by Penny Reid
Our train arrived and he waited to speak until it slowed to a stop. Quinn’s expression straddled the triple border of bewilderment, determination, and alarm. “So-” he huffed, his gaze pinning me with its sudden intensity; I was surprised also by the argumentative tone in his voice, “Would you ever date someone who made less than you?” he ushered me on to the el and to a seat by the sliding door, his arm went behind me along my back and against the window.
I nodded immediately, “Oh yes. Absolutely. I don’t have a problem with that. Really, my concern is being with the type of person who has enough wealth to decide- on a whim- to take off from real life and travel around where ever and expect that I’ll be able to do the same simply because he has the means to fund it. Or who buys me extravagant gifts- like a car or expensive jewelry.”
I felt a sudden shiver, like someone was watching me. I turned my head and surveyed the train. I looked from left to right and found only a smattering of what seemed to be college students. It was the same inexplicable sensation that I’d experienced in the club weeks ago.
“What is so wrong with that? If you’re with someone why can’t he buy you things? Take you places?”
I brought my attention back to Quinn, it took my mind a moment to sort through his words and their meaning, my attention still sharpened to the perception that someone was intently scrutinizing my movements.
I licked my lips, shaking my head slightly to clear it, “I want to be financially independent. I didn’t like having to constantly justify or explain that. One time Jon bought me a car- a really nice car- and he couldn’t understand that it wasn’t appropriate.”
“Why wasn’t it appropriate?”
I ignored the persistent impression that I was being watched, deciding it was my randomly overactive imagination, and pursed my lips in response to Quinn’s question, “You know why.”
“No. I really don’t. You’re going to have to spell it out for me.” He echoed my words from earlier, his expression strangely stiff.
I huffed, “Because how can I possibly reciprocate? What do I have to offer?”
“Yourself.”
I wrinkled my nose, “That makes it seem like I’m selling myself.”
Quinn tilted his head to the side, openly studying me, then asked, “Now who is keeping score?”
I opened my mouth to respond, closed it, swallowed, then said, “It’s not the same thing and I can’t believe you’re taking his side in this.”
“It is exactly the same thing.” he countered. “If no one is keeping score in a relationship then it doesn’t matter, does it? I should be able to give you whatever I want without having to worry about you feeling guilty or like you need to reciprocate.”
I frowned, studying him, really trying to absorb his logic and words. Finally I responded, “Reluctantly, I admit that you have a somewhat valid point. But-” I added before a look of triumph could completely claim his features, “it’ll take me a while to process and potentially adjust to this perspective.”
Quinn’s gaze moved over my face and a small smile curved over his lips, “I promise not to keep score with you if you promise not to keep score with me.”
I gave him a long, sideways stare. I considered his proposal. It seemed fair. I nodded just once and stuck out my hand, “Fine. Deal.”
A slow smile, and genuine look of victory, brightened his expression; his eyes were mischievous as ever as he shook my hand and said, “What should I buy you first?”
I poked him in the rib.
CHAPTER 13
When we arrived at my building we were still engaged in easy conversation so it didn’t actually occur to me to bid Quinn goodnight at the door. We spoke about his upcoming business trip to New York planned for later that week which, of course, brought up the fact that Gotham City is based on New York City. We then talked about our favorite cities, both real and fictional.
However, once we were climbing the stairs to the small apartment I shared with Elizabeth, I began to feel a little flutter of nervousness at the passive invitation I’d offered.
Quinn was coming upstairs. We were going upstairs together.
I felt I should warn him that the place was small and belongings were haphazardly strewn about and not at all organized. I wanted to explain that I was currently sleeping on the Ikea pull out couch-slash-futon in the center of the living space but didn’t know how to bring it up.
I also wanted to tell him that I wasn’t going to be his slamp and that, even though mind-blowing sex with him sounded very tempting, I was pretty certain I wanted a non-Wendell even if the sex would be just mind-lukewarming. Scarlet heat started to consume my face a little more with each step upwards and our conversation lulled as I approached my door.
“So.” I stopped abruptly in front of the door, turned to face him, and gave him a tight lipped smile. He leisurely leaned against the door frame, crossed his arms in front of his chest as his eyes blazed an unhurried trail over my face.
“So.” He repeated. He looked calm and confident and confoundingly sexy.
“So…” I sighed, pulling my gaze away from his and glancing at the keys in my hands, “Listen, I- I had fun tonight. You- you’re good to talk to and I had a nice time but I would like to pay you back for my dinner.”
His hands came up between us, “Janie- no keeping score, remember?”
“Yes, but- it wasn’t a date and I know it wasn’t a date and I understand that you don’t date and I’d like to be friends with you and I-”
“You want to be friends with me?” His voice sounded a little dark, perplexed.
“Yes.” I lifted my eyes to his briefly. His expression matched his tone. I sighed, “Listen- you should…um, you should come in so we can talk about-” I swallowed, turning to the door and unlocking it with slightly shaking hands. The earlier scarlet heat turned into an inferno as I struggled with the lock. “-so we can talk about labels and Wendell and dinner and slamps and- oh thank God.” The door opened and I launched myself inside calling behind me, “Come in- come in, I’ll make some coffee.”
I flipped on the light in the hall then proceeded to turn on every light on my way to the kitchen. I heard hesitant footsteps behind me and the closing of the door. I rushed through the process of boiling water and scooping the already ground beans into the French press. When everything was prepared I walked to the couch, my bed, and noticed that Quinn’s jacket was laying on it. The sight did strange things to my stomach and, I’m not going to lie, my lady bits. They may have clenched.
I hurriedly took my jacket off, almost sweating by this point, and tossed it on top of his. He was walking slowly around the small space, glancing at the bookshelves which contained my comic books and Elizabeth’s record collection. He took out a Backstreet Boys LP and turned to me with a questioning frown.
I laughed lightly, “Oh, that’s Elizabeth’s. I live with my friend Elizabeth, you met her at that bar the night you… um, well this is her place and I’m just crashing here- actually on the couch- until we find a new place big enough for both of us.”
His eyes drifted to the couch as he replaced the record. I tucked my hair behind my ears and cleared my throat. It was strange having him in the apartment.
Admittedly, I was just a transient visitor and the décor and style represented nothing of me; even so, I felt like he didn’t belong here, in my life. It was like he was surrounded by an otherworldly glow which filled the diminutive space and cast everything, but him, in shadow. Including me. He was too big, too handsome, too graceful. He didn’t fit in our small inadequate world.
The thought made me sad and I firmed my bottom lip with resolve. His eyes met mine just at that moment and he frowned at my expression. Holding my gaze he crossed to me and I crossed my arms over my chest. He seemed to hesitate at the movement but, nevertheless, continued his approach stopping just two feet from me.
Silence stretched as his gaze moved over my face; at length he spoke, “Who is Wendell?”
I
blinked, startled. “Wendell?”
“You said you wanted to talk about labels, dinner, and Wendell.”
“Oh, yes. Wendell.” I turned, picked up our jackets and placed them on the arm of the futon; then I sat with my legs tucked under me and my arm along the back of the couch, “Please- have a seat.”
He sat, one of his legs under him so that our knees touched and his arm covered mine, his large hand rested on my elbow and I focused on my breathing.
“So, Wendell?”
I nodded, biting my lip, not really sure how to have this conversation without putting all my oddities on display. But, as usual, the mouth started moving before the brain send up a warning flare,
“You are Wendell. Or, rather, you are a Wendell and I can’t be a slamp so, what I’d like to do talk to you about dinner and labels.”
One of his eyebrows rose and I felt him stiffen; his mouth opened as though he were going to interrupt me but I, having said this much, gathered my courage and continued with loud urgency,
“The thing is, I like you. I like you a lot and I’ve really only known you for a few short weeks- less than a month- but you are very likeable. I’d like to be your friend because I appreciate your honesty about being a Wendell and, therefore, I would like to have dinner with you- not a date- but think the label applied should be friendship and not Wendell-slash-slamp because I don’t think I’m up for that but understand if you aren’t interested in being my friend especially since you’re already juggling a heavy load of slamps… then, I’d be disappointed but would understand.”
I felt him relax slightly through my tirade; then tense; then relax. His eyes were watchful. He leaned closer, dipping his head, as he asked, “Ok, first, what is a Wendell?”
“A Wendell is a guy-” I gestured to him, “in this situation you are the Wendell- a guy who is very… nice… looking and also very…” I couldn’t look at him so I picked a spot on my skirt and studied it, “very adept and/or talented in certain areas which are related to adult… bedroom activities and who also has a large selection of female companionship for the aforementioned adult bedroom activities from which to choose on any given occasion.”
My eyes flickered to his face and found him watching me with a confounded smile, obviously enjoying my discomfort. He cleared his throat, “Janie, just say it.”
I sighed and suddenly wanted to hold his hand, likely because I was pretty sure it would be the last time.
I entwined my fingers with his and squeezed. “Fine. Quinn-” I looked at him straight in the eye and immediately felt my resolve weaken, “a Wendell is a man who is extremely good looking and who is great in bed. Wendells do not have exclusive relationships- i.e. they do not date- but rather hook up with many women at once. I have no judgment for Wendells- in fact I applaud their stamina and ability to provide excellent service to so many women at once. It seems like a very efficient and generous use of resources. However,” I took a deep breath and swallowed, looking down at our fingers like a coward, “however equitable of an arrangement, I am not interested in non-dating a Wendell. Since you are, in fact, a Wendell I think that I would be more comfortable if you and I could agree to the label of friends, not kissing friends or Wendell-slamp friends… just regular friends.”
Again, silence stretched. I felt his gaze on me, heard him sigh, then ask, “Will you please look at me?”
I lifted my eyes to his. He didn’t look relieved or annoyed or angry like I feared. Rather, he looked contemplative and uneasy. He paused before speaking, what appeared to be a flash of pain passed behind his eyes but was either imagined or hidden instantly. “I’m not used to this… so you’ll have to give me a little bit of time to… adjust.”
“You can take as much time as you need.” I offered bravely, half-heartedly attempting to pull my fingers from his. The attempt was unsuccessful, he tightened his grip.
“I don’t want-” he sighed heavily, closed his eyes briefly, then met mine again with renewed composure, “I appreciate your honesty.”
I waited, chewed on my bottom lip; when he didn’t continue my eyes widened in confusion, “Wait, what- that’s it?”
He nodded, “Yes. That’s it.”
I drew in a breath, looking around the apartment for what I was missing, “I’m confused.”
“What confuses you?”
“Are we- did you- did you just agree to the label of friendship?”
“No.”
I opened my mouth to speak, closed it, opened it again, licked my lips. “Then what label are we going to use?”
His gaze lowered to my mouth; he lifted the hand resting on my elbow to my hair and pushed a mass of curls over my shoulder, his long fingers lingering on my neck, “We aren’t going to use a label.”
I took an unsteady breath; at this point not caring about further embarrassing myself. What was one more minus of mortification when my debt reached in the hundreds of thousands?
“I like labels. I like maps with labels. I like figures with labels and footnotes. I don’t do well not knowing intentions or how to calibrate my expectations.”
“That’s good to know.”
“Quinn!”
He fought admirably against the smile pulling at his lips and didn’t meet my eyes, “You are so beautiful. I really want to kiss you right now.”
His words hit me in my stomach and caused a hot tsunami of awareness to spread to my fingertips, toes, and the tips of my ears. I sighed, “That’s not fair. You’re not being very nice.”
“I’ve told you, I’m not nice.” His gaze seemed to intensify, never leaving my lips, as he leaned infinitesimally closer.
I knew in that moment that if he wanted to kiss me I would not stop him but, damn it, I wasn’t going to sleep with him.
Undies on, undies on, undies on, high ho the dairy-o, I’m going to keep my undies on!
His hand gently cupped my cheek, his long fingers wrapped around my neck and pulled me forward. My eyelashes fluttered and, just before his mouth met mine I said, my words breathless, “You are nice. At least, you’re nice to me.”
He paused, lifted his eyes to mine, made a sound like a growl, then pressed his lips to my forehead. I smiled sadly, both relieved and disappointed.
After a long moment he released me and rubbed his hands over his face, shaking his head as though to clear it. “Damn it.” I heard him sigh.
The water on the stove chose that moment to start boiling, its high pitched whistle cutting through the tension thick room. I slowly stood, feeling a little wobbly on my legs, and hitched my thumb over my shoulder, “Do you want any coffee?”
“Do you have anything stronger?” came his muffled reply.
“I, um, let me check.”
I abruptly turned and escaped to the kitchen, the screeching whistle from the tea kettle sounded like an alarm bell and I was relieved when I took it off the stove. I knew for a fact the only hard liquor we had in the apartment was tequila and I had no intention of drinking tequila with Quinn.
Quinn plus tequila equaled Quinquelia and that sounded like something that happens in Mexican jails.
I allowed myself a few moments to linger, to compose my thoughts, before I returned to the living room. Quinn was hovering in the entrance way, glancing at pictures, and I noticed, with a little twinge of disappointment, that his jacket was on. He moved to the door as I approached; unlocking and opening it he took a step into the hall then turned to face me.
His gaze finally met mine as he straightened the collar of his coat. “I-” he hesitated, his features growing soft as his hands fell to his sides; his eyes gently moved over my face, “I reserve the right to change my mind.”
“Oh yeah? About what?” I leaned against the door frame, looking up at him.
“About kissing you.”
I self-consciously licked my lips and hugged myself, turning beet red. It seemed I was doomed to turn various and sundry shades of scarlet whenever he chose to regale me with even moderately suggestive remarks.
I tried to speak but my voice was strained and off pitch, “Well, ok, thanks for the heads up. I feel dually warned.”
His signature slow sexy grin spread deliciously over his features causing my heart to flip-flop. I secretly hated him for it. That smile drove me crazy but I suspected he knew that.
He shifted on his feet and rested a hand against the door frame above my head, still smiling down at me, “So, are we still on for tomorrow?”
I shrugged, “Sure, friend. Where do you want to go to dinner?”
His eyes narrowed at my choice of friendship-label but he spoke as though unfazed. “I thought, instead of just dinner, we could have lunch and dinner.”
“Um, sure. What time?”
He pushed away from the wall and withdrew his phone, “I’ll pick you up at eleven-thirty. Dress for a picnic.”
My eyes widened with surprise, “Oh- ok. What can I bring?”
“Nothing. Just yourself.” He started to back away, pressing the touchscreen of his phone, no longer looking at me.
I took a step into the hall, “Let me bring something. Or at least let me buy dinner. It’s not fair for you-”
He held up his free hand as he turned towards the stairs, giving me a devastating smile, “No keeping score.”
I grumbled but could only listen to him laugh and the sound of his feet on the steps as he departed. Sighing I turned back to the apartment, shut and locked the door, then let my head fall heavily against the thick wooden partition.
A chiming noise I now recognized as the blasted cell phone interrupted my thoughts. I turned to the living room and found the contraption on the coffee table. I glanced at the message. It was a text message. It was from Quinn.
Quote of the day: “Friendship is like peeing your pants; everyone can see it but only you can feel it.”