MOTION Read online

The fact that he said nothing at all didn’t help. He just…looked.

  At first, he held my gaze for a long moment; then he looked up, he looked down, he looked all around. This was done with such a deliberate languorous insolence that I feel like I was being perused for purchase. I blamed my slightly inebriated state when I was tempted to ask if he were looking for something in particular or just window-shopping.

  Regardless, his eyes were the bull, all my previous attempts at detachment were the china shop, and he was smashing it to pieces—smash, smash, smash.

  I managed a deep breath but couldn’t seem to release it. I maybe resembled a red-nosed reindeer caught in headlights.

  Then, he moved.

  “Can I come in?” Quinn asked the question like it was a statement and, without even pretending my response mattered, he walked into my room leaving me to stare after him as I held the door.

  “I don’t. I—well—if—you—I guess—how… ok.”

  As he walked by, I smelled whiskey, and the aftershave or soap he had used still clung to his skin and his suit.

  He smelled delicious. Smash, smash, smash.

  I released the breath I’d been holding after a further three or four seconds then, on fragmented autopilot, hesitantly closed the door. I kept changing my mind as I moved in slow motion, reconsidering the correctness or appropriateness of closing the door while my boss’s boss sauntered around my hotel room.

  My internal dialogue went something like this: Leave it open! But that would be strange if someone walks by. Who cares? I care! Why do I care? Just close it! You can’t close it; you’re in your underwear! And if the door is closed, you might…do…something. Here is the situation: I’m in my underwear in my room with Quinn, and my alcohol-laden inhibitions are low, low, low. It’s like closing yourself up in a Godiva chocolate shop; of course you’re going to sample something. Don’t sample anything! Don’t even smell anything! If you smell it, you’ll want to try it. Don’t smell him anymore— No. More. Smelling. I hope he doesn’t see the empty bottle of wine… Put some clothes on. Is it weird if I dress in front of him? I want some chocolate. Ah! Clothes!!

  Finally, the door closed even though I hadn’t made a conscious decision to do so. I took a steadying breath then turned and followed him, trailing some distance behind and crossing to the opposite side of the room from where he was currently standing. I spotted my workout shirt on the bed and attempted to put it on surreptitiously.

  Quinn’s back was to me, and he seemed to be meandering around the space; he didn’t appear to be in any hurry. He paused for a short moment next to my laptop and stared at the screen.

  He looked lost and a little vulnerable. Smash, smash, smash

  I took this opportunity to pull on some sweatpants and a sweatshirt from my suitcase. The sweatshirt was on backward, with the little V in the back and the tag in the front, but I ignored it, grabbed my jacket from the closet behind me, and slipped it on too.

  He walked to the window and surveyed the view as I hurriedly pushed my feet into socks and hand-knit slippers, given to me by Elizabeth last Christmas.

  I was a tornado of frenzied activity, indiscriminately and quietly pulling on clothes. I may have been overcompensating for my earlier state of undress. However, it wasn’t until he turned toward me with leisurely languid movements that I finally stopped dressing; my hands froze on my head as I pulled on a white cabled hat, another hand-knit gift from Elizabeth.

  Quinn sighed. “I need to talk to you about your sist…” But then he stopped speaking when he lifted his gaze to me.

  His features, shaping into something resembling dumbfounded astonishment, were cast in a warm glow from a nearby lamp.

  He looked earnestly surprised and a little boyish. Smash, smash, smash.

  His mesmerizing eyes narrowed as they looked over my now completely covered form; the only skin showing was that of my face and hands. If I’d been thinking clearly and soberly, I might have felt ridiculous. Instead, as I was most definitely not thinking clearly and was most definitely not sober, I was cursing myself for leaving my gloves in Chicago, and I was looking for my glasses.

  He shifted on his feet, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and studied me with open and growing amusement. “Are you going somewhere?”

  I swallowed and tried to shrug, but the movement was lost under the layers of clothing. “Yes.” I lifted my chin, feeling suddenly hot, which reminded me of how hot it was outside, even at 9:30p.m. I then quickly amended. “No.” I lowered my hands from the hat on my head and tugged at the sleeves of the jacket. “I haven’t decided.”

  He tilted his head just so, his mouth tugging upward on one side, and then he slowly, slowly started crossing to me like he was stalking prey; like he was afraid sudden movements might send me into another tornado of clothing myself. “Where were you thinking of going?”

  “To gamble,” I blurted. It was the only thing I could think of in my slightly imbibed state; after all, we were staying at a world-famous casino in Las Vegas.

  “Really?” he asked conversationally, like I was telling him about a good bargain down at the Save-A-Lot. “What were you thinking of playing?”

  “Poker.” I wanted to cross my arms over my chest, but due to clothing, boobs, and a lack of coordination, I encountered too much bulk; my movements were restricted.

  “Poker.” He nodded once, holding me in place with a clearly skeptical if not entertained expression. “Is it very cold—this place where you’re going to play poker?”

  Without me really noticing, he’d crossed to me. One moment Quinn was at the far side of the room by the window, and the next moment he was standing directly in front of me with no more than three feet of air and clothes separating us.

  “N-no—not necessarily. I just wanted to be prepared.”

  “Prepared for arctic temperatures?”

  “Prepared for any eventuality.”

  “Like what? Poker in a freezer?”

  “Like strip poker.” I said the words before my brain thought them and, due to his proximity, I saw something the opposite of calm flash behind his eyes. I chewed on my top lip to ensure I didn’t say anything else. I knew that my own eyes were overtly large, and watchful, and very repentant for the most recent sounds of my mouth.

  Quinn swallowed, and his expression had changed: less teasing but no less intense. “We could…” His gaze flickered to my lips then settled on my forehead. “We could play strip poker here.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  My already large eyes widened further, and I blinked several times in rapid succession. “I-I-I.” I reached for something to hold on to and ended up leaning against the wall behind me. “I can’t—we can’t do that.”

  “But you’ll play strip poker with strangers?” He seemed to be studying me very closely.

  “Well, yeah—” This was a strange conversation to be having, as I was speaking in the theoretical sense and in the literal. Theoretically, I’d play strip poker with strangers, depending on the circumstances and the strangers, but I had no literal intention of doing so.

  Quinn quickly countered. “And if I happened to be playing poker—strip poker—at the only table in the casino, would you still play?”

  I hesitated; I felt like I was being led into a trap that involved Quinn getting naked, which actually sounded really nice. I reluctantly said, “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because… I—you’re you.” I congratulated myself for not slurring the words even as sweat was beading on my chest and upper back.

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Sometimes?” He lifted his eyebrows just slightly in challenge. “Haven’t I always been honest?”

  “You’ve been technically honest.”

  “Do you think I’d ever hurt you?”

  His questions were rapid-fire, and the way he looked at me paired with my self-imposed heat suit and questionable policy of drinking alone made me a lot dizzy.
r />   I hesitated again, then said, “I don’t know.”

  He frowned at my response but didn’t relent. “Don’t you think everyone deserves a chance?”

  “A chance?”

  “Yes, a chance.”

  “What…what kind of chance?” My words were a little shaky, and his expression remained inscrutable, but his eyes—his eyes were dark, purposeful, and almost menacing in their glittering intensity.

  Damn smoldering eyes. Smash, smash, smash.

  “A chance to prove themselves, to defy shortcuts and preconceived expectations, preferences… labels.”

  I pressed my lips together. This was one of those questions that are impossible to answer correctly, such as, When did you stop beating your wife? Did I believe everyone deserved a chance? Yes. But he knew that. I breathed in through my nose but stopped when I smelled him: whiskey, aftershave, and Quinn.

  He smelled great. Smash, smash, smash.

  In a moment of weakness, likely caused by my smelling him, my voice was quiet and laced with a note of resignation when I responded. “Yes. Everyone deserves a chance.”

  He gave me one of his barely-there smiles, just a hint of a smile, and licked his lips. “Then I want my chance.”

  “And how do you propose I give aforementioned shhh—ance—” I swallowed in order to correct my slur. “…this chance…to… you? What vehicle will you use for the chance?”

  We’d said the word ‘chance’ so much it was starting to sound distorted and funny: chance, chance, chance, chance, shance, shance, shanz, shanz… shnaz

  Without preamble he said, “I want to date you, be exclusive. I want us to spend time together like we did before I had to go to Boston last week. And, if I have to travel, I want you to answer the cell phone when I call, because I want to hear your voice.”

  With every syllable that left his mouth, I felt my button being pushed again and again, and the resulting crimson blush was truly massive. I cleared my throat and said, “Oh, is that all…?”

  “No.” He shook his head, interrupting me. “That’s not all. I want to touch you and kiss you, frequently, and I want you…” He shifted on his feet as though steadying himself then his hand reached out; he stepped closer and cupped my cheek in his palm. “I want you to touch me.”

  Gah! His words!! Smash, Smash, SMAAAAAASH!!

  “And…” he said, but then he paused, his fingers threading through the hair above my temple and beneath the hat covering my head. He pushed it off and we both let it fall to the floor. “I want to play strip poker, with you, right now.”

  I was careful to take my next breath through my mouth. I didn’t want Quinn-sniff to influence my already wino-impaired brain function. A little voice in the back of my head said, Don’t trust him! You’re not special! You’re weird and awkward and a bigheaded Neanderthal freak with Medusa hair! He’s confused you with someone else!

  Almost immediately, I told that voice to eat shit and die.

  I wanted to believe him.

  My palms lay flat against the wall behind me and I slanted my chin upward so I could really look at him. His expression straddled between guarded and hopeful. I recognized it so acutely because it was how I’d been feeling since we met.

  I cleared my throat and took another steadying breath, through my mouth, releasing it slowly before asking, “What if I said no?”

  Quinn became very still. “Are you saying no?” His tone felt just a wee bit dangerous.

  I shook my head. “No…I mean, I’m not saying no. I just want to know what happens if I say no.”

  He paused again, staring at me as though the answer to my question was written on my face. He no longer looked hopeful; he just looked guarded. Silence stretched for almost a full minute, and we stood there watching each other. Then he blinked suddenly, and an expression resembling dawning comprehension made his eyes flash.

  “Janie,” Quinn shifted away; his hand fell from my hair; his countenance darkened. “You’re not going to lose your job.”

  I twisted my mouth to the side and made sloppy work of crossing my arms over my chest. “You won’t be upset?”

  “Yes, I’ll be upset—” He cleared his throat, looked away briefly then met my gaze again. “I’ll be disappointed.” He said the word disappointed very carefully, measured, like it was meant to be four words in one. “But, I’m not going to disadvantage my company because you don’t…” He lifted his hands between us then rested them on his hips. “Because you’re not interested.”

  I surveyed him for a moment then asked, “Would it be the same job that I have now? Or would it be something else?”

  His jaw ticked. “The same job.”

  I nodded absentmindedly. Even though he was looking increasingly reserved and upset, I found my nerves had calmed significantly.

  I took a step forward and shrugged out of the jacket. “Would we be friends or just Mr. Sullivan and Ms. Morris? Could we still hang out?”

  He let out a deep sigh, and I didn’t like the hard expression setting his mouth in a firm, unhappy line, or the way his usually fiery eyes were growing cold and distant. “Listen.” He said it slowly, like a rumbly growl. “I’m not an overbearing asshole, but I’m also not a masochist. So, no…I’m not interested in being friends.”

  “Hmm,” I said, studying him. If I were honest with myself, I would have to admit that his answer made me happy for some strange reason. I didn’t understand why, so I tucked the data point away for future analysis. Regardless, it made me happy, and I allowed myself a small smile. The alternating lava and ice emoto-craziness I’d been living with since last Sunday settled down to a heated simmer of unease.

  “What if—”

  “Janie—” He lifted his hands, hesitated, and then placed them on my upper arms. I found it interesting that sometimes he seemed to need to touch me or make contact between us before he could speak. “What can I say to convince you that a relationship between us isn’t going to affect your job?”

  “But what if we were to break up?”

  “I still wouldn’t fire you.”

  “How can you be certain of what you would do? What if I kidnap your dog?”

  “What? Why would you—” He huffed impatiently then shook his head. “I don’t have a dog.”

  “That’s not the point. What if I turned bat-shit crazy on you but still was a great employee?”

  “I’m professional enough to keep my work life and personal life separate.”

  I sighed unhappily. “But you don’t know—”

  He slid his hands down to mine and held them. “You can’t prepare for every scenario or eventuality in life.”

  “But what if getting involved turns out to be a horrible mistake?”

  “What if it turns out to be the best decision we ever made?”

  “I’m risk adverse.” Even as I said the words I squeezed his hands with mine, afraid he would let go.

  He studied me with frustrated contemplation, his brow furrowed deeply. Quinn shifted closer and leveled me with a deliberate gaze. “Ok, what if we didn’t decide? What if we left it to chance?”

  I swallowed. “How so? How do we do that?”

  “We’ll play poker.”

  “One hand?”

  “No, we’ll play until midnight. Whoever has the most clothes on at midnight wins.”

  “Wins what?”

  His eyes flickered to my lips and he licked his own. “If I win, we date for a month, during which time I get to buy you whatever I want.” I started to protest, but his voice rose over mine, and his hands held me in place. “And you stop looking for reasons or labels or whatever for why we shouldn’t. If you win, then…” he shrugged lightly, “…then you decide what happens next.”

  I swallowed again, eyed him warily, and then I pulled my hands from his grip and stepped to the side.

  Still hot, I pulled the sweatshirt over my head; the workout shirt also came off at the same time and I tossed them across the discarded jacket. This left me in my
tank top, bra, sweat pants, underwear, socks, and slippers—six pieces of clothing; nine if you counted the socks and slippers as separate articles.

  The room tilted a little and I wobbled. My state of intoxication hung around me like a fur coat, and would likely continue for several hours. Any decisions I made would probably be impaired.

  Impaired judgment- check.

  His gaze drifted to my neck, chest, stomach, and then back up again. The usual fire reignited in his eyes, but it was mixed with something else; something I couldn’t place or, more likely, didn’t comprehend. It was like I’d just slapped him but not quite.

  I stopped trying to read his thoughts and instead tallied his clothes with a sideways glance. He was wearing a tie, shirt, jacket, undershirt, pants, socks, shoes, and either boxers or briefs. That was seven pieces of clothing or ten if I counted the socks and shoes as separate pieces.

  “We’re not evenly matched.” I pointed to his tie then put my hands on my hips and mimicked his stance. I hoped bravado and wine-haze would prop up my resolve. So far, so good.

  He glared at me, looking resentful, and his voice was steely as he asked, “What, specifically, makes you think so?”

  I lifted my chin and indicated his tie again. “Your tie, Quinn. I have on nine pieces of clothing, and assuming you’re wearing underwear of some sort, you have on ten. I can either put on my hat, or you can take off your tie.”

  His glare morphed into a perplexed frown as I spoke, but when I reached the end of the last sentence, his features transitioned into something like petulant yet amused understanding, and most of the rigidity left his shoulders and neck.

  We stared at each other, again for almost half a minute, before I broke the silence.

  “Or, you could take off your jacket…?”

  Quinn’s mouth hooked to the side; he smoothly removed his jacket and tossed it to the pile of my discarded clothes. He began unfastening his cufflinks, and the breath he released while pinning me with an irritated stare sounded relieved. It made me smile.

  “You’re going to pay for that.”

  I widened my eyes. “For what?”