Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
My already large eyes widened further, and I blinked several times in rapid succession. “I-I-I.” I reached for something to hold on to and ended up leaning against the wall behind me. “I can’t—we can’t do that.”
“But you’ll play strip poker with strangers?” He seemed to be studying me very closely.
“Well, yeah—” This was a strange conversation to be having, as I was speaking in the theoretical sense and in the literal. Theoretically, I’d play strip poker with strangers, depending on the circumstances and the strangers, but I had no literal intention of doing so.
Quinn quickly countered. “And if I happened to be playing poker—strip poker—at the only table in the casino, would you still play?”
I hesitated; I felt like I was being led into a trap that involved Quinn getting naked, which actually sounded really nice. I reluctantly said, “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because… I—you’re you.” I congratulated myself for not slurring the words even as sweat was beading on my chest and upper back.
“Do you trust me?”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes?” He lifted his eyebrows just slightly in challenge. “Haven’t I always been honest?”
“You’ve been technically honest.”
“Do you think I’d ever hurt you?”
His questions were rapid-fire, and the way he looked at me paired with my self-imposed heat suit and questionable policy of drinking alone made me a lot dizzy.
I hesitated again, then said, “I don’t know.”
He frowned at my response but didn’t relent. “Don’t you think everyone deserves a chance?”
“A chance?”
“Yes, a chance.”
“What…what kind of chance?” My words were a little shaky, and his expression remained inscrutable, but his eyes—his eyes were dark, purposeful, and almost menacing in their glittering intensity.
Damn smoldering eyes. Smash, smash, smash.
“A chance to prove themselves, to defy shortcuts and preconceived expectations, preferences… labels.”
I pressed my lips together. This was one of those questions that are impossible to answer correctly, such as, When did you stop beating your wife?
Did I believe everyone deserved a chance?
Yes. But he knew that. I breathed in through my nose but stopped when I smelled him: whiskey, aftershave, and Quinn.
He smelled great. Smash, smash, smash.
In a moment of weakness, likely caused by my smelling him, my voice was quiet and laced with a note of resignation when I responded. “Yes. Everyone deserves a chance.”
He gave me one of his barely-there smiles, just a hint of a smile, and licked his lips. “Then I want my chance.”
“And how do you propose I give aforementioned shhh—ance—” I swallowed in order to correct my slur. “…this chance…to… you? What vehicle will you use for the chance?”
We’d said the word ‘chance’ so much it was starting to sound distorted and funny: chance, chance, chance, chance, shance, shance, shanz, shanz… shnaz
Without preamble he said, “I want to date you, be exclusive. I want us to spend time together like we did before I had to go to Boston last week. And, if I have to travel, I want you to answer the cell phone when I call, because I want to hear your voice.”
With every syllable that left his mouth, I felt my button being pushed again and again, and the resulting crimson blush was truly massive. I cleared my throat and said, “Oh, is that all…?”
“No.” He shook his head, interrupting me. “That’s not all. I want to touch you and kiss you, frequently, and I want you…” He shifted on his feet as though steadying himself then his hand reached out; he stepped closer and cupped my cheek in his palm. “I want you to touch me.”
Gah! His words!! Smash, Smash, SMAAAAAASH!!
“And…” he said, but then he paused, his fingers threading through the hair above my temple and beneath the hat covering my head. He pushed it off and we both let it fall to the floor. “I want to play strip poker, with you, right now.”
I was careful to take my next breath through my mouth.
I didn’t want Quinn-sniff to influence my already wino-impaired brain function.
A little voice in the back of my head said, Don’t trust him!
You’re not special! You’re weird and awkward and a bigheaded Neanderthal freak with Medusa hair! He’s confused you with someone else!
Almost immediately, I told that voice to eat shit and die.
I wanted to believe him.
My palms lay flat against the wall behind me and I slanted my chin upward so I could really look at him. His expression straddled between guarded and hopeful. I recognized it so acutely because it was how I’d been feeling since we met.
I cleared my throat and took another steadying breath, through my mouth, releasing it slowly before asking, “What if I said no?”
Quinn became very still. “Are you saying no?” His tone felt just a wee bit dangerous.
I shook my head. “No…I mean, I’m not saying no. I just want to know what happens if I say no.”
He paused again, staring at me as though the answer to my question was written on my face.
He no longer looked hopeful; he just looked guarded.
Silence stretched for almost a full minute, and we stood there watching each other.
Then he blinked suddenly, and an expression resembling dawning comprehension made his eyes flash.
“Janie,” Quinn shifted away; his hand fell from my hair; his countenance darkened. “You’re not going to lose your job.”
I twisted my mouth to the side and made sloppy work of crossing my arms over my chest. “You won’t be upset?”
“Yes, I’ll be upset—” He cleared his throat, looked away briefly then met my gaze again.
“I’ll be disappointed.” He said the word disappointed very carefully, measured, like it was meant to be four words in one.
“But, I’m not going to disadvantage my company because you don’t…
” He lifted his hands between us then rested them on his hips. “Because you’re not interested.”
I surveyed him for a moment then asked, “Would it be the same job that I have now? Or would it be something else?”
His jaw ticked. “The same job.”
I nodded absentmindedly. Even though he was looking increasingly reserved and upset, I found my nerves had calmed significantly.
I took a step forward and shrugged out of the jacket. “Would we be friends or just Mr. Sullivan and Ms. Morris? Could we still hang out?”
He let out a deep sigh, and I didn’t like the hard expression setting his mouth in a firm, unhappy line, or the way his usually fiery eyes were growing cold and distant.
“Listen.” He said it slowly, like a rumbly growl.
“I’m not an overbearing asshole, but I’m also not a masochist. So, no… I’m not interested in being friends.”
“Hmm,” I said, studying him. If I were honest with myself, I would have to admit that his answer made me happy for some strange reason.
I didn’t understand why, so I tucked the data point away for future analysis.
Regardless, it made me happy, and I allowed myself a small smile.
The alternating lava and ice emoto-craziness I’d been living with since last Sunday settled down to a heated simmer of unease.
“What if—”
“Janie—” He lifted his hands, hesitated, and then placed them on my upper arms. I found it interesting that sometimes he seemed to need to touch me or make contact between us before he could speak. “What can I say to convince you that a relationship between us isn’t going to affect your job?”
“But what if we were to break up?”
“I still wouldn’t fire you.”
“How can you be certain of what you would do? What if I kidnap your dog?”
“What? Why would you—” He huffed impatiently then shook his head. “I don’t have a dog.”
“That’s not the point. What if I turned bat-shit crazy on you but still was a great employee?”
“I’m professional enough to keep my work life and personal life separate.”
I sighed unhappily. “But you don’t know—”
He slid his hands down to mine and held them. “You can’t prepare for every scenario or eventuality in life.”
“But what if getting involved turns out to be a horrible mistake?”
“What if it turns out to be the best decision we ever made?”
“I’m risk averse.” Even as I said the words I squeezed his hands with mine, afraid he would let go.
He studied me with frustrated contemplation, his brow furrowed deeply. Quinn shifted closer and leveled me with a deliberate gaze. “Ok, what if we didn’t decide? What if we left it to chance?”
I swallowed. “How so? How do we do that?”
“We’ll play poker.”
“One hand?”
“No, we’ll play until midnight. Whoever has the most clothes on at midnight wins.”
“Wins what?”
His eyes flickered to my lips and he licked his own.
“If I win, we date for a month, during which time I get to buy you whatever I want.” I started to protest, but his voice rose over mine, and his hands held me in place.
“And you stop looking for reasons or labels or whatever for why we shouldn’t.
If you win, then…” he shrugged lightly, “…then you decide what happens next.”
I swallowed again, eyed him warily, and then I pulled my hands from his grip and stepped to the side.
Still hot, I pulled the sweatshirt over my head; the workout shirt also came off at the same time and I tossed them across the discarded jacket.
This left me in my tank top, bra, sweat pants, underwear, socks, and slippers—six pieces of clothing; nine if you counted the socks and slippers as separate articles.
The room tilted a little and I wobbled. My state of intoxication hung around me like a fur coat, and would likely continue for several hours. Any decisions I made would probably be impaired.
Impaired judgment- check.
His gaze drifted to my neck, chest, stomach, and then back up again. The usual fire reignited in his eyes, but it was mixed with something else; something I couldn’t place or, more likely, didn’t comprehend. It was like I’d just slapped him but not quite.