by Penny Reid
There was, however, a note.
A white piece of paper lay on the bed next to me; I recognized the hotel logo at the top and Quinn’s efficient script beneath. The note was illegible from where I sat, so I stared at it.
I stared at it.
And, I stared at it.
Then, I stared at it.
After that, I stared at it.
Dragging my attention elsewhere, I pushed my heavy, long hair away from my eyes and behind my shoulder then rested my forehead in my hand; my thumb and index fingers rubbed my temples. Tangible memories, not just initial scattered fragments, of what occurred before I fell asleep, of what I’d done and said, of what we did together, flooded into focus and a faintly familiar small pain originating in my heart made it suddenly difficult to breathe.
Impaired judgment.
It wasn’t anxiety or fear. It was… something like wishing or longing or hope. The sensation reminded me of my childhood, when my mother would actually be present for one of my birthdays or my parents would sit us down, the three girls, and tell us that my mom would be staying this time.
I was uncomfortable with the sensation and it made me feel despondent and weary so I again pushed it away, like I’d done last night after we made love the first time, and walked to the bathroom to take my shower. I encouraged my mind to wander, to think about something other than what Quinn’s note said and what, if anything, had changed because of last night; whether, in the light of day, my decisions had been good ones; where Quinn was; when I would see Quinn again.
However, to my disappointment, despite my desire to daydream about anything and everything else, all I could think about what the what, whether, where, and when of Quinn. This might have had something to do with the fact that signs of him were everywhere; and, by everywhere, I mean all over my body.
I was sore from… exertion. Nail marks, bite marks, scruff marks and the like spotted my skin. I stared at my reflection in the mirror for an indeterminate amount of time then, gritting my teeth, I turned on the shower.
It wasn’t just that I’d never experience anything like the connection or intimacy or sensations of last night. Rather, it was that I never realized the desire existed. I felt wholly disconcerted by the fact that what had been a previously unidentified want now felt more like a need, like water or breathing or comic books and shoes. I didn’t like that a something had been awakened. I preferred to be in control of my cravings. Furthermore, I preferred to only have cravings I could satisfy without the requirement or assistance of another person. This was, after all, the definition of self-reliance.
I tried to remind myself that I had been drunk so nothing that happened last night really counted or mattered.
Impaired judgment.
Surely he would realize that I’d been exhibiting impaired judgment.
After the shower I towel dried and applied hair product to my curls; my cheeks were flushed and it had more to do with the memory of the previous night than it had to do with the steam of the shower.
I walked into the main room and, still avoiding the note, scaled the perimeter of the bed, picked up my discarded clothes and folded them into a neat pile next to my suitcase. I picked out another business suit from the closet and started to dress, on autopilot.
It was now 9:47 am and the plane was due to leave at 3:00 pm.
I was facing hours alone with the note. I eyed it despairingly.
The other disconcerting realization originating from last night was the moment of what I thought was shared trust. I gave him something in that moment, when our eyes met and I became fearless; it was a part of myself. And now, in the very bright light of day, I wasn’t so sure that I’d made an especially wise decision.
He hadn’t earned that trust. I gave it to him based on weakness called faith and the faith had been based on wine-pickled-brain-impaired-judgment.
I didn’t want to read the note. I felt certain I knew what it said. He was, after all, a Wendell at heart and I’ve just become one of his slamps. I swallowed thickly at the thought.
But I wasn’t. I wasn’t a slamp.
Less girly-drama-hysterical Janie and more logical Janie endeavored to make her presence known: Having the hot sex over the course of several hours does not a slamp make.
These thoughts didn’t help either.
With a huff I crossed to the bed and picked up the note; girly-drama-hysterical Janie was certain it was a blow-off. Logical Janie decided to reserve judgment until the note was read:
Janie,
I’ll be right back with breakfast and coffee. Call me as soon as you wake up.
-Quinn
I stared at the note.
I stared at it.
And, I stared at it.
Then, I stared at it.
After that, I stared at it.
The longing was back, the hope. It spread like a wild fire through my heart and brain and body so fast I nearly lost my breath. Therefore, I did the only thing that made sense.
I panicked.
CHAPTER 22
I wondered if Quinn had ruined me for everything that was not-Quinn-like in much the same way his private plane had ruined me for commercial airline travel.
I left Las Vegas at 11:35 am on an Alliantsouth direct flight to Chicago. The security line made me feel like a refugee and it all went downhill from there: while waiting at the airside an escaped pet turtle stole my glasses and snapped them in half at the nose; I was severely jostled when I boarded the plane and was pretty sure the man behind me copped a feel; when I took my seat by the window the woman next to me took off her shoes.
Swamp-feet was all I lived and breathed for two hours. I wondered if the thieving turtle would have enjoyed the aroma.
Mercifully, 1510 miles and one taxi ride later I was sitting at my desk, checking my email, sipping on coffee, and modifying the original project plan for the Vegas club. It was just after 6:00pm and the office was quiet. I allowed myself to get lost in spreadsheets and calculations and formulas and pivot tables.
My office phone rang and, after inspecting a calculated value on my screen for veracity, I lifted the receiver to my ear.
“Janie Morris.”
“What the hell, Janie.”
Electric shock. That’s what it was.
He was irate and the sound of his voice caused the sensation to travel down my spine, my limbs, stinging my fingertips, toes, and ears.
“Hi- Hi Quinn.” My chest was tight, I was having trouble breathing; even so I struggled to sound unflustered and calm.
Silence
“How was your trip?”
Silence
“It’s nice to hear your voice…?” The statement came out sounding like a question, as though I were playing jeopardy and I’d chosen my category-
‘I’ll take ‘Charming Chit Chat’ for $200, Alex’ and behind the $200 read: ‘This is what you say to the hot guy- you abandoned- when he returns after you inexplicably leave him and his private jet in Las Vegas after having amazing and multiple occurrences of the hot sex.’
Obviously, I realized that the length of text would likely not fit in a jeopardy box and would also not get pass the censors, but I was having trouble thinking in condensed situational short-hand.
I heard him sigh, almost see his beautiful face and the frustration marring his features.
Finally he said, “What’s going on?”
I picked at the plastic of my desk calendar with my thumbnail and felt nothing but contrition.
I closed my eyes, “I’m sorry.”
His voice was less irritated, “Why are you sorry?”
“I just-” I hesitated, letting my forehead fall into the palm of my hand.
I couldn’t tell him the truth.
I couldn’t tell him that I was sorry for exhibiting poor, wine-induced judgment and sleeping with him- because I wasn’t. I wasn’t sorry. I was glad I’d been inebriated because it allowed me to do something that was so very, very unwise. I was glad my judgm
ent had been impaired.
I couldn’t tell him that I left because I was an idiot who was confusing fantastic sex with depth of feeling.
I couldn’t say I was hoping for a future with him. I couldn’t admit I was desperate for it.
So I lied.
“I kept thinking about the plane ride with everyone, and you, and I don’t think there is a handbook for this, but if there is then please send it to me, because I didn’t want to say something wrong in front of everyone. I mean, we haven’t talked about how this is going to work, us working together and you being you and me being me- and I- I don’t want to jeopardize my working relationships with the team here-”
He interrupted me when I paused to take a breath, “Janie, Janie- it’s ok. Ok? I understand.”
I stopped, hesitated, bit my bottom lip, wondered what he understood because I wasn’t even sure that I understood. “You do?”
“Yes. I do. I know you like… labels and defined expectations. I can do that- for work. We can put in place some sort of agreement which defines expectations and such at work.”
“So you think we need one too?”
“Yes if it will make you feel more comfortable and definitely yes if it keeps you from disappearing again.”
I blurted before my brain could stop the words, “Why are you even interested in me?”
I closed my eyes again, scrunching my face, as mortification (from me) and stillness (from him) greeted my question. My self-recrimination was swift: Don’t ask that question, he may not have an answer…
I heard a soft ‘click-click’ then silence.
I opened my eyes and unseeingly looked at the report on my desk, “Quinn?” there was no answer; I swallowed thickly, “Quinn? Are you still there?”
“That’s not a conversation I want to have over the phone.” Quinn’s voice came from my left.
My head shot upward and I looked for and found the source of the words. Quinn was there, leaning against the frame of my office door, his phone still in his hand. I slowly lowered my phone to the desk as I stood. My face decided to give him a stupid shy smile, it was an uncontrollable response to his presence.
“Hi…” I breathed the word.
“Hi.” His smile was unhurried and the warmth in his eyes was doing strange things to me, like making me want to bite him.
He stepped in the door, closed it, and locked it. He set down a bag and slipped his phone into his pocket as he entered. He was wearing a white dress shirt, patterned tie, but no jacket. We gazed at each other; I was afraid that he might dissolve, prove to be a figment of my imagination if I moved or spoke. I didn’t want him to disappear.
Then, as though it were the most natural, expected thing in the world, he crossed the room to where I stood and kissed me. It was a kiss that immediately told me he missed me and that he’d been thinking about kissing me all day.
The kiss, also, made me want to bite him.
After he was satisfied, he straightened slowly and tipped his head to the side; his eyes were half lidded as he openly studied my face. I gazed up at him, another shy smile claiming my features through no conscious decision of my brain, and allowed myself to appreciate the sight.
“You’re not wearing your glasses.” His tone was conversational but his voice was deep, rumbly, quiet, intimate. I loved it.
“No, they were taken.”
“Taken?”
“Long story involving a turtle.”
He smiled at me, his eyes full of man-mirth, “A turtle? Really?”
“Yes.” I breathed him in. He smelled good. I loved it.
“What are you doing tonight?”
“I’m meeting my knitting group at seven.”
“I didn’t know you knit.” He lifted his eyebrows.
“I don’t.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly higher, “Oh… ok. Well, how about later?”
I answered truthfully, “I was planning to sort my comic books based on level of second wave feminist influence.”
“As opposed to first wave?”
“Yes, well, Susan B. Anthony laid the foundation for those who have come after. It’s all really interrelated but she didn’t have direct influence over late twentieth century comics.”
He closed his eyes and shook his head, a very reluctant looking smile claiming his mouth.
“Why? What are you doing tonight?” I asked dreamily. In that moment I felt like such a weak girl.
He met my gaze again with a heavily lidded one of his own, “I was hoping to show you one of the reasons why I’m interested in you, because there are many. But, if you need to sort your comic books, then I guess I could just show you now…” his hands slid down my arms to my waist, hips, then bottom. He didn’t so much as rest them there as firmly plant them on my body and press me to him while caressing my backside.
The movement made my insides explode; I felt a nuclear blast of awareness so keenly I almost lost my breath.
I said, “Oh.” because it was all I could manage.
He grinned and dipped his head; he kissed me just behind my ear then down my neck. I, of course, angled my head to the side to give him better access.
And then, I lost consciousness- and by lost consciousness I mean Ida woke up and asserted her dominance.
~*~
It’s true.
I had really hot sex in my office with my boss on my desk.
That happened.
I’ve experienced these singularities before, these surreal moments where some combination of the lighting in the room, the situation, the smell, the people I’m with, and the clothes I’m wearing make me feel like I’m in a movie.
Standing in my office, simultaneously trying to adjust my undergarments and hair and buttoning my shirt, Quinn in my peripheral vision, I felt very much like I was in a movie.
Nothing about the moment felt very plausible.
“I need to come into the office more often.” I could hear the playfulness behind his words but I didn’t smile. My palms itched to touch his bare skin and my heart fluttered in my chest.
We’d just finished mauling each other in my office, literally on my desk; and, already, I couldn’t stop thinking about when I’d get a chance to climb all over him again. It was not a feeling with which I had any experience and the intensity was somewhat troubling.
“I know where we should go to dinner tonight,” his voice came from someplace behind me, I guessed he was standing by the window, “but we’ll need to change first.”
My fingers began to tremble and, therefore, I stopped buttoning my shirt. Placing my hands on my hips I leaned against my desk and ducked my head. I allowed the coppery spirals to curtain my features and tried to absorb the fact that last night and several minutes ago were real events in my life. They were allowed to be my memories.
I brain repeated: That happened. That happened, that happened, this is happening.
And this time, I couldn’t blame the wine for my impaired judgment.
I heard his steps cross the room. Through the filter of my curls I spied his black leather shoes stop directly in front of me. He paused then tucked my hair away and behind my ears. The infinitely gentle gesture maybe made me feel cherished.
“Hey.” He said.
I glanced at him through my eyelashes and we stared at each other. His tenderness- of his voice, touch- filled me with the acute need to invade the silence.
I cleared my throat, met his gaze fully, wanted to say something that would ease the growing discord in my Bermuda triangle of brain-heart-vagina; finally I decided on praise and honesty.
“For the record, that was really enjoyable.”
His lips quirked to the side as his gaze moved over my features, “Is there a record? Have you been keeping a log?”
I nodded, “Yes. I keep a log of everything. Data is immeasurably valuable, which is why there are such stringent data access policies for medical research.”
I noted that his eyes abruptly affixed to mine in the middle
of my statement, “You- do you-“ he licked his lips, “You actually keep a written log of every time you’ve had sex? ”
I frowned at him, he must’ve tossed his kippers, “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t write it down. I keep a running log in my head- you know, of things I liked, didn’t like. Things you liked, or seemed to like. That kind of stuff.”
He slow-blinked, “Oh.” His eyes moved between mine, plain bemusement was an unusual expression for him.
Growing uncomfortable under his stalwart scrutiny, I dipped my chin, once again not wanting to meet his gaze directly. It was, perhaps, too soon to share my freakish tendencies with him.
However, it abruptly occurred to me, perhaps it was exactly the right time to be sharing my freakish tendencies with him. Perhaps now was precisely the right time to send him running, which he would inevitably do, before I really changed and started zealously pursuing him to get my next Quinn-fix.
Before some Quinn-related biochemical process, likely methylation, flipped on all the girl-gone-wild genetic markers of my DNA.
“It’s like shoe sizes.” I volunteered, studying him closely.
“Shoe sizes.” He slow-blinked again, “What are you talking about?”
“Well, they only make so many shoe sizes. If your feet are larger than the largest shoe size then you are considered to have freakishly big feet.” I touched my thumb and forefinger to the buttons of my shirt, ensuring they were all completely fastened and rigidly buttoning the last two. “You should know that I have similarly inescapable freakish attributes.”
Quinn immediately smiled but then suppressed it; he cleared his throat, “Well, what about clowns? They wear freakishly big shoes.”
“So?”
“So- big shoes have their place.”
“Yeah. In the circus…” I crossed my arms, “You know, with the freaks.”
He mimicked my stance, “You are not a freak.”
“You should know this about me before this, whatever this is, gets out of hand. I am, indeed, a freak.”
“Define ‘out of hand’.”
My cheeks flamed at how he made the colloquialism sound sordid.
