Neanderthal seeks Human (Knitting in the City)

by Penny Reid

  Then, in walked Steven and Quinn and, suddenly, my brain engaged. I started noticing.

  In fact, I couldn’t stop noticing.

  I noticed that he didn’t look at me or speak to me and seemed to sit in the seat furthest from mine.

  I noticed that Carlos made all the introductions as the client entered- Mr. Northumberland- a tall, tanned, trim man in his fifties with black eyes and pepper hair. He owned the casino. His nephew, the one who was either called Aiden or Allen or Alex or something starting with ‘A’, entered the room behind him and an entourage of four more men and three women followed. I suspected their names didn’t matter. They weren’t making decisions; they may as well have been curtains.

  There were some initial niceties- comments about college football, someone pointed out that it was hot outside, I was asked if I’d had a chance to spend any time gambling since we’d arrived. I wanted to respond that life was a gamble and we were all losers. Instead, suppressing my emo-moroseness, I replied in the negative and settled into my seat.

  Then the presentation began. Though my color was normal throughout, I knew it was only a matter of time before he would say something or do something to set my Rudolf light blinking. The man had my button in his possession and he pressed it, repeatedly.

  I couldn’t help but notice that Mr. Northumberland seemed very impatient- impatient to get the presentation started then, during the presentation, impatient to ensure that our security implementation would be completed by next month. He interrupted Quinn with some frequency asking questions like:

  “How much time will that take?” and “Don’t you already have everything you need?” and “Is that going to delay the project?”

  As the presentation ended Olivia stood and adjusted the lights in the room and Quinn requested that the casino staff open the packet in front of each of them. He took the group through the implementation plan, the timeline, the resources we would provide, the cost; suddenly he surprised me, and I guessed the rest of our team, by adding:

  “These budget numbers are initial estimates. We’re planning an overhaul to our billing structure in order to provide corporate clients with a greater level of granularity. The next time you see the cost estimates and- for that matter- the invoices, they’ll have line item detail.”

  Mr. Northumberland nodded with what I guessed was appreciation because he said, “That’s good, that’s good- just as long as it doesn’t hold anything up.”

  Quinn assured him the changes would not preclude moving the project forward and then Quinn was discussing networking and wiring requirements of the space and the subject changed and I could only watch him with mystified incredulity.

  I felt Steven’s foot tap against mine under the table and swung my gaze to meet his. He had this ability to enlarge his grey eyes and narrow them at the same time; it often impressed me. This was the look he administered; it was meant to dually convey surprise and suspicion. I shook my head, a very small movement, hoping he understood my silent communication: I had no idea why Quinn chose that moment to mention my idea about billing changes or why or when he’d one hundred percent decided that Cypher Systems was going to commit to the new software.

  I did know that Olivia was also watching me; the daggers she was throwing with her glare were difficult to overlook, even in my peripheral vision. Instead of focus my attention on her knife wielding propensities or Quinn’s continuing recitation of the deal’s details or Steven’s sideways glances, I stared unseeingly at the two dimensional, top view diagram of the club space within my packet.

  It was such a small thing, the new billing technique. It really was such a small thing. I doubted Mr. Northumberland or any of the lackeys presently really cared about line item detail on billing invoices.

  But why had he done it? Why had Quinn even brought it up?

  It was nothing. It meant nothing. Stop obsessing about it.

  My eyes followed the lines of the AutoCAD derived blue print. I distracted myself by studying the digitally rendered topical design and comparing it to the tour we’d taken of the space earlier. This, as it turned out, was a very effective distraction.

  I frowned, blinked, rechecked my examination. My frown deepened.

  The schematic in the packet did not match the actual size, layout, or features of the club we’d toured that morning.

  I must have sighed loudly or made some other overt outward sign of displeasure because the room became quiet; somewhere to the right a throat was cleared. I glanced up. Everyone was looking at me, including Quinn.

  “Ms. Morris…” Quinn was very Mr. Sullivan in his expression and tone, “Is there something you wish to add?”

  I looked from Quinn to Carlos to Steven to Allen- or Alex or Andrew or whatever his parents had named him that was so forgettable- to the client, Mr. Northumberland. I was on a precipice. It was my first client meeting, I was the most junior member of the team, I didn’t even know if I deserved the job or if my zebra print stilettos had been the deciding factor. I should have smiled politely and apologized or coughed wildly to try to cover up the unintended sound. I could also feign Tourette syndrome.

  Or, I could publically announce that all the team’s cost estimates had been based on a grossly inaccurate rendering of the space due to an oversight or, more alarming, potentially purposeful deception by the client.

  Well… what do I have to lose?

  I licked my lips then placed my hands, folded, on the table; “Yes. I do. Before we move beyond the AutoCAD rendering I wanted to clarify why the space we toured this morning doesn’t match the plans sent by the casino last month, included here in our packet. We based all our cost estimates on the AutoCAD rendering.”

  There was a slight pause, the group apparently absorbing this information for a moment, before all eyes swung to the nephew- AllenAlexAndrewAiden. I followed their stares.

  He looked decidedly… uncomfortable. The man’s eyes bounced around the conference room then settled on Mr. Northumberland’s before he issued a small, nervous sounding laugh; “The differences are minor, really. It’s basically the same.”

  I frowned severely as several sets of eyeballs ricocheted back to me but I focused my attention on the nephew, “I must respectfully disagree. Some examples: there are two partitions- non weight baring walls- which are not present on the digital design rendering; the current space has west facing windows and an outside patio while the design depicts no windows and no patio; additionally, the square footage of the actual space is at least eleven hundred feet larger-” I shifted my gaze to Quinn’s as I added, “not including the patio.”

  I couldn’t read Quinn’s expression which may have been more due to my current unrest regarding all topics McHotpants rather than any surreptitious attempts on his side. I did comprehend that his stare was neither hostile nor warm; in fairness, I could only describe it as attentive.

  The nephew moved from side to side in his seat as though he couldn’t get comfortable, “That’s absurd. Clearly you can’t read architectural schematics-”

  “Actually…” Quinn paused, pulling his eyes from mine and addressing Mr. Northumberland, who, for the first time since the meeting began, hadn’t felt the need to interrupt. “Actually, Ms. Morris is very familiar with such schematics as she graduated summa cum laude from Iowa State University with a dual major in Architecture and mathematics. You see, Iowa State is one of the top schools in the nation for Architecture.”

  I flinched, just a little, barely perceptible to anyone who may have been watching me, when Quinn recited my qualifications; I was not aware that he was so acquainted with my academic credentials. It made me wonder what else he knew about me and how he came to be such an expert.

  Mr. Northumberland’s expression of surprise boiled into sudden impatience; to my relief this thunderous glare was directed at his nephew; “Allen, this is entirely unacceptable- if this causes another delay in-”

  Quinn smoothly interrupted, “Mr. Northumberland, we can modify our impl
ementation strategy and meet the deadline if time is the issue here. However, the cost…” Quinn sighed, closed the packet of papers in front of him and leaned back in his chair, “I cannot guarantee that the cost of the project will not be impacted.”

  Without any overtures or pretense, the client leaned forward and pointed a finger at Quinn, “If you can meet the deadline you can have triple your original budget.” Then his black glare moved to his nephew, “I can’t have any further delays.”

  Quinn nodded once then abruptly stood; I watched his long fingers button the top button of his suit jacket, “In that case, we’re finished for today. I see no further need for pretense and discussion; what’s important now is getting started.”

  Northumberland stood as well, almost eagerly. His entourage also stood; they reminded me of synchronized swimmers, only in business suits. Their boss said, “Good man. I couldn’t agree more.” he reached across the table and shook Quinn’s hand. “You have an impressive team.”

  I caught Steven giving me a meaningful look and I returned it with a raised eyebrow and a shrug of nonchalance even though inwardly I was breathing a ragged, yet guarded, sigh of relief.

  I’d taken a chance. I only hoped it would be enough to prove that I was worthy of keeping my job.

  ~*~

  Carlos and Quinn disappeared together directly after the meeting adjourned and I begged off dinner with Steven, claiming a headache. Of course, Steven still threatened to keep his promise of a sleepover. I was non-committal and laughed at his good natured teasing but I didn’t feel like company, I felt like stewing in my room, alone, with a bottle of wine and a hamburger and HBO.

  Before I ran off Steven reminded me that our meetings for the following day had been canceled and that the plane would now be departing at 3:00 pm. He suggested we meet up during the day and try to see a little of Vegas before leaving. I was, again, noncommittal. I kind of felt like a jerk.

  I did have a headache. I had a cornucopia of confusion to sort through. I needed to figure out what I needed, what I wanted, and what was right and where they all intersected.

  What I needed was to keep my distance from male humans- i.e. Jon and Quinn- keep my job, and reorganize my life so that calm and order were restored.

  What I wanted was to throw myself at Quinn and continue behaving like an infatuated teenager.

  And I didn’t know what was right.

  When room service arrived I took the bottle of wine into the bathroom and had a bubble bath. The hotel tub was nowhere near the awe-inspiring spectacularness of the apartment tub Quinn showed me last Sunday, when we toured the company’s new apartment space in the high-rise by the park, but it was perfectly adequate for my current needs.

  Nevertheless, after an hour in the tub drinking alone, I felt no closer to solving my dilemma. Instead I was left with an empty bottle of wine, pruney fingers, and more questions.

  I was getting dressed when I heard a confident knock on my door; it was just past 9:30pm. Naturally I assumed it was Steven making good on his sleepover threat. Due to this perilous assumption I didn’t check the peephole, I just opened the door.

  It was a crucial, if not monumental, mistake.

  If I’d seen Quinn first through the fish-eye opening I might’ve had time to compose myself, I might have decided to pretend I was asleep, I might have trapped myself under a heavy immovable object or jumped out the thirty-story window.

  As it was, I could only return his smolder with stunned, albeit tipsy, surprise; my internal organs and major muscle groups were helpless against the chemical reaction reducing them into frozen yet gelatinous goo. My heart, likewise, spring boarded to my throat and I was abruptly aware that I was attired only in a white tank top, bra, and bikini bottoms; so, basically, my underwear.

  I’d like to say that, when faced with the smoldering indigo eyes of Quinn Sullivan after a bottle of wine, his impressively massive and muscled form hovering outside my hotel room door and big hands gripping the frame on either side of aforementioned door, I felt very little in the way of intense physical or emotional response.

  If I said that then I’d be a dirty liar. A dirty, dirty liar.

  Quinn, suspended like a metaphor on the abyss of in-my-room/out-of-my-room, was still in his custom cut black suit, white shirt, blue silk tie. However, he was emphatically mussed. His tie was loosened haphazardly and hung a little off balance around his neck; his shirt was wrinkled from hours of wear; his hair was askew and spiking about at odd angles; his chin and jaw were shadowed with a full day of stubble. Of course, he still looked like a GQ model. But, instead of the well groomed variety he looked like the well tousled variety.

  The fact that he said nothing at all didn’t help. He just… looked. At first he held my gaze for a long moment then he looked up; he looked down; he looked all around. This was done with such a deliberate languorous insolence that I began to feel like I was being perused for purchase. I blamed my slightly inebriated state when I was tempted to ask if he were looking for something in particular or just window shopping.

  Regardless, his eyes were the bull, all my previous attempts at detachment were the china shop, and he was smashing it to pieces- smash, smash, smash.

  I managed a deep breath but couldn’t seem to release it. I maybe resembled a red nosed Reindeer caught in headlights.

  Then, he moved.

  “Can I come in.” Quinn asked the question like it was a statement and, without even pretending my response mattered, he walked into my room leaving me to stare after him as I held the door.

  “I don’t- I- well- if- you- I guess- how… ok.” As he walked by I smelled whiskey and whatever aftershave or soap still clung to his skin and suit.

  He smelled delicious. Smash, smash, smash.

  I released the breath I’d been holding after a further three of four seconds then, on fragmented auto pilot, hesitantly closed the door. I kept changing my mind as I moved in slow motion, reconsidering the correctness or appropriateness of closing the door while my boss’ boss sauntered around my hotel room.

  My internal dialogue went something like this: leave it open!… but that would be strange if someone walks by… who cares? I care! Why do I care? Just close it! You can’t close it; you’re in your underwear!! and if the door is closed you might… do… something… Here is the situation: I’m in my underwear in my room with Quinn and my alcohol laden inhibitions are low, low, low. It’s like closing yourself up in a Godiva chocolate shop, of course you’re going to sample something… Don’t sample anything!! Don’t even smell anything!! If you smell it you’ll want to try it. Don’t smell him anymore. No. More. Smelling. I hope he doesn’t see the empty bottle of wine… Put some clothes on. Is it weird if I dress in front of him? I want some chocolate. Ah! Clothes!!

  Finally the door closed even though I hadn’t made a conscious decision to do so. I took a steadying breath then turned and followed, trailing some distance behind him and crossing to the opposite side of the room from where he was currently standing. I spotted my workout shirt on the bed and attempted to surreptitiously put it on.

  Quinn’s back was to me and he seemed to be meandering around the space; he didn’t appear to be in any hurry. He paused for a short moment next to my laptop and stared at the screen.

  He looked lost and a little vulnerable. Smash, smash, smash

  I took this opportunity to rapidly pull on some sweatpants and a sweatshirt from my suitcase. The sweatshirt was on backwards, with the little ‘V’ in the back and the tag in the front, but I ignored it and grabbed my jacket from the closet behind me and soundlessly slipped it on too.

  He walked to the window and surveyed the view as I hurriedly pushed my feet into socks and hand knit slippers, given to me by Elizabeth last Christmas.

  I was a tornado of frenzied activity, indiscriminately and quietly pulling on clothes. I may have been overcompensating for my earlier state of undress. However, it wasn’t until he, with leisurely languid movements, turned toward me tha
t I finally stopped dressing; my hands froze on my head as I pulled on a white cabled hat, another hand knit gift from Elizabeth.

  Quinn sighed, “I need to talk to you about your sist-” but then stopped speaking abruptly when he lifted his gaze to me.

  His features, shaping into something resembling dumbfounded astonishment, were cast in a warm glow from a shaded nearby lamp.

  He looked earnestly surprised and a little boyish. Smash, smash, smash.

  His mesmerizing eyes narrowed as they looked over my now completely covered form, the only skin showing was that of my face and hands. If I’d been thinking clearly and sober I might have felt ridiculous; instead, as I was most definitely not thinking clearly and was most definitely not sober, I was cursing myself for leaving my gloves in Chicago and I was looking for my glasses.

  He shifted on his feet, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and studied me with open and growing amusement; “Are you going somewhere?”

  I swallowed and tried to shrug but the movement was lost under the layers of clothing, “Yes.” I lifted my chin, feeling suddenly hot which reminded me of how hot it was outside… even at 9:30pm; I then quickly amended, “No.” I lowered my hands from the hat on my head and tugged at the sleeves of the jacket, “I haven’t decided.”

  He tilted his head just so, his mouth tugging upward on one side and slowly, slowly, slowly started crossing to me, like he was stalking prey, like he was afraid sudden movements might send me into another tornado of movement. “Where were you thinking of going?”

  “To gamble.” I blurted. It was the only thing I could think of in my slightly imbibed state as we were in Las Vegas and we were staying at a world infamous casino.