MOTION Page 11

  The first was a gruff, “Call me back ASAP.”

  The second call was less verbose.

  He must’ve called as soon as I left. My heart leapt at the sound of his voice when I checked my voicemail with one hand and held my to-go meal in the other. Then Keira came into my office. A Bluetooth headset was clipped to her ear. She told me that Mr. Sullivan was on the phone, and wanted me to meet him downstairs at the Starbucks on the corner.

  I abdicated thoughts of eating and promptly took the elevator to the bottom floor. I was agitated. I was tense. As it turned out, both sensations were warranted. My stomach plummeted when I caught sight of him and noted his stern expression and the object he held in his hand.

  As we stood across from each other next to the coffee counter, I could see my doom in his hand: a small, sleek, black rectangle with a shiny screen and only one perceivable button. Virtually everyone at Cypher Systems had a business cell phone.

  I knew it made sense, but I still didn’t have to like it.

  My hands were on my hips, and I eyed the cell phone with contempt. “What is that?”

  His smile was reluctant, as though he really wanted to maintain an impassive mask but found it impossible to do so. “What does it look like?”

  “I don’t believe in cell phones,” I said.

  I might as well have said that I didn’t believe in the laws of thermodynamics.

  “I don’t understand.” His gaze felt remarkably penetrating, and the smile fell away from his features. His usual stoic mask of detachment was tinged with confusion.

  I shifted awkwardly on my feet, twisting my fingers together. “It means I don’t want to carry a cell phone.”

  “I’m not asking.” He reached out with his large hands and placed the phone in my palm.

  “What about Carlos? What does he say?”

  “It was his idea.”

  His rebuttal left me unfazed. Maybe it was because I’d woken up in his sister’s apartment half-naked, or because we may or may not have engaged in flirting the day before, or maybe it was my very real resentment at the thought of having to carry a cell phone. Whatever it was, I seemed abruptly semi-impervious to the usual pandemonium his proximity administered to my insides.

  I countered, “No, it’s not Carlos’s idea. It’s your idea. You probably talked him into it.”

  “Fine, yes—it is my idea, and Carlos thinks it’s a great one. And, since Carlos is your boss…” he lifted his eyebrows and waited for me to fill in the blanks.

  My chin lifted in defiance while he cradled my hand with both of his. I tried not to be affected by his touch, but the incongruence between the gentleness with which he held my hand and the obstinate quality of his glare was unnerving. His thumb was also moving in slow circles over the back of my hand. I clutched my anger to my chest like a last pair of marked-down Jimmy Choos in my size.

  Finally, I said the only thing I could think of. “It’s a personal choice. I don’t want it.”

  He sighed, visibly annoyed. “Why not?”

  “Because…because…” I held my breath, not wanting to explain my unconventional repugnance for conventional technology, but I couldn’t help myself. His closeness, his hands holding mine, the dastardly small circular motion of his thumb, even his slightly perturbed glare unleashed the floodgates of my nonsensical verbosity.

  “Because—are we really here, alive, if we interface with the world via a small black box? I don’t want my brain in a vat. I don’t want to be fed with input from the equivalent of a cerebral implant until I can’t tell fiction from reality. Don’t you see those people?” I motioned with my free hand to a line of customers waiting for their coffee orders to be filled. “Look at them. Where are they looking? They’re not looking at each other, they’re not looking at the art on the wall or the sun in the sky; they’re looking at their phones. They hang on to every beep and alert and message and tweet and status update. I don’t want to be that. I’m distracted enough as it is by the actual, tangible, physical world. I’ve embraced the efficiency of a desktop PC for work and research, and I even use a laptop on my own time, but I draw the line at a cell phone. If I want social media, I’ll join a book club. I will not be collared and leashed and tracked like a tagged Orca in the ocean.”

  I was a little breathless when I concluded and withdrew my fingers from his, leaving the phone in his hand. I tried to look everywhere but at him and his damn tenebrous blue eyes.

  He placed the phone in my hand once again. “As much as the idea of collaring and leashing you sounds promising, the purpose of the phone is to ensure you’re reachable.”

  I interrupted him. “You mean bound and restrained.”

  “Janie, if I wanted to restrain you, I’d use rope.” When he spoke, his voice was low and softened with what could only be described as intimacy.

  I met his gaze abruptly, startled by his tone, but his gaze struck me momentarily mute. He’d shifted closer, towering over me so I had to tilt my head back to meet his stare, his mouth curved into a whisper of a smile that felt more menacing than a scowl. I blinked under the scalding stare and leaned one elbow against the counter for balance.

  I felt heat rise up my throat and over my cheeks as I frowned at him. “I know what you’re doing.” My own annoyance bolstered my confidence.

  He lifted a single eyebrow and leaned against the counter, mimicking my stance. “And what’s that?”

  “You’re teasing me again, like yesterday; you’re trying to distract me.” I placed the phone on the counter.

  “I’m not trying to distract you.” His eyes traveled slowly over my face.

  I gritted my teeth to get my blush and the beating of my stupid heart under control. “Yes, you are, and it won’t work.”

  His smile grew, but it was still just a small curve; his gaze continued its searing yet leisurely perusal of my features. “And why not?”

  Recovering my voice but not entirely in control of my brain, I started talking without really paying attention to my words. “Because they don’t use ropes; they use nets. They track the Orcas between Alaska and the Hawaiian islands to establish migration paths, mating patterns, and birth rates. It’s actually fascinating. Did you know that most male killer whales that are raised in captivity—which is about sixty to ninety percent of them—experience dorsal fin collapse?”

  “Really? How interesting. What is dorsal fin collapse?” His voice was deadpan, but he was still giving me that dangerous smile.

  I took a step backward. “It’s where the dorsal fin—you know, the usually stiff fin on their backs—droops to the side, and they can’t get it up. Scientists think it’s because when the males are in captivity, they can’t swim to an adequate depth, and so their dorsal fins droop. That is why I don’t want a cell phone. I don’t want a droopy fin.”

  The purposeful languorous caress of Quinn’s gaze faded during my litany, as had his smile. He met my eyes and blinked at me as if I’d said something completely crazy or horrifying. Quinn shook his head and glanced away, presumably to clear his thoughts.

  “Look,” he said, almost in a growl, and he picked up the phone from the counter and smacked it into my palm once more. He quickly crossed his arms over his chest, his hands balling into fists. “You’re going to carry that phone.” His tone left little room for argument even as he made concessions, but his characteristic up-to-no-good stare had slipped back into place. “You don’t have to look at it; you just have to answer it when it rings. No one will text you; I promise. And if they do, you can ignore the messages. Use it just like a landline; in fact, you can use it for personal calls if you want.” If possible, he looked even more preoccupied and detached than usual.

  “But you can still use it to track my whereabouts, so I’ll still be like a whale with…” I swallowed hard as my hand closed around the stupid smart phone, accepting my fate. “I’ll still get a droopy fin. Do you want me to have a droopy fin? Can’t you tell Carlos it’s a bad idea? Tell him you made a mistake;
he might listen to you.”

  His eyes moved down to my neck and lingered there. Then he said, “Do you know what your problem is?”

  His question made me frown, insta-glower actually, and I instinctively crossed my arms over my chest. “I have a problem?”

  “Yes. You have a problem.” He lifted his piercing blue gaze to my glowering frown, and I was somewhat stunned to see that he didn’t look agitated any longer; he looked intent and very determined. It aggravated me.

  Without thinking, I said, “Oh, really? I can’t wait to hear what my problem is. You’ve known me a total of three weeks and you’ve already diagnosed the problem. The suspense is killing me. Well, please enlighten me, oh great identifier of problems.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I suppressed a gasp by gulping hard. The level of my annoyance-fueled sarcasm was reaching critical mass, and I couldn’t seem to control it.

  “You are incredibly talented, and you’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever met.”

  I interrupted him. “Yes, that sounds like a real problem. I see your point.”

  “But you are completely blind to the obvious.”

  I could feel heat rising into my cheeks again. I clenched my teeth. “Well, obviously you’re right. Obviously I should just carry the cell phone.” I slipped the cell phone into my pocket. “Thank you so much, Quinn, for pointing out the obvious error of my ways.” I gave him a sugary sweet smile and started past him, intent on the door.

  Before I could move more than a step, he reached out and stopped me, gripping my arm above the elbow. “Damn it, I’m not talking about the cell phone.”

  “I need to get back to work.” I stepped back and shrugged out of his grip; he took a step forward, effectively trapping me against the counter, and I refused to meet his eyes.

  “You’re angry with me.” I heard him sigh.

  “I’m not angry. I don’t get angry.”

  “Then you do a really good impression of angry.”

  Am I angry? I wondered. I couldn’t remember ever being really angry, not even when my mother left, not when Jem spiked my orange juice before the SATs, not when Jon cheated on me with random bimbo number two. I was flustered and agitated and more annoyed than I’d ever felt in my life.

  I lifted my hand to my forehead and rubbed my temple. “Look,” I huffed. He was standing too close. I couldn’t think with my brain when my body wanted to climb him like a tree. “I’m not angry. I just have a completely irrational hatred of cell phones. And you are just the messenger.”

  “It won’t be as bad as you think.” He sounded remorseful.

  I looked at him then, narrowed my eyes unhappily. “It’s already pretty bad.”

  “Now I can text you daily jokes.” Again, his voice was deadpan, but his eyes were alight with mischievousness; he placed his hands on either side of me, my back still against the counter, and filled every inch of my immediate vision.

  I cleared my throat to gain composure. My annoyance was melting into something warmer even as I tried to stay focused. “I thought you said there would be no texting.”

  “Only from me, and you don’t have to answer.”

  “I won’t answer, and I won’t read your jokes.”

  Then he smiled that slow sexy grin that always penetrated my defenses. “Yes you will. You’ll read them.” He nodded slowly, just once, as though to emphasize his certainty.

  I tried not to smile and only half succeeded. “I’m still angry with you.”

  “You said you weren’t angry.”

  “In retrospect, I think I was angry…” I tried to take a step to the side and met only the immobile granite of his arm. “…am angry.”

  “What can we do about that?” His eyes moved between mine.

  I tried to keep my voice steady. His closeness was twisting my stomach into knots. Didn’t he understand the concept of personal space?

  “You can start by moving out of the way. I’ve been gone for too long, and my very late lunch is now cold.”

  I let out a breath of relief tinged with a semi-subconscious note of disappointment as he stepped back; he straightened and let his arms fall to his sides. It was suddenly clear to me that our short time together had helped me to become slightly more at ease around him. If he’d cornered me like he’d just done when he escorted me from my old job, I think I would have spontaneously combusted with lust or fainted into a coma of bliss.

  It felt like we were becoming friends or, at least, friendly. I didn’t see him as just a delicious piece of man meat anymore. I saw him as Quinn: pushy, intelligent, frustrating, sexy Quinn who liked to tease me and thought I was smart and talented.

  The corner of his mouth pulled upward just a fraction. “Yesterday you said I could interrupt your meals anytime.”

  I grunted a non-answer and wrapped my arms around myself. Without his closeness, I felt cold, and something about his eyes made me shiver.

  He sighed, suddenly becoming serious. “Listen, I was calling earlier to cancel for today, but I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning at ten for training.” He pulled a hand through his hair, causing the locks to arrange themselves with adorable askew-ness before settling back to their tousled perfection. “You go eat your cold lunch. I have to go to a meeting.”

  “Go then.” I shrugged. “And if you lock yourself out of your car, don’t call me. I won’t be answering my cell phone.”

  His eyes narrowed threateningly in response. “You’ll answer. Besides, I’m taking the motorcycle.”

  I frowned. “Be careful on that thing.”

  He nodded once, gave me a half smile, and left. I stood in place for several minutes after he left, motionless except for intermittent smiles and frowns alternating over my features. I replayed our conversation in my head; the phone felt heavy in my pocket. I thought about appealing to Carlos about the phone. As Quinn said, Carlos was my boss, and if he decided the phone was unnecessary, then maybe I could get out of having to carry it around.

  On my way back to my office to eat my now cold lunch, I felt the phone vibrate against my thigh. At first, I didn’t know what it was, and jumped in startled surprise. I fished out the contraption and glanced at the screen; true to his word, he’d sent me a joke:

  There are 10 kinds of people in the world: those who understand binary numbers, and those who don’t.

  I shook my head and said to no one in particular, “What a nerd.”

  By the time I departed the elevator to my floor, I had a silly grin on my face, and any thoughts of appealing to Carlos had vanished.

  When I arrived home that night after tutoring, Elizabeth was still gone, and it looked like she hadn’t yet returned to the apartment. This was fairly typical for her, and I think it was one of the main reasons why she and I were able to cohabitate in a small one-bedroom apartment with no issues or drama. That and we were drama-free by nature. I plowed through my Chinese takeout then dutifully opened my laptop and began searching for two-bedroom apartments.

  Three hours later and no real progress made, I navigated instead to my email. As usual, I had an email from my dad; it was a forward of some joke. This was how he communicated with me. I often wondered if my dad knew he could modify the content of messages, as he’d never sent me anything but forwarded emails.

  There was also an email from Jon.

  Jon and I were speaking every few days and meeting for coffee or lunch or dinner since his freak-out a week and a half earlier. It was almost as if we were dating again, except we lived separately and the nights didn’t end with soft kisses and caresses but rather awkward goodbyes and weird staring contests.

  Each time we saw each other, he indirectly, or sometimes quite directly, he brought up the possibility of us getting back together. I hoped that over time he would realize our romantic past was exactly that: the past.

  This particular email from Jon was in response to my suggestion that we change a lunch to a dinner.

  Jon and I were scheduled to meet for lunch on Friday after
noon, and I was planning to bring Steven along. One day at work, after reviewing the corporate account structures and during a particularly funny story about one of Steven’s most recent dating disasters, I mentioned to Steven that Jon and I were still friends. Steven said he wanted to see what an amicable breakup looked like. With his gray eyes narrowing in plain suspicion, he insisted the concept was as mythical as odor-free cat litter.

  However, since Quinn’s announcement less than forty-eight hours ago that my days would now include afternoons spent meeting corporate partners, I emailed Jon earlier in the day and canceled the lunch. Instead, it was settled that Jon, Steven, and I would all have dinner together tomorrow night at a new Ethiopian restaurant near my place.

  Before I closed my inbox, another message popped up. I blinked at the screen several times before the words made sense.

  It was from my sister Jem.

  The body of the email was blank, but the subject line read I’m coming to visit. I want to see you.

  Chapter Ten

  The next morning I woke up, took a shower, and was dressed in ten minutes; then spent twenty minutes contemplating my shoe selection. I arrived at the office early and set to work sorting through emails, pending tasks, and preparing for my upcoming business trip to Las Vegas in less than two weeks. Minutes ticked by at a cruelly slow pace. My mind wandered to Jem’s strange email.

  I was so engrossed in my meanderings that the ring of my cell phone made me jump. Frantically and fumbling, I answered it, finally. It was ridiculous. My office phone never made me nervous.

  “Hello?” I said when I finally brought it to my ear.

  “Hey, it’s me. Come downstairs.” Quinn’s gravelly tenor sounded from the other end. There was traffic in the background and the roar of a large truck.

  I sighed as I stood, gathering my portfolio from the desk. “Why didn’t you just call my office phone? I’m in my office.”

  “I wanted to make sure you were reachable on the cell.” I could hear the smile in his voice. I felt half-heartedly annoyed.