by Penny Reid
I heard Quinn cough, and I turned to face him. He must have been mid-swallow when I said my last sentence as it appeared that he’d choked on his whiskey. He brought his hand to his mouth to cover his cough.
“Are you okay?”
“Classy?” He rasped.
I held my hands up. “Oh, no offense meant, and no judgment either. I’m sure they’re all very classy and you had very excellent taste in slamps. It’s just that I was not expecting…I don’t know what I was expecting.”
He suppressed another cough and shook his head. On the Quinn scale of appearing ill at ease, he looked to be about a seven—not as uncomfortable as me discussing my menstrual cycle, but more uncomfortable than my recent tirade on perceived gender and how male sea horses gave birth to their young.
Before he could respond, I continued. “Actually I do know what I was expecting. I was expecting…the chorus of prostitutes in the stage production of Les Misérables. Maybe some missing teeth. I don’t know why. I mean, I know that it’s perfectly acceptable as part of our culture for two people to have multiple sexual partners at the same time—even at the same moment. I just wasn’t expecting her to look so normal. I mean, gorgeous, but normal. So I guess your slamps were normal people, huh?”
“Yes. They were normal people.”
“And she has a job? I mean, other than being your slamp.”
“Janie, I never paid her.”
“I know—gah, sorry that sounded bad. I meant she had other interests outside of being your slamp?”
“I guess so.”
“She’s not British. She sounds like she’s from the States.”
“She’s from Los Angeles.”
My eyes skated over him, and I hesitated only a fraction of a second before asking, “What does she do?”
He shrugged, looking bored. But I knew better. Boredom in this case was a cover for his ill-at-ease level seven. “Something in fashion.”
I nodded, my eyes losing focus over his shoulder. “I can see that. She’s remarkably well maintained and groomed.”
“Maintained and groomed?”
My attention moved back to him. “Yes. She has that shiny, just unwrapped quality about her. Or, more accurately, that fresh coat of paint aura.”
The corner of his mouth pulled upward, a nearly imperceptible tilt. “That’s a good description.”
“What did you two talk about? I didn’t know you had any interest in fashion.”
“I don’t. We didn’t talk.”
“You didn’t talk? Like, ever?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
His expression was as flat as his tone.
I surveyed him. Something in my face must have increased his ill-at-ease level, because his eyes darted to mine, away, then back again. He smoothed a hand down his tie, cleared his throat. He was almost fidgety—approaching ill-at-ease level eight.
Finally, he blurted, “You’re the only one.”
“The only what?”
“The only one I’ve wanted to talk to—that I’ve…conversed with.”
“I’m the only female you’ve conversed with?” I struggled repeating the words because they sounded preposterous.
He sighed. “Of course I talk to women all the time. I talk to Shelly on a weekly basis, but she’s my sister.” He tugged at his tie, looking a tad frustrated, yet his voice betrayed no irritation. “You’re the only woman that I’ve been involved with and also wanted to have a conversation with. What I meant was she was boring, even irritating, whereas, I like talking to you. You’re interesting, easy to be around. You’re knowledgeable about things that matter; your interests are varied and unusual. You’re good to talk to.”
I nodded, my movements subtle, and I absorbed this information. I translated it in my head and spoke it at the same time. “So, what you’re saying is that you like me.”
The frustration marring his forehead ebbed, leaving his features warm and his gaze entirely focused on me. “Yes. I like you. I like you a lot.”
We shared a smile. Like most of his expressions in public, it was subtle. But, unlike most of his expressions in public, it was a vulnerable display of sincerity.
My smile was considerably wider, and I couldn’t help but blurt, “I like you too, Quinn.”
He shrugged an arrogant shrug and said, “I know.”
This made me laugh, which likely would have made him at least chuckle if he hadn’t decided to hide it with another swallow of his whiskey.
My eyes caught the very blonde woman, his former slamp, in the background. She was smiling widely at two men and seemed to be enjoying herself. I indicated my head in her direction. “Well, she looks nice.”
“She’s not.”
My frown returned. “She’s not?”
“No. She’s crazy.” He finished his whiskey.
“So you keep saying. Why is she crazy?”
“When I called things off with her, let’s just say she didn’t take it very well.”
I mulled this over. If and/or when Quinn broke things off with me, I imagined I wouldn’t take it very well either. “And that makes her crazy?”
“I don’t want you talking to her.”
“You don’t want me talking to her?”
For Quinn, his tone was soft, coaxing. “You know what I mean.”
“Hmm….” I regarded him for a moment then added, “I’ll take your wishes under advisement.”
“Janie….”
“I will. They’re in the advisement folder. I will consider them before I make my decision.”
His eyes narrowed as they moved between mine. Then, quite unexpectedly, he smiled at me, and his voice held false warmth. “Janie. You’re not talking to her.”
“Oh, really?” I laughed lightly, mirroring his expression, and issued him my slow, assessing head bob. “Just so you know, I just mentally shredded the advisement folder and your wishes are no longer being considered.”
His smile grew and he looked both frustrated and amused. “That’s not nice.”
“Then don’t order me around. You know I don’t like that.”
“Yes you do.”
I breathed in through my nose and did my best to hide any physical manifestations betraying the surge of pleasant adrenaline at his words. “You’re right. Sometimes I do, specifically when we’re bereft of clothing. But when we’re at a party and I’m curious about this very unusual and interesting opportunity, I don’t like it so much. And I may never get another chance to talk with one of your slamps.”
He made a low growling sound in the back of his throat and glanced from his empty glass to me. “Please do not call her that to her face.”
“I…I wouldn’t do that.” I responded as though the idea was preposterous, even added an eye roll, but I made a mental note: Do not call her a slamp to her face.
“Janie, I’m serious. She wouldn’t like it. It would make her…she’d go nuts, try to rip your hair out, or worse.” His expression turned dark as his eyes drifted over to the bar, and I wondered exactly how crazy she was. Abruptly, he touched my arm, his eyes locked on mine, and gave me a soft squeeze. “Listen to me. Now I’m asking nicely. Don’t approach her.”
***
To be fair, I didn’t technically approach her.
I rescued her.
Well…I didn’t exactly rescue her. More precisely, I helped her. It happened in the bathroom.
I’d been followed to the restroom by one of Quinn’s team. He waited outside, situating himself by the door so that he could intimidate anyone entering to use the toilet. I hadn’t yet grown accustomed to having someone wait for me to finish my business, and it irked me.
When I had a guard, as soon as I entered a public restroom, I felt like the clock was ticking. Usually, I’d rush through and end up with my pants buttoned but unzipped, or sink water down the front of my outfit.
Tonight, however, I told the guard that he could expect a long wait; this was because
I wasn’t quite sure how to manage lifting the heavy skirts of the dress without losing my balance, falling in, getting stabbed by feathers, or wrinkling the whole thing beyond repair.
The venue had one of those fancy washrooms with an adjacent sitting area. The room was spacious and richly—yet too sweetly—decorated in brocade light pink wallpaper, pink velvet upholstered chairs, and pink curtains. As well, a huge, ornate, lighted mirror with a thick glowing white frame ran the entire length of the walls.
Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling.
Suffice to say, the room was bright, shiny, and pink.
And sitting in one corner of the sitting room was the very blonde slamp.
I paused a half second when I saw her, but then I was spurred into action by my bladder and sprinted for the toilet. Perhaps it was because I was distracted by her presence and, therefore, couldn’t overthink my technique; or perhaps it was because I didn’t feel rushed as I’d prepared Pete—my guard—before I entered to expect a delay, but using the facilities went remarkably smoothly.
I was out of the stall in record time and was drying my hands with a soft cotton towel when I heard the very blonde woman from the other room.
“Shit,” she said.
It sounded frustrated and maybe a little desperate. I knew that feeling. I especially knew that feeling while in a bathroom.
I’d laid my gloves around my neck as a scarf, to keep them out of germ’s way, so I pulled them from my shoulder and drifted hesitantly into the pink room. She was still in the corner, but now she was standing up. A glass of something that I deduced to be soda water was sitting on the table beside her, and she was rubbing at her white dress with a cloth.
I tried to tiptoe closer, but recognized this immediately as an exercise in futility because my skirt rustled like a cornfield in a windstorm whenever I took a step.
She glanced up, her blue eyes connected with mine, and they turned from frustrated to bitter. “What do you want?”
“Can I help?” I glanced at the place she’d been rubbing. “Oh, see, that’s not going to work. Soda water doesn’t help with red wine—is that red wine?”
She frowned at me, and her gaze flickered to the stain marring the otherwise pristine gown. “Yes, it’s red wine, but I don’t need your help….”
“Yeah, that’s too bad. Most people don’t know this, but you should have used salt. Even then, depending on the fabric, it might not have made a difference. Then again, the stain is quite small and localized—may I touch your dress?”
“What?”
“Touch your dress, to determine the fiber content.”
She blinked at me, her mouth opened then closed. Finally, she said, “Go ahead!” Her arms flailed from her sides in the universal sign for I’m exasperated.
I sat next to her on one of the velvet stools and rubbed the thick material between my fingers. “Oh. Silk.” I tsked and shook my head as I considered the stain at her waist. “That’s not coming out. If only you had something to cover it….”
My gaze drifted around the room, searching for a quick fix. I wondered if the venue would notice if I tore a piece of pink velvet from the bottom of one of the drapes. Then, my eyes caught on the black gloves in my hands.
“Ah ha!” I jumped up and held the gloves in front of her stunned face. “My gloves!”
“What?”
“My gloves.” I sat down again and lifted up my skirt, revealing a row of ten safety pins. “I thought it best to bring safety pins. One never knows when they’ll be needed. Also, I’m terribly accident prone, and this skirt is so big. The chances of me tearing something tonight were pretty high, so I brought pins.”
“Pins?”
“Yes, pins.” I took one of the gloves and formed a loose spiral, pinching one end. “I’m not very crafty, but I’ve been learning how to crochet recently, and I also learned how to make a fabric flower. The gloves are black silk, so if we just connect them like this…” I pinned the two gloves together. “…and fasten them in place, we can hide the stain and make it look like you have fabric roses at your waist. What do you think?”
I lifted my chin to look up at her face. She was staring down at where I held the two hastily assembled flowers.
“Yes, that’s—that’s perfect. You’re a genius!” Her wide eyes moved to mine, and I was pleased to see she was smiling.
“Thank you. I’ll have to put my hand under your skirt and against your stomach so I don’t stick you.”
“Oh, go right ahead. I’m wearing those Spanx with the slit and I work in the fashion industry. I’m used to hands up my skirt.”
“Spanx with the slit?” I set to work pinning the roses in place.
“You know, Spanx? It’s like body armor and a girdle all wrapped in one. They hold everything in. And the slit is at my vag, so I don’t have to take off the Spanx in order to go pee or…you know….”
I paused my pinning and glanced up at her. Her lips were pressed together and her eyebrows were high on her forehead.
Finally, she finished the thought. “You don’t have to take them off in order to have sex.”
“Oh. Well…that’s convenient.” I nodded and resumed my pinning, pleased that women’s girdles had graduated from a virtual chastity belt to an open invitation. Then I tried to imagine myself having sex while wearing constricting underwear, and I became preoccupied with where Quinn would place his hands. If I’d been wearing slitted Spanx on Thursday night, he wouldn’t have torn off my underwear.
Then I decided that he likely wouldn’t go for slitted Spanx because, more than anything, he seemed to want me as naked a possible when we were physically intimate.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you could totally be a plus-sized model. You’re, like, exactly the right dimensions. You could wear stuff off the rack.”
Her words pulled me out of my thoughts, and I leaned back to consider my handiwork. “No offense taken. I know I’m a big girl.”
“No, you’re not a big girl. You’re a tall girl with big boobs. I’m not talking about a plus-sized catalogue model. I’m talking about high fashion, runway stuff. In high fashion, a plus-sized model is really just a normal model but with tits and ass for when the designers need a model who looks like a woman instead of a hanger.”
“Oh.” I let her skirt drop and struggled with how to respond to her statement, which felt like a compliment, but I couldn’t be sure. I would need to discuss it with Elizabeth in order to be certain.
I felt her eyes on me for a beat then she turned to the mirror and pivoted side to side as though to test the sturdiness of the applied flowers. “Wow, these are great. They look like they belong on the dress. Thank you.”
“No problem.” I tugged at the top edge of my gown, as my aforementioned big boobs needed to be tucked back in a bit. They were precariously testing the boundaries of my bodice what with all the bending and pinning I’d been doing.
“So….” She sat down on the stool next to mine and glanced at me from the corner of her eyes before opening a small white clutch and withdrawing some lipstick. “You’re with Quinn?”
I stared at her for a beat and thought about how best to answer. I decided it wouldn’t be untrue to say that I was. “Yes.”
She watched me, and several seconds passed. She seemed to be debating whether to continue.
Then, as though she couldn’t hold her tongue any longer, she blurted, “He’s not a good guy, hon. He’s a user and an asshole. And you seem like a real nice girl….” Her eyes drifted over me, her eyebrows pulled low on her forehead, then her gaze moved back to mine. “Way too good for Quinn Sullivan. What are you even doing with a guy like him?”
I opened my mouth to challenge her label of Quinn, not liking that she’d called him an asshole, but didn’t get a chance as she paused only to take a breath and turn back to the mirror.
“I mean he’s just going to chew you up and spit you out. I can tell you with one hundred and ten percent certainty that he’s
not interested in anything long term, not ever, not with anyone. If he tells you that you’re the only one he’s with, I guarantee you are not.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I used to be with him.” She snorted before adding, “Biggest mistake ever.”
“Did he tell you that he wanted something long term?”
“Well…no.” She pooched her lips and began applying the lipstick; her eyelashes fluttered. “He never…that is, he told me from the beginning that there were others, but I thought he’d cut them loose when we were together.”
“So, he lied to you.”
“He never lied, like out loud. But, it was implied that I meant something to him. I didn’t, and he’s a cold-hearted bastard, because when I told him I wanted to—you know—I was ready for things to progress to the next level, he dropped me! He said he didn’t date!”
I continued watching her, and my face must have betrayed my confusion and skepticism. I found it hard to believe that Quinn would ever lead anyone on.
Then again, he did have a history of being technically honest.
Then again, everything he’d told me about his previous Wendell lifestyle indicated that he was never the aggressor; he was never the one doing the chasing.
Then again, Quinn and I didn’t talk much about his slamps, even though I was still eager to learn about the logistics.
She, however, misread the cause of my skepticism, because she said, “I know! Right? I couldn’t believe it either.”
“How long were you two together?”
She pursed her lips, her eyelashes again fluttering. “Like, I don’t know, a few weeks.”
“And then you told him you wanted to be exclusive?”
“That’s right!”
“And he responded by telling you he didn’t date.”
“Yes, the asshole.”
“And that was the first time he’d given you any indication that he didn’t date?”
The lip pursing, lash fluttering increased. She tsked. “Like I said, he told me there were others when we met. After that, he didn’t want to do much talking.” With this last statement, she issued what can only be described as a smug, catty look.
