Knitting in the City 01 Neanderthal Seeks Human (27 page)

The bald man was still watching me.

Not us.

He was watching me.

He looked at me like he knew me, like he still wanted to do me harm, like the only thing keeping him from ripping me apart was the very large, angry man at my side. I pulled my eyes away and moved closer to Quinn.

For the third time in as many weeks I had the distinct feeling I was being watched. Only, this time, I knew I was right.

~*~

We didn’t talk as we walked. Quinn held my hand firmly in his, gripping it almost to the point of painful. I carried the basket and the blanket and he held his phone, touching the screen every few minutes then glancing watchfully around the park. Instead of walking back to the garage Quinn took us to South Michigan Avenue next to the Face Fountain. We stood there for less than thirty seconds before a black SUV slowed then stopped in front of us.

Quinn opened the rear passenger door and said, “Get in.”

Too flustered to question him, I climbed into the back seat and placed the basket and blanket on the bench beside me, settling myself in the middle. Quinn came in after me, slammed the door, and I immediately heard the door lock. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness of the cab. I glanced at Quinn, his leg was pressed against mine as he twisted in his seat and peered out the window as though he were looking for someone.

The car started to move and I sought out the identity of our driver. All I could see was the back of his head and the impressive size of his neck. It wasn’t Vincent unless Vincent had grown a foot and a half, digressed in age thirty years, and become an African American overnight. My attention was pulled back to Quinn as he settled his hand on my thigh and squeezed.

He was studying me with a guarded suspicion. I could only look at him with wide eyed confusion. I didn’t understand what had just happened. I didn’t understand why the man in the park looked at me with such a sinister expression. I didn’t understand why Quinn felt the need to go above and beyond with medieval threats. I didn’t understand why we ran out of the park like we were being pursued. I was at a complete loss.

My chin may have wobbled.

Quinn must have caught the movement because he moved his arm around my shoulders and pulled me to his chest. I wasn’t in any danger of crying but I didn’t push his comfort away. It felt good to be wrapped in his arms so I allowed myself to rest there, absorbed by the strength of him. He set his chin on my head and I felt him sigh.

“Do you know that guy?” I asked, my voice sounding remarkably small in the big car.

He stiffened, “No.” his hand slid from my shoulder to my hip, pulling me closer. Then he said, “I don’t know. He looked familiar.”

I lifted my head from his chest so I could look in his eyes, “Is he one of the private clients?”

Quinn shook his head, his eyes flickering briefly to the driver then back to me, “No. Definitely not… No
, he looks like someone I used to know...”

“Oh.”

His thumb stroked my hip and his eyes traveled searchingly over my face, “Are you ok? Did he hurt you?” Quinn’s voice was rough.

“No. No, he just startled me.” I licked my lips, “He was probably just some stranger and
, remember, I bumped into him so… no big deal.”

He nodded but I could tell he wasn’t convinced. I placed my hand on his chest and he covered it with his own, moving it to his heart. It was beating rapidly. He cleared his throat, “Do you- uh- want to go home?”

I gave him a small smile, “Home?”

He shook his head and said, “You should probably get home.”

A dark cloud of disappointment settled over my forehead. I wasn’t ready for the night to be over. I didn’t understand why my clumsy encounter meant our evening had to end.

“What are my options?” I looked at our entwined hands covering his heart then I licked my lips as my eyes moved to his mouth.

“Home.” He said the word firmly.

My gaze met his and found him regarding me with a paradoxical heated stoicism; dually pushing me away and crushing me close. Something possessed me
, call it wonton woman instinct, and I pressed myself to him; I felt him stiffen. I slid my body upwards, crushing my chest against his; I felt his breath hitch. My leg moved between his and I lifted my mouth to his neck then his ear and whispered, hoping the words didn’t come out clumsily and awkward, “I’m hungry.”

Another ragged sigh escaped him, similar in tenor to the one in the park, his hand moving again to my thigh where my dress had hitched upward baring my leg. He rested it there, the palm of his hand warming my skin, for a hesitating second before he pulled the hem of my skirt down to cover my knee and shifted away from me on the seat. I felt the loss of his warmth acutely as he disentangled our limbs.

Quinn leaned forward slightly toward the driver, “We need to take Ms. Morris home.”

I watched him;
at first surprised then, eventually, with the understanding of stinging rejection ringing in my ears. A scarlet so deep I felt in danger of being consumed by embarrassed incineration wound its way up my neck to my cheeks and the tip of my ears. I crossed my arms over my chest and angled my knees away from him as he settled back next to me.

We sat in silence for a brief moment and I could hear the whooshing of the blood through my heart and between my ears. My brain was overtaken by a dramacoaster of adolescent self-doubt- which I embraced as fact:
I am never going to be that girl. It just isn’t in me to be sexy and seductive.

As we approached my building I pulled my bag from the picnic basket. Quinn surprised me by brushing unruly curls from my shoulder. I turned to look at him; he was holding my glasses out between us.

I glanced away and muttered, “Thank you.” and placed them safely on my nose.

His voice was soft as he responded, “You’re welcome.”

Maybe with several tens of thousands of dollars in plastic surgery I can become alluring enough that, in dim light or after several shots, I might spark the interest of a biostatistician… or an actuary.

Quinn didn’t open the door immediately when the car stopped and I could feel his eyes on me. In an effort to avoid his gaze I started searching through my bag for my keys. At length he exited and I bolted past him as soon as he was clear of the door. Launching myself up the steps I felt him close on my heels.

“Are you going to be ok?”

“Yep. Just fine.” I slipped my key into the lock on the first try and felt thankful for the little miracle.

My internal temper tantrum tirade continued:
But attracting and holding the interest of someone like Quinn Sullivan will have to go into my box of make believe with the eventual remake of Final Fantasy 7 with PlayStation 3 graphics or finding an original, pristine version of Detective Comics, No. 27- Batman’s debut. All attempts are futile. It is just something I will have to accept as fantasy.

I started through the door and up the steps not waiting for the door to close and not looking back over my shoulder. To my chagrin I heard his steps echoing mine up the stairs. I climbed faster. When I reached my door I fumbled for my keys and again was met with success turning the locks. He stood to the side, a little distance away, watching me.

I glanced over my shoulder briefly to give him a cursory wave, “Well, good night. Thanks for the… the- the picnic.” Just as I was about to escape into the safety of my diminutive shared one bedroom I felt his hand settle briefly on my arm above the elbow.

“I want you and Elizabeth to think about moving into that other apartment.”

I shrugged, pushing the door open just wide enough for me to set my bag down and slip halfway in, “Yeah, sure. I’ll talk to her about it.” I started moving further into my place.

Quinn reached out with his hand and gripped the door as though he were keeping me from closing it, “I’m serious.”

“Ok.” I nodded again, my eyes meeting his briefly. My brain was already several feet away, in my apartment, safe from the lingering feelings of rejection and reading the new biography I’d borrowed from the library on Madame Curie; it was not in the present, in the hall, where I was the pathetic queen of wishful thinking.

We stood at the door for several silent seconds; I could feel his gaze moving over me. I fought the building blush of embarrassment threatening to paint the roses of my cheeks red.

Then he said, “I have to go out of town.”

I nodded, “Yes, I know. You have that trip to New York on Thursday.”

“No. I’m going to leave tonight. I won’t be able to make our scheduled trainings this week and might be hard to reach over the next few days but you should text me if you need something-”

I shrugged my shoulders, again; again, the sound of whooshing blood filled my ears. I backed further into the darkness of my apartment as the blush won and crept steadily up my neck, marching over my features and burning me with mortification like Sherman burned Atlanta.

“-in Boston then New York and I’ll be back on Sunday-”

Wait, what did he say? Was he still speaking?

“- so maybe I can get a rain check on that dinner until next week?”

I sighed distractedly, still unable to meet his eyes, “Yeah, sure. Why don’t you call me when you get back.”

I didn’t expect him to call.

He nodded and started leaning into my apartment; then stopped, paused, and released the door. He shuffled backward into the hall. Quinn stabbed his fingers through his hair in a frustrated movement. “I’m really sorry about tonight.”

I glanced at him. He looked upset. I frowned. Before I could say anything he turned and left me, pulling his phone from his pocket as he went. I waited to close the door until I couldn’t hear the sound of his steps descending the stairs.

I didn’t turn on any lights as I walked to the couch. In the darkness of my apartment my mind began to wander.

I didn’t understand anything about this guy. 

One minute he is pretending he wants to date me, the next minute he’s turning down my very obvious advances, and now he’s fabricating a trip in hopes that I won’t bother him. I was so befuddled. If he wanted to give me the brush off he didn’t have to make up some fake business trip.

I heard my heinous cell phone chime somewhere in the apartment. The sound made me growl in frustration but then, suddenly, I was curious. It chimed again before I made it to the kitchen counter where the devil’s device was charging; I glanced at the screen. It was a text from Quinn; actually, there were several:

The first:
I am going to put some guards on you, won’t even notice them, sorry about all this

The second:
I will call you when I get to NY on Thursday

The third:
A neutron walks into a bar; he asks the bartender, "How much for a beer?" The bartender looks at him, and says "For you, no charge."

I frowned at the phone and the messages. He might as well have sent me hieroglyphics. After a long while I set the phone back on the counter and crossed back to the couch. I sat and stared then laid down in sudden exhaustion. My head was spinning. I didn’t understand men. They made no sense and behave erratically.

I knew I was still in my clothes and I realized I hadn’t brushed my teeth but I couldn’t bring myself to move. I felt paralyzed by confusion. I decided, as I succumbed to sleep, that men should come with manuals, subtitles, and reset buttons.

~*~

I’ve come to rely on my knitting group to be my compass in all things confusing and difficult to comprehend; this usually means relationships and interactions with other humans… er, people. My ladies have helped me navigate everything from precarious office politics to dealings with my ex’s mother. And this is why they are supportive and engaged when I explain to them my current situation with Quinn.

It
was Tuesday night and we were gathered in Sandra’s roomy two bedroom apartment. Fiona was the only one missing, having to stay home at the last minute as her daughter was sick with the flu. Most of us had a drink in our hand and I’d just finished passing the evil cell phone around so they could all read the texts. I also just finished giving them a Cliff Notes version of the last week.

They were all silent
. Ashley staring off into space, Marie frowning at a half knitted sweater, Sandra standing at the entrance to her kitchen leaning against the wall as though in heavy contemplation, Kat watching me with a cloudy mixture of introspection and trepidation, and Elizabeth was still scrolling through Quinn’s texts.

Ashley
was the first to pipe up, her thick Tennessee accent makes even this sound charming, “I think he was upset about that guy in the park and that’s why he turned down your hot bod.”

Some of them nodded in agreement, some of them continued to stare unseeingly.

I sighed. “But, how interested could he really be? By the mighty power of Thor! I threw myself at him!”

Elizabeth frowned at me, “Did you really just say: ‘
by the mighty power of Thor
!’”

“I’m trying to cuss less.”