by Penny Reid
In actuality, I yelled it. I yelled the word yes.
Quinn let out a breath. “Good-”
“YES, I’LL GO OUT ON A DATE WITH YOU, QUINN SULLIVAN, TO A PLACE WHERE WE HAVE DINNER.” I couldn’t stop the shouted words. I was having an out of body experience which for some reason made me bellow my sentence.
He laughed lightly, “Good, I’m happy to hear it.”
I nodded, not speaking until I was sure I had control over my volume, “Ok then. That’s that.” Not really sure about proper protocol in cases such as these I stuck out my hand for him to shake.
He studied my offered hand and enclosed it in his own, tugging me forward instead of shaking it. He leaned down and kissed me again- this time just a quick, brief brush of his lips against mine- then straightened. It made my toes curl in my shoes, my spine shiver, and my heart jump to my throat; I instinctively swayed forward as he retreated.
I blushed for the seven hundred and thirty first time, “I should go.”
“You don’t want to stay for the concert?”
“Oh.” I’d completely forgotten about the concert.
He pulled my notebook from my grip and motioned toward the picture window, “The first act should be starting soon.”
I hesitated.
“Let’s finish eating. Then, we’ll watch the concert. We can leave whenever you want.”
I glanced around the room. Much had happened in an extremely short period of time; the events warranted analysis.
Quinn tugged on my hand where he’d entwined our fingers until I met his gaze; his eyes were warm and unguarded, even sparkly. “I promise: no monkey business and no more compromising impulsivity control…” his now trademark sexy, meandering smile shone down at me. “Unless you want to.”
I could only nod, rendered mute by the glittering intensity of his grin, and allow myself to be coxswained in the direction of his choice.
~*~
True to his word, there was no monkey business. And, even though we both consumed additional alcoholic beverages neither of us initiated any physical intimacy beyond brief touches every so often. Although, from time to time, Quinn would brush my hair away from my shoulders or face and would lay his arm along the back of my seat.
It felt strange to listen to a concert rather than to be actively be engaged in it; we didn’t sing or dance or clap. In fact, we spoke through most of it; it might as well have been background music on a stereo system. At one point we ignored it all together and spent forty-five minutes debating my good-bad-stupid-lazy philosophy.
It was Quinn’s belief that, if I included both good and bad, I should add intelligent and motivated. I countered that the absence of stupidity implied intelligence but the absence of bad did not imply good.
When he caught me yawning for the second time he decided it was time to take me home. A black Mercedes met us when we arrived downstairs; to my astonishment we were greeted by a familiar face.
It was Vincent. Vincent the limo driver who helped me move the contents of my belongings from Jon’s apartment then took me to Elizabeth’s apartment on my worst-day-ever. I couldn’t believe my eyes at first but then, as he held the door open, he winked at me. I could only stare at him dumbly.
Quinn and I spent the first half of the car ride in separated silence, sitting on opposite ends of the long leather bench seat. My brain hurt. It was tired of trying to keep up with so many changes and gauging the appropriateness of my reactions. Nevertheless, I attempted to sort through the last several hours I glanced at the back of Vincent’s head and once or twice he caught my eye in the rearview mirror. At some point I would need to ask Quinn if he’d arranged the limo that took me home those weeks ago or if Vincent’s presence tonight was merely a fluke.
At a stop light Quinn pulled me out of my musings by unbuckling my seat belt. I met his gaze, the clear blue of his eyes appearing opalescent in the dark car; he silently pulled me to the center of the bench. He wrapped his arms around me, guided my back to his chest, then fastened the middle buckle around me. I felt warm and safe which, paradoxically, made me shiver and my heart race with apprehension.
When we arrived outside my building Vincent the driver opened the door and offered his hand. I smiled up, then down, at him as I climbed out. “It’s good to see you again.”
“You too. You are looking very beautiful.” His brown eyes twinkled at me under the street lamp; he brought my knuckles to his lips and gave them a kiss, just like he’d done before.
Quinn stood from the car behind me and I walked forward, turning to continue my conversation with the driver, “And how is your wife? Your grandchildren?”
“Ah- the days are long but the years are short.” He shook his head and looked to the heavens.
Quinn looked from Vincent to me, then back again. He raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. I said my farewell to the driver; Quinn, placing his hand on the small of my back, guided me to the steps of my building. We stopped at my door and I fished my keys from the portfolio case.
“How do you know Vincent?” One of Quinn’s hands was in his pocket, the other was scratching the day-old stubble on his jaw.
“I was meaning to ask you about that.” I paused as I separated the front door key from the others, “Vincent was driving the limo that took me home on the day I was downsized.”
Quinn’s eyes clouded over then his brow lifted in sudden understanding. He looked away from me and to the door of my building.
I eyed him suspiciously before I asked, “Did you arrange for the car that day?”
He hesitated then nodded, still not making eye contact. “Yes.” was all he said.
“Why did you do that?”
He met my gaze, “You seemed…” he sighed, “upset.”
“You didn’t even know me.”
“But I wanted to.” He countered, shifting closer, his hand lifting and tucking a curl behind my ear.
I swallowed with effort and lifted my chin to maintain eye contact as frenzied warmth twisted in my chest. “Why didn’t you just talk to me then? Ask me on a date?”
Quinn’s eyes narrowed and considered me, he looked particularly hawkish as he said, “I don’t date.”
I frowned at him. Before I could process his response he bent and kissed me for the third time that night. This one was different; not the slow, savoring sweetness of our first kiss and most definitely not a quick caress of lips like our last. This one was hungry and immediately demanding.
He fisted his hand in my hair and backed me into the door of my building, trapping me in place. It was the kind of kiss which drove all coherent thought away; bloodthirsty wolves chasing after bunny rabbits. My body responded automatically in a way I didn’t know possible, my back arching, wanting to press every inch of myself against his taut form and the painfully delightful ache in my lower stomach started to wind its way around my limbs.
Just as suddenly as it had begun it was over; he ended by nipping at my bottom lip and waiting for me to open my eyes so he could stare into them. I felt him slide something into my pocket.
He smiled almost imperceptibly, “I had Jamal pick up your cell from the office. I’ll call you tomorrow so we can make arrangements for dinner.” I opened my mouth to respond but he stopped me with another quick kiss. Quinn took my keys out of my hand and opened the door at my back; he pushed it open and guided me inside, placing my keys back in my palm.
I complied mechanically, pausing at the steps to glance back at him hovering just outside the door. He was still grinning in that secret, quiet way of his. Then, he turned and was gone.
~*~
I walked into the Elizabeth’s apartment feeling like a zombie. I needed brains. The Quinn Sullivan rollercoaster left me completely exhausted. Nevertheless, instead of sleeping, all I wanted to do was sit, stare into space, and obsess about everything that had occurred. I embraced this desire to obsess because I knew it was what normal people did.
Elizabeth was lying on the carpeted floor;
her legs were up, legs against the wall, all in all an excellent Viparita Karani. She had on oversized headphones which were connected to her stereo system via a remarkably long cord.
Elizabeth had an impressively strange record collection and would frequently relax by sprawling on the floor, contorting into yoga poses, knitting or reading medical journals, and listening to records. She loved boy bands and had vinyl records for most, starting with New Kids on the Block, since her birth. She must have noticed the movement of my entrance because she turned just her head and gave me a quizzical smile. She sat up straight, set her knitting aside, and pulled off the headphones; her eyes moved over me in open assessment.
Elizabeth frowned, “Were you just with Jon?”
I shook my head, dazedly sitting on the couch. I picked up a decorative pillow and clutched it to my stomach, “No, I was with Quinn.”
She shot up and claimed the seat next to me on the couch; I could hear the faint sounds of boy band One Direction coming through the small speakers; “Oh my God.” She said, “What happened? Was this for work? Where were you guys?”
My face fell to my hands and I shook my head, “Elizabeth, you are not allowed to take concurrent shifts at the hospital ever again.”
I started by telling her about bumping into him on Wednesday at Smith’s and included the ambiguous arrest details Quinn had given me about the alleged girl-drugger from club Outrageous.
I covered our somewhat unpleasant exchange on Thursday and the fact that I was now forced into the bondage of carrying a cell phone.
I ended with a short, short version of our day, training, and then the after part where everything went from calm to a cavalcade of crazy.
When I told her about the sex conversation she hit my shoulder and said, “You didn’t!”
When I told her about the kiss she gasped, her eyes grew wide and she covered her mouth.
When I told her that he’d asked me on a sorta date she started bouncing up and down on the couch and sang, “Who called it? I called it! That’s right, uh huh!”
I skipped over most of the concert and when I told her about Vincent and what I learned regarding Quinn’s part in arranging the car she frowned, blinked, and said, “I guess that was nice of him… in an overreaching kind of way.”
Then, I told her about his, basically, last comment of the evening that he ‘doesn’t date.’
Her frown grew more pronounced and she leaned back in the couch, crossing her arms. She was silent for a moment then sighed, “You know, I kind of guessed that about him.”
It was my turn to frown, “What do you mean?”
“Some guys just aren’t boyfriend material.”
“Well, then, what kind of material are they? Suede?”
The corner of her mouth hitched as one of her eyebrows lifted; she gave me a knowing look. The problem was I didn’t know what I didn’t know. I shook my head at her, “What? What’s that look for? What don’t I know?”
“He’s a Wendell.”
A Wendell.
“What is a Wendell?”
Elizabeth quickly added, “He’s a hottie player; a Wendell. Someone you don’t date.”
“What am I supposed to do with a Wendell?”
She pushed me on my shoulder, “Janie! You have mind blowing sex with a Wendell! You have your way with him and spend hours in orgasmic paradise taking advantage of his hard body and each fantastic orifice and pleasure causing appendage until you get tired of him.”
I blushed, glanced at my hands, “I don’t- I mean, I don’t think-”
“Yes. That’s right. Don’t think. Just let yourself have a good time.” She covered my hand with hers and patted it until I met her gaze, “You deserve this. Repeat after me: I, Janie Morris, deserve splendiferous orgasimtherapy with Sir McHotpants.”
My eyes widened and I took a brave breath, “This is madness.”
Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed, “Say it!”
I shook my head, “I can’t! I can’t say it!”
“You’re not just going to say it, you’re going to do it! With frequency!”
I started to laugh in spite of myself. “You want me to have intimate relations with a manwhore.”
“Alleged manwhore. And, yes. I do.” Her face turned serious, “You’ve only ever been with Jon and-” she huffed, “and I know he wasn’t so great in the bedroom department.”
“I never said that.”
“You never had to. The fact that you didn’t say anything at all spoke volumes.”
I bit my lip. The truth was I thought Jon was fine in the bedroom department. Just fine. He was… just… fine. And what was wrong with fine?
“Janie- sex can be great. It can be really great and fun and amazing. This thing- with McHotpants- this could be a great thing. This could help you become more comfortable around guys and experience what sex and physical intimacy can be like when it’s really good. Wendell- I mean, Quinn- Quinn is being honest with you about his intentions. When you get tired of him you don’t have to worry about his feelings- how great is that? Then, when you meet a non-Wendell who you like and who likes you, you’ll know how to command yourself in the bedroom.”
I shook my head, “I don’t think I can be that person. I don’t think I can have sex with someone without-” I continued to shake my head, “without knowing that he cares about me, that he wants to be with me, without something more. I know it sounds Victorian but I don’t want great sex if it doesn’t come with- with-”
“Love?” Elizabeth supplied, her voice tinged with sarcasm.
I twisted my lips to the side, “Mutual care, respect, compassion, commitment, and- yes- hopefully all of that adds up to love of some kind.”
The truth was being that person, the person who could value the physical over and beyond emotional commitment and consistency, scared me. The untamed, unpredictable nature of it scared me. It reminded me of my mother, of how she abandoned her family with alarming frequency in favor of temporary sex partners. It was important to me that I never have anything in common with that woman. And if it meant that I ended up without any partner or in a staid, passionless- albeit reliable and dependable- relationship then I was really ok with that.
She huffed, “You can get all of that with a dog or a cat. You say these things and think this way because you’ve never had great sex.”
I laughed at her discontented scowl, “Then, oh well. I guess I’ll never have great sex.”
She huffed again then pulled me to her for a hug, “I love you Janie and I could give you great sex but I’m just not into girls.”
I smiled into her shirt, “Well, let me know if you ever change your mind.”
She withdrew and held me at arm’s length, her face and tone serious, “If you don’t want hot Wendell sex then, I have to tell you, you need to be careful with this guy. He’s being honest with you when he says he doesn’t date. You should believe him.”
I nodded and tried not to betray the sadness I felt, “I do. I do believe him.”
She watched me for several moments, considering me, then she prompted, “What did he say next- after the no dating comment?”
I swallowed, my fingers drifting to my lips of their own accord, “Then he kissed the hell out of me.”
CHAPTER 12
I finally responded to my sister’s email on Saturday afternoon after a great deal of procrastinating.
I slept in till nine-thirty then laid on the futon for a further twenty minutes thinking about Quinn Sullivan’s lips of magic and mystery. I then decided, on an odd whim, to go for a run along Lake Michigan. The weather was still nice, especially for late September, and the wind felt clarifying. I distracted myself with sights of Millennium Park, the Aquarium, the Natural History museum and reflected on my city.
There is something really special about Chicago.
Chicago is the proverbial middle child of large US cities. Some might consider this analogy only in reference to Chicago's geographic location (it's in the middle of t
he country). However, the analogy is multifaceted; like most middle children and like books between elaborate bookends, Chicago can sometimes be easy to overlook. It is smart and genuine but always compared, for better or for worse, to its older and younger siblings: it's the less notorious but smarter sister to New York; it's the less ostentatious but considerably more genuine sister to Los Angeles.
It is breathtaking and beautiful and yet somehow caught in the blind spot of popular consciousness.
I’ve always wondered if Chicago prefers to shy from the onerous and usually dysfunctional limelight of notoriety; I hypothesize that it is more than to content to be smart and genuine and breathtaking without attracting the attention that plagues those that are notorious and ostentatious.
On my way back I picked up coffee from Starbucks and indulged in more Quinn Sullivan obsessing; eventually, I stopped outside of Utrecht Art Supply and accomplished window shopping. When I arrived home I found Elizabeth cleaning the kitchen. I felt a little disappointed; I was planning on spending time procrastinating by cleaning the kitchen. Instead I took a shower and shaved everything that could be shaved. I plucked my eyebrows then decided to give myself a pedicure.
Elizabeth eyed me with suspicion as I sat on the couch and propped my foot on the coffee table. I attempted to ignore her pointed gaze.
After a period of tense silence she said, “So, what are you needing to do that you don’t want to do?”
I huffed, disliking that she knew me so well, and confessed, “Jem sent me an email.”
“Jem?” Elizabeth didn’t try to suppress her surprise, “When?”
“On Thursday.”
“What does she want?”
I uncapped the nail polish remover and applied a liberal amount to a cotton ball; “She wants to visit.”
“Who?”
I half laughed, half groaned, “I’m guessing me. She said she wanted to see me.”