Chapter 10 #3
“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 midriffs, 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 chewing 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.