by Penny Reid
Undoubtedly, if I were expected to retort with something coquettish and droll then I was going to fail. I didn’t know how to engage in flirtatious banter. My mind wandered to conversations with Elizabeth, where she’d continued to insist that Quinn was interested in me and I continued to find the assertion ridiculous; and, therefore, faced with such a man speaking to me in such a way I was wholly unprepared. All previous attempts, mostly regulated to college, had been disastrous and painfully uncomfortable as they were either ill-timed or the topics I chose were ill-conceived.
As an example: the pheromone excretions of termites.
Now, standing awkwardly, avoiding eye contact, trying to postpone my response, I didn’t even know if flirtatious banter was what Quinn wanted expected or wanted. Men in general unsettled me; this one in particular turned me into a brouhaha of chaos simply by glancing in my direction.
Finally, ignoring looming feelings of trepidation I decided to answer with candid earnestness. There was nothing wrong with honesty and, I decided, he could read as much or as little into the statement as he liked.
Not quite able to meet his eyes I responded, “Yes, I mean it. Feel free to join me anytime.” I was surprised by how soft my voice sounded.
A slow, hesitant grin spread over his features and I had difficulty drawing breath. It was a sexy grin. A very sexy grin. His eyes dropped to my mouth and he licked his lips. I felt a little woozy.
“Good. I’ll do that.” Still smiling his small smile, Quinn reached over and grabbed his jacket from the booth, “I’ll walk you back.”
~*~
Quinn carried Betty’s lunch as we walked the short distance back to the Fairbanks Building. I was in the middle of explaining to Quinn about a potential improvement to the billing structure of Guard Security as we approached the security desk. Dan, the security guard with neck tattoos who’d escorted me on my non-interview first day, nodded at Quinn.
Then Dan winked at me.
I smiled and waved warmly in return and finished explaining the impetus for the cost analysis I was working on to Quinn, “…the best thing about the proposal is that the software is free.” I glanced over at Quinn to gauge his reaction to this great news but, to my disappointment, he was frowning at me. We stopped in front of the elevator and I turned to face him, “You don’t think it’s a good idea?”
Quinn’s expression was rigid and he looked past me to the lobby; he motioned toward the security desk with his chin, “How do you know Dan?”
“Who?” I glanced over my shoulder to follow Quinn’s gaze and found Dan still looking at us, at me, and I gave him a closed mouth smile then turned back to Quinn, “Oh, Dan the security man. Just from the building.”
“You two talk much?” Quinn still wasn’t looking at me and, for that, I was glad. He looked like a hawk about to devour a mouse and, standing this close, his eyes were a fiery cerulean.
I shook my head, “Not really. Just every once in a while when I arrive in the morning or go get lunch. On my second day he helped me bring up my box of paraphernalia. Why? Should I-” I hesitated, frowning, “Is there something I should know? Is he a bad guy?”
Quinn moved his attention back to me sending warmth from my nose to my toes, his expression softened and he seemed to debate what to say next. Finally he sighed, “You read too many comics.”
“What?” I thought about denying the accusation but instead said, “How can you tell?”
The elevator opened and he held the door; he continued as he followed me in, “‘Bad guy.’ ‘Good guy.’ Most guys fall somewhere in between.”
I lifted an eyebrow at his assertion. “I don’t think that’s really true. I think you can say someone is good or bad- based on their actions.”
This was a subject I spent a lot of time considering. Both my sisters were criminals. My mother was a serial cheater and had abandoned her family. I liked labels; I liked putting people and things into categories. It helped me calibrate my expectations of people and relationships. Without labeling my sisters as ‘bad people’ I became an enabler of their behavior, like my father. I didn’t plan on spending my life as a doormat or living in the waiting room of perpetual disappointment hoping that they would change.
“So, does one bad action make a person ‘bad’?” Quinn placed his palm against the five-point fingerprint screen; he then punched in the code to call the elevator.
“No, a person is the sum of their choices and, therefore, their actions.”
“No one makes all good choices, everyone makes mistakes.”
“Ah ha! Yes, that’s why I also consider intentions as the defining denominator in my good-people, bad-people confidence interval.”
Quinn’s mouth pulled to the side, “Good-people, bad-people confidence interval?” He leaned his shoulder against the side of the elevator car.
“Yes. Obviously, everyone makes mistakes but if you only see it as a ‘mistake’ because you’ve been caught then that’s bad. However, if you realize that you’ve made a mistake because you recognize the error of your ways and make an effort to change then there is a big difference.”
“So, really, you think a person is the sum total of their intentions and not their actions.”
The elevator opened and I stepped out as I continued my philosophizing, “No. Without action even good intentions are quite meaningless.”
I was abruptly struck by the comfortable progression of our conversation. Strangely, the ever present pins and needles I usually felt around Quinn seemed to be dissipating the further we ventured into this topic. I felt almost relaxed. We walked past Keira, who nodded at me but then suddenly stopped typing when she saw Quinn.
Before I could do a double take and ask Keira if she were ok, he countered, “What would a person be if they had good intentions and no actions?” His free hand pressed against my lower back and we continued down the hall to my office.
“Lazy.”
Just inside my door he pulled me to a stop with gentle pressure on my elbow, “And what about someone with bad intentions and good actions or good intentions but bad actions?”
“Stupid.”
He considered me for a long moment; his brow was furrowed but there was a small smile on his lips, “Let me get this straight, according to you there are four kinds of people: good, bad, lazy, and stupid. Is that right?”
My eyes drifted over Quinn’s face as I contemplated his summary of my philosophy, “More or less, that’s about right. Think of it like a four quadrant scatter plot graph.”
He blinked at me, “Use a different analogy. I don’t work much in four quadrant scatter plot graphs.”
I laughed and walked to my desk, “Ok. How about a map of the United States? Divide it up into north, east, south, and west. Let’s say I typically always take trips due north but sometimes I go east. Sometimes I go north-east and, on rare occasions, I go south. Each trip I take is a dot on the map. Where ever there are the most dots represents my personality.”
“Therefore, someone could be a good person with a tendency to be slightly stupid?”
Slowly I nodded, “Yes, precisely. Take me for example. I feel confident saying I’m a good person with a tendency to be slightly lazy and a much more precipitous tendency to be stupid, especially when it comes to non-work related decisions and actions.”
“And what kind of person do you think I am?”
My gaze met Quinn’s as he leisurely crossed to stand in front of me; his features were set in a detached mask of indifference but his eyes were piercing and steady. The pins and needles immediately returned; my heart quickened; my neck was hot.
“Uh, well,” I let out a slightly unsteady breath and let my fingers rest on the desk, mostly for balance. He stopped less than a foot from my position so we were both standing behind the desk; I had to tilt my head backward to maintain eye contact; “I don’t think you’re stupid or lazy.”
“Hm.” A whisper of a smile briefly passed over his face, “So that leaves either good or bad.
”
“I tend to think good.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you helped me- both at the club and also putting in a good word for me here.” I licked my lips, my mouth felt dry, “I still need to return your sister’s clothes and I didn’t get a chance to thank you for arranging the interview.”
His eyes lost focus and he frowned. Abruptly he took a step back and affixed his attention to the floor; he lifted the hand that held the take-out order, “I’m going to get this to Betty and stop by Steven’s office about your training this week. I’ll-” he rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Suddenly I remembered my promise to Elizabeth regarding the Canopy room incident and some unknown person’s alleged inclination to drug women. Without thinking I took two steps forward, “Wait- before you go- I need to ask you something.”
He stopped, lifting his eyes once more, and waited for me to continue with patient interest. I attempted to swallow but my throat felt tight. I didn’t know how to bring this up so I just started talking, “So, about what happened at the club last week. I wanted to ask you- what I mean is, what happened to the person who, you know, who dosed me with the Benzodiazepines?”
“He was arrested.” He answered matter-of-factly.
I couldn’t cover my surprise as I gaped at him; “He was arrested?”
Quinn nodded. His expression was neutral, unreadable.
“But, do I need to do anything? Should I file a report?”
“No. He wasn’t arrested for drugging you. He was arrested for something else.”
“Oh.” I frowned then sighed as I thought about that. “Who is he? What was he arrested for?”
“Just some guy. Don’t worry, he won’t have the opportunity to bother you again.” With that Quinn turned and left my office.
I stared at the door, confused and relieved and… confused, not really sure what to make of the last part of our exchange. Before I could dwell on it with any exactness Olivia Merchant stepped into my office. She wasn’t looking at me but rather down the hall in the direction of Quinn’s departing form.
“Was that Mr. Sullivan?” Olivia sounded as befuddled as I felt.
I’d interacted with Olivia, as Carlos’ administrator, a number of times. She didn’t strike me as good or bad or stupid. She wasn’t terribly efficient with her work but seemed to make a good show of it whenever Carlos was around. I didn’t mind her, I just needed to figure out a way to improve her responsiveness to my requests or discover a work-around for her work-lethargy.
“Yeah. That was him.” I stood next to my desk and leaned against it, somewhat dazed. If I hadn’t been so dazed it might have occurred to me that this was the first time Olivia had ever gone out of her way to speak to me.
“What was he doing here?” She turned to me, placing her hands on her hips. Again, if I hadn’t been so dazed, I would have noticed the accusation and suspicion lacing her tone.
“Taking lunch to Betty.”
She straightened and let her hands fall to her sides; “Oh. Well, that was nice of him.”
I nodded. It was nice of him. It was nice of him to sit with me at the deli, it was nice of him to walk me back to work and indulge me in my silly philosophies. He didn’t exactly look safe or nice or approachable but Quinn Sullivan was a nice guy.
He was a good guy.
Olivia distractedly mumbled something to me as she left, something about checking in with Keira, but I wasn’t paying attention. I was excited, nervous, and disoriented.
I would be spending some part of tomorrow with Quinn.
CHAPTER 9
I ran home to tell Elizabeth my news and engage in what I surmised to be completely typical female behavior: nit-pick every detail of my conversation and time with Quinn Sullivan, aka – McHotpants. Alas, when I arrived home, I found a note indicating that she would be gone at the hospital for an unexpected shift and that I should start looking for reasonably priced two-bedroom apartments.
Instead of indulging myself in girl-talk, I had to settle for watching a chick flick period drama on BBC America and shifting through craigslist for new living arrangements. Truth be told, I wasn’t in any real hurry for us to vacate her current place. I liked sleeping on the couch, it felt like every night was a sleep over. I liked the non-permanence of it.
The next day I was racked with excited nervousness. I woke up way too early and left the apartment late after trying on every piece of clothing I owned. Finally I settled on scooped necked white shirt, dark blue pants and matching high heels. I felt I’d achieved my goal of business-professional-not-trying-too-hard but I worried, as I waited for the train, that I’d not tried hard enough.
I worried that I looked boring.
Almost immediately I pushed the thought out of my head. I reminded myself again: Quinn- Herr Handsomestien- Sullivan is my co-worker and isn’t interested in me and doesn’t care or notice what I am wearing. The reminder made me feel both better and slightly worse.
When I arrived at work I stopped by Steven’s office to ask for more details about the training; if I should prepare or bring anything.
Steven only shrugged, about to get on a conference call, and shooed me out of his office as he said, “No. Mr. Sullivan didn’t tell me much about it. But then, he’s not much of a talker, is he? He’ll probably just show you one of the properties and have you back within the hour.”
Thus, I waited all morning for Quinn to call. I stayed within ear shot of my office phone and jumped every time I heard someone else’s phone ring. Around three o’clock I glanced at my wrist watch and found myself frowning for the forty-second time that day.
Still no call and it was past lunch and I hadn’t eaten since my two hardboiled egg breakfast at six. Additionally, I had to be on the south side in three hours for my Thursday night tutoring session. I decided to bury my disappointment in an Italian beef sandwich from Smith’s deli.
Things went awry when I ran out to pick up lunch for Betty and myself, the other person in the office who hadn’t yet eaten. In the seventeen and one half minutes it took me to pick up lunch, Quinn left me two messages on my office phone.
The first was a gruff, short syllabled, ‘Call me back ASAP.’
The second call was less verbose.
He must’ve called as soon as I left the office. Coming back from the deli, my to-go meal in my hand and Betty’s same as yesterday on her desk, I’d just checked my work voicemail. My heart leapt at the sound of his voice then Keira came into my office. A Bluetooth headset was clipped to her ear. She told me that Mr. Sullivan was on the phone and wanted me to meet him downstairs at the Starbucks on the corner.
I abdicated thoughts of eating and promptly took the elevator to the bottom floor. I was agitated. I was tense. As it turned out, both sensations were warranted. My stomach plummeted when I caught sight of him, his stern expression, and the object he held in his hand.
We stood across from each other next to the coffee counter, both of us ignored the stools in favor of standing, I could see my doom before me. My doom took shape in a small, sleek, black rectangle with a shiny screen and only one perceivable button. Virtually everyone at the Cypher Systems had a business cell phone.
I knew it made sense but I still didn’t have to like it.
My hands were on my hips and I eyed the cell phone with contempt, “What is that?”
His smile was reluctant, as though he really wanted to maintain an impassive mask but found it to be impossible, “What does it look like?”
“I don’t believe in cell phones.” I said.
I might as well have said, ‘I don’t believe in the laws of thermodynamics.’
“I don’t understand.” His gaze felt remarkably penetrating and the smile fell away from his features, his usual stoic marbled mask of detachment was tinged with confusion.
I shifted awkwardly on my feet, twisting my fingers together; “It means: I don’t want to carry a cell phone.”
>
“I’m not asking.” He reached out with his large hands and placed the phone in my palm.
“What about Carlos? What does he say?”
“It was his idea.”
Maybe it was because I’d woken up in his sister’s apartment half naked; maybe it was because we may or may not have engaged in flirting the day prior or maybe it was my very real resentment at the thought of having to carry a cell phone; but, whatever it was, I seemed be to be abruptly semi-impervious to the usual pandemonium his proximity administered on my insides.
I countered, “No it wasn’t Carlos’s idea. It’s your idea. You probably talked him into it.”
“Fine, yes. It is my idea and Carlos thinks it’s a great one. And, since Carlos is your boss…” he lifted his eyebrows and waited for me to fill in the blanks.
My chin lifted in defiance while he cradled my hand with both of his; I tried not to be effected by his touch but the incongruence between the gentleness with which he held my hand and the obstinate quality of his glare was unnerving. His thumb was also moving in slow circles over the back of my hand. I clutched my anger to my chest like a last pair of marked down Jimmy Choo’s in my size.
Finally I said the only thing I could think of: “It’s a personal choice. I don’t want it.”
He sighed, visibly annoyed, “Why not?”
“Because... because-” I held my breath, not wanting to explain my unconventional repugnance for conventional technology but I couldn’t help myself. His closeness, his hands holding mine, the dastardly small circular motion of his thumb, even his slightly perturbed glare unleashed the floodgates of my nonsensical verbosity;
“Because- are we really here, alive if we interface with the world via a small black box? I don’t want my brain in a vat, I don’t want to be fed with input from the equivalent of a cerebral implant until I can’t tell fiction from reality. Don’t you see those people?” I motioned with my free hand to a line of customers waiting for their coffee, “Look at them. Where are they looking? They’re not looking at each other, they’re not looking at the art on the wall or the sun in the sky, they’re looking at their phones. They hang on every beep and alert and message and tweet and status update. I don’t want to be that. I’m distracted enough as it is by the actual, tangible, physical world. I’ve embraced the efficiency of a desktop PC for work and research; I’ll even venture on a laptop, but I draw the line at a cell phone. If I want social media I’ll join a book club. I draw the line at being collared and leashed and tracked like a tagged Orca in the ocean.”