MOTION Page 28

  And Ida did have her way with my body. Let me make that perfectly clear.

  On the long, long journey to the bed, Ida had her way on the couch and the floor and the dresser; at one point Ida had her way against the wall.

  For maybe the first time ever in my life, my mind spent a significant amount of time not wandering because it couldn’t engage or gain any traction. All forebrain surfaces were slippery; everything and nothing was distracting at once. I was utterly focused on the moment, on the feeling and sensation of being with and over and next to and under and against Quinn.

  I was crushed and grabbed and stroked and admired and savored and, by God, aroused. I was aroused like it was going out of style and on sale. At one point, I thought it was going to sever me in two, and I panicked in much the same way a feral animal panics when approached with unfamiliar kindness.

  To my wonderment, Quinn seemed to innately comprehend what I needed. He knew when I required tenderness and when I craved—well, not tenderness. He calibrated his movements, caresses, and kisses as the counterpoint to desires I had no idea existed within me but which, now, I was certain I could never live without. With one arresting look, one devastatingly raw gaze that stole my breath and held me captive, one moment of connection, he made me fearless.

  The jarring part, because there is one, is that Quinn seemed to be just as lost as I was, and my body, my hands, my mouth, and my eyes seemed to know how to be his counterpoint, how to reassure and ignite and move and respond. If my forebrain were engaged, I’m sure I wouldn’t have recognized this suddenly fearless creature who found boldness and bravery, and who shed cowardice within the dreamy chaotic perfection of physical intimacy.

  When Ida—sated, satisfied, smug Ida—allowed the curtain to be pulled back, albeit briefly, Quinn and I were collapsed against each other in a Chinese knot of limbs and sheets. I was slightly less drunk on alcohol, but a great deal drunker on the euphoria that apparently accompanies mind-blowing sex.

  Ida whispered in my ear that Quinn felt warm and good and very, very right. I nodded at this assertion even as a small pain originating in my heart made it suddenly hard to breathe. I suppressed the sensation, swallowed it, and put it on a shelf to think about later.

  Abruptly, I had three rapid thoughts:

  Quinn still has his tie on.

  I wonder if he’ll let me keep it.

  I wonder if he’ll let me use it to—

  And then, just like that, Ida was in control again.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Life is funny.

  And I don’t mean just ha-ha funny; I also mean cunning, curious, capricious, and, “The joke’s on you, Batman!” funny.

  Sleep gradually receded and I blinked against unforgiving brightness. The first thing I saw was the staunchly, almost glowingly white pillow and empty sheets next to me. To my still drowsy eyes, the sheets did not look familiar and the room was too bright. I frowned, closed my eyes, and opened them again, and then I remembered.

  Naked.

  On a bed.

  In a hotel.

  In Las Vegas.

  Having just spent the better part of the early morning engaging in insouciantly indulgent lovemaking with Quinn Sullivan.

  I sat up abruptly and unthinkingly. My eyes were no longer drowsy. I was shocked awake as though an electric current had just been passed through my spine. My gaze tried to absorb everything at once: the room, the window, the door, the clock, the bed, my nakedness, the discarded piles of clothes peppering the floor like anthills, and the equally discarded pile of cards next to the ottoman.

  Rigidly, I listened intently for sounds—footsteps, breathing, shower, faucet—and spent several seconds holding my breath until I was convinced that I was alone. I released the breath I’d been holding slowly, and allowed my muscles to relax just a little. I allowed my brain to turn its attention to thoughts and feelings other than alarm and battle readiness as my eyes slowly took in my surroundings. I looked at the details rather than ascertain whether or not I was in immediate danger of encountering Quinn.

  Because, impulsively, on first recognizing and realizing where I was and what I’d done, that’s what it felt like: danger.

  Since I spent much of my childhood being left behind and ignored, one might think that, as an adult, moments of perceived abandonment would feel old hat. The truth is, as an adult, I am always waiting to be left behind. I’m always ready to be discarded and, therefore, I spend a significant amount of time preparing for this eventuality.

  I lower my expectations, I don’t seek out meaningful relationships, and I don’t engage in any sort of real intimacy, physical or otherwise.

  Engage is the key word here.

  Except, when I do engage, when it happens, when I’m left behind it doesn’t feel old hat. It feels like it did the first time, and it takes me by surprise.

  So I don’t let it happen.

  I swallowed, then licked my lips, absentmindedly pulled the bottom one through my teeth with worry. I glanced around the room and noted with cool detachment that the clock read 9:31 a.m. The only clothes strewn about belonged to me. I was alone.

  There was, however, a note.

  A white piece of paper lay on the bed next to me. I recognized the hotel logo at the top and Quinn’s efficient script beneath. The note was illegible from where I sat, so I stared at it.

  I stared at it.

  And, I stared at it.

  Then, I stared at it.

  After that, I stared at it.

  Dragging my attention elsewhere, I pushed my heavy, long hair away from my eyes and behind my shoulder then rested my forehead in my hand; my thumb and index fingers rubbed my temples. Tangible memories, not just initial scattered fragments, of what occurred before I fell asleep, of what I’d done and said, of what we did together, flooded into focus, and a faintly familiar small pain originating in my heart made it suddenly difficult to breathe.

  Impaired judgment.

  It wasn’t anxiety or fear. It was something like wishing, or longing—or hope. The sensation reminded me of when my mother would actually be present for one of my birthdays when I was a child, or when my parents would sit us down, the three girls, and tell us that my mom would be staying this time.

  I was uncomfortable with the sensation, and it made me feel despondent and weary. So I pushed it away as I’d done last night after we made love the first time, and I walked to the bathroom to take my shower. I encouraged my mind to wander, to think about something other than what Quinn’s note said and what, if anything, had changed because of last night; whether, in the light of day, my decisions had been good ones; where Quinn was; or when I would see Quinn again.

  However, to my disappointment, despite my desire to daydream about anything and everything else, all I could think about was the what, whether, where, and when of Quinn. This might have had something to do with the fact that signs of him were everywhere; and, by everywhere, I mean all over my body.

  I was sore from… exertion, as evidenced by nail marks, bite marks, and scruff marks. I stared at my reflection in the mirror for an indeterminate amount of time and, gritting my teeth, I turned on the shower.

  It wasn’t just that I’d never experienced anything like the connection, the intimacy, or the sensations of the previous night. Rather, it was that I’d never realized the desire existed.

  I felt wholly disconcerted by the fact that what had been a previously unidentified want now felt more like a need, like water and breathing and comic books and shoes. I didn’t like it that something had been awakened in me. I preferred to be in control of my cravings. Furthermore, I preferred only to have cravings I could satisfy without the requirement or assistance of another person. This was, after all, the definition of self-reliance.

  I tried to remind myself that I had been drunk, so nothing that happened last night really counted or mattered.

  Impaired judgment.

  Surely, he would realize that I’d been exhibiting impaired judgm
ent.

  After the shower, I towel-dried and applied hair product to my curls. My cheeks were flushed, and it had more to do with the memory of the previous night than with the steam of the shower.

  I walked into the main room and, still avoiding the note, scaled the perimeter of the bed, picked up my discarded clothes and folded them into a neat pile next to my suitcase. I picked out another business suit from the closet and started to dress, on autopilot.

  It was now 9:47 a.m., and the plane was due to leave at 3:00 p.m.

  I was facing five hours alone with the note. I eyed it despairingly.

  The other disconcerting realization originating from last night was the moment of what I thought was shared trust. I gave him something in that moment, when our eyes met and I became fearless; it was a part of myself. And now, in the very bright light of day, I wasn’t so sure that I’d made an especially wise decision.

  He hadn’t earned that trust. I gave it to him based on weakness called faith, and the faith had been based on wine-pickled-brain-impaired-judgment.

  I didn’t want to read the note. I felt certain I knew what it said. He was, after all, a Wendell at heart, and I’d just become one of his slamps. I swallowed thickly at the thought.

  But I wasn’t. I wasn’t a slamp.

  Instead of being controlled by the girly-drama-hysterical Janie, the more logical Janie endeavored to make her presence known: Having the hot sex over the course of several hours does not a slamp make.

  These thoughts didn’t help either.

  With a huff, I crossed to the bed and picked up the note; girly-drama-hysterical Janie was certain it was a blow-off. Logical Janie decided to reserve judgment until the note was read.

  * * *

  Janie,

  I’ll be right back with breakfast and coffee. Call me as soon as you wake up.

  -Quinn

  * * *

  I stared at the note.

  I stared at it.

  And, I stared at it.

  Then, I stared at it.

  After that, I stared at it.

  The longing was back, along with the hope. It spread like a wildfire through my heart and brain and body so fast I nearly lost my breath. Therefore, I did the only thing that made sense.

  I panicked.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I wondered if Quinn had ruined me for everything that was not-Quinn in much the same way that his private plane had ruined me for commercial airline travel.

  I left Las Vegas at 11:35 a.m. on an Alliantsouth direct flight to Chicago. The security line made me feel like a refugee, and it all went downhill from there. While waiting at the airside, an escaped pet turtle stole my glasses and snapped them in half at the nose. I was severely jostled when I boarded the plane, and I was pretty sure the man behind me copped a feel. When I took my seat by the window, the woman next to me took off her shoes.

  The smell of swamp feet was all I lived and breathed for two hours. I wondered if the thieving turtle would have enjoyed the aroma.

  Mercifully, more than a thousand miles and one taxi ride later, I was sitting at my desk, checking my email, sipping on coffee, and modifying the original project plan for the Vegas club. It was just after 6:00 p.m. and the office was quiet. I allowed myself to get lost in spreadsheets, calculations, formulas, and pivot tables.

  My office phone rang, and after inspecting a calculated value on my screen for veracity, I lifted the receiver to my ear.

  “Janie Morris.”

  “What the hell, Janie.”

  Electric shock, that’s what it was.

  He was irate, and the sound of his voice caused the sensation to travel down my spine and through my limbs until it stung my fingertips, toes, and ears.

  “Hi—Hi Quinn.” My chest was tight, and I was having trouble breathing; even so, I struggled to sound unflustered and calm.

  Silence.

  “How was your trip?”

  Silence.

  “It’s nice to hear your voice…” The statement came out sounding like a question, as though I were playing Jeopardy and I’d chosen my category.

  I heard him sigh, and I could almost see his beautiful face and the frustration marring his features.

  Finally, he said, “What’s going on?”

  I picked at the plastic of my desk calendar with my thumbnail and felt nothing but contrition.

  I closed my eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  His voice was less irritated. “Why are you sorry?”

  “I just…” I hesitated, letting my forehead fall into the palm of my hand.

  I couldn’t tell him the truth. I couldn’t tell him that I was sorry for exhibiting poor, wine-induced judgment and sleeping with him, because I wasn’t. I wasn’t sorry. I was glad I’d been inebriated, because it allowed me to do something that was so very, very unwise. I was glad my judgment had been impaired.

  I couldn’t tell him that I left because I was an idiot who was confusing fantastic sex with depth of feeling.

  I couldn’t say I was hoping for a future with him. I couldn’t admit I was desperate for it.

  So I lied.

  “I kept thinking about the plane ride with everyone, and you, and I don’t think there is a handbook for this, but if there is then please send it to me, because I didn’t want to say something wrong in front of everyone. I mean, we haven’t talked about how this is going to work—us working together and you being you and me being me—and I…I don’t want to jeopardize my working relationships with the team here…”

  He interrupted me when I paused to take a breath. “Janie, Janie- it’s ok. Ok? I understand.”

  I stopped, hesitated, bit my bottom lip, and wondered what he understood, because I wasn’t even sure that I understood. “You do?”

  “Yes. I do. I know you like labels and defined expectations. I can do that when it comes to work. We can put in place some sort of agreement that defines expectations and such at work.”

  “So you think we need one too?”

  “Yes, if it will make you feel more comfortable, and definitely yes if it keeps you from disappearing again.”

  I blurted before my brain could stop the words. “Why are you even interested in me?”

  I closed my eyes and scrunched my face as mortification (from me) and stillness (from him) greeted my question. My self-recrimination was swift: Don’t ask that question; he might not have an answer.

  I heard a soft click-click then silence.

  I opened my eyes and looked at the report on my desk without really seeing it. “Quinn?” There was no answer. I swallowed thickly. “Quinn? Are you still there?”

  “That’s not a conversation I want to have over the phone.” Quinn’s voice came from my left.

  My head shot upward. I looked for, and found, the source of the words. Quinn was there, leaning against the frame of my office door, his phone still in his hand. I slowly lowered my phone to the desk as I stood. My face decided to give him a stupid shy smile; it was an uncontrollable response to his presence.

  “Hi…” I breathed the word.

  “Hi.” His smile was unhurried, and the warmth in his eyes was doing strange things to me, like making me want to bite him.

  He stepped in the door, closed it, and locked it. He set down a bag and slipped his phone into his pocket as he entered. He was wearing a white dress shirt and a patterned tie but no jacket. We gazed at each other. I was afraid that he might dissolve, thus proving to be a figment of my imagination, if I moved or spoke. I didn’t want him to disappear.

  Then, as though it were the most natural, expected thing in the world, he crossed the room to where I stood and kissed me. It immediately told me he had missed me, and that he’d been thinking about kissing me all day.

  The kiss also made me want to bite him.

  After he was satisfied, he straightened and tipped his head to the side; his eyes were half-lidded as he studied my face. I gazed up at him with another shy smile claiming my features through no conscious d
ecision of my brain, and I allowed myself to appreciate the sight.

  “You’re not wearing your glasses.” His tone was conversational, but his voice was deep, rumbly, quiet, and very intimate. I loved it.

  “No, they were taken.”

  “Taken?”

  “Long story involving a turtle.”

  He smiled at me, his eyes full of man-mirth. “A turtle? Really?”

  “Yes.” I breathed him in. He smelled good. I loved it.

  “What are you doing tonight?”

  “I’m meeting my knitting group at seven o’clock.”

  “I didn’t know you knit.” He lifted his eyebrows.

  “I don’t.”

  His eyebrows lifted slightly higher. “Oh, ok. Well, how about later?”

  I answered truthfully. “I was planning to sort my comic books based on level of second-wave feminist influence.”

  “As opposed to first-wave feminist influence?”

  “Yes, well, Susan B. Anthony laid the foundation for those who would come after her. It’s all really interrelated, but she didn’t have direct influence over late twentieth-century comics.”

  He closed his eyes and shook his head, a very reluctant looking smile claiming his mouth.

  “Why? What are you doing tonight?” I asked dreamily. In that moment, I felt like such a weak girl.

  He met my gaze again with a heavy-lidded one of his own. “I was hoping to show you one of the reasons why I’m interested in you, because there are many. But, if you need to sort your comic books, then I guess I could just show you now.” His hands slid down my arms to my waist, my hips, and then my bottom. He didn’t so much as rest them there as firmly plant them on my body and press me to him while caressing my backside.