by Reid, Penny
“Good. I would do good with it.” She then reached out to me, put her hand on my cheek. “I’m not saying that you need to give it all away. Not at all. You er…you earned it.” When she tripped over the word earned, I guessed it was because she now knew how I’d earned it at first. But then she quickly followed with, “I see how hard you work. You did earn it. You’re flying all over the place, you do good, you take good care of your people. I’m not suggesting that you don’t.” She seemed more lucid than before. Though I doubted she ever would’ve brought this up if it hadn’t been for the hashish.
“Then what are you suggesting?” I was honestly curious. Janie was an unconventional thinker, but she was usually right. She was great for my business. Her suggestions and improvements increased profits and efficiency.
“It’s just…flying down here, this hotel room, everything. I know you paid for this entire weekend. And you’re paying for the wedding.”
I shrugged. “It’s good for the economy.”
The side of her mouth tilted up. “We should look for ways to help, like scholarships for disadvantaged kids. One could argue that sending ten kids to college who wouldn’t otherwise have the opportunity will do more for the economy in the long run than a year of discretionary spending.”
“Janie….”
“I’m not being self-righteous about it either. I love my shoes and my comic books, so no judgment. You work hard; you should have nice things. You deserve the nice things you have.”
“Janie….”
“I’m just saying that we should talk about whether or not you have the capacity for altruistic giving. But it has to be done right, not like that phantom charity thing we went to in London. That was just weird; no one knew the name of the charity.”
“Yes.”
“It’s also…wait…yes?”
“Yes.” Even when she was high on hash, she was thinking about social responsibility. “After we get married, I’ll put you in charge of all charitable spending and outreach.”
“Who is in charge of it now?”
“No one. You’ll be starting it from scratch.”
She grinned. But then she frowned. “Am I pushing you?”
“No.”
“Do you promise?”
“Yes.”
“After we get married, two point four years from now, do you think you’ll still love me?”
Whoa....
I blinked at her and the rapid change of subject. “Where did that come from?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, you need to find out. Why would you ask me that?”
Her eyes darted between mine and she blurted, “I guess I’m happy. I’m not content, because content means that I don’t want anything to change, and content doesn’t necessarily mean happy.” She bit the inside of her lip, shook her head. “I want things to keep changing, I want our feelings to keep changing. Because with you, every time something changes, it gets better. You make everything better.”
Her words calmed me, but they also put a knot in my throat because I had the same thoughts about her.
“Yes, Janie.” I covered her hand with mine. “Things will keep changing, and I will still love you.”
She released a breath then said, “I hope so. I hope you never stop. But I know it might happen, probably will. When it does, I hope you give us a chance to find our way back.”
I stared at her for a beat then said, “I hope you give us a chance to find our way back.”
She scowled at me. “Of course I will. You’re my friend.”
“I’m your friend?”
“Yes. Friends don’t care how much money you have or what you look like. They don’t care if you’re grumpy or sad. They don’t care if you knit or crochet. They couldn’t care less if you like Superman more than Batman, or don’t recognize the superiority of Wonder Woman. Friends care about each other, down deep, despite faults. Sometimes they care about you more because of your faults. I used the friendship label on you months ago, and I meant it. You’re my friend; that’s forever.”
I stared at her not knowing what to say.
Janie suddenly smiled. She leaned forward quickly and kissed me, then turned. She pressed her back against my front, wrapped my arms around her torso as she said, “I think we’ll be fine. Things will change, I’ll start giving away your money to charity, and as long as we’re always friends, we’ll always find our way back.”
My eyes stared unseeingly in the dark. I listened to her breathing become slow and even until she was silent. I felt the rise and fall of her chest under my palms.
To Janie, friendship was bigger than family. More than anything, I wanted to be her friend.
I knew her body by touch, taste, and smell. I’d memorized the sound of her voice and her laugh. I could interpret her face, her movements, and her expressions by sight. I recognized her brilliance and the beauty of her brain.
Yet she still surprised me. I didn’t think that would ever stop. But, despite the unknown, I was certain of three things:
I loved her.
She was my friend.
And despite the surprises that would come, I knew Janie by heart.
THE END
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Janie and Quinn Bonus Content
I will do anything to prove that to you. I will do anything to prove that what we have is worth a battle. What we have is worth a war.”
Quinn Sullivan
“It means my brain finds you more interesting than all the really interesting trivial facts I could be contemplating or researching at present.”
Janie Morris
Extra Scene: Neanderthal Seeks Honeymoon
(canon)
Author’s Note: Dear Reader, This scene takes place during Janie and Quinn’s honeymoon, so within a few days after the end of Neanderthal Marries Human. It was originally included in the limited release, Scenes from the City. I hope you enjoy.
* * *
I KNEW BEFORE we’d departed for the private island paradise—on our honeymoon in the Caribbean—that I was not good at lazy vacations. Therefore, I brought a list of various tasks and research I hoped to accomplish.
Obviously, since it was our honeymoon, we had a lot of sex. I think we christened every surface of the cottage, the beach, the ocean, the inside shower, the outside shower, the ottoman, the wall outside the cottage, the hammock—THAT WAS FUN!—the hot tub . . . I really had to focus to have sex in the hot tub, however, because it’s the ideal environment for the multiplication of microbes. I couldn’t stop thinking about it . . .
After seventy-two hours of reenacting the Kama Sutra (yes, I did bring the illustrated guide, because it felt like if we were ever going to get a chance to test out all possible sexual positions, our seven-day honeymoon with no access to or interruptions from the outside world was that chance), I think Quinn was experiencing orgasm fatigue.
“Can’t we just . . . hold each other?” Quinn asked, then groaned—half tortured, half aroused—as my hand moved from his chest to his stomach, my mouth at his neck, biting.
“What about talking? We could talk,” he offered.
I giggled; I couldn’t help myself. Of note, I was giggling a lot. Maybe it was all the intercourse and being dominated by Quinn’s body in all the strange places and positions, but I was feeling giddy, girly, and giggly.
“There are several passive positions in the guide. You can just lie there if you want,” I suggested, my hand drifting lower.
He gritted his teeth, his blue eyes flashing at me, “I can’t ever just lie here, not when you’re so close.”
I lifted my eyebrows, wondering if I could turn this into a challenge of some sort.
I quite enjoyed
the fact that I’d worn him out, especially since he’d been responsible for packing our clothes—or overseeing the packing of our clothes—and had seen fit to bring only string bikinis for me. That’s right; no underwear, no pajamas, not even a sundress. I had my wedding dress and string bikinis.
Our day-one conversations went something like this:
“Quinn! Where are my clothes?”
“In the bag.”
“The only things in here are string bikinis and suntan lotion.”
“I would consider suntan lotion a type of clothing.”
“That’s preposterous.”
“It covers your skin, you put it on, it shields you from the sun. It’s clothing.”
“It’s not made of material, and you can’t take it off.”
He shrugged. “Semantics.”
Another example:
“What do you want to do after dinner?”
“We could play poker.”
“Yes! I have cards. We could use seashells for chips.”
“Or . . . we could play strip poker.”
“Quinn, you have one article of clothing on. I have two.”
“So?”
“So, it would either be one or two hands at the maximum.”
He blinked and frowned at me. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
And another example:
“Did you know we can go clamming?”
He grinned like he was impersonating the devil. “The only kind of clams I’m interested in are the bearded ones.”
And now he was groaning, sounding tortured, tired, and spent. My giggle turned into a full-fledged cackling laugh, and I took pity on him, withdrawing my hand from his pelvic region and bringing it back to his chest. He grabbed it and flattened my palm against his heart.
“I love your laugh.” He sighed the words, as though he were speaking to himself. His eyes drifted shut, and I felt him relax.
I smiled against his arm and gave his bicep a kiss. “I think I’ll go for a walk.”
“No, stay with me . . . ” His words were sleepy.
I propped my elbow on the bed and rested my head in my free hand. I watched him drift off to sleep. He’d tanned during the last four days, whereas I’d freckled. I was constantly applying sunscreen, but still I’d freckled. At least I hadn’t burned.
I waited until I was sure he was completely asleep, then slipped my hand from his. With a light peck on his lips, I left the bed and crossed to the small bag in the corner that held my plethora of string bikinis and dressed.
I would go for a walk. In fact, I’d gone for a walk every day since we’d arrived, enjoying the small respites of alone time. For the first time in my life, I may have preferred being with someone—Quinn—more than I preferred solitude, but I still craved the moments to myself, the quiet time for contemplation.
I tiptoed out of the room, shutting the door behind me after I made sure the fan was on high, because I knew he liked taking naps with the fan on high. To me, it felt like a windstorm, but this was something new I’d learned about him on our honeymoon.
We’d never taken naps together prior to our honeymoon.
After slathering myself in SPF 50 sunscreen, I grabbed several two-gallon ziplock plastic bags and a towel from the second bathroom. I departed for my walk, all the while happily thinking dirty thoughts about the naked man back at the cottage.
* * *
I made two complete loops of the island before returning. My plastic bags now full and heavy, I placed them in the freezer, then reached in the fridge for a bottle of water.
I’d come to a conclusion on my walk: we were just going to have to slow down the Kama Sutra reenactment. We had another three days and, really, no rush. I picked my way through the living room, gulping the cold water. I reached into my task bag and pulled out a binder I’d packed just in case we found ourselves with some conversation and/or discussion time.
I was just straightening when I felt Quinn’s hands slide from my bottom to my ribs, making me stiffen, then instantly turn to jello.
“Where have you been, Kitten?” Quinn’s low, close whisper against my ear gave me goosebumps and sent an enchanting shiver down my spine. Instinctively, I leaned backward and against him, offering him my neck.
“Oh . . . here and there,” I said. My hand not holding the binder covered his where it caressed the slope of my waist.
“What’s in the binder?” His voice was still raspy from sleep, but his hands and body were definitely awake; apparently, he’d recuperated from orgasm fatigue. I tucked this away as a data point for future exploitation.
Naps plus Quinn equaled carnal rejuvenation.
I leaned my head back against his shoulder; one of his brilliant hands slipped into the flimsy cup of my string bikini and massaged my breast. His touch was greedy, possessive, almost domineering. I loved how he touched me.
“Vaginas,” I sighed.
His hands stilled. Actually, he stilled. He was frozen for several long seconds.
“What did you say?”
“Vaginas. It’s a binder full of vaginas.”
Quinn’s hard torso stiffened, and his fingers flexed where they held me. “What are you talking about?” He sounded completely bewildered.
I swallowed my lust and cleared my throat, remembering my earlier decision to slow down our reenactments. I propped the binder in one hand, then opened it to a random page.
“See. Vaginas. All kinds.”
Quinn choked on nothing. He yanked his hands away.
I turned my head and leaned back, attempting to obtain a good view of his profile and reaction to the pictures. He looked horrified.
“Obviously they’re all over eighteen, of course,” I said quickly, trying to anticipate the source of his horror. I assumed it was because he worried about the exploitation of women. “The salon that loaned me the binder was very adamant that the pictures were all taken with explicit consent and everyone is over eighteen.”
His eyes cut to mine. He didn’t look pacified. “Janie . . . why do you have a binder of vaginas?”
“For discussion.” I turned and stood next to him, thumbing through the various grooming designs and vagazzlings. “I got the idea when the ladies and I were at the spa in Las Vegas. Someone mentioned vagazzling, so I looked it up, and—even though I think it’s rather silly and maybe unsanitary—I wondered what you thought. So I called that fancy salon downtown, the one on Michigan? Well, they have a binder of different waxing patterns I could get, grooming styles, the whole nine yards . . . ”
I glanced up and found Quinn still staring at me; he didn’t look upset or concerned anymore. But he did appear to be oscillating between amused incredulousness and dazed speechlessness. Not sure what to do, I gave him a hopeful smile.
“I thought we could pick out some designs.”
His mouth opened and closed; his eyebrows were doing an odd dance on his forehead. He was completely discomposed.
Finally, he blurted, “I think I need a drink.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah . . . ” He watched me for a moment, his eyes narrowed and assessing, then shook his head as though to clear it. “Yeah. I just need a drink. Do you want a margarita?”
I shrugged. “Sure. Sounds good. But then you’ll come back, and we’ll finish going through the binder?”
Quinn grimaced and pulled his hands through his hair. He turned away. “I’ll be back with margaritas. I hope you like them frozen and strong.”
I nodded absentmindedly as I flipped through the pages of the binder. “Sure, sure. Strong and frozen.”
I’d never been waxed before; it was supposed to be quite painful, especially the first time, but I definitely wanted to give it a try. Waxing was superior to shaving as it was a form of semi-permanent hair removal. Most hair would take four to six weeks to grow back after waxing, which was just fine with me. Four to six weeks would give us plenty of time to enjoy whatever design we chose as well as choose the next.
I absentmindedly sat in one of the living room chairs as I studied an intricate waxing pattern that left the remaining hair in a design that looked suspiciously like a cutout of the Eiffel Tower.
“What the—?” Quinn’s voice thundered from the kitchen.
His What the was followed by string of loud and creative expletives. I sat straight in my chair, then turned to look over my shoulder. I couldn’t see him from my position, so I leaned to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of the kitchen.
“Quinn?” I waited for a beat, then asked, “Is everything all right?”
“Janie!” his voice boomed, “Why are there giant frozen frogs in the freezer?”
Oh. Damn.
I stiffened, winced, and sucked in a breath.
After a moment of startled shock, I jumped to my feet, the binder of vag-scaping abandoned, and I jogged into the kitchen.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” I called before I’d made it all the way to the freezer. “I’m sorry. I meant to bury those before you found them.”
Quinn was standing at the door to the fridge—it was open—and he held a giant ziplock bag in his hand. In the ziplock bag was a very large, very dead frozen toad. As well, around his feet were several more bags of murdered toads.
And I’d murdered them.
He held the eternally-sleeping carcass between us, his mouth moving soundlessly; his eyes were jumping from me, to the frog, to the freezer, to his feet, then back to me. His typically cool façade was annihilated, replaced with severe and dismayed disbelief.
Finally, he managed, “I don’t understand. Why are you freezing frogs?”
I grabbed the murdered frog—more precisely, a toad—from his grip and tossed it back in the freezer with the others. He watched me do this, his eyes wide and troubled.
“I can explain.” I tucked my hair behind my ears, then held my hands up between us. “I’m actually doing a good thing.”
“A good thing,” he repeated.