Chapter 14 #2
He looked at me like he knew me, like he still wanted to do me harm, like the only thing keeping him from ripping me apart was the very large, angry man at my side. I pulled my eyes away and moved closer to Quinn.
For the third time in as many weeks I had the distinct feeling I was being watched. Only, this time, I knew I was right.
We didn’t talk as we walked. Quinn held my hand firmly in his, gripping it almost to the point of painful.
I carried the basket and the blanket and he held his phone, touching the screen every few minutes then glancing watchfully around the park.
Instead of walking back to the garage, Quinn took us to South Michigan Avenue next to the Face Fountain.
We stood there for less than thirty seconds before a black SUV slowed, then stopped in front of us.
Quinn opened the rear passenger door and said, “Get in.”
Too flustered to question him, I climbed into the back seat and placed the basket and blanket on the bench beside me, settling myself in the middle.
Quinn came in after me, slammed the door, and I immediately heard the door lock.
It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness of the cab.
I glanced at Quinn; his leg was pressed against mine as he twisted in his seat and peered out the window as though he were looking for someone.
The car moved and I sought the identity of our driver.
All I could see was the back of his head and the impressive size of his neck.
It wasn’t Vincent unless Vincent had grown a foot and a half, regressed in age thirty years, and become an African American overnight.
My attention was pulled back to Quinn as he settled his hand on my thigh and squeezed.
He was studying me with guarded suspicion.
I could only look at him with wide-eyed confusion.
I didn’t understand what had just happened.
I didn’t understand why the man in the park looked at me with such a sinister expression.
I didn’t understand why Quinn felt the need to warn him with medieval threats.
I didn’t understand why we ran out of the park as if we were being pursued. I was at a complete loss.
My chin may have wobbled.
Quinn must have caught the movement because he moved his arm around my shoulders and pulled me to his chest. I wasn’t in any danger of crying, but I didn’t push his comfort away.
It felt good to be wrapped in his arms, so I allowed myself to rest there, absorbed by the strength of him.
He set his chin on my head and I felt him sigh.
“Do you know that guy?” I asked, my voice sounding remarkably small in the big car.
He stiffened. “No.” His hand slid from my shoulder to my hip, pulling me closer. Then he said, “I don’t know. He looked familiar.”
I lifted my head from his chest so I could look into his eyes. “Is he one of the private clients?”
Quinn shook his head, his eyes flickering briefly to the driver then back to me. “No, definitely not. No, he looks like someone I used to know.”
“Oh.”
His thumb stroked my hip and his eyes traveled searchingly over my face. “Are you ok? Did he hurt you?” Quinn’s voice was rough.
“No, he just startled me. He was probably just some stranger and, remember, I bumped into him, so, no big deal.”
He nodded, but I could tell he wasn’t convinced. I placed my hand on his chest and he covered it with his own, moving it to his heart. It was beating rapidly. He cleared his throat. “Do you—uh—want to go home?”
I gave him a small smile. “Home?”
He shook his head and said, “You should probably get home.”
A dark cloud of disappointment settled over my forehead. I wasn’t ready for the night to be over. I didn’t understand why my clumsy encounter meant our evening had to end.
“What are my options?” I looked at our entwined hands covering his heart, then I licked my lips as my eyes moved to his mouth.
“Home.” He said the word firmly.
My gaze met his and found him regarding me with a paradoxical heated stoicism; dually pushing me away and crushing me close.
Something possessed me, call it wanton woman instinct, and I pressed myself to him; I felt him stiffen.
I slid my body upwards, crushing my chest against his; I felt his breath hitch.
My leg moved between his and I lifted my mouth to his neck then his ear and whispered, hoping the words didn’t come out clumsily and awkward. “I’m hungry.”
Another ragged sigh escaped him, similar in tenor to the one in the park, and his hand moved to my thigh where my dress had hitched up baring my leg.
He rested it there, the palm of his hand warming my skin, for a hesitating second before he pulled the hem of my skirt down to cover my knee and shifted away from me on the seat.
I felt the loss of his warmth acutely as he disentangled our limbs.
Quinn leaned forward slightly toward the driver. “We need to take Ms. Morris home.”
I watched him; at first surprised then, eventually, with the understanding of stinging rejection ringing in my ears.
A scarlet blush of embarrassment so deep that I felt in danger of being consumed by its incineration wound its way up my neck, into my cheeks, and to the tips of my ears.
I crossed my arms over my chest and angled my knees away from him as he settled back next to me.
We sat in silence for a brief moment, and I could hear the whooshing of the blood through my heart and between my ears.
My brain was overtaken by a drama-coaster of adolescent self-doubt, which I embraced as fact: I am never going to be that girl.
It just isn’t in me to be sexy and seductive.
Maybe with several tens of thousands of dollars in plastic surgery I can become alluring enough that, in dim light or after several shots, I might spark the interest of a biostatistician—or an actuary.
As we approached my building, I pulled my bag from the picnic basket. Quinn surprised me by brushing unruly curls from my shoulder. I turned to look at him; he was holding my glasses out between us.
I took them and glanced away as I muttered “thank you,” and then I placed them safely on my nose.
His voice was soft when he responded. “You’re welcome.”
Quinn didn’t open the door immediately when the car stopped, and I could feel his eyes on me.
In an effort to avoid his gaze, I started searching through my bag for my keys.
At length he exited and I bolted past him as soon as he was clear of the door.
When I launched myself up the steps, I felt him close on my heels.
“Are you going to be ok?”
“Yep. Just fine.” I slipped my key into the lock on the first try and felt thankful for the little miracle.
My internal temper tantrum tirade continued: Attracting and holding the interest of someone like Quinn Sullivan will have to go into my box of make believe with the eventual remake of Final Fantasy 7 with PlayStation 3 graphics or finding an original, pristine version of Detective Comics No.
27, Batman’s debut. All attempts are futile.
It is just something I will have to accept as fantasy.
I started through the door and up the steps not waiting for the door to close and not looking back over my shoulder.
To my chagrin, I heard his steps echoing mine up the stairs.
I climbed faster. When I reached my door, I fumbled for my keys; once again, I was met with success in turning the locks.
He stood to the side, a little distance away, watching me.
I glanced over my shoulder briefly to give him a cursory wave. “Well, good night. Thanks for the…the picnic.” Just as I was about to escape into the safety of my diminutive shared one bedroom, I felt his hand settle briefly on my arm above the elbow.
“I want you and Elizabeth to think about moving into that other apartment.”
I shrugged and pushed the door open just wide enough for me to set my bag down and slip halfway in. “Yeah, sure. I’ll talk to her about it.” I stepped farther into my place.
Quinn reached out his hand and gripped the door as though he were keeping me from closing it. “I’m serious.”
“Ok.” I nodded again, my eyes meeting his briefly.
My brain was already several feet away, in my apartment, safe from the lingering feelings of rejection, and reading the new biography I’d borrowed from the library on Madame Curie; it was not set in the present, in the hall, where I was the pathetic queen of wishful thinking.
We stood at the door for several silent seconds; I could feel his gaze moving over me. I fought the blush of embarrassment threatening to paint the roses of my cheeks red.
Then he said, “I have to go out of town.”
I nodded. “Yes, I know. You have that trip to New York on Thursday.”
“No. I’m going to leave tonight. I won’t be able to make our scheduled trainings this week, and I might be hard to reach over the next few days, but you should text me if you need something.”
I shrugged my shoulders, and again, I heard the whooshing sound of blood filling my ears. I backed into the darkness of my apartment as the blush won and crept steadily up my neck, marching over my features and burning me with mortification like Sherman burned Atlanta.
“I’ll be in Boston first, then on to New York, and I’ll be back on Sunday.”
Wait, what did he say? Is he still speaking?
“So maybe I can get a rain check on that dinner until next week?”
I sighed distractedly, still unable to meet his eyes. “Yeah, sure. Why don’t you call me when you get back?”
I didn’t expect him to call.
He nodded and started leaning into my apartment; then stopped, paused, and released the door. He shuffled backward into the hall. Quinn stabbed his fingers through his hair in a frustrated movement. “I’m really sorry about tonight.”