Chapter 12 #4
He wasn’t actually physically perfect, but he came close.
He had a scar cutting through the center of his right eyebrow; I made a mental note to ask him about the story behind that.
One ear was slightly larger than the other, and his nose was bent, just a whisper, to the left.
His hairline wasn’t even, and his hair was too thick; it needed to be cut and thinned.
His bottom teeth were slightly crooked, but I didn’t notice or see them unless he smiled his full-on one-thousand-watt smile.
I loved that when I looked at him, I didn’t see the blinding McHotpants facade of perfection any more. I saw a frustratingly bossy, hilariously funny, irritatingly teasing, captivatingly intelligent, seriously sexy good guy.
“What’s that smile for?”
I blinked at him and shook my head just slightly to clear it.
His voice seemed to come at me from a distance as it pulled me from my musings.
I realized that I’d been staring, but in my cozy, comfortable, uninhibited state, I didn’t feel particularly embarrassed.
I responded, “I was just thinking about my first impressions of you and how you’re actually a real person. ”
“As opposed to…?” He lifted his eyebrows.
“As opposed to a handsome robot.”
He dipped his chin and narrowed his eyes at me. “You think I’m handsome?”
“Come on. You know you’re handsome.” I rolled my eyes and poked him in his rib, behaving uncharacteristically touchy-feely.
“I’m just surprised that you do. When we went to Giavanni’s, I thought you were going to make me put a paper bag over my head.”
“What? Why? What are you talking about?” I sputtered, poking him again.
“When Viki asked if we were there together, you—”
“That’s because she looked at me like I was the love child of Cerberus and a cyclops when you said I was there with you.” I went to poke him a third time but he grabbed my wrist and laced his fingers through mine. Our hands settled on his knee.
He shrugged and glanced at our hands, frowning a little. “I suppose she was surprised.”
I asked my next question uncertain if I wanted an answer. “Because I’m not your type?”
His eyes abruptly lifted to mine; his features lost some of their earlier unguarded ease. “You could say that.”
I couldn’t help my own frown or stop the sinking feeling in my chest. In that moment, I felt like a real girl; like a girl who wants to hear that she is beautiful from the boy she likes.
It felt adolescent and bizarrely painful and exasperating because I knew it was adolescent.
“So, what is your type? Beautiful? Blonde hair? Model thin?”
His mouth hooked to the side. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Well… what did you mean?”
His expression hardened slightly. “Shelly and I go to Giavani’s almost every Saturday. Viki isn’t used to seeing me with anyone else.”
“You mean she isn’t used to seeing you with a girl other than your sister, a date?”
“I don’t date.” His expression slipped into the mask of guarded detachment I’d grown somewhat used to over the last week. He then added, “I should clarify that; I haven’t dated.”
He’s a Wendell.
Elizabeth’s words from that morning were parading through my head. I tried to cover the disappointed flop of my stomach falling to my feet with a brave smile, and pushed him on the subject, asking another question I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer to. “So why don’t you date?”
“It’s not a big mystery. I haven’t needed to.” His tone was matter-of-fact.
“What does that mean—you haven’t needed to?” It seemed as if each time he spoke he was reluctantly giving me a puzzle piece; the finished image was looking more and more like a Wendell. Reluctantly, I was starting to accept that Elizabeth’s assessment of him had been correct.
“You know what it means.” His voice was hesitant, as if he weren’t convinced of the statement.
I shook my head and watched him with wide eyes. “No. I really don’t. You’re going to have to spell it out for me.”
He seemed to consider me for a moment, his gaze hawkish and searching. He then asked, “What about you? Why’d you and Jon break up?”
“First I want to know what ‘I haven’t needed to’ means. Are you—” I searched for an explanation that was a Wendell alternate and could only come up with one thing, glad for my wine-fueled audacity. “Are you celibate?”
“No.” A rueful smile passed over his lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Fine—it means I never needed to date someone in order to have a good time. I have…” He cleared his throat, scratched the back of his neck, and glanced to the side as though to avoid my gaze.
“I had a few girls who I partied with from time to time, but we weren’t exclusive. ”
I blinked, absorbing this information. “You mean…you mean you have certain girls that you call just to have sex with them—you mean slamps?”
Even under the intimately dim candlelight, I could see that his neck and cheeks were red-tinged.
He didn’t respond, but he did sigh. He let go of my hand, stood up, and grabbed my coat; he held it up and waited for me to shrug into it.
I eyeballed him, taking his silence as confirmation.
Wordlessly, he placed his hand on the small of my back and steered me toward the door.
I thought the sinking feeling would stop at some point. It didn’t. Quinn was a Wendell. Even worse, he was a multiple-slamp Wendell man-whore. I felt sad but resigned and, strangely, a little angry with Elizabeth for being right.
When we stepped outside, the chilly Chicago air felt good as it whipped past me; it helped me clear my head.
I glanced over at Quinn and allowed myself to dwell on the ridiculousness of my situation.
I was with a really great guy who, according to Elizabeth, wanted to give me mind-blowing sex, but only mind-blowing sex, which I would be turning down as, among other reasons, he was already giving the same sex to other girls.
Before I could stop myself, I stepped away and I asked, “Is it all at the same time or one at a time?”
He stopped in his tracks. Quinn met my gaze, his own betraying stunned surprise.
“What?” I pushed.
He shook his head as a reluctant smile pulled at his lips. His hand found mine and started pulling me until my feet moved. “Your turn,” he said, blatantly deflecting my question.
“Not yet. I want to know more about the logistics of this.” I couldn’t help myself.
The whole concept seemed suddenly both absurd yet strangely efficient.
“How many are we talking about? What percentage of the women in Chicago are ready to have sex with you right now? What happens if one of them needs to travel? Do they have a phone tree? Is there a coverage plan or a backup plan for emergencies?”
Quinn covered the bottom half of his mouth with his free hand as his shoulders started shaking with silent laughter.
I continued, feeling a little better knowing that he was able to laugh at himself.
“Is there entry criteria? An established search committee? An interview process? Skills test? What kind of radius do you require? Do you have one circling the block now? Do you always keep one nearby? Was there one at the restaurant? At the bar maybe?”
“Janie, seriously—it’s your turn.” His tone was authoritative, but I could see that his eyes were lit with amusement, and he was trying very hard to keep a straight face.
“My turn?” My eyebrows lifted in confusion; despite my attempts at making fun of his arrangement, I was still feeling lingering dejection from confirming Quinn’s somewhat sordid sexual history; well, it was sordid compared to my history, which made it sordid by comparison.
“You already know everything. I’m a one-slamp kind of girl. ”
“Why did you and Jon break up?”
I thought about the question, but I was distracted by the reality of Quinn’s confession. Quinn never dated.
No—he said he never needed to.
Was I ok with that? What was a man-whore really?
Was it such a bad thing if all the practice with slamps meant he was good in bed?
If we ever slept together, would I need to cover myself in cling wrap and Lysol to protect against his plethora of contracted STDs?
Did he have any STDs? Were we going to sleep together?
If he had unlimited access to veteran slamps, was he even interested in sleeping with me, novice that I was?
Did I want to sleep with a Wendell, especially after finding out about the multiple slamps-in-waiting?
Was I going to become one of his slamps?
I was pretty sure I didn’t want to become one of Quinn Sullivan’s many slamps.
As an aside, I noted that “One of Many Slamps” would make a good band name or, at the very least, an album name.
“Janie?”
My eyelashes fluttered and I looked around the sidewalk unseeingly. “Yeah?”
“You and Jon; why did you split?” I noted his voice was quieter, almost coaxing. We started up the staircase for the el.
I responded without thinking. “I’m not really sure what the real reason was for our split, but I’m pretty sure the catalyst was him cheating on me.”
“He…” Quinn stopped on the stairs and pulled on my hand until I met his gaze. “He cheated on you?”
I nodded. “Yes. But, to be fair, he said he was drunk and it only happened once.”
Quinn’s eyes were wide with what looked like disbelief. “I can’t believe he cheated on you.”
“Yes, well… I think I have some insight as to why, but I’m still processing the possibilities.
” I pulled my hand from his and tucked my hair behind my ears.
I started up the stairs again so I wouldn’t have to look directly at him when I spoke.
“But there were already other issues before that. For one, he is wealthy.” We reached the landing and passed our transit cards through the gate.
Quinn’s eyebrows shot up at my statement. “What does that have to do with it?”
“For one thing, our priorities never seemed to align. He could, and did, spend money on whatever he wanted. I was—and am—always careful with all my purchases. Second, I always felt like I had a handicap; it felt like I was perpetually taking advantage of him or like I owed him if I accepted whatever he gave me: money, gifts, help. If I didn’t accept his help, it always led to bad feelings and uncomfortable discussions where I always felt like I was the problem.
” My mind began to focus on our current conversation rather than the conversation of two minutes ago.
I decided I would work through my slamp issues at some point later.
“I’m determined to stay within one standard deviation upward of my own socioeconomic sphere. ”
Our train arrived, and he waited to speak until it slowed to a stop.
Quinn’s expression straddled the triple border of bewilderment, determination, and alarm.
“So…” he said, but then he huffed out his breath and pinned his gaze on me with sudden intensity.
When he spoke, I was surprised by the argumentative tone in his voice.
“Would you ever date someone who earned less than you?” He ushered me onto the el and to a seat by the sliding door; when we were seated, his arm went behind me along my back and against the window.
I nodded immediately. “Oh yes, absolutely; I don’t have a problem with that.
My concern is being with the type of person who has enough wealth to decide on a whim to take off from real life and travel around where ever and expects that I’ll be able to do the same simply because he has the means to fund it.
Or who buys me extravagant gifts, like a car or expensive jewelry, for no reason, and that troubles me. ”
I felt a sudden shiver as if someone was watching me. I turned my head and surveyed the train. I looked from left to right and found only a smattering of what seemed to be college students. It was the same inexplicable sensation that I’d experienced in the club weeks ago.
“What is so wrong with that? If you’re in a relationship with someone, why can’t he buy you things and take you places?”
When I brought my attention back to Quinn, it took my mind a moment to sort through his words and their meaning; my attention still sharpened to the perception that someone was scrutinizing my movements.
I licked my lips and shook my head slightly to clear it. “I want to be financially independent. When I was with Jon, I didn’t like having to constantly justify or explain that. One time Jon bought me a car—a really nice car—and he couldn’t understand that it wasn’t appropriate for him to do so.”
“Why wasn’t it appropriate?”
I ignored the persistent impression that I was being watched, deciding it was my randomly overactive imagination, and pursed my lips in response to Quinn’s question. “You know why.”
“No. I really don’t. You’re going to have to spell it out for me.” He echoed my words from earlier; his expression strangely stiff.
I huffed. “Because how can I possibly reciprocate? What do I have to offer?”
“Yourself.”
I wrinkled my nose. “That makes it seem like I’m selling myself.”
Quinn tilted his head to the side, studying me openly, and then he asked, “Now who is keeping score?”
I opened my mouth to respond, closed it, swallowed, and said, “It’s not the same thing, and I can’t believe you’re taking his side in this.”
“It is exactly the same thing,” he countered. “If no one is keeping score in a relationship, then it doesn’t matter, does it? I should be able to give you whatever I want without having to worry about you feeling guilty or like you need to reciprocate.”
I frowned, studying him, really trying to absorb his logic.
“Reluctantly, I admit that you have a somewhat valid point,” I said hesitantly, but before a look of triumph could completely claim his features, I added, “It’ll take me a while to process and potentially adjust to this perspective, though. ”
Quinn’s gaze moved over my face, and a small smile curved over his lips. “I promise not to keep score with you if you promise not to keep score with me.”
I gave him a long, sideways stare. I considered his proposal. It seemed fair. I nodded just once and stuck out my hand. “Fine. Deal.”
A slow smile and a genuine look of victory brightened his expression; his eyes were as mischievous as ever when he shook my hand and said, “What should I buy you first?”
I poked him in the rib.