MOTION Read online

  I heard his laugh falter abruptly before he said, “Hey, Janie—look at me.” I lifted my chin but couldn’t quite manage to meet his eyes. A hint of a grin was still on his face when he said, “I was just teasing you.”

  I forced a small laugh and shrugged. “I know. I…uh…” I looked at my watch purposefully. “I have to get back to the office; my lunch break is over.”

  His grin faded. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “You still haven’t told me how the job is going.”

  “It’s great, but I don’t want to be late getting back.”

  He swallowed and pushed his sandwich to the side. “Don’t worry about being late. I’ll give Carlos a call.”

  “Don’t do that.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “But I do.”

  He watched me for several moments and, despite the thunderous beating of my heart, I silently endured his perusal. I felt too hot, too self-aware, too everything. When I finally met his gaze, I noted that his face had settled into an impassive mask, but, as ever, his blue eyes seemed to burn with intensity. At last, he stood. I released a breath that I didn’t know I was holding. As I moved to stand, he reached out his hand and grabbed mine to help me from the booth.

  “Listen,” he said, and then he cleared his throat again. He was still holding my hand and thereby holding me in place. “Over the next week you’ll be going out with me on a couple of stops. It’s part of your training.”

  I opened my mouth in surprise. A little pang of pleasure and pain twisted in my chest as I thought of spending more time with him. Finally, pulling together enough of my wits to form words, I stuttered, “Wh—what kind of stops?”

  “I’ll be taking you to meet some of the corporate clients.”

  “Steven didn’t mention anything about that in his training schedule,” I said.

  “He must have forgotten.”

  “That doesn’t seem likely,”

  Quinn lifted his eyebrows in challenge. “Is there some reason you don’t want to go?”

  “We won’t be taking your motorcycle, will we?”

  “No, we’ll be taking a company car.”

  “Oh. Ok.” I looked down at our hands, still linked together from him helping me out of the booth. His hand was very large; mine was small in comparison. It was a strange sensation to feel that any part of my body was small. I’d always felt so big around Jon. My hands were the same size as his.

  Quinn must’ve noticed my gaze because he abruptly let my hand drop and reached over to the bench where his coat lay across my handbag. He moved his jacket to the side and picked up my bag. He seemed to study it for a few brief moments before he handed it to me.

  “Thanks,” I took the offered purse but made no move to leave; instead, I gave him a small, closed-lipped smile and shifted under the weight of his steady gaze.

  “You’re welcome. And thanks for letting me interrupt your lunch.”

  I shrugged. “Oh, no problem; feel free to interrupt anytime.”

  “Really? Anytime?” The corner of his mouth hooked to the side and he dipped his chin as though to force me to meet his gaze. “That’s a dangerous thing to say if you don’t mean it. I might interpret that to include lunch, dinner, and breakfast.”

  His question, then statement, and the manner with which both were posed, made my bun feel too tight and my neck hot. I glanced at him through my lashes, unsure of where this was going. Even after our various, albeit limited, encounters, everything about Quinn made me hypersensitive and self-conscious.

  Undoubtedly, if he expected me to retort with something coquettish and droll, then I would fail completely. I didn’t know how to engage in flirtatious banter. My mind wandered to conversations with Elizabeth in which she’d continued to insist that Quinn was interested in me, and I continued to find the assertion ridiculous. Therefore, faced with such a man speaking to me in such a way, I was wholly unprepared. All previous attempts in similar situations, mostly relegated to college, had been disastrous and painfully uncomfortable. They were either ill-timed, or the topics I had chosen 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 expected or wanted. Men in general unsettled me; this one in particular turned my insides into a brouhaha of chaos simply by glancing in my direction.

  Finally, while ignoring looming feelings of trepidation, I decided to answer with candid earnestness. There was nothing wrong with honesty, and it was his choice to read as much or as little into my answer as he liked.

  Not quite able to meet his eyes, I finally 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 almost imperceptibly. I felt a little woozy.

  “Good. I’ll do that.” Still giving me his grin, 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 a potential improvement to the billing structure of Guard Security to Quinn as we approached the security desk. Dan, the security guard with neck tattoos who’d escorted me on my non-interview first day of work, nodded at Quinn. Then Dan winked at me.

  I smiled and waved warmly in return, and then I finished explaining to Quinn the impetus for the cost analysis I was working on. “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 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. On my second day at Cypher Systems, he helped me bring up my box of paraphernalia.”

  “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, I could see that 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. Why? Should I be worried?” I hesitated, frowning. “Is there something I should know about him? Is he a bad guy?”

  Quinn returned his attention to me and it sent warmth from my nose to my toes; his expression softened, and he seemed to debate what to say next. Finally, he sighed and said, “You read too many comics.”

  “What?” I thought about denying the accusation, but instead I asked, “How can you tell?”

  The elevator opened and he held the door then 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 who 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. If I didn’t label my sisters as bad, I would be an enabler of their behavior, just like my father was. I didn’t plan on spending my life as a doormat, or living in the waiting room of perpetual disappointment, hoping 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 his or her choices, and therefore, is largely defined by his or her actions.”

  “No one makes all good choices, and 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. “What does that mean—your good-people, bad-people confidence interval?” He leaned his shoulder against the wall of the elevator.

  “Well, 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 you make an effort to change, then that is good. There is a big difference.”

  “So, really, you think a person is the sum total of his intentions and not his actions.”

  The elevator opened and I stepped out as I continued my philosophizing. “No. Without action, even good intentions are 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 dissipate 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, Quinn asked, “What would a person be if he 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 do you call someone who has bad intentions and good actions, or good intentions and 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. Imagine a map of the United States. Divide it into four quadrants: north, east, south, and west. Let’s say I typically always take trips due north but sometimes I go east. Sometimes I go northeast and, on rare occasions, I go south. Each trip I take is a dot on the map. The quadrant with the most dots represents my personality.”

  “Therefore, someone could be a good person with a tendency to be slightly stupid.”

  I nodded slowly. “Yes, precisely. Take me for example. I feel confident saying I’m a good person with a tendency to be slightly lazy and a 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 and my neck was hot.

  “Uh, well.” I let out a slightly unsteady breath and rested my fingers on the desk, mostly for balance. He stopped less than a foot from me so that 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.”

  “Hmm.” 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 at the club, and you put 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, lifted his eyes once more, and waited with patient interest for me to continue. 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 and 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, but mostly 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 she 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, nice, or approachable, but Quinn Sullivan was a nice guy.

  He was a good guy.

  Olivia mumbled something about checking in with Keira, and then she left, but I didn’t pay much attention to her. I was excited, nervous, and disoriented.

  I would be spending some part of tomorrow with Quinn.

  Chapter Nine

  I ran home to tell Elizabeth my news and engage in what I surmised to be completely typical female behavior: nitpick every detail of my conversation and time with Quinn Sullivan, a.k.a. McHotpants. Alas, when I arrived home, I found a note indicating that she’d gone to 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 sifting 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 made every night seem like a sleepover. I liked the non-permanence of it.
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br />   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 a scoop neck white shirt, dark blue pants, and matching high heels. I felt I’d achieved my goal of business professional without 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: Quinn Herr Handsomestein Sullivan is my coworker; he isn’t interested in me, and he 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 if I should prepare or bring anything to the training session.

  Steven only shrugged and 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.” Steven pushed a button on his phone to get on a conference call and then shooed me out of his office.

  I waited all morning for Quinn to call. I stayed within earshot of my office phone and jumped every time I heard someone else’s phone ring. Around three o’clock, I glanced at my watch and frowned for the forty-second time that day.

  Still no call and it was past lunch. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast at six o’clock in the morning, and that had consisted of two hardboiled eggs. 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 Take-away and Grocery.

  Things went awry when I ran out to pick up lunch for Betty and me, since we were the only ones in the office who hadn’t yet eaten. In the seventeen minutes it took me to pick up lunch, Quinn left me two messages on my office phone.