Neanderthal seeks Human (Knitting in the City)

by Penny Reid

“Also Dan, the security group lead at the Fairbanks building, used to be one of them.”

  “What did Jem do that has this guy’s panties so twisted?” I wrinkled my nose in, what I surmised was, an over exaggerated way because Quinn’s gaze softened as it perused my features and he half smiled.

  “Does it matter?”

  “No… yes.” I rolled my upper lip between my teeth and chewed on it, “No, I guess it doesn’t, but I’d like to know.”

  “She helped one of his rivals raid a cash house of his.”

  “Why would she do that?” I continued to bite my lip.

  “Because she wanted make him angry. Because she is crazy.” His tone was flat, as though the explanation was rudimentary, obvious.

  “I can’t believe you used to work with these people.” I switched lips and started nibbling on the bottom one.

  Quinn’s eyes met mine; “I thought, when I saw the guy in the park, last week, that he was there because of me. But when I went to Boston and met with Seamus-”

  I flinched, “You met with him!? The skinhead leader in Boston?”

  He nodded, his jaw flexed, “When I met with Seamus-”

  “Isn’t he dangerous? Why would you do that?” I interrupted him again.

  Ignoring my interruptions he continued, “-Seamus said he was looking for Jem. The guy in the park, he thought you were her.”

  A new kaleidoscope of expressions, mirroring my thoughts, must’ve mounted my features because Quinn quickly added, “I’ve had guards on you since last week and Seamus now knows that you are not Jem. He also knows that you work for me and are not a viable option for…” he paused as though choosing his words carefully, “Not a viable option for initiating contact with Jem. You should be completely safe.”

  I nodded until it felt like I was bobbing up and down on a boat then cleared my throat; my hands were rigidly resting on my lap and I noted that they were balled into tight fists. With effort I relaxed my fingers and picked up my cards, forcing myself to look at them.

  Ace of hearts, two of clubs, three of diamonds, ten of clubs, nine of clubs. It was a shit hand.

  “Why- how-” I fanned out my cards and laid them on my lap, “Why did Jem try to set your car on fire?”

  Quinn shrugged, not meeting my gaze, “I don’t remember, I don’t think there was a reason. I just remember that she was crazy.”

  I felt sorry for myself, for being dealt a shit hand and for having a sister who’s most recognizable trait was criminality. Some people have annoying relatives who drink too much during the holidays and corner you with one-sided conspiracy theories where the government is both heinously incompetent and, at the same time, capable of staging the elaborate hoaxes, like the moon landing or Pearl Harbor or the theory of relativity.

  I had a sister who didn’t limit her antics to holidays and liked to sleep with my boyfriend or attempt murder when faced with boredom.

  I didn’t allow myself to dwell in the land of defeatism for very long. I couldn’t do anything about the hand I’d been dealt. I could only make the most of it, hope for the best, and accept my fate.

  Or… I could cheat.

  “Did you- do you-” I picked my cards up again but didn’t look at them; I kept my attention fixed on Quinn, blinked twice so he would come into focus, “Do you think I look like her? Like Jem? Did you think I was her?”

  Quinn frowned at his cards then met my gaze, “Yes.”

  I waited. When he didn’t elaborate I craned my neck forward and widened my eyes in disbelief, “Yes? Just… yes?”

  He nodded.

  “Which part? Yes to which part?”

  “You look like her. I thought you were Jem when I first saw you.” He looked like he would have preferred to discuss anything else including, perhaps, the menstrual cycle of koalas or the regulations surrounding peanut butter manufacturing.

  I slid my teeth to the side, “Is that why you wanted to kiss me? Because you thought I was her?” I quoted Quinn’s admission from the night of our first kiss. Something hard settled in my stomach and made my mouth taste sour, like stale wine and postage stamps, at the possibility.

  He shook his head, “No, God- no. I think I noticed you at first because of the resemblance. I can honestly say I’ve never wanted to kiss your sister.”

  “When did you figure out that we weren’t the same person?”

  He folded his hand of cards and held them on his lap; Quinn leaned forward with his elbows on his knees; “The day after I first saw you, weeks before we spoke. I did a very thorough background check on you to make sure you weren’t Jem.” I was impressed by the starkness of his tone even though the admission looked like it cost him something. His eyes were weary.

  I was also impressed by his continuing more than technical honesty even if it felt like I was prying the answers out of him.

  I considered this information, I considered him. “Is that why you escorted me out? You thought- if I were Jem- I’d blow something up?”

  “No. Like I said, I knew you weren’t her.”

  “Then why did you pose as a security guard?”

  “I didn’t pose. I like to spend time on the floor with my team, especially when we take on a new project. We’d just taken over security for the building and moved into the top floor. I wanted to…” He looked away, sighed, then met my eyes again, “I wanted to get a sense of the other people who worked in the building.”

  “And you escorted me out because you wanted to get a sense of who no longer worked in the building?”

  “No.” He said.

  “No?” I prompted.

  “No.” He said, this time a little more firmly, pronounced.

  “Hmm…” I surveyed him for a long moment and we entered into an old fashioned staring contest. He had an unfair advantage because I was, basically, intoxicated.

  Finally I spoke, “Why did you escort me out?”

  He flexed his jaw even though his eyes were lit with mischief and a Mona Lisa smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, “How many cards do you need?”

  “Don’t avoid the question-”

  “I’m not. But, for the record,” he placed three of his cards in the discard pile and took three from the top of the deck, “I know you were watching me too.”

  I blinked at him, “Watching you?”

  He nodded, his eyes narrowed wickedly, “In the lobby, hiding behind plants. You would come down with your lunch and watch me while I worked.”

  Button pushed, I blushed to my ears and quietly turned my attention to my cards. After a long moment I gave him all four but the ace. I felt like I’d been caught with my hand down my pants, feeling both embarrassed but pleased that he’d noticed and seemed to like it.

  “I wasn’t watching you.” I mumbled.

  “Yes- yes you were.”

  I glanced at him for a brief moment, found him watching me with a look that bordered on menacing, then smashed my lips together to keep from smiling.

  “You better have an ace.” He handed me four new cards.

  “I have an ace.” I plucked them from his outstretched hand, careful not to touch him, “Do you want to see it?”

  “Oh, I’ll see it soon enough.”

  I glanced up from my new cards and met Quinn’s steady gaze with an unsteady one of my own.

  Smolder, schmolder. His eyes held such an intensity of promise I wondered if it would be best just to forfeit and strip naked now. I knew the only way I was going to win this game was to cheat.

  My main problem was that I wasn’t sure I wanted to win.

  CHAPTER 20

  I glared at him.

  Through my bottle of wine induced haze I’d been counting cards; so I knew he’d been cheating for the last few hands. But, I couldn’t admit to counting cards otherwise I would have to admit that had been cheating the whole time. Also, I was down to my underwear, tank top, bra, and one sock. Meanwhile, he had his tie- no shirt- boxer briefs, and one sock.

  This last hand meant that we
were tied.

  He laughed, shuffling the cards, his blue eyes actually dancing with merriment; “So, sock or shirt?”

  I was still sitting on the floor with my back to the bed; he was sitting on the couch and the ottoman was between us, sill serving as a table.

  I thought about which article of clothing to remove even as I let my eyes move over his chest approvingly. I’d been dreaming about that torso for weeks, ever since he made his shirtless, just showered entrance the morning of my hangover. I’d thought about what I wanted to do when or if I actually had it within my possession.

  I blinked, hard, and tried to focus on the foot-stool we were using as a table. I pressed my thighs together for no reason whatsoever and ignored the building warmth in my lower belly.

  Quinn’s soft voice pulled me from my mounting aimless frenzy, “Janie… sock or shirt?”

  I met his gaze abruptly and wondered if he knew what I’d been thinking; but looking at his face was almost worse. We were two minutes away from midnight. He wore a very serious expression and his eyes were freaking smoldering again, moving between mine with what felt like violent concentration.

  I huffed impatiently. “Fine. Neither.”

  He raised a single eyebrow, “Neither?”

  I tilted my head to the side, removing my gaze from his, allowing my hair to curtain my face, and leaned forward, pulling my bra straps from my shoulders and through my arms. Then I unclasped the bra and, like magic, pulled the white lacy brazier from my body without removing my shirt.

  Never mind that my shirt was a thin, white, tank top which was basically see-through. I didn’t want him thinking he’d won just yet or that he could guess my moves. I was quickly learning that a bottle of wine convinced me of all sorts of fantastical things, not the least of which was that I had moves.

  I tossed the bra over my shoulder, leaned back against the side of the bed.

  “Ok, deal the cards.” I said without looking at him, he was too distracting. Instead, I pulled fingers though my hair as I stretched and arched my back.

  I heard his breath catch.

  I looked up.

  His eyes were no longer smoldering; they were now suddenly and forcefully ablaze and he was gritting his teeth, watching me as I stretched. His look told me I was steak and he was a tiger and that made me dinner and dessert.

  “You shouldn’t do that.” The dark heat in his gaze, set of his jaw, and white knuckles of his fists betrayed the force of his concentration. He was concentrating… really, really hard.

  I stilled my movements and froze mid-stretch, “Do what?”

  “That.” His words were ragged, “Don’t do that unless you’re finish playing with me.”

  I licked my lips, finding them suddenly dry and my eyes moved hungrily over his form.

  In truth, in that moment, I didn’t remember what we were playing for, which may have explained why I suddenly no longer had any desire to continue to the game.

  Then again it could have been the impaired judgment.

  I let my hands fall gradually to the carpet on either side of my thighs, my hair crashed over my shoulders and down my back. I licked my lips again, watching him and his tightly reigned reaction with wide eyes. Slowly, slowly I righted myself to my knees and, without plan or forethought, pushed the ottoman to one side. Despite what I thought were measured movements, the cards spilled off the makeshift table and on to the floor.

  His eyes followed me with intensely guarded attentiveness as he sat perfectly still on the couch. I crawled over to him and knelt between his legs. I lifted then rested my hands lightly on his bare thighs for balance. He flinched when my skin made contact with his.

  “Quinn.” I whispered his name. I don’t know why I was whispering but I suspected that my vocal chords were incapable of cooperating, “Quinn-”

  Abruptly, he wrapped the long fingers of one hand around my neck and, before I could think or react, he dragged his mouth over mine then ransacked. He was fervent and wet and hot and the warmth in my stomach fluttered and twisted until the pressure between my thighs started to ache. I pressed my knees together again and clenched, flexing my thigh muscles.

  His mouth pulled away from mine and began alternately biting and sucking and kissing my neck, the scruff of his eighteen-hours-between-shaves was pleasurably painful and each skillful stroke of his tongue soothed the scratches left by the stubble.

  I closed my eyes against the sensations and then his hands and his mouth were everywhere at once and I think I lost consciousness.

  Let me clarify that last statement: I think my alcohol-saturated forebrain lost the ability of conscious thought but my lower brain- the Id, the part that is associated with automatic responses and instinct and pleasure seeking behaviors and wanting ice cream for dinner every night- that part may have slipped my forebrain benzopines so it could assume control and have its way with my body. For purposes of simplicity, I will call that part of my brain Ida.

  And Ida did have her way with my body. Let me make that perfectly clear.

  On the long, long journey to the bed, Ida had her way on the couch and the floor and the dresser; at one point Ida had her way against the wall.

  For maybe the first time ever in my life my mind spent a significant amount of time not wandering because it couldn’t engage or gain any traction. All forebrain surfaces were slippery; everything and nothing was distracting at once. I was so focused on the moment, on the feeling and sensation of being with and over and next to and under and against Quinn.

  I was crushed and grabbed and stroked and admired and savored and, by God, aroused. I was aroused like it was going out of style and on sale. At one point I thought it was going to sever me in two and I panicked in much the same way a feral animal panics when approached with unfamiliar kindness.

  But, to my wonderment, Quinn seemed to innately comprehend what I needed; when I required tenderness and when I craved… not tenderness. He calibrated his movements, caresses, and kisses as the counterpoint to desires I had no idea existed within me but which, now, I was certain I could never live without. And, with one arresting look, one devastatingly raw gaze which stole my breath and held me captive, one moment of connection, he made me fearless.

  The jarring part, because there is one, is that Quinn seemed to be just as lost as I was and my body, my hands, my mouth, and my eyes seemed to know how to be his counterpoint, how to reassure and ignite and move and respond. If my forebrain were engaged I’m sure I wouldn’t have recognized this suddenly fearless creature who found boldness and bravery and shed cowardice within the dreamy chaotic perfection of physical intimacy.

  When Ida- seemingly sated, satisfied, and smug- allowed the curtain to be pulled back- albeit briefly- we were collapsed against each other in a Chinese knot of limbs and sheets. I was slightly less drunk on alcohol, but a great deal drunker on the euphoria that, apparently, accompanies mind-blowing sex.

  Ida whispered in my ear that Quinn felt warm and good and very, very right. I nodded at this assertion even as a small pain originating in my heart made it suddenly hard to breathe. I suppressed the sensation, swallowed it, put it on a shelf to think about later.

  Abruptly, I had three rapid thoughts:

  Quinn still has his tie on.

  I wonder if he’ll let me keep it.

  I wonder if he’ll let me use it to...

  And then, just like that, Ida was in control again.

  CHAPTER 21

  Life is funny.

  And I don’t mean just ha-ha funny; I also mean cunning and curious and capricious and “The jokes on you, Batman!” funny.

  Sleep gradually rescinded and I blinked against unforgiving brightness. The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes, the first thing that appeared clearly in focus, was the staunchly, almost glowing, white pillow and empty sheets next to me. To my still drowsy eyes the sheets did not look familiar and the room was too bright. I frowned, closed my eyes, opened them again and I remembered.

  Naked.r />
  On a bed.

  In a hotel.

  In Las Vegas.

  Having just spent the better part of the early morning engaging in insouciantly indulgent love making with Quinn Sullivan.

  I sat up abruptly and unthinkingly. My eyes were no longer drowsy. Like an electric current had just been passed through my spine, I was shocked awake. My gaze tried to absorb everything at once: the room, the window, the door, the clock, the bed, my nakedness, the discarded piles of clothes, peppering the floor like anthills, and the equally discarded pile of cards next to the ottoman.

  Rigidly, I listened intently for sounds- footsteps, breathing, shower, faucet- and spent several seconds holding air suspended in my lungs before convinced that I was alone. I released the breath I’d been holding slowly and allowed my muscles to relax just a little. I further allowed my brain to tentatively turn its attention to thoughts and feelings other than alarm and battle readiness as my eyes slowly took in my surroundings, looking at the details rather than surmise whether or not I was in immediate danger of encountering Quinn.

  Because, impulsively, upon first recognizing and realizing where I was and what I’d done, that’s what it felt like: danger.

  Since I spent much of my childhood being left behind and ignored, one might think that, as an adult, moments of perceived abandonment would feel old hat. The truth is, as an adult, I am always waiting to be left behind. I’m always ready to be discarded and, therefore, I spend a significant amount of time preparing for this eventuality.

  I lower my expectations, I don’t seek out meaningful relationships, and I don’t engage in any sort of real intimacy, physical or otherwise.

  Engage is the key word here.

  Except, when I engage, when it happens, when I’m left behind it doesn’t feel old hat. It feels like it did the first time and it takes me by surprise.

  So, I don’t let it happen.

  I swallowed then licked my lips, absentmindedly pulling the bottom one through my teeth with worry; glancing around the room I noted with cool detachment that the clock read 9:31 am; the only clothes strewn about belonged to me; I was, currently, alone.