Knitting in the City 01 Neanderthal Seeks Human (14 page)

He blinked at me, “Use a different analogy. I don’t work much in four quadrant scatter plot graphs.”

I laughed and walked to my desk, “Ok. How about a map of the United States? Divide it up into north, east, south, and west. Let’s say I typically always take trips due north but sometimes I go east. Sometimes I go north-east and, on rare occasions, I go south. Each trip I take is a dot on the map. Where ever there are the most dots represents my personality.”

“Therefore, someone could be a good person with a tendency to be slightly stupid?”

Slowly I nodded, “Yes, precisely. Take me for example. I feel confident saying I’m a good person with a tendency to be slightly lazy and a much more precipitous tendency to be stupid, especially when it comes to non-work related decisions and actions.”

“And what kind of person do you think I am?”

My gaze met Quinn’s as he leisurely crossed to stand in front of me; his features were set in a detached mask of indifference but his eyes were piercing and steady. The pins and needles immediately returned; my heart quickened; my neck was hot.

“Uh, well,” I let out a slightly unsteady breath and let my fingers rest on the desk, mostly for balance. He stopped less than a foot from my position so we were both standing behind the desk; I had to tilt my head backward to maintain eye contact; “I don’t think you’re stupid or lazy.”

“Hm.” A whisper of a smile briefly passed over his face, “So that leaves either good or bad.”

“I tend to think good.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you helped me- both at the club and also putting in a good word for me here.” I licked my lips, my mouth felt dry, “I still need to return your sister’s clothes and I didn’t get a chance to thank you for arranging the interview.”

His eyes lost focus and he frowned. Abruptly he took a step back and affixed his attention to the floor; he lifted the hand that held the take-out order, “I’m going to get this to Betty and stop by Steven’s office about your training this week. I’ll-” he rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Suddenly I remembered my promise to Elizabeth regarding the Canopy room incident and some unknown person’s alleged inclination to drug women. Without thinking I took two steps forward, “Wait- before you go- I need to ask you something.”

He stopped, lifting his eyes once more, and waited for me to continue with patient interest. I attempted to swallow but my throat felt tight. I didn’t know how to bring this up so I just started talking, “So, about what happened at the club last week. I wanted to ask you- what I mean is, what happened to the person who, you know, who dosed me with the Benzodiazepines?”

“He was arrested.” He answered matter-of-factly.

I couldn’t cover my surprise as I gaped at him; “He was arrested?”

Quinn nodded. His expression was neutral, unreadable.

“But, do I need to do anything? Should I file a report?”

“No. He wasn’t arrested for drugging you. He was arrested for something else.”

“Oh.” I frowned then sighed as I thought about that. “Who is he? What was he arrested for?”

“Just some guy. Don’t worry, he won’t have the opportunity to bother you again.” With that Quinn turned and left my office.

I stared at the door, confused and relieved and… confused, not really sure what to make of the last part of our exchange. Before I could dwell on it with any exactness Olivia Merchant stepped into my office. She wasn’t looking at me but rather down the hall in the direction of Quinn’s departing form.

“Was that Mr. Sullivan?” Olivia sounded as befuddled as I felt. 

I’d interacted with Olivia, as Carlos’ administrator, a number of times. She didn’t strike me as good or bad
or stupid. She wasn’t terribly efficient with her work but seemed to make a good show of it whenever Carlos was around. I didn’t mind her, I just needed to figure out a way to improve her responsiveness to my requests or discover a work-around for her work-lethargy.

“Yeah. That was him.” I stood next to my desk and leaned against it, somewhat dazed. If I hadn’t been so dazed it might have occurred to me that this was the first time Olivia had ever gone out of her way to speak to me.

“What was he doing here?” She turned to me, placing her hands on her hips. Again, if I hadn’t been so dazed, I would have noticed the accusation and suspicion lacing her tone.

“Taking lunch to Betty.”

She straightened and let her hands fall to her sides; “Oh. Well, that was nice of him.”

I nodded. It was nice of him. It was nice of him to sit with me at the deli, it was nice of him to walk me back to work and indulge me in my silly philosophies. He didn’t exactly look safe or nice or approachable but Quinn Sullivan
was
a nice guy.

He was a good guy.

Olivia distractedly mumbled something to me as she left, something about checking in with Keira, but I wasn’t paying attention. I was excited, nervous, and disoriented.

I would be spending some part of tomorrow with Quinn.

I ran home to tell Elizabeth my news and engage in what I surmised to be completely typical female behavior: nit-pick every detail of my conversation and time with Quinn Sullivan, aka – McHotpants. Alas, when I arrived home, I found a note indicating that she would be gone at the hospital for an unexpected shift and that I should start looking for reasonably priced two-bedroom apartments.

Instead of indulging myself in girl-talk, I had to settle for watching a chick flick period drama on BBC America and shifting through craigslist for new living arrangements. Truth be told, I wasn’t in any real hurry for us to vacate her current place. I liked sleeping on the couch, it felt like every night was a sleep over.  I liked the non-permanence of it.

The next day I was racked with excited nervousness. I woke up way too early and left the apartment late after trying on every piece of clothing I owned. Finally I settled on scooped necked white shirt, dark blue pants and matching high heels. I felt I’d achieved my goal of business-professional-not-trying-too-hard but I worried, as I waited for the train, that I’d not tried hard enough.

I worried that I looked boring.

Almost immediately I pushed the thought out of my head. I reminded myself again
: Quinn- Herr Handsomestien- Sullivan is my co-worker and isn’t interested in me and doesn’t care or notice what I am wearing.
The reminder made me feel both better and slightly worse.

When I arrived at work I stopped by Steven’s office to ask for more details about the training; if I should prepare or bring anything.

Steven only shrugged, about to get on a conference call, and shooed me out of his office as he said, “No. Mr. Sullivan didn’t tell me much about it. But then, he’s not much of a talker, is he? He’ll probably just show you one of the properties and have you back within the hour.”

Thus, I waited all morning for Quinn to call. I stayed within ear shot of my office phone and jumped every time I heard someone else’s phone ring. Around three o’clock I glanced at my wrist watch and found myself frowning for the
forty-second time that day.

Still no call and it was past lunch and I hadn’t eaten since my two hardboiled egg breakfast at six.
Additionally, I had to be on the south side in three hours for my Thursday night tutoring session. I decided to bury my disappointment in an Italian beef sandwich from Smith’s deli.

Things went awry when I ran out to pic
k up lunch for Betty and myself, the other person in the office who hadn’t yet eaten. In the seventeen and one half minutes it took me to pick up lunch, Quinn left me two messages on my office phone.

The first was a gruff, short syllabled, ‘
Call me back ASAP
.’

The second call was less verbose.

He must’ve called as soon as I left the office. Coming back from the deli, my to-go meal in my hand and Betty’s same as yesterday on her desk, I’d just checked my work voicemail. My heart leapt at the sound of his voice then Keira came into my office. A Bluetooth headset was clipped to her ear. She told me that Mr. Sullivan was on the phone and wanted me to meet him downstairs at the Starbucks on the corner.

I abdicated thoughts of eating and promptly took the elevator to the bottom floor. I was agitated. I was tense. As it turned out, both sensations were warranted. My stomach plummeted when I caught sight of him, his stern expression, and the object he held in his hand.

We stood across from each other next to the coffee counter, both of us ignored the stools in favor of standing, I could see my doom before me. My doom took shape in a small, sleek, black rectangle with a shiny screen and only one perceivable button. Virtually everyone at the Cypher Systems had a business cell phone.

I knew it made sense but I still didn’t have to like it.

My hands were on my hips and I eyed the cell phone with contempt, “What is that?”

His smile was reluctant, as though he really wanted to maintain an impassive mask but found it to be impossible, “What does it look like?”

“I don’t believe in cell phones.” I said.

I might as well have said, ‘
I don’t believe in the laws of thermodynamics.
’

“I don’t understand.” His gaze felt remarkably penetrating and the smile fell away from his features, his usual stoic marbled mask of detachment was tinged with confusion.

I shifted awkwardly on my feet, twisting my fingers together; “It means: I don’t want to carry a cell phone.”

“I’m not asking.” He reached out with his large hands and placed the phone in my palm.

“What about Carlos? What does he say?”

“It was his idea.”

Maybe it was because I’d woken up in his sister’s apartment half naked; maybe it was because we may or may not have engaged in flirting the day prior or maybe it was my very real resentment at the thought of having to carry a cell phone; but, whatever it was, I seemed be to be abruptly semi-impervious to the usual pandemonium his proximity administered on my insides.

I countered, “No it wasn’t Carlos’s idea. It’s your idea. You probably talked him into it.”

“Fine, yes. It is my idea and Carlos thinks it’s a great one. And, since Carlos is your boss…” he lifted his eyebrows and waited for me to fill in the blanks.

My chin lifted in defiance while he cradled my hand with both of his; I tried not to be effected by his touch but the incongruence between the gentleness with which he held my hand and the obstinate quality of his glare was unnerving. His thumb was also moving in slow circles over the back of my hand. I clutched my anger to my chest like a last pair of marked down Jimmy Choo’s in my size.

Finally I said the only thing I could think of: “It’s a personal choice. I don’t want it.”

He sighed, visibly annoyed, “Why not?”

“Because... because-” I held my breath, not wanting to explain my unconventional repugnance for conventional technology but I couldn’t help myself. His closeness, his hands holding mine, the dastardly small circular motion of his thumb, even his slightly perturbed glare unleashed the floodgates of my nonsensical verbosity;

“Because- are we really here, alive if we interface with the world via a small black box? I don’t want my brain in a vat, I don’t want to be fed with input from the equivalent of a cerebral implant until I can’t tell fiction from reality. Don’t you see those people?” I motioned with my free hand to a line of customers waiting for their coffee, “Look at them. Where are they looking? They’re not looking at each other, they’re not looking at the art on the wall or the sun in the sky, they’re looking at their phones. They hang on every beep and alert and message and tweet and status update. I don’t want to be that. I’m distracted enough as it is by the actual, tangible, physical world. I’ve embraced the efficiency of a desktop PC for work and research; I’ll even venture on a laptop, but I draw the line at a cell phone. If I want social media I’ll join a book club. I draw the line at being collared and leashed and tracked like a tagged Orca in the ocean.”

I was a little breathless when I concluded and withdrew my fingers from his, leaving the phone in his hand; I tried to look everywhere but at him and his damn tenebrous blue eyes.

He placed the phone in my hand once again. “As much as the idea of collaring and leashing you sounds promising, the purpose of the phone is to ensure you’re reachable-”

I interrupted him, “You mean bound and restrained-”

“Janie, if I wanted to
restrain you I’d use rope.” When he spoke his voice was low and softened with what could only be described as intimacy.

I met his gaze abruptly, startled by his tone; however, if his tone surprised me, then his gaze struck me momentarily mute. He’d shifted closer, towering over me so I had to tilt my head back to meet his stare, his mouth curved into a whisper of a smile
which felt more menacing than a scowl. I blinked under the scalding stare and leaned one elbow against the counter at my side for balance.

I felt heat rise up my throat and over my cheeks as I frowned at him; “I know what you’re doing.” My own annoyance bolstered my confidence.