Knitting in the City 01 Neanderthal Seeks Human (21 page)

I was so distracted by the ambiance that I didn’t notice until I returned to the table that Quinn was sitting alone. I glanced around the small restaurant and saw Jon’s retreating form heading out the door. Without thinking I followed him and called his name.

He paused. He turned slowly and stepped back into the bistro. I noted his eyes move beyond me to where Quinn sat then back to mine. His expression, usually so open and unguarded, was remote and sullen.

“What’s going on? Where are you going?” I stopped in front of him, my palms up between us.

He huffed, answering through clenched teeth, “I’m leaving.”

“Why?”

His green eyes moved between mine and his expression seemed to soften. Jon shifted on his feet and took one of my hands in his, “Listen, Janie, no matter what he says I want you to know that I love you. Just promise me that you’ll call me tomorrow- no matter what you’ll call me tomorrow and we’ll talk.”

I shook my head, befuddled, “Do you two know each other?”

“No. We’ve never met.”

“What did you two talk about?”

“It was nothing-“

“Then why are you leaving?”

He squeezed my hand, “Just promise me, please?”

I shrugged, “Fine, fine- I promise. I’ll call you tomorrow… This is too bizarre.”

He smiled tightly, in a way that didn’t reach his eyes, and released my hand. Swiftly, in one fluid motion, Jon leaned forward and kissed my cheek then turned and left. I stared at the door for several minutes.

When I turned around I found Quinn watching me. His expression was inscrutable
, as always; and, as typical, his cerulean eyes seemed to be thinly masking a mischievous flicker.  I walked back to the booth that lined the wall and my pace decelerated to a slow motion shuffle as I approached. I stared at him, with much the same perplexed expression I’d used on the door, then slid into the booth, opposite his chair.

As though nothing were amiss he motioned to the martini glass in front of me, “I ordered you a lemon drop.”

My attention shifted momentarily to the whiskey-colored liquid in front of him and the glass in front of me. There were only two glasses.

I frowned.

I glared at Quinn, hoping to convey the intensity of my suspicion. “What did you and Jon talk about? Why did he leave?”

Quinn didn’t even have enough decency to look ashamed. Instead he watched me with his up-to-no-good eyes and took a long swallow if his whiskey before responding, “You should ask him.”

“I did. He insisted it was nothing.” My tone was flat and laced with the disbelief I felt.

Quinn shrugged, “Then it must have been nothing…” his mouth pulled to the side in a barely there smile, “Unless Jon was lying.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned back in my seat contemplating him and his dissatisfactory answer. He met my gaze steadily. At length I said, “You’re not being very nice.”

“What have I done that’s not nice?”

“I think you’re being kind of sneaky. And that’s why I think you’re not being nice.”

His smile faded, “Sneaky isn’t on your four-quadrant scatterplot graph personality matrix.”

My eyes narrowed further, “Maybe it should be. Maybe I should add honesty as an axis and make it a 3-D model.”

“Do you think I’m being dishonest?” His voice was level but his eyes seemed to flare with challenge.

“No, I think you’re being technically honest, which is almost worse.”

All tangible expression left his features and his steady stare burned with intensity, I felt my cheeks redden under his scrutiny but maintained eye contact even when my heart began to race and a twisting nervousness wrestled in my chest. After a prolonged silence he stood from his chair; his towering form moving with panther-like ease and adroit grace. Quinn slid in next to me. He placed his arm behind me on the back of the b
ooth and his gaze moved between my neck, lips, and eyes.

For a moment I thought he was going to try to kiss me. Instead he leaned close and whispered, “What do you want to know?”

It took a moment for me to form thoughts. Words followed sometime after: “I want to know what you said to Jon when I went to the bathroom.”

He sighed, “We did talk.” Quinn seemed to eye me speculatively then said, “And what I said is likely the reason he left. I’m not trying to be evasive but, it’s not my secret to tell.”

“What does that mean? ‘Not your secret to tell’?”

“It means that Jon has something he should tell you. If you want to know what it is then you should ask him.”

“And you’re not going to tell me what it is?”

He shook his head, his gaze was steady and his voice was matter-of-fact, “No. It’s not my place.”

I chewed on my top lip, scrutinizing him, finally deciding I believed him. “Fine.” I said with decisiveness. “Thank you for being honest.”

He nodded once, “You’re welcome. Now I get to ask a question.”

I couldn’t stop myself from rolling my eyes, “Are we playing this game again?”

His smile was immediate and dazzling, “I like this game and I definitely like playing it with you.”

Before he could follow through with his question we were interrupted by the waiter asking if we were ready to order. Quinn seemed to reluctantly pull his attention from me but left his arm along the booth at my back. I picked up the menu planning to make a hurried selection. However, for the second time in our short acquaintance, Quinn did that thing that you see in movies but don’t ever experience in real life: without asking for my opinion he ordered for me.

“We will start with the tarte aux champignons and two salade au chevrotin. The lady will have Gigot D´Agneau au jus et Romarin and I’ll have Steak Grillé au Poivre, medium. We’ll also take a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape, the 2005 Cuvee.”

The waiter bowed slightly at the waist as Quinn plucked the menu from my hand, passing it to him. The server gave us a tight smile, said, “Very good, Sir.” and left

Quinn turned his body back to me and gifted me with his slow, sexy smile. It did strange things to my insides, like making them become a boneless mass of warm giddiness. My brain, also, felt hazy. I didn’t feel the annoyance at his ordering for me that I should have.

Before he could follow through with his question I asked one of my own, “Why are you always keeping score?” Wanting to do something with my hands I pulled my napkin out of the glass; the swan dissolved into a plain, white, linen rectangle. I placed it on my lap.

His voice was low when he spoke, his eyes caressing my lips, “In every relationship or interaction there are winners and losers. It doesn’t matter if it’s business or family or-” he paused for just a fraction of a second, his eyes seeming to burn a brighter blue, “or involvement with the opposite sex. Someone always wins, someone always loses. I don’t like to lose.”

His words were somewhat sobering, my insides started to congeal and my brain managed to catapult over the fog, “That’s an interesting theory.” And it was. It was an interesting theory. I saw merit in it but also felt it was fundamentally flawed, “And, I suppose, if the relationship is between two people who are keeping score then you are right- there will be a winner and a loser. However, if no one is keeping score then no one loses.”

His eyes narrowed at me, just briefly, then he leaned forward resting one forearm along the table, “Just because you don’t keep score doesn’t mean one person isn’t functioning at a deficit in the relationship, taking more than they are giving.” He reached across the table and grabbed his abandoned whiskey glass.

“There were a lot of negatives in that sentence, ‘
don’t, doesn’t, isn’t
.’ Maybe that’s your problem.”

“My problem?” His eyes narrowed further.

“Yes, your problem. Maybe you’re focused too much on the negatives. The negative invoices on the relationship spreadsheet.” I started to laugh, “My problem is I miss the obvious, your problem is that you pay too much attention to it.”

He seemed to smile in spite himself; a reluctant laugh passed his lips. His gaze was unguarded and appraising as he said, “You might be on to something.” He pulled at his bottom lip with his thumb and forefinger distractedly, continuing his open assessment of me, his smile widening.

I basked in the warmth of his approving gaze briefly before I poked him, “So, what led you to this pessimistic perspective? Do your parents call you all the time wanting you to babysit their cat? Or install gutters on the family house? I helped my dad install gutters on our house when I was sixteen. It was truly awful.”

An expression which could only be described as
grim melancholy cast a shadow over Quinn’s face.  He plainly swallowed with effort then said, “I don’t talk to my parents. I haven’t talked to them since my brother died.”

My own smile immediately waned and I stared at him for a long moment.  I fiddled with my napkin then set it down, clasping my hands in my lap. “Oh. Well…” I nodded, feeling like I needed to offer something in return, just in case he was keeping score on personal factoids, “I talked to my dad a few weeks ago, when I lost my job. We don’t really talk much but he’s a good guy. He sends me email forwards. I don’t talk to either of my sisters.”

He gave me a sideways glance, “Why not?”

“We don’t really have anything in common and their choices in careers makes it difficult to maintain a meaningful relationship.”

“Both my father and my brother were police officers in Boston. They were not too happy with my choice of career.”

“What? A security guard or consultant or whatever you are?”

Quinn’s mouth hooked to the side and he paused before responding, his eyes moving over me, his expression somewhere between bemused and amused, “No, actually. When I was younger I was something of a reverse hacker.”

“What do you mean?”

“I helped people secure their computers, systems, networks.”

“Why wouldn’t your dad like that?”

“Because most of the people who hired me to do this were criminals.”

“So you created firewalls for mob bosses? As an aside, if I started a band ‘Mob Boss Firewall’ would be an excellent name.” Cringing, I mentally kicked myself for the tactless aside.

“Nothing so poetic.” He glanced down at his almost empty whiskey and studied the amber liquid; his shoulders seemed to slump under the weight of something I couldn’t see. After a long minute he said, “Actually, what I really did was keep their data from being used against them should their computers or hardware be confiscated.”

This was not something I expected. Before I could catch myself I asked, “Where did you learn to do that?”

He shrugged, not looking at me, “Mostly self-taught. I went to college in Boston for two years. My major was computer science but dropped out when business started to pick up.” 

“Why did you stop? Why did you stop reverse-hacking for criminals?”

He lifted his eyes to mine, his expression blank; “How do you know I stopped?”

“I guess I don’t. Did you stop?”

“I did.”

“Why? If it was so profitable.”

“Because…” his eyes moved between mine, his brow pulled low as though he were trying very hard to decipher a mystery. His attention moved to my hair cascading over my shoulder. With an absentminded expression he picked up a curl and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. His voice was distant, distracted when he responded, “Because I was the reason my brother died.”

I didn’t know what to say so I just watched him.

Quinn’s eyes moved back to mine; he seemed to be attempting to gauge my reaction. He half smiled but it was tinged with bitterness. “How the first program worked was that when any attempt was made to access data in the absence of an RFID transmitter, a background script would run which wiped the hard drive clean rendering it inoperable.  Later, as my customer base grew and for larger data systems, I built a degausser. I had to add on a battery backup, just in case the system was powered down. As you can imagine, the battery backup had a nasty habit of catching on fire.”

I cleared my throat and swallowed, wanting to add that the risk of fire could have been tempered by insulating and cooling the degauseer. Instead I asked, “Why do you think you were the reason your brother died?”

His mouth curved into a frown and he sighed, “Because one of the guys, one of your ‘bad guys’, who I worked for, shot my brother.”

I blinked, “I don’t- I don’t understand.”

“Months before Des- my brother- was killed, the police had a search warrant and took all of this guy’s computers, backups, everything. The program I built worked perfectly and the police came up empty. If I hadn’t put the program on his computer, if I hadn’t helped him keep his information safe from the police then he would have been in jail instead of-”

I closed my hand around his not wanting him to finish the sentence. It was a horrible story. I wanted to say that it wasn’t his fault but I felt like that statement would come across as pandering and patronizing.

Instead I said, “I understand why you blame yourself.”

He blinked at me then narrowed his gaze a fraction as though trying to see me better. This time both his eyes and his smile were sad, “Do you blame me?”