I like you. I like you a lot, and I’ve really only known you for a few short weeks—less than a month—but you are very likeable. I’d like to be your friend because I appreciate your honesty about being a Wendell. Therefore, I would like to have dinner with you—not a date—but I think the label applied to our dinner should be friendship and not Wendell-slash-slamp, because I don’t think I’m up for that. But I understand if you aren’t interested in being my friend, especially since you’re already juggling a heavy load of slamps. I’d be disappointed, but I would understand.”
I felt him relax slightly through my tirade; then tense; then relax. His eyes were watchful. He leaned closer and asked, “Ok, first, what is a Wendell?”
“A Wendell is a guy…” I gestured to him. “In this situation, you are the Wendell—a guy who is very…nice…looking and also very…” I couldn’t look at him, so I picked a spot on my skirt and studied it. “A Wendell is very adept and/or talented in certain areas that are related to adult…bedroom activities and who also has a large selection of female companions for the aforementioned adult bedroom activities from which to choose on any given occasion.”
My eyes flickered to his face and found him watching me with a confounded smile, obviously enjoying my discomfort. He cleared his throat. “Janie, just say it.”
I sighed and suddenly wanted to hold his hand, likely because I was pretty sure it would be the last time I did so.
I entwined my fingers with his and squeezed. I looked at him straight in the eye and immediately felt my resolve weaken, but I plowed ahead. “Fine; a Wendell is a man who is extremely good looking and who is great in bed. Wendells do not have exclusive relationships— i.e. they do not date, but rather hook up with many women. I have no judgment for Wendells; in fact, I applaud their stamina and ability to provide excellent service to so many women. It seems like a very efficient and generous use of resources. However,” I took a deep breath and swallowed, looking down at our fingers like a coward, “However, despite how equitable an arrangement that might be, I am not interested in non-dating a Wendell. Since you are, in fact, a Wendell, I think that I would be more comfortable if you and I could agree to the label of friends, not kissing friends or Wendell-slamp friends; just regular friends.”
Again, silence stretched. I felt his gaze on me, heard him sigh,
and then he asked, “Will you please look at me?”
I lifted my eyes to his. He didn’t look relieved, annoyed, or angry like I feared. Rather, he looked contemplative and uneasy. He paused before speaking, and I thought I saw a flash of pain pass behind his eyes, but it was either imagined or hidden instantly. “I’m not used to this, so you’ll have to give me a little bit of time to…to adjust,” he said quietly.
“You can take as much time as you need.” I offered this reassurance bravely, half-heartedly attempting to pull my fingers from his. The attempt was unsuccessful; he tightened his grip.
“I don’t want…” He sighed heavily again and closed his eyes briefly, and then he met mine again with renewed composure. “I appreciate your honesty.”
I chewed on my bottom lip and waited; when he didn’t continue, my eyes widened in confusion. “Wait. That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”
He nodded. “Yes. That’s it.”
I drew in a breath and instinctively looked around the apartment for what I was missing. “I’m confused.”
“What confuses you?”
“Are we- did you- did you just agree to the label of friendship?”
“No.”
I opened my mouth to speak, closed it, opened it again, and then I licked my very dry lips. “Then what label are we going to use?”
His gaze lowered to my mouth; he lifted the hand resting on my elbow to my hair and pushed a mass of curls over my shoulder, his long fingers lingering on my neck. “We aren’t going to use a label.”
I took an unsteady breath; at this point, I didn’t care about embarrassing myself further. What was one more debit of mortification when my balance sheet was already in the red by hundreds of thousands?
