by Reid, Penny
“Yeah, I have an idea. It would be more than what you two are paying now; probably a little less than double.”
“Oh. Well, that makes sense. It isn’t a lot actually.” I crossed my legs, and my foot started tapping the floor. “It would be strange to live and work around the same people. What if I quit my job? Would we have to leave?”
“Are you planning to quit your job?” His voice was monotone, but held just a slight edge.
“Well, no. Not right now. Not anytime soon, actually.”
“Do you like it there? Do you still like the work?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I do. It’s strange, but I never much enjoyed account management at my old job. All I could think about was applying for one of the architect positions. Now, I actually really enjoy it. It’s different.”
“What’s different about it?”
I glanced at him; he appeared as interested as he sounded, so I drew my leg up to the wooden seat and faced him, the view of the park distracting me for a moment. “It’s—well—it’s just better. I’m learning about a new business, which is interesting. And Carlos and Steven are really open to my ideas for improvements to billing structure and operations, whereas, at my old place, they weren’t interested in any new ideas. I also like the people.”
Quinn’s eyebrows lifted and he gave me a broad grin. “Oh, you do? Which people?”
“Well, let’s see, there is of course Keira; she’s very nice, and Steven. Dan is also very friendly. And Carlos…”
Quinn frowned. “What about Carlos? He hasn’t been making the moves on you, has he?”
I chuckled, actually chuckled, and gave him a big grin. “No, no, not at all. Don’t be ludicrous.”
“Why would it be ludicrous?”
“Because Carlos is my boss. I’d never be interested in my boss.”
Quinn’s face froze; he blinked at me as if I’d said something truly disturbing. “Why not?”
It was my turn to frown. “Are you trying to get me to go out with Carlos?”
“No, no, definitely not. But, just because someone is your boss shouldn’t put him into the automatic off-limits category.”
“Uh, yeah it should. Dating your boss puts you at a distinct disadvantage.”
“Like dating someone who is wealthy?”
I huffed. “Yeah, I guess. It’s similar but worse.”
“Why worse?”
“Quinn.”
“Janie.” His tone and his expression were granite.
“Why are we having this conversation?”
“Humor me.”
“Even I, with my lack of ability to grasp the obvious, understand this concept.” I poked him, not liking how serious he looked, trying to figure out what I might have said to cause the abrupt shift in mood.
His eyes narrowed as they focused on me with intensity, and his features remained impassive. “I think you’re being closed-minded.”
I crossed my arms and straightened my spine. “Really? How so?”
“Why do you like to assign everything a label?”
“It makes things simple.”
“People aren’t simple.”
“But labels help make them simple. Why don’t you like labels?”
His jaw ticked as his eyes moved between mine. “When you use labels as the only factor in defining another person, and therefore how you treat them, that’s called stereotyping.”
I opened my mouth but then closed it abruptly and swallowed. My chest felt hot with a stinging mixture of discomfort and annoyance. We were glaring at each other, and my breathing had become somewhat agitated.
“I do not stereotype people. Stereotyping implies that I make judgments with no valid data but rather based on ignorant societal shortcuts.”
“Bosses can’t be dated,” he said. I noticed his deliberately deadpan tone.
“That’s just common sense.” I stood up and he grabbed my arm, not forcefully but firmly, and spun me toward him as he stood.
“Rich guys make bad boyfriends—isn’t that a label?”
“That’s not a label; it’s a preference,” I countered.
“Slamps and Wendells?” he challenged.
“Well if it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, and has sex with multiple partners indiscriminately, then…!” I widened my eyes with meaning as my voice rose. I was moving beyond annoyance into something else that I now recognized as being very close to anger.
He growled and shifted restlessly as though caged. “I don’t like being categorized.”
“Don’t tell me I stereotype people just because you don’t like your label; if you don’t like being a Wendell, then don’t be one. It’s your actions that dictate how you are perceived and how you are treated.”
“Or you could decide to stop being such a close-minded, judgmental…”
“And what?” I pulled my arm out of his grip. “And become so open-minded that my brain falls out? Make so many excuses for people’s bad behavior that I become spineless? No thanks. I have no desire to cherish each person’s bullshit and call it a beautiful snowflake. I will not make excuses for all the ways they treat the people around them like garbage. If I wanted that I’d still be with Jon making excuses for his cheating or loaning my sisters money for their criminal exploits; meanwhile, I’d still be living in a state of perpetual disappointment.”
His teeth were clenched. “I’m not proposing that you allow people to treat you like garbage. I’m suggesting that you make an effort to understand their behavior and the motivations behind it, rather than merely dismissing them because they meet the criteria for one of your shortcuts.”
I couldn’t help the sarcasm that spewed forth even though the words made me cringe as I said them. “Then correct me if I am in error: I imagine the motivation behind being a Wendell is wanting to have sex without being limited by number, variety, and frequency of partners.”
He continued as though I hadn’t spoken. “And also be open to the possibility that just because someone behaved one way in the past doesn’t mean that’s what they want now and in the future.”
“People don’t change.” I said the words thoughtlessly even though I didn’t really mean them or believe them, and I immediately regretted the statement. After what I knew, after what Quinn confided in me last night about his past and his brother, I wanted to apologize, but instead I started chewing on my bottom lip.
His eyes flashed dangerously. He swallowed as he fixed his gaze to a point over my left shoulder. I saw him shift his weight as though he was preparing to walk past me.
“I’m sorry,” I blurted, and reached for him; my hands gripped his wrists in order to hold him in place. His eyes met mine and I took a small step toward him. “You’re right, people can change, and motivations do matter. I don’t know why I said that. It’s just…” I released his wrists, rubbed my forehead with my fingers, and sighed. “It’s just, growing up, my mother…she…” I rolled my eyes, hating that I was going to admit to someone that my mother’s decisions had any impact on who I was as a person and the decisions I made.
Quinn crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head to the side. “You’ve never mentioned your mother.” He said it as though he just realized it.
I gritted my teeth. “I don’t especially enjoy discussing her.”
“Why not?”
I sighed again. “Because she was inconsistent and unreliable and was the female version of a Wendell.”
He openly considered me, his beautiful lips twisting to the side. “A Wendellette?”
My mouth curved into a reluctant smile and I nodded. “She was…” I looked around the room, beyond him, to the window. “She was really beautiful, and my dad was just a complete doormat. She would leave for weeks, months with some guy, and then return, and my dad would forgive her and we would be expected to pretend like everything was ok.”
His hands moved to his hips. “She cheated on your dad?”
I nodded. “Yes—a lot. In fact, it was ridiculous. Toward the end
she was gone more than she was at home.”
“Toward the end?”
My eyes moved back to his. “The end being just before she died.” I shifted, suddenly feeling restless. “So, you see, being someone’s slamp holds no appeal for me, nor do I wish to be a doormat. I like things defined, I dislike surprises, and I dislike the lack of clear expectations.” My hands moved to my hips and I straightened my spine. “And if that makes me a little closed-minded, then I think I’m ok with that.”
We watched each other for a long moment then he moved abruptly.
I felt a foreboding sense of vulnerability as he closed the distance between us, literally closed it, as in there was no space between our bodies, and I silently contemplated the way my own melted against his without my consent.
He slid his hands up my arms then around my waist, resting them on my hips just above my bottom. Much to my surprise and somewhat embarrassed appreciation, I felt every hard plane of his body including a hard length pressing into my abdomen.
Again, I blushed.
Quinn’s head dipped and his mouth captured mine for a devastatingly soft kiss. My anxiety didn’t dissipate; rather, a new emotion wrapped around the burning ball of trepidation in my chest and constricted it. I didn’t recognize the feeling; all I knew was that it made me want to rip his clothes off.
He lifted his head just slightly, his eyes hooded. “Are you ready for our date?”
I cleared my throat, suppressing the desire to rub myself against him, suddenly desperate for friction. I cleared my throat again. “I thought you didn’t date.”
Quinn’s cheek moved against mine so that his whispered words were hot against my ear. “I’d like to date you.”
I shivered and my eyes drifted shut. My voice was tight as I asked, “Does that mean you’re taking the slamps out of rotation?”
I felt him smile against my neck as he placed a lingering kiss on my shoulder. “They’re already out of rotation.”
He placed another kiss on my shoulder right next to where the lace met my skin. My body, my disloyal body, pressed against him more firmly, and my words came out on a sigh. “When did this happen?”
I felt him shrug. The simple movement caused his chest to rub against mine, and I had to bite my lip to keep from moaning.
“A while ago.” He pulled away, one set of fingers lifting from my hip and slowly tracing the edge of my dress from my shoulder, where he kissed me, to my collarbone, to my chest, then up again. It sent goose bumps racing over my skin. My scalp felt tight.
A while ago.
My lashes fluttered open and I met his gaze; I was confused and fuzzy headed, and I wanted to know more about the disappearing slamps. Instead, I lost my locomotive of thought as he gave me a slow smile. The aforementioned fingers playing with the edge of my dress slipped over my shoulder and down my arm, entwining with mine.
He tugged on my hand. “Come on. Let’s go have our picnic.”
Chapter Fourteen
We spent all day at the park. Several games of Frisbee may have occurred during which I may have gotten grass stains on my white dress.
To my surprise, there was a free blues concert at the Jay Pritzker Pavilion, and we decided to stay for the music after our day of fun together. We positioned ourselves at the edge of the lawn to allow plenty of space between us and the other park inhabitants.
Quinn reclined on the blanket with his head resting on my lap as though it was the most natural thing in the world, and I stroked my fingers through his hair. I would have stopped to pinch myself to ensure that I wasn’t dreaming or that I hadn’t been sucked into a Matrix type of alternate reality, but I didn’t want to know. There would be no red pill for me.
Quinn fell asleep, and I didn’t want to wake him so we stayed until the end of the last set. I watched him, mesmerized by the lines and angles of his face and the shape of his lips. They were parted slightly, and I successfully fought the urge to kiss them.
The applause woke him from his slumber. He frowned, visibly muddled by his surroundings, and blinked into my face. The color and immediate intensity of his eyes recognizing my own made my chest hurt in a really nice way. I smiled at him.
On impulse I leaned down and brushed my lips against his, intending to give my sleepy beauty a small peck. However, before I could withdraw, Quinn’s hands held me in place; his giant palms on my cheeks, his long fingers stroking my neck.
He deepened the kiss even as he sat upright and leaned over me so that I was slightly reclined, the back of my head against his knee; my fingers curled around his forearms to steady myself. His tongue was warm and soft and worshipful as it gently, maddeningly gently, caressed my own. I was being tasted and savored like one licks ice cream or a gourmet dessert. The effect was inebriating.
Some passerby whistled, presumably at us, and I dipped my chin to my chest as I straightened, breaking the kiss, finding it difficult to breathe. His hands fell away. I peeked at him from beneath my lashes and the protection that my black-rimmed glasses afforded. He was in profile, glaring in the direction of the whistler; his stern expression made him look resolute, which made him look powerful, which made him look sexy.
I licked my lips, tasting him there, and sought to draw his attention back to me. “Did you sleep well?” My voice was slightly breathless.
He met my gaze, and I had the sudden sensation of being paralyzed. My limbs felt heavy and useless. He ignored my question and asked one of his own. “Why do you wear glasses instead of your contacts?”
I must have been kiss-tipsy because I answered with sincerity. “Because they make me feel safe.”
His mouth hooked to the side and he blinked once. “Is that why you wear your hair like that?” He indicated to where my hair rested on the crown of my head in a severe bun. “Do you feel safer if your hair is pulled back?”
“No. I wear my hair in a bun, because if I don’t, it looks like Medusa’s snakes.”
Quinn’s trademark slow, easy smile eclipsed his features. “It doesn’t look like Medusa’s snakes.”
“It does. Did you know Medusa also had two sisters? She was a middle child, like me. But Medusa was the only mortal of the three. Most myths have her killed by Perseus. He used a mirrored shield so he wouldn’t have to look at her directly. When she died, Pegasus, the winged horse, sprang from her body, as did a sword-wielding giant.”
Quinn twisted his mouth to the side, and then he gently took off my glasses and set them on the blanket beside us. “That seems unlikely.”
I shrugged, feeling lethargic and somewhat giddy to be sitting on a blanket with him in the park at twilight. I also felt a bit exposed now that my glasses had been removed. “Some think she was pregnant by Poseidon at the time. Maybe his sperm was of the magical horse and giant variety instead of carrying the usual X or Y chromosome.”
I reached for my water, took a long swallow, and considered Quinn over the rim of the plastic bottle. The early evening light was giving way to the darkness of night, but I could tell that he was still smiling. I was still Quinn-kiss-tipsy enough to feel no mortification when I asked, “If you could have magic sperm, what kind of creatures would you want to create?”
His smile widened; he shook his head as he looked around at the people packing up. “I don’t know how much good magic sperm would do me without a snake-haired girl to put it in.”
Quinn reached for his own water and took a gulp, but he choked when I said, “You could use me!”
He abruptly set his drink down, sat back on his heels, and picked up a napkin; his eyes were wide as he coughed. I reached over and patted his back soothingly.
“You should have more water.”
“Thanks,” he croaked, and he watched me warily as he drank from the bottle.
I sat unabashedly and waited for Quinn to compose himself. At length I asked, “Are you ok? Did it go down the wrong pipe?”
He nodded, his eyes following my movements as he gripped the napkin a little too tightly, and then h
e said, “You were saying something about how I could use you?”
“Oh yes. In this hypothetical situation, you have magic sperm that can make creatures.” I screwed the lid back on my bottle of water, deposited it to the blanket, and began taking my hair down. “And it has already been established that I have Medusa-esque hair.” I shook out the crazy curls and let them fall over my shoulders, back, and breasts. “So, now you have your snake-haired magic sperm repository. What creatures do we create?”
His expression could only be described as incredulous, even as his eyes moved over the mass of my hair with dark intensity. “What did you put in this water?”
“It’s just water. What? Why?”
Quinn sighed. It sounded ragged. He pulled his gaze away from me as though it were painful or strenuous to do so. He stood and offered his hand to me stiffly, pulling me up with ease. “We should go get dinner.”
I tilted my head to the side, considering him. “You’re not going to answer my question?”
He shook his head, not looking at me as he gathered up the basket, the bottles, and the blanket; he tucked my glasses into the pocket of his shirt. I chewed on my lip and twisted my fingers as I watched him. I couldn’t help but feel as though I’d said something wrong. I tucked my hair behind my ears and helped clean up.
We pulled everything together, and he still hadn’t looked at me. I felt anxious and, therefore, my mind began to wander. I picked up the trash and walked to the waste basket, wondering whether the trash was picked up daily or whether it was every other day; wondering how much trash was generated by the park; wondering if anyone had thought about starting a recycling program in the city parks; wondering how much that would cost the city; wondering…
“Oh!”
I ran smack dab into someone and immediately tried to take a step back, but he grabbed my shoulders, not gently, and kept me from moving away. I looked into a rather unpleasant face. It wasn’t an ugly face; in fact, it was a rather handsome face, but it was making an unpleasant expression, and his eyes were hard and cold.
The stranger was maybe one or two inches taller than me and extremely muscular. His head was shaved, his eyes were olive green, his rather angular jaw was flexed, black tattoos wound up from the collar of his shirt around his neck, and his full mouth was curved into a rigid frown.