MOTION Page 12

  “Next time just call the office phone.” I hung up on him before he could respond and felt a little twinge of satisfaction. If he could initiate a conversation with me whenever he wanted, then I could end it whenever I wanted.

  A black Mercedes was illegally parked at the corner, and Quinn stepped out of the back seat as I exited the building. He wasn’t wearing his guard uniform or a suit; instead, his tall form was clothed in black boots, dark jeans, and a blue T-shirt; as normal, his hair was expertly tousled, his face was a mask of indifference, but his eyes were hidden behind a pair of aviator sunglasses. I took a moment to appreciate the sight of him. He looked really yummy. I may have sighed. I may have licked my lips.

  I walked out to the car, feeling a little conspicuous in my capped sleeve red oxford shirt, gray pants, and red satin stilettos. I’d opted to wear my glasses instead of contacts; for some reason, I always felt a bit more invisible when I wore glasses, like I blended into the scenery behind the frames. My hair was once again in a tight bun. As I approached, I saw my reflection in his sunglasses, which only increased my unease. I thought he was going to lecture me for hanging up on him, but instead he smiled as I approached.

  “Hey.” He nodded once.

  “Hi.” I gave him a half wave, gripping a portfolio notebook to my chest for taking notes, just in case. Neither Steven nor Carlos proactively briefed me on the scope or purpose of the training. I thought of Steven’s statement yesterday when I asked him if I should prepare or bring anything for the training; he’d said that we would tour a property, but it should take only an hour.

  Steven was half-right. Quinn did show me one of the properties, but we were not back within the hour.

  The car took us a short distance to the League Center. The League Center is your typical arena concert venue, and Guard Systems was acting as a security consultant for the managing security company.

  There had been a number of breaches in physical security during the past six months. The most recent included an impressively enthusiastic fan that posed as a roadie and serenaded the early audience with a drunken/stoned rendition of a teen pop song called Girl, I Love You Hard.

  When we arrived, we were given a comprehensive tour, and the visit ended up being part business meeting between Quinn, the lead Guard Security liaison, and the onsite supervisor of the security management company; part training-slash-information session for my benefit; part review and tour of newly implemented measures.

  Quinn was very quiet in the car on the drive to the League Center, and very businesslike, abrupt, and authoritative with everyone we encountered at the venue. He was not the Quinn I knew from Club Outrageous and the morning after at his sister’s apartment and Giavanni’s Pancake Diner, or the Quinn at Smith’s Take-away and Grocery, or even at Starbucks. If he didn’t look bored, he looked unimpressed. People called him Mr. Sullivan or sir. At one point, I thought one of the ground staff was going to salute.

  He was actually quite intimidating.

  However, throughout the entire visit, businesslike though he was, Quinn took special care and time to define concepts and acronyms that he thought I might not understand. He clearly identified and described weaknesses in the venue’s security, and he provided context and background to purchases, personnel, and any other topic that he felt related specifically to my management of the account.

  By the time 5:30 p.m. rolled around, my brain felt full and my stomach was growling. We just finished an inspection of the site’s server facility, and Jamal, the Guard Security liaison, was leading us down a narrow, low-ceilinged hallway to the elevator.

  He glanced at his cell phone and said, “The gates will be opening for tonight’s concert in one hour, so now is the time to eat if you’re hungry. The first act is onstage at 7:10 p.m.”

  I looked imploringly from Jamal to Quinn; aside from being ravenously hungry and suffering from crippling stiletto-related foot pain, I had plans with Steven and Jon at seven o’clock.

  “Um, are we staying for the concert?”

  Quinn nodded, his expression of impassive detachment firmly intact.

  This was news to me. I chewed on my top lip during the silent ride on the elevator and debated what to do next. I was with Quinn, and I didn’t particularly mind that I’d be stuck with him for several more hours, even if it would be Mr. Sullivan Quinn instead of shirtless, smiley, teasing Quinn.

  The elevator reached our floor, the top floor, and Quinn placed his hand on the base of my spine to guide me from the lift. He’d been doing this all day, and I was still getting the warm fuzzies each time. I was so preoccupied with Quinn’s hand I didn’t notice where we were until Jamal opened the door to a private box and motioned me inside.

  “Here—we have dinner set out. I’ll be back in an hour to take you through the gate procedures, and then I’ll show you the new crowd control measures we’ve instituted.” Jamal didn’t enter the room and was gone before I could turn and thank him or say goodbye.

  I took three steps into the impressive box and stopped, my eyes moving over the spacious suite with unbridled wonder. It was very large. There was a full kitchen with a bar, several high-top circular tables and stools as well as five rows of stadium leather seats facing a large picture window overlooking the stage.

  A small buffet of fruit, green salad, hot dogs, hamburgers, condiments, barbeque potato chips, and canned soda was placed on the bar. This was not fancy food by any stretch of the imagination, but two of my favorites happened to be represented: hot dogs and barbeque potato chips.

  Quinn crossed to the steps leading down to the picture window and scanned the floor of the arena beyond.

  I glanced at my watch and fiddled with the strap. I was having what my sister Jem calls a champagne problem: a champagne problem is when something good happens but it interferes with something else, usually planned, which is either very important or also good. I wasn’t really sure what to do.

  Quinn must’ve noticed my disquiet because he asked, “Are you hungry?”

  I nodded as I eyed the food, and in confirmation, my stomach rumbled audibly.

  “Is the food ok? I can order something else.”

  “It’s just…” I twisted my mouth to the side. “It’s just that I actually have dinner plans for tonight.”

  “With who?”

  “With Steven from work and my friend Jon.”

  “Jon.” Quinn repeated the name and shifted on his feet. His eyes moved between mine. “Isn’t that the name of your ex?”

  I nodded. “Yes, it’s the same person. The three of us were supposed to go out to lunch, but instead we moved it to dinner because I thought I’d miss lunch due to the training today, and so…” I sighed, assuming the aloofness in his expression meant I was boring him. “Sorry—I’m sorry. You probably don’t care about any of this. Anyway, I just need to call them and cancel for tonight.”

  Quinn watched me for a moment; as usual, his features seemed to be carefully expressionless. Then he said, “Are you and Jon back together?”

  “Oh, no. We’re just friends now. But Steven wanted to see what an amicable breakup looked like, so we are all going out for sustenance.”

  “You still see this guy—Jon?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “All the time?”

  It felt as though I was being interrogated. “No, not all the time; just two or three times a week.”

  Quinn’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you sure you’re not still dating this guy?”

  “Yes. I’m sure. I think I would know if I were having sex with someone.” I bit my lip as soon as the words were out of my mouth; feeling very abruptly mortified, a remarkable blush spread its warm tentacles up my neck and behind my ears. I fiddled with the zipper of the portfolio.

  We stood silently for several moments, and I had to continue biting my lip to stem the tide of random sex factoids that threatened to spill forth. I was annoyed by his questioning and even more annoyed with myself for feeling the need to answer.

&
nbsp; I didn’t like that he knew every detail about my lack of a love life, but I knew absolutely nothing about him, whether he was seeing someone or had a girlfriend or a fiancé—or a wife.

  Without really meaning to, I glanced at his left hand; his third finger was bare. When I spoke, I was surprised by the sound of my voice. “You’re not married.”

  “Was that a question?”

  I lifted my chin and met his gaze, hoping that if I appeared confident, then he wouldn’t notice my unending mantle of awkwardness. “No…yes.”

  “No. I’m not married.”

  His response further aggravated me. I already knew he wasn’t married. When he didn’t continue, I pressed him. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “What about you?” Either my empty stomach or annoyance augmented my confidence.

  “What about me?”

  “Are you having sex with anyone?”

  His mouth fell open in obvious shock and he actually stuttered. “Wh—what—why do you want to know?”

  “Well, you now know who I’m not having sex with. I think it’s only fair.”

  He narrowed his eyes in a very hawk-like manner before answering. “I’m not dating anyone.”

  I wrinkled my nose at him. “Well, that’s not an answer. I didn’t ask you if you were dating anyone. I asked you if you were having sex with anyone.”

  “Not at this moment.”

  I pursed my lips and tried my very best to give him a withering glare. He responded by mirroring me; the only difference was that his stare really was withering, and would have been quite effective if he hadn’t also been suppressing a smile.

  It wasn’t my finest moment, but I rolled my eyes and actually huffed. “Fine, don’t answer. I don’t even know why I asked.”

  “No. I am not having sex with anyone.”

  “Oh.” I shrugged nonchalantly, but for some reason his response filled me with glee. It was as if a unicorn had appeared beneath a double rainbow and started tap dancing. Despite my best efforts to maintain a neutral expression, I could feel my mouth curve into a mutinous grin.

  Quinn tilted his head to the side as though studying me and my reaction to his statement. Then he said, “Now it’s your turn.”

  “My turn?”

  “Yes. How many people have you had sex with?”

  It was my turn: my turn to be shocked.

  My jaw dropped but no sound came out for several seconds; my mind stopped, and at one point, I was uncertain if I’d heard him correctly. When I finally spoke, my voice sounded like a squeak. “Could you repeat the question?”

  He laughed and took a step closer to me. “You heard me the first time.”

  “That’s not any of your business.” I took a step back.

  “No? You asked me—”

  “You asked me first—”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “No, I didn’t. You volunteered.”

  “You asked me if I was still dating Jon.”

  “But you’re the one who brought up sex.”

  I opened my mouth to argue but then realized he was right. I considered the question as I glared at him. I wondered if he would reciprocate if I answered. But I didn’t want to answer, because Jon was the only guy I’d been with. I didn’t know how to feel about that, how normal or abnormal it made me to be a twenty-six-year-old woman who’d had only one sexual partner. And I didn’t want to give Quinn more ammunition for additional ambiguous teasing.

  “Fine.” I started chewing on my lip, stalling, hoping that we’d be interrupted again by one of the managers, or by a bear attack, or an earthquake, or giant snakes.

  When I waited too long, he prompted. “Well?”

  “So, slept with…right?”

  “No, the question was: how many people have you had sex with?”

  “Are we using the Bill Clinton definition?” Not that it would have mattered.

  “No, the Hillary Clinton definition of sex.”

  “Ok, stop saying the word sex!” I glanced around the room looking for something to save me from this conversation. I didn’t even know how we got here.

  “Well?”

  “So, how does this work? If I tell you will you have to tell me?”

  Quinn shook his head. “Not unless you ask, in which case I get to ask you another question.” He really looked like he was enjoying himself. He was merciless.

  “What would your next question be?”

  “Janie, stop stalling and answer the question.”

  “Fine, fine, one—ok? One person, and to be honest, I don’t even know what the big deal is. If you ask me, society really does make way too much out of it. It’s like we want to glorify the process of procreation. You have these authors like Byron who make physical familiarity out to be some amazing, soul-consuming, meaning of life, like an end-of-the-world thing, and it’s not like that. It’s…” I waved my free hand in the air, trying to find the right words. “It’s like having someone else pick your nose or floss your teeth. It requires a lot of coordination and planning. For instance, you can’t do it unless you’ve had a shower within so many hours ahead of time. If you fall out of that time window, then you have to stop reading comics or whatever you’re currently doing, go take a shower, dry off, get dressed, blah blah blah. What a hassle. I think bacteria have the right idea; humans should procreate via binary fission.”

  I was sure my shirt and my face were the same color red. I hazarded a glance at him again through my lashes to find him watching me with no trace of his earlier amusement. I couldn’t read his expression, which only served to unsettle me further. I turned completely away from Quinn and started walking toward the door; the single knot in my stomach had turned into a million-man march of knots, and I couldn’t quite bring myself to look at him anymore.

  “I need to find a phone. I’ll be back.” I left my notepad on a high-top table and continued toward the exit.

  I heard him take a step behind me. “Where is your phone?”

  I waved him off, walking faster. “I left it at the office.”

  I was almost out the door when I felt his hand close around mine and turn me around. “Janie, you should carry it with you.”

  I pulled my hand from his and gained a half step back. “Well, you said you were the only person who would call me on it, and since you and I are here, together, there is no reason for me to carry it.”

  He frowned at me. “And when were you planning to pick up the phone before the weekend?”

  “I wasn’t.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

  “Does that mean we’re spending the weekend together too?” He took a full step toward me. I was forced to lift my chin to maintain eye contact.

  At his words, my stomach felt like it was full of honey-drunk bees; I swallowed with effort and stated what I felt to be obvious. “As far as I know, we’re not working this weekend. Why would you need to call me during non-business hours?”

  He opened his mouth as though he was going to say something but then clamped it shut, his jaw ticking as he ground his teeth. His eyes were half-lidded and piercing. After a long moment, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and handed it to me. “Here, you can call your friend on my phone.”

  I glanced at him then at the phone, then back at him again. Reluctantly I took the phone from his hand. “Thank you.” I muttered before I turned my back on him and dialed Jon’s number. For some reason it felt wrong to call Jon using Quinn’s phone. I pushed the discomfort aside, reminding myself that Jon and I were broken up and Quinn and I were coworkers. Coworkers could lend each other their phones. It was not unseemly. It was normal.

  Jon’s phone rang four times, and then he answered with a somewhat hesitant, “Hello?”

  “Hi, Jon, it’s me, Janie.” I took a few steps away from Quinn, keeping my voice low, although I didn’t precisely know why.

  “Hey, I didn’t recognize the number. Sorry I took so long to pick up. Are we all set for tonight?”

  “Um,
that’s why I’m calling.” I glanced over my shoulder; in my peripheral vision, I could see Quinn standing by the bar a few feet away, facing me. “Listen, I have to work tonight, so I can’t make it. Can we reschedule for tomorrow?”

  “Oh, ok. Well, that’s too bad…” I could almost see Jon’s frown. I heard him sigh. “What time tomorrow?”

  “Do you already have plans? Don’t cancel your plans; we can always—”

  “Janie, I want to see you. Of course, I’ll cancel my plans. You come first.”

  I felt my throat tighten, half from frustration, half from guilt, and I walked a few more steps away from Quinn. I was careful to keep my voice low but still above a whisper. “Jon, you can’t say things like that.”

  I was acutely aware of Quinn’s presence and, as though sensing my discomfort, I heard him say quietly, “I’ll be back.” He walked by me and out of the private box.

  “Who was that? Are you with someone?” Jon’s tone changed slightly, his voice rising. “Janie, is this really about work?”

  It was my turn to sigh. “Jon, I am at a site visit with one of my coworkers.”

  “A male coworker?”

  “Yes, if you want to get technical about it, I’m here with literally dozens of male coworkers.” I rolled my eyes.

  “And you are all working late? Where are you?”

  “I can’t tell you that; you know I signed a non-disclosure agreement. I can’t tell you about any of my clients.” I spun around and stalked to the other side of the room.

  “This is ridiculous. No one ever works late on a Friday night. If you would just let me take care of you, I would—”

  “Jon.” I hoped he heard the warning in my voice.

  “You know what? Fine. Fine. You have to work late—I get it.” He sounded frustrated yet resigned. “I still want to see you tomorrow. Listen, I’m sorry, Janie. I’m sorry. Can we just start over? I want to meet your friend Steven. Can’t we just meet for dinner tomorrow and have a good time?”

  I stared unseeingly at a spot on the wall, my guilt winning over my frustration. “Yes,” I said on an exhaled breath, and I glanced over my shoulder when I heard movement from behind me. Quinn reentered the room, gave me a brief once over, and then turned to the buffet of food. “Yes, that sounds good; we’ll try to make tomorrow work. I’ll call Steven next and see if he is available. Listen, I need to go.”