by Penny Reid
I recalled my conversation with two lawyers from earlier in the day. They were both egg shaped men in their early thirties, reminding me of Tweedledee and Tweedledum in appearance. But, when they spoke, their French accents clouded my earlier impression.
Le Dee and Le Dum both made it extremely clear that I was not to disclose any details about the clients with which I was soon to interact. No names, no characteristics, no impressions, no nothing. I was also not allowed to discuss what I did at work, job description or duties, or what services Cypher Systems offered. I could, however, communicate my job title if asked.
It was Marie’s turn to order; I took the opportunity to glance at the menu but Fiona pressed me on the subject, “I guess it makes sense…?” her voice trailed off as though she expected me to fill in a blank.
I turned my attention to her and found her elfin eyes softened with concern; I gave her a comforting smile, “Oh- it does, it does make sense. It’s not really a top-secret-I’d-tell-you-but-I’d-have-to-kill-you thing, it’s more of a proprietary thing. Trade secrets and such.”
That answer seemed to pacify her because she returned my smile and let me go back to studying the menu.
CHAPTER 8
To my dueling chagrin and girlish-glee, I didn’t have to wait very long to talk to Quinn. It happened during my second week on the job.
Cypher Systems was an extremely efficient, well-oiled machine of a company and also very secretive. Almost immediately I learned the necessity of the non-disclosure agreement I signed on my second day and, at the end of the first week, I was beginning to feel confident in the general maintenance of my accounts, systems, and the structure of the business office.
I loved my new job.
I managed, what Steven called, all the “public accounts.” The public accounts were mostly moderately large businesses which used a subsidiary of Cypher Systems: Guard Security.
Guard Security provided security for various corporate properties, buildings, and personal details for CEO-types; I quickly discovered why Steven didn’t use column headings on his spreadsheets. Steven told me that Cypher’s firewall was under near constant attack; all data files and identities were coded so, for the first half of the coming month, during the bulk of my training, I wouldn’t know whose account I was working on except for by the code. After the first two weeks Steven said he would provide me with a code key on a flash drive and give me only one day to memorize which code belonged to which customer for each account.
Steven managed the “private accounts” which, from what I could infer based on his vague descriptions, were contracts with individuals, private citizens, or “families”; in addition to security, the contracts also often included investigative work. This subsection of the Cypher Systems was also a subsidiary and was referred to as Infinite Systems.
In addition to Guard Security and Infinite Systems, Cypher Systems had other holdings and was the parent company to a number of other businesses, but Steven and I were the only two accountants in the security division. In fact, Cypher Systems, if you didn’t count all the sub-companies, was actually quite small with only nineteen staff members in the office.
Even so, my company exclusively occupied the entire top floor and every office was a window office along the North perimeter of the building. According to Steven the offices and location were new; the company had moved into them just weeks prior.
There was no view of the lake from my window but, I noted, the north-eastern corner office likely had a respectable panorama. Regardless, part of me wanted to move into my office and live there; I found myself distracted by my amazing view of downtown and frequently pinched my arm to remind myself it was real. The rest of the space was mostly blocked off with only one heavy door as an entrance. In order to gain entry you needed to pass a five-finger and retina identity scan.
When I asked Steven what was inside the room he shrugged non-committedly and said, “Data storage.”
Because of the intimate office environment, with only eighteen co-workers, I met almost everyone by my second day. I counted Quinn in the total even though I didn’t know what his role was as of yet and even though I hadn’t seen or spoken to him since the Saturday before I was hired. Eight of the eighteen were accountants and either had my title of Senior Fiscal Project Coordinator or were titled just plain Fiscal Project Coordinator.
In addition to Carlos there was only one other director in the office, Director of Human Resources, and she didn’t seem to have any staff other than her administrative assistant. The rest of the group comprised of Keira- the receptionist and something of a telephone operator- one desktop support guy named Joe, two computer programmers, and another administrative assistant named Betty who I never spoke to but did see every so often when she walked by my office.
Betty worked for the company CEO, who also happened to be the CIO, CFO, and COO but everyone just called him ‘the Boss’.
It became clear to me that Betty and the Boss- or, as Steven called them, B&B- didn’t interact much with the rest of the staff. The Boss, it seemed, didn’t come into the office much. No one appeared to be surprised by his absence the entire first week or the second week of my employment so I didn’t actually meet him.
Betty was very stylish; maybe in her mid-sixties. She had steel grey hair, black eyes, and wore Barbara Bush pearls every day with a tailored skirt-suit. She didn’t come across as unfriendly; she just seemed really, really busy.
My Quinn-happenstance occurred on the Wednesday of my second week at Cypher Systems.
I noticed that I’d never seen Betty leave the office. She was there when I arrived, no matter how early, and she was still there when I left, no matter how late. Betty’s perpetual busyness prompted me to offer to pick her up lunch. I think I confused her at first because she repeated the word ‘lunch’ several times, as though it were a mythical thing she’d heard of in a bedtime story long ago.
Finally, with a plainly grateful smile she accepted the offer, requesting a vegetable soup, side salad, and giant oatmeal cookie from a deli called ‘Smith’s Take-Away and Grocery.’ It was a well-known deli, minimal grocery, and sandwich shop just one street over from our building.
I left early so I could eat out and still return before noon. The deli had a few tables, all along a far wall. I was sitting at the corner table re-reading one of my favorite comics, an anthology of a series, a bound paperback of an entire story.
When most people think of comic books they recall the small pamphlet style where there are only a few pages and, at the beginning of each pamphlet, the story picks up where it left off and ends with a to be continued. The larger, paperback bound anthologies are like watching an entire season of a TV show via Netflix or Amazon watch instantly. You get the entire series and can gorge yourself on the graphic novel in one epic sitting.
I loaned the anthology to one of the kids I tutored and he’d just returned it to me last week. Over the past two years tutoring I’d become something of a comic book lending library for the kids. I didn’t mind; they took excellent care of them and loved to discuss the story after they were done.
My thumb moved back and forth over the place where I’d torn the cover several years ago, my legs were curled under me, and I was just getting to the part where the really bad guy is just about to kidnap the good guy’s best girl when I heard a voice immediately to my left.
“What are you reading?”
I stiffened, my heart leaping, and automatically turned toward the voice; I found Quinn looking down at me, his expression guarded and neutral except his eyes. His eyes always seemed to be a shade of up-to-no-good blue. I struggled to make sense of his presence and blinked at him several times.
Acutely, I became aware my mouth was hanging open. I snapped it shut and looked away, habitually running a hand over my hair. It was pulled into a severe bun and seemed to be on its best behavior, which was more than I could say for any other part of my body.
I cleared my throat and showed him the c
over of my book, glancing at him again. I noted that he wasn’t wearing a security guard uniform. Rather, he was dressed in a very nice wool grey suit, white shirt, and grey tie with threads of blue silk. If we were in Victorian England I would have called him dashing; but, since we lived in the 21st century I would have to settle for the wordier GQ model hot.
“Hm…” He craned his neck and leaned closer to read the cover then straightened, his expression impassive. His eyes skimmed over my face, “You read comics?”
I nodded, absentmindedly stroking the cover; my mouth feeling dry as I responded, “Yes, I do.”
“Hm.” He said again. We watched each other for a moment and, like clockwork, I could feel the warm awareness that always accompanied his presence start spreading from my lower belly to my neck, toes, and fingertips.
Suddenly he said, “Scoot over.” Then he abruptly picked up my bag, which had been resting on the bench next to me, and placed it on the bench opposite. Setting down his food next to my empty sandwich wrapper he took off his suit jacket, folded it with care, and draped it over my bag.
“I- uh-” Flustered, I could only push myself further into the corner of the booth as he slid in but my efforts did little good. The booth wasn’t really meant for two people. It was maybe meant for one and three quarters which meant, even with my back pressed to the wall behind me, a big guy like Quinn and a big-bottomed girl such as myself barely fit. When he finally settled his leg pressed against mine from upper thigh to ankle.
I chewed on my bottom lip and set the book on my lap. It must have been the effect of the graphic novel paired with Quinn’s sudden closeness and being quite trapped by his large form; I felt like swooning.
“Kind of a tight fit.” He remarked with a small smile, turning toward me, his face inches from mine as he unwrapped a sandwich.
“Yeah, well, I can go if-”
“No, no. Stay. How do you like the job?” He bit into his sandwich and turned the whole of his attention to me.
“I like it. I-” I had focus on breathing normally, being so close to him was maddening. I couldn’t seem to look anywhere without seeing some part of him so I settled for looking at his hands- one held the roast beef sandwich, the other gripped a napkin. “I like it a lot. I just started to, uh...” I frowned, then huffed. I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to talk to Quinn about work. I hadn’t seen him at work and, to my knowledge, he didn’t seem to have an office on my floor.
I must have debated the issue a little too long because Quinn asked, “What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing. It’s just-” I met his searching gaze, “I’m not sure what I’m allowed to tell you.”
His eyes narrowed at me, “What do you mean?”
“I’m not supposed to talk about what I do with anyone.”
He blinked at me, “What?”
“I signed the non-disclosure agreement last week.” I gave him an apologetic grimace.
He set his sandwich down and looked at me with something resembling disbelief. He opened his mouth to speak but then closed it and half laughed, “Janie, trust me. You can talk to me. It’s my company.”
My shoulders sagged a little, “I know you work there too. I’m sorry- I’ve never had to sign a non-disclosure agreement before and I don’t want to make a mistake.”
His smile subtly widened as his gaze moved over me, his eyes brightened with what looked like laughter, then he pulled his phone from his pocket, “I’ll call Carlos. If he tells you it’s ok to speak to me freely will you-”
Unthinkingly I put my hand over his to still his movements, “No, don’t do that. You’re right, I’m being silly. I really don’t want to mess up and everyone seems so nice- like too good to be true nice- and the office is too good to be true and how I got the job is too good to be true and, when you add all that together, I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop so-” I sighed, “No, the first shoe hasn’t dropped so that’s not the right idiom to use, even though it originated in cities like Chicago.” I slid my hand away from his and to my book, nervously picking at the cover.
Quinn shook his head, his usually detached hawk-like gaze seemed softer, unguarded, “Janie, what are we talking about?”
“About the idiom: waiting for the other shoe to drop. Did you know it originated in cities like Chicago and New York?”
“No. I did not” He tilted his head, his mouth hooking upward to one side as though he were trying not to laugh. “Tell me about it.”
He was teasing me again. “Well, it did. So…”
He lifted his eyebrows, “That’s all? You’re not going to tell me the specific origin of the idiom ‘waiting for the other shoe to drop’?”
I shook my head, “I don’t know it.”
He mimicked me and shook his head in response, “You’re lying. You do know.”
“Nope. I don’t.”
“This is just like the mammals.” He sighed and placed his phone on the table. Before he took a bite from his sandwich he said, “You’re stingy with information.”
My frowned deepened, “No, I’m not-”
His words were somewhat garbled as he spoke between chewing, “You’re an information tease.”
“What?!”
“Or maybe you don’t really know the origin and you’re just making things up to impress me-” he took another bite.
“I am not! It originates from the late industrial revolution, in the late 19th and early 20th century. Apartments were all built with the same floor plan, in similar design so one tenant’s bedroom was under another’s. Therefore it was normal to hear an upstairs neighbor removing his or her shoes and hearing one shoe hit the floor, then the other, when they undressed at night.”
“I wonder what else they heard.” His gaze held mine, seemed to burn with a new intensity.
“I suppose anything that was loud enough.”
He gave me a full grin followed by a deep, rolling belly laugh. I liked the sound of his laugh and reluctantly smiled in response, fighting warring feelings: pleased that I’d made him laugh but concerned that I was being laughed at. The latter feeling eclipsed the former and I frowned, glancing at my lap and picking self-consciously at the cover of my book again. I could feel the heat of a blush spreading up my neck.
The intensity of my reaction to him continued to confound me.
It wasn’t just his good looks, which verged on angles-singing-up-on-high-miraculous. Not anymore. If he’d been a jerk or a moron my reaction would have cooled and normalized. Inopportunely, he was not a jerk and he was most definitely not a moron. He was thoughtful and clever and confident and the most adroitly sexy guy I’d ever met and I didn’t like to think he was laughing at me.
I heard his laugh falter abruptly before he said, “Hey, Janie- look at me.” I lifted my chin but couldn’t quite manage to meet his eyes. A hint of a grin was still on his face as he said, “I was just teasing you.”
I forced a small laugh and shrugged, “I know. I uh-” I looked at my watch purposefully, “I have to get back to the office, my lunch is over.”
His grin faded. After a moment he cleared his throat, “You still haven’t told me how the job is going.”
“It’s great but I don’t want to be late getting back.”
He swallowed and pushed his sandwich to the side, “Don’t worry about being late. I’ll give Carlos a call.”
“Don’t do that-”
“I don’t mind.”
“But I do.”
He watched me for several moments and, despite the thunderous beating of my heart, I silently endured his perusal. I felt too hot, too self-aware, too everything. When I finally met his gaze I noted that his face had settled into an impassive mask but, as ever, his blue eyes seemed to burn with intensity. At last, he stood. I released a breath I didn’t know I was holding. As I moved to stand he reached out his hand and grabbed mine to help me from the booth.
“Listen,” He cleared his throat again, holding my hand and, thereby, holding me in pla
ce, “over the next week you’ll be going out with me on a couple of stops. It’s part of your training.”
I opened my mouth in surprise. A little pang of pleasure-pain twisted in my chest as I thought of spending more time with him. Finally, pulling together enough of my wits to form words, I stuttered, “Wh- what kind of stops?”
“I’ll be taking you to meet some of the corporate clients.”
“Steven didn’t mention anything about it in his training schedule.”
“He must have forgotten.”
“That doesn’t seem likely.”
Quinn lifted his eyebrows in challenge, “Is there some reason you don’t want to go?”
“We won’t be taking your motorcycle, will we?”
“No, we’ll be taking a company car.”
“Oh. Ok.” I looked down at our hands, still linked together from him helping me out of the booth. His hand was very large; mine was small in comparison. It was a strange sensation to feel that any part of my body was small. Jon’s hands were the same size as mine.
Quinn must’ve noticed my gaze because he abruptly let my hand drop and reached over to the bench where his coat lay across my purse. He moved his jacket to the side and picked up my bag. He seemed to study it for a few brief moments before he handed it to me.
“Thanks.” I took the offered purse but made no move to leave; instead I gave him a small, closed lipped smile and shifted under the weight of his steady gaze.
“You’re welcome. And thanks for letting me interrupt your lunch.”
I shrugged, “Oh, no problem. Feel free to interrupt anytime.”
“Really? Anytime?” The corner of his mouth hooked to the side and he dipped his chin as though to force me to meet his gaze more fully. “That’s a dangerous thing to say if you don’t mean it. I might interpret that to include lunch, dinner, and breakfast.”
His question then statement and the manner with which both were posed made my bun feel too tight and my neck hot. I glanced at him through my lashes, not sure where this was going. Even after our various albeit limited encounters, everything about Quinn made me hypersensitive and self-conscious.