by Reid, Penny
I managed a small and what I hoped was a polite smile, but he merely stared at me with all the flexibility of steel. I got the distinct impression that he didn’t like me. Furthermore, I had the distinct impression that he wanted to do me harm.
I swallowed and again tried to move away. “Sorry, sorry—I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
Instead of releasing me, he tightened his grip painfully and inclined his head forward. He whispered, “If you think you’re going to talk yourself out of this, you’re not.”
“Hey!” Quinn’s voice sounded from my left, and I turned to watch him sprint toward me. His expression was thunderous; in fact, he also looked unpleasant. He looked like he was intent on doing someone a great deal of harm.
Before Quinn reached us, the man released my arms, shoved me away, and held his hands up, palms out, as though he surrendered. He shuffled his feet backward. “Hey man, there’s nothing going on here.”
Quinn immediately stepped in front of me but continued to advance on the stranger. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
The tone of his voice moved me to intercede. “Quinn, listen; it was nothing. I wasn’t looking where I was going and he…”
“Listen to your girlfriend.”
Quinn crowded the stockier man and leaned over him menacingly; his tone was eerily quiet. “You don’t touch her, you don’t look at her. If I ever see you again, it will be the last time anyone sees you.”
I flinched. I didn’t get the impression that Quinn’s words were meant to be metaphorical or to convey an ounce of dramatic license. Instinctively, I felt the truth in them, and I would be lying if I said that in that moment, he didn’t scare me.
The staring contest lasted another few seconds, until the bald man shifted uncomfortably and lowered his gaze to the sidewalk. Seemingly satisfied, Quinn walked backward a few steps then turned and, without looking at me, grabbed my hand and pulled me back to our abandoned picnic basket. My heart was galloping in my chest and I was shaking just a little. Without wanting to or meaning to, I glanced over my shoulder.
The bald man was still watching me.
Not us.
He was watching me.
He looked at me like he knew me, like he still wanted to do me harm, like the only thing keeping him from ripping me apart was the very large, angry man at my side. I pulled my eyes away and moved closer to Quinn.
For the third time in as many weeks I had the distinct feeling I was being watched. Only, this time, I knew I was right.
* * *
We didn’t talk as we walked. Quinn held my hand firmly in his, gripping it almost to the point of painful. I carried the basket and the blanket and he held his phone, touching the screen every few minutes then glancing watchfully around the park. Instead of walking back to the garage, Quinn took us to South Michigan Avenue next to the Face Fountain. We stood there for less than thirty seconds before a black SUV slowed, then stopped in front of us.
Quinn opened the rear passenger door and said, “Get in.”
Too flustered to question him, I climbed into the back seat and placed the basket and blanket on the bench beside me, settling myself in the middle. Quinn came in after me, slammed the door, and I immediately heard the door lock. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness of the cab. I glanced at Quinn; his leg was pressed against mine as he twisted in his seat and peered out the window as though he were looking for someone.
The car moved and I sought the identity of our driver. All I could see was the back of his head and the impressive size of his neck. It wasn’t Vincent unless Vincent had grown a foot and a half, regressed in age thirty years, and become an African American overnight. My attention was pulled back to Quinn as he settled his hand on my thigh and squeezed.
He was studying me with guarded suspicion. I could only look at him with wide-eyed confusion. I didn’t understand what had just happened. I didn’t understand why the man in the park looked at me with such a sinister expression. I didn’t understand why Quinn felt the need to warn him with medieval threats. I didn’t understand why we ran out of the park as if we were being pursued. I was at a complete loss.
My chin may have wobbled.
Quinn must have caught the movement because he moved his arm around my shoulders and pulled me to his chest. I wasn’t in any danger of crying, but I didn’t push his comfort away. It felt good to be wrapped in his arms, so I allowed myself to rest there, absorbed by the strength of him. He set his chin on my head and I felt him sigh.
“Do you know that guy?” I asked, my voice sounding remarkably small in the big car.
He stiffened. “No.” His hand slid from my shoulder to my hip, pulling me closer. Then he said, “I don’t know. He looked familiar.”
I lifted my head from his chest so I could look into his eyes. “Is he one of the private clients?”
Quinn shook his head, his eyes flickering briefly to the driver then back to me. “No, definitely not. No, he looks like someone I used to know.”
“Oh.”
His thumb stroked my hip and his eyes traveled searchingly over my face. “Are you ok? Did he hurt you?” Quinn’s voice was rough.
“No, he just startled me. He was probably just some stranger and, remember, I bumped into him, so, no big deal.”
He nodded, but I could tell he wasn’t convinced. I placed my hand on his chest and he covered it with his own, moving it to his heart. It was beating rapidly. He cleared his throat. “Do you—uh—want to go home?”
I gave him a small smile. “Home?”
He shook his head and said, “You should probably get home.”
A dark cloud of disappointment settled over my forehead. I wasn’t ready for the night to be over. I didn’t understand why my clumsy encounter meant our evening had to end.
“What are my options?” I looked at our entwined hands covering his heart, then I licked my lips as my eyes moved to his mouth.
“Home.” He said the word firmly.
My gaze met his and found him regarding me with a paradoxical heated stoicism; dually pushing me away and crushing me close. Something possessed me, call it wanton woman instinct, and I pressed myself to him; I felt him stiffen. I slid my body upwards, crushing my chest against his; I felt his breath hitch. My leg moved between his and I lifted my mouth to his neck then his ear and whispered, hoping the words didn’t come out clumsily and awkward. “I’m hungry.”
Another ragged sigh escaped him, similar in tenor to the one in the park, and his hand moved to my thigh where my dress had hitched up baring my leg. He rested it there, the palm of his hand warming my skin, for a hesitating second before he pulled the hem of my skirt down to cover my knee and shifted away from me on the seat. I felt the loss of his warmth acutely as he disentangled our limbs.
Quinn leaned forward slightly toward the driver. “We need to take Ms. Morris home.”
I watched him; at first surprised then, eventually, with the understanding of stinging rejection ringing in my ears. A scarlet blush of embarrassment so deep that I felt in danger of being consumed by its incineration wound its way up my neck, into my cheeks, and to the tips of my ears. I crossed my arms over my chest and angled my knees away from him as he settled back next to me.
We sat in silence for a brief moment, and I could hear the whooshing of the blood through my heart and between my ears. My brain was overtaken by a drama-coaster of adolescent self-doubt, which I embraced as fact: I am never going to be that girl. It just isn’t in me to be sexy and seductive. Maybe with several tens of thousands of dollars in plastic surgery I can become alluring enough that, in dim light or after several shots, I might spark the interest of a biostatistician—or an actuary.
As we approached my building, I pulled my bag from the picnic basket. Quinn surprised me by brushing unruly curls from my shoulder. I turned to look at him; he was holding my glasses out between us.
I took them and glanced away as I muttered “thank you,” and then I plac
ed them safely on my nose.
His voice was soft when he responded. “You’re welcome.”
Quinn didn’t open the door immediately when the car stopped, and I could feel his eyes on me. In an effort to avoid his gaze, I started searching through my bag for my keys. At length he exited and I bolted past him as soon as he was clear of the door. When I launched myself up the steps, I felt him close on my heels.
“Are you going to be ok?”
“Yep. Just fine.” I slipped my key into the lock on the first try and felt thankful for the little miracle.
My internal temper tantrum tirade continued: Attracting and holding the interest of someone like Quinn Sullivan will have to go into my box of make believe with the eventual remake of Final Fantasy 7 with PlayStation 3 graphics or finding an original, pristine version of Detective Comics No. 27, Batman’s debut. All attempts are futile. It is just something I will have to accept as fantasy.
I started through the door and up the steps not waiting for the door to close and not looking back over my shoulder. To my chagrin, I heard his steps echoing mine up the stairs. I climbed faster. When I reached my door, I fumbled for my keys; once again, I was met with success in turning the locks. He stood to the side, a little distance away, watching me.
I glanced over my shoulder briefly to give him a cursory wave. “Well, good night. Thanks for the…the picnic.” Just as I was about to escape into the safety of my diminutive shared one bedroom, I felt his hand settle briefly on my arm above the elbow.
“I want you and Elizabeth to think about moving into that other apartment.”
I shrugged and pushed the door open just wide enough for me to set my bag down and slip halfway in. “Yeah, sure. I’ll talk to her about it.” I stepped farther into my place.
Quinn reached out his hand and gripped the door as though he were keeping me from closing it. “I’m serious.”
“Ok.” I nodded again, my eyes meeting his briefly. My brain was already several feet away, in my apartment, safe from the lingering feelings of rejection, and reading the new biography I’d borrowed from the library on Madame Curie; it was not set in the present, in the hall, where I was the pathetic queen of wishful thinking.
We stood at the door for several silent seconds; I could feel his gaze moving over me. I fought the blush of embarrassment threatening to paint the roses of my cheeks red.
Then he said, “I have to go out of town.”
I nodded. “Yes, I know. You have that trip to New York on Thursday.”
“No. I’m going to leave tonight. I won’t be able to make our scheduled trainings this week, and I might be hard to reach over the next few days, but you should text me if you need something.”
I shrugged my shoulders, and again, I heard the whooshing sound of blood filling my ears. I backed into the darkness of my apartment as the blush won and crept steadily up my neck, marching over my features and burning me with mortification like Sherman burned Atlanta.
“I’ll be in Boston first, then on to New York, and I’ll be back on Sunday.”
Wait, what did he say? Is he still speaking?
“So maybe I can get a rain check on that dinner until next week?”
I sighed distractedly, still unable to meet his eyes. “Yeah, sure. Why don’t you call me when you get back?”
I didn’t expect him to call.
He nodded and started leaning into my apartment; then stopped, paused, and released the door. He shuffled backward into the hall. Quinn stabbed his fingers through his hair in a frustrated movement. “I’m really sorry about tonight.”
I glanced at him. He looked upset. I frowned. Before I could say anything, he turned and left me, pulling his phone from his pocket as he went. I waited to close the door until I couldn’t hear the sound of his steps descending the stairs.
I didn’t turn on any lights as I walked to the couch. In the darkness of my apartment, I allowed my mind to wander.
I didn’t understand anything about this guy.
One minute he was pretending he wanted to date me, the next minute he was turning down my very obvious advances, and now he was fabricating a trip in hopes that I wouldn’t bother him. I was so befuddled. If he wanted to give me the brush-off, he didn’t have to make up some fake business trip.
I heard my heinous cell phone chime somewhere in the apartment. The sound made me growl in frustration, but then, suddenly, I was curious. It chimed again before I made it to the kitchen counter where that devil’s device was charging. I glanced at the screen. It was a text from Quinn; actually, there were several:
The first: I am going to put some guards on you, won’t even notice them, sorry about all this.
The second: I will call you when I get to NY on Thursday.
The third: A neutron walks into a bar; he asks the bartender, “How much for a beer?” The bartender looks at him, and says, “For you, no charge.”
I frowned at the phone and the messages. He might as well have sent me hieroglyphics. After a long while, I set the phone on the counter and crossed to the couch. I sat and stared then lay down in sudden exhaustion. My head was spinning. I didn’t understand men. They made no sense and behaved erratically.
I knew I was still in my clothes, and I realized I hadn’t brushed my teeth, but I couldn’t bring myself to move. I felt paralyzed by confusion. I decided, as I succumbed to sleep, that men should come with manuals, subtitles, and reset buttons.
* * *
I’ve come to rely on my knitting group to be my compass in all things confusing and difficult to comprehend; this usually means relationships and interactions with other humans…er, people. My ladies have helped me navigate everything from precarious office politics to dealings with my ex’s mother. And this is why they were supportive and engaged when I explained to them my current situation with Quinn.
It was Tuesday night, and we were gathered in Sandra’s roomy two-bedroom apartment. Fiona was the only one missing, having to stay home at the last minute because her daughter was sick with the flu. Most of us had a drink in our hand, and I’d just finished passing the evil cell phone around so they could all read the texts. I had also just finished giving them a Cliff Notes version of the last week.
They were all silent. Ashley was staring off into space, Marie was frowning at a half-knitted sweater, Sandra was standing at the entrance to her kitchen leaning against the wall as though in heavy contemplation, Kat was watching me with a cloudy mixture of introspection and trepidation, and Elizabeth was still scrolling through Quinn’s texts.
Ashley was the first to pipe up; her thick Tennessee accent made even this sound charming: “I think he was upset about that guy in the park, and that’s why he turned down your hot bod.”
Some of them nodded in agreement; some of them continued to stare unseeingly.
I sighed. “But, how interested could he really be? By the mighty power of Thor—I threw myself at him!”
Elizabeth frowned at me. “Did you really just say ‘by the mighty power of Thor’?”
“I’m trying to cuss less.”
Some of them nodded in agreement; some of them continued to stare unseeingly.
I sighed. “I think I completely messed up. I think he thinks I’m pathetic, and he’s just trying to avoid me by making up some trip so he doesn’t have to talk to me.”
Marie shook her head, her blonde shampoo commercial hair bouncing around her face. “No. That’s not it.” She sounded so certain. “That’s definitely not it.”
Elizabeth nodded in agreement. “I agree with Marie. The boy is hot for you.”
Some of them nodded in agreement, some of them continued to stare unseeingly.
I sighed. “Then why did he turn down my advances?” I couldn’t help the frustration in my voice. I knew part of my frustration was due to his absence. I’d been spoiled by seeing him almost every day in the past week, and now I missed him. Last Saturday, when he surveyed my apartment, I thought he didn’t belong here, in my life. But no
w, the absence of him made me feel like I was forever trying to catch my breath.
And it had only been two days.
“Well, hell, girl! He just watched you get manhandled by a creepy neck-tattooed skinhead,” Sandra said as she pushed away from the wall and joined us in the living room. “If he wasn’t interested, then he wouldn’t be stuffing your cell phone inbox with messages. I think he’s worried about you.”
“Also, hon, you may not have been as transparent with your advances as you believe. I’ve seen you; you’re not a skilled flirter. It’s usually hard to watch.” Ashley grimaced.
Kat said quietly, “I don’t understand his reaction to the guy in the park. It sounds like he completely overreacted. Janie, is there anything else? Did the guy threaten you?”
I shook my head. “No. I just bumped into him. He was scary, but other than grab my arms, he didn’t do anything.”
“But didn’t McHotpants say he knew the guy?” Sandra poked me with a carrot before dipping it into a vat of blue cheese dressing and biting into it with a solid crunch.
“It was vague; something like he thought he looked familiar. I don’t know.” I pressed the heels of my hands into my eye sockets then allowed the back of my head to fall against the tall chair behind me. “I mean, if you think about it, the first time I spoke to Quinn was only four weeks ago. I don’t really know him at all. Maybe the guy in the park actually freaked him out and I’m wrong. Maybe he’s just not into me and I’m right. Maybe Quinn is an alien and is finished with his study of humankind and no longer has use for me as a specimen.”
Marie shook her head. “Four weeks is long enough. People have fallen head over heels in less time than that.”
“Did he actually put guards on you?” Ashley pointed the question to me, but her eyes were on Elizabeth.
“Yes. He did.” I frowned at that. The first time I saw them was Monday morning as I was leaving for work. They’d approached me outside my building, both dressed casually in jeans and T-shirts and looking like regular guys, and told me that they worked for Infinite Systems. Mr. Sullivan, it seemed, put in an order for two twenty-four-hour protection teams. They promised I wouldn’t notice them. They were right; over the last two days, I’d forgotten about them.
