MOTION Page 13

  “Ok, but let me know if you need anything—money or anything. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Ok. Bye Jon.”

  “I love you, Janie. Don’t forget that.”

  I closed my eyes, my mouth curving into a frown. I said, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” and then I hung up.

  I punched Steven’s number into the cell and only had to wait one ring for him to pick up. “Mr. Sullivan?”

  “No, no—it’s Janie. Listen, we’re still at the site, and I have to work late, so that means dinner is off for tonight.” The words came out in a rush. Quinn crossed in front of me to a table with two plates in his hand, and the wafting smell of hot dogs made my mouth water.

  “Oh…” I heard Steven audibly shuffle papers on the other end of the phone. “Wait a minute, where are you?”

  “I’m—”

  “You know what, scratch that. I don’t want to know. No problem about tonight. We’ll reschedule for after the Vegas trip.”

  “Can you get together tomorrow for dinner instead?” Without really meaning to, I walked closer to where Quinn sat eating his food. I watched him take a large bite of his hamburger. His jaw flexed, and the muscles in his cheeks and neck were strangely mesmerizing. I may have been staring.

  “Sorry, no can do, babycakes. I’ve got a hot date.”

  Movement from the suite door pulled my attention from Quinn; I watched with perplexed interest as two girls entered, both wearing skintight T-shirts, which showed off their mid-drifts, and too short shorts. They each carried a tray laden with what looked like various glasses of alcoholic beverages.

  “Um—” I was distracted by the presence of the girls and had to refocus on my conversation with Steven. “Um…that’s ok. We’ll just reschedule then.”

  “Ok, sweetums. I’ll see you on Monday. And don’t let Mr. Bossy make you work too late. Buh-bye.”

  Before I could respond, Steven’s line clicked off. I let the hand holding the phone drop to my side, and I watched as one of the girls, who I shall call Girl #1, carried three large glasses, filled with what I assumed was beer, over to Quinn as the other girl, who I shall call Girl #2, unloaded the other glasses from the trays onto the bar. Girl #1 smiled at Quinn. It was what I recognized as a take-my-panties-off smile. My sister June had used it quite frequently on members of the football team when we were in high school.

  It made me glower.

  Much to my surprise and relief, Quinn didn’t seem to notice her smile. Instead, he offered a curt “thanks” and immediately lifted one of the beers to his mouth and took a long drink. Girl #1 loitered at his table, watching him. I loitered at one side of the room, watching them. Girl #2 loitered by the bar, watching us all.

  After a short moment, Quinn looked from Girl #1 to Girl #2 then briefly to me. He shifted on his seat then dismissed them. “I’ll let Jamal know if we need anything else.”

  I didn’t miss the disappointed frown cloud over Girl #1’s face as she left. I also had some difficulty explaining to myself the small smile tugging at my lips when the door closed. I stood in place, Quinn’s phone still in my hand, and continued to watch him eat. He took big bites. Every time he took a bite, a quarter of the hamburger disappeared. I think he actually finished it in four bites.

  I was abruptly pulled from my musings by the sound of his voice. “So, you finished your calls?”

  I blinked at him then nodded. “Yes. Yes, calls all finished.” My thumb moved over the smooth screen of his phone. I walked over to his table and placed his cell on the surface. “Here is your phone. Thank you again for letting me use it.”

  “Anytime.” His eyes moved over me in that way he sometimes employed: a plain, open assessment. He did this a lot, and it always made me feel uncomfortable and warm and flustered. He lifted his chin toward the bar. “I don’t know what you drink, so I ordered a few things.”

  I moved my attention to where he indicated and scanned the glasses sitting on the end of the bar. “Should we…?” I cleared my throat and motioned with my hand toward the three glasses of beer in front of Quinn. “Should we be drinking while we’re working?”

  Quinn took a bite of his hotdog and shrugged. “We’re not working now.”

  “But we’re not done; we still have the review of new crowd control measures.”

  Quinn interrupted me with a wave of his hand. “I spoke to Jamal. That part of the tour is off, so we’re done for today.” As though to emphasize this fact, Quinn took a long swallow from his glass and finished another third of the contents. He set it down firmly and looked at me.

  “Oh.” I blinked. I was befuddled, and when I am befuddled, I tend to speak my thoughts as they occur to me rather than engage in an internal dialogue like a normal person. “So that means I didn’t need to cancel my dinner plans?”

  Quinn’s jaw ticked and his mouth curved into a frown. “I guess not.” He placed three chips in his mouth and made a loud crunching sound as he chewed. His eyes were trained on me as his jaw worked, and I felt a now familiar anxiety under the piercing weight of his gaze.

  “Well, then—” I cleared my throat, “I should call Jon back and see if we can still get together.” I said the words, but I didn’t particularly want to follow through on the action. I stalled by glancing at my watch.

  “Or,” Quinn leisurely reached over and plucked his cell phone from the table then slipped it into his pocket, “you could stay here and enjoy the concert with me.”

  I lifted my wide eyes to his. “You’re staying for the concert?”

  He nodded.

  I opened my mouth to ask if we were allowed to stay but then thought better of it. I contemplated the current state of things. I contemplated Quinn; he looked relaxed yet somehow on edge. It also struck me again at that moment how startlingly and even painfully handsome he was. A fresh stab of awareness sliced through me, and I desperately wanted something to drink. Pulling my attention away from him, I eyeballed a martini glass on the bar filled with a bright yellow liquid and lemon twist garnish; the rim was coated with either salt or sugar, or a combination of both.

  I crossed to the bar and lifted it toward him. “What’s this?”

  “That’s a lemon drop.”

  I picked it up and sniffed it. It smelled good. “What’s in it?”

  “Lemon juice, sugar, and vodka.”

  “Vodka?”

  “My sister, Shelly, says it tastes like lemonade.” Quinn took a large swallow of his beer and finished it, and then he reached for the second glass next to his plate.

  I thought about mixing vodka and Quinn; it would make Quodka, which sounded to me like some sort of Bulgarian card game involving gangsters and prostitutes. I put the lemon drop back on the counter and motioned to his glasses of beer. “Are there any more beers?”

  “These aren’t beers; they’re boilermakers—beer and whiskey.”

  My eyebrows lifted of their own accord. “Oh.”

  Considering my options, I took a sip of the lemon drop. It didn’t exactly taste like lemonade, but it was delicious. I moved to the buffet and picked up a plate with my free hand, but before I could start heaping on piles of potato chips, Quinn’s voice stopped me.

  “I fixed you a plate already. It’s over here on the table.”

  I turned to face him. “Oh” was again all I could think to say.

  I put the empty plate back in its place, picked up a second martini glass full of the bright yellow liquid, and crossed to where Quinn was sitting. I slid onto the stool opposite him. The plate he’d fixed contained two hot dogs with generous amounts of both ketchup and mustard, a cornucopia of berries, and a perfect portion of barbeque potato chips.

  I smiled at the plate, my stomach rumbled again, and I took another sip of the lemon drop before setting both glasses down. “That is exactly how I like my hotdogs.”

  His mouth hitched to the side. “Fan of hotdogs, are you?”

  I nodded as I bit into the sausage. It was still warm, and it was delicious. I finished c
hewing and said, “It was my favorite dinner as a child. I think I would have lived off hotdogs if my mom had let me.”

  “But she didn’t?”

  “No, she was very body conscious, even when we were kids.” I licked mustard off my index finger.

  Quinn followed the movement, and his eyes stayed on my mouth as he asked, “How many siblings do you have?”

  “Two sisters; I’m in the middle.” I took another bite, licking the side of my mouth then washing all the nitrate goodness down with a generous wallow of lemon drop. I could barely taste the alcohol. “How about you?”

  “Um, one sister and…” Quinn took a gulp of his second beer.

  I waited for him to continue; when he didn’t I prompted, “And?” then took a very unladylike bite.

  “And a brother, but he died a few years ago.”

  I stopped chewing and, not thinking about my very full mouth, said, “Erm ser serrie erbert er beerder.”

  Quinn half smiled. “What was that?”

  I swallowed my food, took another gulp of my drink, and said again, “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry about your brother.”

  He watched me for a moment then glanced away; he took a large swallow of his beer, finishing the second one off and starting on the third.

  My head was starting to feel light, most likely from the addition of vodka to an empty stomach, but I attempted to push the sensation away and focus on our conversation. “Were you very close?”

  He nodded then cleared his throat. Still he didn’t look at me; still he said nothing. Without thinking, I reached up and covered his hand where it rested on the table with mine. “That completely sucks.” I finished my lemon drop, raised the elbow of my free arm to the tabletop, and rested my chin in the palm of my hand.

  He met my gaze. His was serious, searching. He turned his palm so that we were holding hands and agreed very quietly. “It does.”

  My eyes moved over him in open surveillance; I felt warm and loose-lipped, likely also due to the alcohol, and therefore didn’t think twice before I asked in rapid-fire succession, “What was he like? Was he like you? Was he older or younger?”

  “He was older. He wasn’t like…” His attention moved to our joined hands and he frowned, as though considering something; I noticed his unhappy expression and tried to withdraw, but he increased his grip—not painfully, just firmly—and glared at me. He tugged on my hand as though to ensure that I didn’t attempt to escape again. Without a word, I slipped off my seat and took the one next to him. When I was settled on the stool, he seemed to relax. “We weren’t alike,” he said. “He was a police officer in Boston.” He faced me so that one of his legs was between mine; his foot rested on the bottom rung of my stool.

  I tried to focus on his words, but the world seemed fuzzy. “His being a police officer meant that the two of you weren’t alike?” I took a drink from the second lemon drop, licking the residual sugar from my lips.

  His eyes moved to my mouth, stayed there, and seemed to lose focus. “Yes and no. He was honorable. I think he wanted to be a police officer because he always wanted to do the right thing.”

  I lifted an eyebrow at him and tilted my head in much the same way I’d witnessed him do a number of times before. “I still don’t understand; you’ll need to be more precise.” I mostly succeeded at not slurring when I asked, “Are you saying you’re not like him because you didn’t become a police officer?”

  His eyes didn’t move from my lips as he responded. “No. I’m not like him because usually I don’t want to do the right thing.”

  Either his proximity or my glass and a half of sugary-sweet alcohol were responsible for the heated deliberateness of my beating heart; I guessed it was a little of both. The air seemed to change and become slower—thicker. I felt like something important had just happened, but I was too foggy to grasp it. I did know that the way he was looking at me made my lower belly feel delightfully achy and full.

  However, before I could consider the issue further, he kissed me.

  Chapter Eleven

  He captured my mouth, pressing his lips to mine softly, then tilting his head and repeating as though he wanted to taste me from every angle. We were joined only by our lips and our clasped hands. This lasted just briefly before Quinn released my hand in favor of digging his fingers into the small of my back, pulling me from my seat and fully against him. I was between his legs, half-standing and half-leaning on his chest.

  Without thinking, I inclined forward; my hands rose and gripped his shirt, partly for balance and partly because the opportunity presented itself. His lips were warm and yielding. He kissed me gently at first, slowly, savoring each touch; but his grip on me was forceful, crushing me to him as though I might collapse or try to push him away.

  My brain and my body were disconnected, and I didn’t immediately respond to the current situation with appropriate enthusiasm, which, in all honesty, might have been a stroke of luck. Had I been prepared for the kiss and known it was coming, I likely would have become flustered, overeager, and ended up with half his face in my mouth.

  However, as it was, a small, involuntary moan escaped me. This turned out to be a very good thing because, almost immediately, I felt his tongue sweep gently against my mouth. I parted my lips and he responded with a low growl, his arms sliding completely around me as he claimed my mouth. His hand moved up my back and fisted in my hair; he pulled my bun out of its twist sending rascally curls in every direction. He looped a length of it around his hand and held me in place as he explored my mouth. The kiss turned hungry, and my hands, trapped between us, could only grip the front of his shirt.

  My reactions were entirely medulla oblongata-based. I was so engrossed in the sensations of Quinn—his hands, arms, mouth, chest—that I didn’t hear the door open behind me, and I didn’t understand why Quinn stiffened suddenly then pulled his mouth from mine. My eyes were still closed, my chin was still tilted upward, and my lips were still parted when he disentangled his hand from my hair and I heard him speak.

  “What is it?” He sounded angry.

  My eyes flew open, not comprehending his meaning, believing initially that he’d meant the words for me. It wasn’t until I realized he wasn’t looking at me but rather over my shoulder that my mind was allowed to engage. This time I recognized the voice behind me.

  “Sorry, it’s nothing. Shit. We thought you wanted—never mind.” I heard the door close as Jamal exited the box.

  It was in that moment that I knew my glasses were askew. I tried looking up into Quinn’s face, but the frames of the glasses blocked my vision casting black, horn-rimmed lines in every direction. Quinn’s arms were still around me in a pseudo vice-grip, and I gave myself until the count of six to enjoy being pressed against the hard planes of his body. When I reached six, I kept counting until twelve.

  Quinn made no movement; he was so still I thought he might be holding his breath. I gently pushed against his chest, readjusting my glasses as gracefully as possible. He loosened his grasp but kept his hands at my waist as I straightened. I let my glance flicker to his face and endeavored to read his expression through my lashes.

  His eyes were dark, unreadable, and half-lidded, watching me; and his mouth was reddish and mussed from our earlier kiss. I was wobbly on my legs and tried unsuccessfully to balance as I stood; it was likely that I would’ve fallen backward without his hands on me. He licked his lips. I had to suppress another moan. I closed my eyes again and dipped my chin to my chest.

  The dark shelter provided by my eyelids should have allowed me to make a concerted effort to sort through the house party of pandemonium and dinner party of doubt dueling for my attention; however, Quinn’s continued closeness, the weight of his hands curled around my middle, and his chest beneath my fingers was, once again, driving away my higher brain function.

  One thought galloped around and around in my brain: I can’t believe that just happened.

  Eventually it was accompanied by another thought: How
can I make that happen again?

  Once I was fairly certain of my balance, I opened my eyes and reluctantly lifted them, but I could only make it as far as his neck. I felt Quinn’s hands briefly tighten then fall to his sides. He took a shuffling step back, then another; he pulled his fingers through his hair leaving small spikes of disheveled disorder. As though not knowing quite what to do with them, Quinn placed his hands on his hips.

  He said, “That shouldn’t have happened.”

  His sobering words had an immediate effect; the alcohol and Quinn-induced tropical weather system that had spread through my body was blanketed by an arctic blast. With surprising dexterity and speed, I was able to distance myself from my starchy feelings of disappointment before they became unmanageable: box locked, light off, closet closed. My eyes lifted and met his only briefly; I looked over his shoulder.

  “Well, you did have three cement mixers.” My voice was a little breathless, so I swallowed and crossed my arms over my chest, hoping to steady my stream of words. “Alcohol is a depressant and depressants target a chemical called GABA, the primary inhibitory neurotransmitter within the brain. It has also been found that drinking increases levels of norepinephrine, the neurotransmitter responsible for arousal, which is believed to account for heightened excitement when you begin drinking. Norepinephrine is the chemical target of many stimulants, suggesting that alcohol is more than merely a depressant. Elevated levels of norepinephrine increase impulsivity which, in turn, leads to pleasure seeking behaviors you likely wouldn’t engage in without the introduction of alcohol into your system.”

  I chewed my lip; feeling conflicted about my very logical explanation. Explaining the kiss away via alcohol-induced madness made my head feel better, as though the world had been righted on its axis, and inalienable truths still existed. It also made my heart plus all the girly parts of me feel bad, like when you find out Santa is a myth or that Superman doesn’t really exist.