Knitting in the City 01 Neanderthal Seeks Human (38 page)

For maybe the first time ever in my life my mind spent a significant amount of time not wandering because it couldn’t engage or gain any traction. All
forebrain surfaces were slippery; everything and nothing was distracting at once. I was so focused on the moment, on the feeling and sensation of being with and over and next to and under and against Quinn.

I was crushed and grabbed and stroked and admired and savored and
, by God, aroused. I was aroused like it was going out of style and on sale. At one point I thought it was going to sever me in two and I panicked in much the same way a feral animal panics when approached with unfamiliar kindness.

But, to my wonderment, Quinn seemed to innately comprehend what I needed; when I required tenderness and when I craved… not tenderness. He calibrated his movements, caress
es, and kisses as the counterpoint to desires I had no idea existed within me but which, now, I was certain I could never live without. And, with one arresting look, one devastatingly raw gaze which stole my breath and held me captive, one moment of connection, he made me fearless.

The jarring
part, because there is one, is that Quinn seemed to be just as lost as I was and my body, my hands, my mouth, and my eyes seemed to know how to be his counterpoint, how to reassure and ignite and move and respond. If my forebrain were engaged I’m sure I wouldn’t have recognized this suddenly fearless creature who found boldness and bravery and shed cowardice within the dreamy chaotic perfection of physical intimacy.

When Id
a- seemingly sated, satisfied, and smug- allowed the curtain to be pulled back- albeit briefly- we were collapsed against each other in a Chinese knot of limbs and sheets. I was slightly less drunk on alcohol, but a great deal drunker on the euphoria that, apparently, accompanies mind-blowing sex.

Id
a whispered in my ear that Quinn felt warm and good and very, very right. I nodded at this assertion even as a small pain originating in my heart made it suddenly hard to breathe. I suppressed the sensation, swallowed it, put it on a shelf to think about later.

Abruptly, I had three rapid thoughts:

Quinn still has his tie on.

I wonder if he’ll let me keep it.

I wonder if he’ll let me use it to...

And then, just like that, Id
a was in control again.

Life is funny.

And I don’t mean just ha-ha funny; I also mean cunning and curious and capricious and “The jokes on you, Batman!” funny.

Sleep gradually rescinded and I blinked against unforgiving brightness.  The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes
, the first thing that appeared clearly in focus, was the staunchly, almost glowing, white pillow and empty sheets next to me. To my still drowsy eyes the sheets did not look familiar and the room was too bright. I frowned, closed my eyes, opened them again and I remembered.

Naked.

On a bed.

In a hotel.

In Las Vegas.

Having just spent the better part of the early morning engaging in insouciantly indulgent love making with Quinn Sullivan.

I sat up abruptly and unthinkingly. My eyes were no longer drowsy. Like an electric current had just been passed through my spine, I was shocked awake. My gaze tried to absorb everything at once: the room, the window, the door, the clock, the bed, my nakedness, the discarded piles of clothes, peppering the floor like anthills, and the equally discarded pile of cards next to the ottoman.

Rigidly, I listened intently for sounds- footsteps, breathing, shower, faucet- and spent several seconds holding air suspended in my lungs before convinced that I was alone. I released the breath I’d been holding slowly and allowed my muscles to relax just a little. I further allowed my brain to tentatively turn its attention to thoughts and feelings other than alarm and battle readiness as my eyes slowly took in my surroundings, looking at the details rather than surmise whether or not I was in immediate danger of encountering Quinn.

Because, impulsively, upon first recognizing and realizing where I was and what I’d done, that’s what it felt like: danger.

Since I spent much of my childhood being left behind and ignored, one might think that, as an adult, moments of perceived abandonment would feel old hat. The truth is, as an adult, I am always waiting to be left behind. I’m always ready to be discarded and, therefore, I spend a significant amount of time preparing for this eventuality.

I lower my expectations, I don’t seek out meaningful relationships, and I don’t engage in any sort of real intimacy, physical or otherwise.

Engage is the key word here.

Except, when I engage, when it happens, when I’m left behind it doesn’t feel old hat. It feels like it did the first time and it takes me by surprise.

So, I don’t let it happen.

I swallowed then licked my lips, absentmindedly pulling the bottom one through my teeth with worry; glancing around the room I noted with cool detachment that the clock read 9:31 am; the only clothes strewn about belonged to me; I was, currently, alone.

There was, however, a note.

A white piece of paper lay on the bed next to me; I recognized the hotel logo at the top and Quinn’s efficient script beneath. The note was illegible from where I sat, so I stared at it.

I stared at it.

And, I stared at it.

Then, I stared at it.

After that, I stared at it.

Dragging my attention elsewhere,
I pushed my heavy, long hair away from my eyes and behind my shoulder then rested my forehead in my hand; my thumb and index fingers rubbed my temples. Tangible memories, not just initial scattered fragments, of what occurred before I fell asleep, of what I’d done and said, of what we did together, flooded into focus and a faintly familiar small pain originating in my heart made it suddenly difficult to breathe.

Impaired judgment.

It wasn’t anxiety or fear. It was… something like wishing or longing or hope. The sensation reminded me of my childhood, when my mother would actually be present for one of my birthdays or my parents would sit us down, the three girls, and tell us that my mom would be staying this time.

I was uncomfortable with the sensation and it made me feel despondent and weary so I again pushed it away, like I’d done last night
after we made love the first time, and walked to the bathroom to take my shower. I encouraged my mind to wander, to think about something other than what Quinn’s note said and what, if anything, had changed because of last night; whether, in the light of day, my decisions had been good ones; where Quinn was; when I would see Quinn again.

However, to my disappointment
, despite my desire to daydream about anything and everything else, all I could think about what the what, whether, where, and when of Quinn. This might have had something to do with the fact that signs of him were everywhere; and, by everywhere, I mean all over my body.

I was sore from… exertion. Nail marks, bite marks, scruff marks and the like spotted my skin. I stared at my reflection in the mirror for an indeterminate amount of time then, gritting my teeth, I turned on the shower.

It wasn’t just that I’d never experience anything like the connection or intimacy or sensations of last night. Rather, it was that I never realized the desire existed. I felt wholly disconcerted by the fact that what had been a previously unidentified want now felt more like a need, like water or breathing or comic books and shoes. I didn’t like that a something had been awakened. I preferred to be in control of my cravings. Furthermore, I preferred to only have cravings I could satisfy without the requirement or assistance of another person. This was, after all, the definition of self-reliance.

I tried to remind myself that I had been drunk so nothing that happened last night
really
counted or mattered.

Impaired judgment.

Surely he would realize that I’d been exhibiting impaired judgment.

After the shower I towel dried and applied hair product to my curls; my cheeks were flushed and it had more to do with the memory of the previous night than it had to do with the steam of the shower.

I walked into the main room and, still avoiding the note, scaled the perimeter of the bed, picked up my discarded clothes and folded them into a neat pile next to my suitcase. I picked out another business suit from the closet and started to dress, on autopilot.

It was now 9:4
7 am and the plane was due to leave at 3:00 pm.

I was facing hours alone with the note.
I eyed it despairingly.

The other disconcerting realization originating from last night was the moment of what I thought was shared trust. I gave him something in that moment, when our eyes met and I became fearless; it was a part of myself. And now
, in the very bright light of day, I wasn’t so sure that I’d made an especially wise decision.

He hadn’t earned that trust. I gave it to him based on weakness called faith
and the faith had been based on wine-pickled-brain-impaired-judgment.

I didn’t want to read the note. I felt certain I knew what it said. He was, after all, a Wendell at heart and
I’ve just become one of his slamps
. I swallowed thickly at the thought.

But I wasn’t. I wasn’t a slamp.

Less girly-drama-hysterical Janie and more logical Janie endeavored to make her presence known:
Having the hot sex over the course of several hours does not a slamp make.

These thoughts didn’t help either.

With a huff I crossed to the bed and picked up the note; girly-drama-hysterical Janie was certain it was a blow-off. Logical Janie decided to reserve judgment until the note was read:

Janie,

I’ll be right back with breakfast
and coffee. Call me as soon as you wake up.

-Quinn

I stared at the note.

I stared at it.

And, I stared at it.

Then, I stared at it.

After that, I stared at it.

The longing w
as back, the hope. It spread like a wild fire through my heart and brain and body so fast I nearly lost my breath. Therefore, I did the only thing that made sense.

I panicked.

I wondered if Quinn had ruined me for everything that was not-Quinn-like in much the same way his private plane had ruined me for commercial airline travel.

I left Las Vegas at 11:35 am on an Alliantsouth direct flight to Chicago.
The security line made me feel like a refugee and it all went downhill from there: while waiting at the airside an escaped pet turtle stole my glasses and snapped them in half at the nose; I was severely jostled when I boarded the plane and was pretty sure the man behind me copped a feel; when I took my seat by the window the woman next to me took off her shoes.

Swamp-feet was all I lived and breathed for two hours.
I wondered if the thieving turtle would have enjoyed the aroma.

Mercifully,
1510 miles and one taxi ride later I was sitting at my desk, checking my email, sipping on coffee, and modifying the original project plan for the Vegas club. It was just after 6:00pm and the office was quiet. I allowed myself to get lost in spreadsheets and calculations and formulas and pivot tables.

My office phone rang and, after inspecting a calculated value
on my screen for veracity, I lifted the receiver to my ear.

“Janie Morris.”

“What the hell, Janie.”

Electric shock. That’s what it was.

He was irate and the sound of his voice caused the sensation to travel down my spine, my limbs, stinging my fingertips, toes, and ears.

“
Hi- Hi Quinn.” My chest was tight, I was having trouble breathing; even so I struggled to sound unflustered and calm.

Silence

“How was your trip?”

Silence

“It’s nice to hear your voice…?” The statement came out sounding like a question, as though I were playing jeopardy and I’d chosen my category-

‘I’ll take
‘
Charming Chit Chat’ for $200, Alex
’ and behind the $200 read: ‘
This is what you say to the hot guy- you abandoned- when he returns after you inexplicably leave him and his private jet in Las Vegas after having amazing and multiple occurrences of the hot sex.
’

Obviously, I realized that the length of text would likely not fit in a jeopardy box
and would also not get pass the censors, but I was having trouble thinking in condensed situational short-hand. 

I heard him sigh, almost see his beautiful face and the frustration marring his features.

Finally he said, “
What’s going on?
”