Chapter 13 #4
“Well, let’s see, there is of course Keira; she’s very nice, and Steven. Dan is also very friendly. And Carlos…”
Quinn frowned. “What about Carlos? He hasn’t been making the moves on you, has he?”
I chuckled, actually chuckled, and gave him a big grin. “No, no, not at all. Don’t be ludicrous.”
“Why would it be ludicrous?”
“Because Carlos is my boss. I’d never be interested in my boss.”
Quinn’s face froze; he blinked at me as if I’d said something truly disturbing. “Why not?”
It was my turn to frown. “Are you trying to get me to go out with Carlos?”
“No, no, definitely not. But, just because someone is your boss shouldn’t put him into the automatic off-limits category.”
“Uh, yeah it should. Dating your boss puts you at a distinct disadvantage.”
“Like dating someone who is wealthy?”
I huffed. “Yeah, I guess. It’s similar but worse.”
“Why worse?”
“Quinn.”
“Janie.” His tone and his expression were granite.
“Why are we having this conversation?”
“Humor me.”
“Even I, with my lack of ability to grasp the obvious, understand this concept.” I poked him, not liking how serious he looked, trying to figure out what I might have said to cause the abrupt shift in mood.
His eyes narrowed as they focused on me with intensity, and his features remained impassive. “I think you’re being closed-minded.”
I crossed my arms and straightened my spine. “Really? How so?”
“Why do you like to assign everything a label?”
“It makes things simple.”
“People aren’t simple.”
“But labels help make them simple. Why don’t you like labels?”
His jaw ticked as his eyes moved between mine. “When you use labels as the only factor in defining another person, and therefore how you treat them, that’s called stereotyping.”
I opened my mouth but then closed it abruptly and swallowed. My chest felt hot with a stinging mixture of discomfort and annoyance. We were glaring at each other, and my breathing had become somewhat agitated.
“I do not stereotype people. Stereotyping implies that I make judgments with no valid data but rather based on ignorant societal shortcuts.”
“Bosses can’t be dated,” he said. I noticed his deliberately deadpan tone.
“That’s just common sense.” I stood up and he grabbed my arm, not forcefully but firmly, and spun me toward him as he stood.
“Rich guys make bad boyfriends—isn’t that a label?”
“That’s not a label; it’s a preference,” I countered.
“Slamps and Wendells?” he challenged.
“Well if it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, and has sex with multiple partners indiscriminately, then…!” I widened my eyes with meaning as my voice rose. I was moving beyond annoyance into something else that I now recognized as being very close to anger.
He growled and shifted restlessly as though caged. “I don’t like being categorized.”
“Don’t tell me I stereotype people just because you don’t like your label; if you don’t like being a Wendell, then don’t be one. It’s your actions that dictate how you are perceived and how you are treated.”
“Or you could decide to stop being such a close-minded, judgmental…”
“And what?” I pulled my arm out of his grip.
“And become so open-minded that my brain falls out? Make so many excuses for people’s bad behavior that I become spineless?
No thanks. I have no desire to cherish each person’s bullshit and call it a beautiful snowflake.
I will not make excuses for all the ways they treat the people around them like garbage.
If I wanted that I’d still be with Jon making excuses for his cheating or loaning my sisters money for their criminal exploits; meanwhile, I’d still be living in a state of perpetual disappointment. ”
His teeth were clenched. “I’m not proposing that you allow people to treat you like garbage. I’m suggesting that you make an effort to understand their behavior and the motivations behind it, rather than merely dismissing them because they meet the criteria for one of your shortcuts.”
I couldn’t help the sarcasm that spewed forth even though the words made me cringe as I said them. “Then correct me if I am in error: I imagine the motivation behind being a Wendell is wanting to have sex without being limited by number, variety, and frequency of partners.”
He continued as though I hadn’t spoken. “And also be open to the possibility that just because someone behaved one way in the past doesn’t mean that’s what they want now and in the future.”
“People don’t change.” I said the words thoughtlessly even though I didn’t really mean them or believe them, and I immediately regretted the statement.
After what I knew, after what Quinn confided in me last night about his past and his brother, I wanted to apologize, but instead I started chewing on my bottom lip.
His eyes flashed dangerously. He swallowed as he fixed his gaze to a point over my left shoulder. I saw him shift his weight as though he was preparing to walk past me.
“I’m sorry,” I blurted, and reached for him; my hands gripped his wrists in order to hold him in place.
His eyes met mine and I took a small step toward him.
“You’re right, people can change, and motivations do matter.
I don’t know why I said that. It’s just…
” I released his wrists, rubbed my forehead with my fingers, and sighed.
“It’s just, growing up, my mother…she…” I rolled my eyes, hating that I was going to admit to someone that my mother’s decisions had any impact on who I was as a person and the decisions I made.
Quinn crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head to the side. “You’ve never mentioned your mother.” He said it as though he just realized it.
I gritted my teeth. “I don’t especially enjoy discussing her.”
“Why not?”
I sighed again. “Because she was inconsistent and unreliable and was the female version of a Wendell.”
He openly considered me, his beautiful lips twisting to the side. “A Wendellette?”
My mouth curved into a reluctant smile and I nodded.
“She was…” I looked around the room, beyond him, to the window.
“She was really beautiful, and my dad was just a complete doormat. She would leave for weeks, months with some guy, and then return, and my dad would forgive her and we would be expected to pretend like everything was ok.”
His hands moved to his hips. “She cheated on your dad?”
I nodded. “Yes—a lot. In fact, it was ridiculous. Toward the end she was gone more than she was at home.”
“Toward the end?”
My eyes moved back to his. “The end being just before she died.” I shifted, suddenly feeling restless.
“So, you see, being someone’s slamp holds no appeal for me, nor do I wish to be a doormat.
I like things defined, I dislike surprises, and I dislike the lack of clear expectations.
” My hands moved to my hips and I straightened my spine.
“And if that makes me a little closed-minded, then I think I’m ok with that. ”
We watched each other for a long moment then he moved abruptly.
I felt a foreboding sense of vulnerability as he closed the distance between us, literally closed it, as in there was no space between our bodies, and I silently contemplated the way my own melted against his without my consent.
He slid his hands up my arms then around my waist, resting them on my hips just above my bottom. Much to my surprise and somewhat embarrassed appreciation, I felt every hard plane of his body including a hard length pressing into my abdomen.
Again, I blushed.
Quinn’s head dipped and his mouth captured mine for a devastatingly soft kiss.
My anxiety didn’t dissipate; rather, a new emotion wrapped around the burning ball of trepidation in my chest and constricted it.
I didn’t recognize the feeling; all I knew was that it made me want to rip his clothes off.
He lifted his head just slightly, his eyes hooded. “Are you ready for our date?”
I cleared my throat, suppressing the desire to rub myself against him, suddenly desperate for friction. I cleared my throat again. “I thought you didn’t date.”
Quinn’s cheek moved against mine so that his whispered words were hot against my ear. “I’d like to date you.”
I shivered and my eyes drifted shut. My voice was tight as I asked, “Does that mean you’re taking the slamps out of rotation?”
I felt him smile against my neck as he placed a lingering kiss on my shoulder. “They’re already out of rotation.”
He placed another kiss on my shoulder right next to where the lace met my skin. My body, my disloyal body, pressed against him more firmly, and my words came out on a sigh. “When did this happen?”
I felt him shrug. The simple movement caused his chest to rub against mine, and I had to bite my lip to keep from moaning.
“A while ago.” He pulled away, one set of fingers lifting from my hip and slowly tracing the edge of my dress from my shoulder, where he kissed me, to my collarbone, to my chest, then up again. It sent goose bumps racing over my skin. My scalp felt tight.
A while ago.
My lashes fluttered open and I met his gaze; I was confused and fuzzy headed, and I wanted to know more about the disappearing slamps.
Instead, I lost my locomotive of thought as he gave me a slow smile.
The aforementioned fingers playing with the edge of my dress slipped over my shoulder and down my arm, entwining with mine.
He tugged on my hand. “Come on. Let’s go have our picnic.”