by Penny Reid
As I neared the end of my story, I could feel the tension building in the group. I sensed that they were restless with questions, but Elizabeth seemed to have an agenda and, when I finally reached my conclusion, she interjected.
“This is what I don’t understand: How did Quinn know you were up in the Canopy Room? Or did he? Did he go up there to get you, or did he just happen to go up there and see that you needed rescuing? And is that why he was suddenly like ‘you need to leave’ when he found out the Canopy Room people bought us drinks? He must have known the people up there were shady. Furthermore, since we suspect that you were slipped something, what is to be done about it?”
She glowed with an almost Sherlock Holmes-esque satisfaction and sat back in her seat while the group speculated on her questions. Undeniably, Elizabeth seemed to have given the entire encounter a great deal more thought than I had.
Although I tended to obsess about topics like the English vernacular, the height of the average Brazil nut tree, and international date standards, I had a habit of ignoring important details, such as who drugged me and how I felt about blacking out only to wake up mostly naked in a strange apartment with seven pieces of furniture.
I shivered a little, finally feeling the weight of my recklessness and truly understanding what a dangerous situation I’d been in. Likewise, my stomach flipped at the thought of Quinn finding me, carrying me out the second-story room, and taking me to his sister’s place, all while I was blacked out.
Maybe I wouldn’t need to be rescued, escorted, or coddled so much if I focused on actually important details rather than dreaming up an appropriate collective noun for every plural eventuality.
In the end, I promised the ladies I would attempt to corner Quinn when I saw him at work, at which point I would question him about the Canopy Room, as well as actions taken to ensure the safety of unsuspecting female guests in the future. The waiter reappeared and, thankfully, everyone placed her order, thus giving me a reprieve from the hour-long investigation into my weekend.
“Have you seen him yet? In the office I mean?” Marie asked, leaning toward me and fixing me with her bright blue eyes.
“Quinn? No, today was only my second day. Mostly, I just filled out paperwork, met with lawyers, and settled into my office.”
“You met with lawyers?” Fiona’s steady voice sounded from my right.
“I had to sign a non-disclosure agreement and a non-compete agreement.”
Fiona frowned. Her eyes met Marie’s for an instant then moved back to me. “Why did you need to sign that?”
“Well, basically, I’m not to disclose the nature of my work or who I work with.”
Fiona’s frown deepened. “You mean their names? You’re not allowed to talk about your coworkers?”
I shook my head and finished a thirsty sip of my wine. “No, I mean I’m not allowed to discuss any of the clients I work with: their names, how much they pay us, what we do for them, or what services we offer—that kind of thing.”
I recalled my conversation with two lawyers from earlier in the day. They were both egg-shaped men in their early thirties and reminded 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, including my 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 kind of 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 Eight
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 it was 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, which were mostly moderately large businesses that used a subsidiary of Cypher Systems called Guard Security.
Guard Security provided security for various corporate properties and buildings, and personal security 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 nearly constant attack; all data files and identities were coded. Thus, for the first half of the coming month, during the bulk of my training, I wouldn’t know whose account I was working on; I would only know the code. Steven said that after the first two weeks, 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 description, were contracts with individuals, private citizens, and high-level families. In addition to security, the contracts also often included investigative work. This subsection of 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 was actually quite small, if you didn’t count all the sub-companies, 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 a few months prior.
There was no view of the lake from my window, but the northeastern 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 noncommittally and said, “Data storage.”
I had met almost everyone by my second day. I counted Quinn among my eighteen coworkers even though I didn’t know his role yet, and I hadn’t seen or spoken to him since the Saturday before I was hired. Eight of the eighteen were accountants; some of them shared my title of Senior Fiscal Project Coordinator, and some 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 included 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 t
he rest of the staff. The boss, it seemed, didn’t come into the office much. No one seemed surprised by his absence the entire first week or the second week of my employment, so I never actually met him.
Betty was very stylish, and looked to be in her mid-sixties. She had steel-gray hair and black eyes, and she wore pearls every day with a tailored skirt suit. She didn’t come across as unfriendly; she just seemed very busy all the time.
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 some lunch that day. 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 and requested a bowl of vegetable soup, a side salad, and a giant oatmeal cookie from a deli called Smith’s Take-away and Grocery. It was a well-known deli and sandwich shop, with a few grocery items for sale, just one street over from our building.
I left early so that 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 rereading one of my favorite comics, an anthology of a series in a bound paperback.
When most people think of comic books, they recall the small pamphlet style with only a few pages and, at the beginning of each pamphlet, the story picks up where the previous one left off in another comic book that always ended with to be continued. The larger, paperback bound anthologies are like watching an entire season of a TV show on Netflix or on Amazon Instant Videos. You can gorge yourself on the entire series and immerse yourself in graphic novel goodness in one epic sitting.
I had lent the anthology to one of the kids I tutored, and he’d just returned it to me last week. Over the past two years of 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 stories after they were done.
My thumb moved back and forth over the place where I’d torn the cover several years ago as I sank deeper into the story. My legs were curled under me, and I was just getting to the part where the really bad guy is 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 I 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 that 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 cover of my book then glanced at him again. I noted that he wasn’t wearing a security guard uniform. Rather, he was dressed in a very nice wool gray suit, white shirt, and gray tie with threads of blue silk running through it. If we had been in Victorian England, I would have called him dashing; but, since we lived in the twenty-first century, I had to settle for the wordier GQ-model hot.
“Hmm…” He craned his neck and leaned closer to read the cover then he straightened, his expression impassive. His eyes skimmed over my face. “You read comics?”
I nodded, absentmindedly stroking the cover. As usual around his aura of handsome manliness, my mouth felt dry when I finally spoke. “Yes, I do.”
“Hmm,” 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 farther into the corner of the booth as he slid in next to me, 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 that even with my back pressed to the wall behind me, a big guy like Quinn and a big-bottomed girl like me 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, but whatever the cause, 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 had to 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 and the other gripped a napkin. “I like it a lot. I just started, and…uh...” I frowned, then huffed out a breath. 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 have an office on my floor.
I must have debated the issue a little too long because, after a few moments, 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 gave a short laugh. “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 widened subtly as his gaze moved over me. His eyes brightened with what looked like laughter, and 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.” 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, and I noticed that his usually detached, hawk-like gaze seemed softer and unguarded. “Janie, what are we talking about?”
“About the origin of the idiom I just used: 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 details of how it originated?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know the details.”
> 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 nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Apartments were all built with the same floor plan and with a similar design so that one tenant’s bedroom was under another’s. Therefore, it was normal to hear one shoe hit the floor, then the other, when an upstairs neighbor undressed at night.”
“I wonder what else they heard.” His gaze held mine and 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 smiled reluctantly in response; nonetheless, I was fighting the warring feelings of being pleased that I’d made him laugh but concerned that I was being laughed at. The latter feeling eclipsed the former, and I frowned then glanced at my lap and picked 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 angels-singing-on-high miraculous, that unnerved me so—not anymore, at least. If he’d been a gorgeous jerk or a good-looking moron, my reaction would have cooled and normalized rather quickly. Inopportunely, he was not a jerk, and he was most definitely not a moron. He was thoughtful, clever, and confident, and the most adroitly sexy guy I’d ever met. I didn’t like to think he was laughing at me.