Neanderthal Seeks Human

In actuality, I yelled it. I yelled the word yes.

Quinn let out a breath. “Good-”

“YES, I’LL GO OUT ON A DATE WITH YOU, QUINN SULLIVAN, TO A PLACE WHERE WE HAVE DINNER.” I couldn’t stop the shouted words. I was having an out of body experience which for some reason made me bellow my sentence.

He laughed lightly, “Good, I’m happy to hear it.”

I nodded, not speaking until I was sure I had control over my volume, “Ok then. That’s that.” Not really sure about proper protocol in cases such as these I stuck out my hand for him to shake.

He studied my offered hand and enclosed it in his own, tugging me forward instead of shaking it. He leaned down and kissed me again- this time just a quick, brief brush of his lips against mine- then straightened. It made my toes curl in my shoes, my spine shiver, and my heart jump to my throat; I instinctively swayed forward as he retreated.

I blushed for the seven hundred and thirty first time, “I should go.”

“You don’t want to stay for the concert?”

“Oh.” I’d completely forgotten about the concert.

He pulled my notebook from my grip and motioned toward the picture window, “The first act should be starting soon.”

I hesitated.

“Let’s finish eating. Then, we’ll watch the concert. We can leave whenever you want.”

I glanced around the room. Much had happened in an extremely short period of time; the events warranted analysis.

Quinn tugged on my hand where he’d entwined our fingers until I met his gaze; his eyes were warm and unguarded, even sparkly. “I promise: no monkey business and no more compromising impulsivity control…” his now trademark sexy, meandering smile shone down at me. “Unless you want to.”

I could only nod, rendered mute by the glittering intensity of his grin, and allow myself to be coxswained in the direction of his choice.

True to his word, there was no monkey business. And, even though we both consumed additional alcoholic beverages neither of us initiated any physical intimacy beyond brief touches every so often. Although, from time to time, Quinn would brush my hair away from my shoulders or face and would lay his arm along the back of my seat.

It felt strange to listen to a concert rather than to be actively be engaged in it; we didn’t sing or dance or clap. In fact, we spoke through most of it; it might as well have been background music on a stereo system. At one point we ignored it all together and spent forty-five minutes debating my good-bad-stupid-lazy philosophy.

It was Quinn’s belief that, if I included both good and bad, I should add intelligent and motivated. I countered that the absence of stupidity implied intelligence but the absence of bad did not imply good.

When he caught me yawning for the second time he decided it was time to take me home. A black Mercedes met us when we arrived downstairs; to my astonishment we were greeted by a familiar face.

It was Vincent. Vincent the limo driver who helped me move the contents of my belongings from Jon’s apartment then took me to Elizabeth’s apartment on my worst-day-ever. I couldn’t believe my eyes at first but then, as he held the door open, he winked at me. I could only stare at him dumbly.

Quinn and I spent the first half of the car ride in separated silence, sitting on opposite ends of the long leather bench seat. My brain hurt. It was tired of trying to keep up with so many changes and gauging the appropriateness of my reactions. Nevertheless, I attempted to sort through the last several hours I glanced at the back of Vincent’s head and once or twice he caught my eye in the rearview mirror. At some point I would need to ask Quinn if he’d arranged the limo that took me home those weeks ago or if Vincent’s presence tonight was merely a fluke.

At a stop light Quinn pulled me out of my musings by unbuckling my seat belt. I met his gaze, the clear blue of his eyes appearing opalescent in the dark car; he silently pulled me to the center of the bench. He wrapped his arms around me, guided my back to his chest, then fastened the middle buckle around me. I felt warm and safe which, paradoxically, made me shiver and my heart race with apprehension.

When we arrived outside my building Vincent the driver opened the door and offered his hand. I smiled up, then down, at him as I climbed out. “It’s good to see you again.”

“You too. You are looking very beautiful.” His brown eyes twinkled at me under the street lamp; he brought my knuckles to his lips and gave them a kiss, just like he’d done before.

Quinn stood from the car behind me and I walked forward, turning to continue my conversation with the driver, “And how is your wife? Your grandchildren?”

“Ah- the days are long but the years are short.” He shook his head and looked to the heavens.

Quinn looked from Vincent to me, then back again. He raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. I said my farewell to the driver; Quinn, placing his hand on the small of my back, guided me to the steps of my building. We stopped at my door and I fished my keys from the portfolio case.

“How do you know Vincent?” One of Quinn’s hands was in his pocket, the other was scratching the day-old stubble on his jaw.

“I was meaning to ask you about that.” I paused as I separated the front door key from the others, “Vincent was driving the limo that took me home on the day I was downsized.”

Quinn’s eyes clouded over then his brow lifted in sudden understanding. He looked away from me and to the door of my building.

I eyed him suspiciously before I asked, “Did you arrange for the car that day?”

He hesitated then nodded, still not making eye contact. “Yes.” was all he said.

“Why did you do that?”

He met my gaze, “You seemed…” he sighed, “upset.”

“You didn’t even know me.”

“But I wanted to.” He countered, shifting closer, his hand lifting and tucking a curl behind my ear.

I swallowed with effort and lifted my chin to maintain eye contact as frenzied warmth twisted in my chest. “Why didn’t you just talk to me then? Ask me on a date?”

Quinn’s eyes narrowed and considered me, he looked particularly hawkish as he said, “I don’t date.”

I frowned at him. Before I could process his response he bent and kissed me for the third time that night. This one was different; not the slow, savoring sweetness of our first kiss and most definitely not a quick caress of lips like our last. This one was hungry and immediately demanding.

He fisted his hand in my hair and backed me into the door of my building, trapping me in place. It was the kind of kiss which drove all coherent thought away; bloodthirsty wolves chasing after bunny rabbits. My body responded automatically in a way I didn’t know possible, my back arching, wanting to press every inch of myself against his taut form and the painfully delightful ache in my lower stomach started to wind its way around my limbs.

Just as suddenly as it had begun it was over; he ended by nipping at my bottom lip and waiting for me to open my eyes so he could stare into them. I felt him slide something into my pocket.

He smiled almost imperceptibly, “I had Jamal pick up your cell from the office. I’ll call you tomorrow so we can make arrangements for dinner.” I opened my mouth to respond but he stopped me with another quick kiss. Quinn took my keys out of my hand and opened the door at my back; he pushed it open and guided me inside, placing my keys back in my palm.

I complied mechanically, pausing at the steps to glance back at him hovering just outside the door. He was still grinning in that secret, quiet way of his. Then, he turned and was gone.

I walked into the Elizabeth’s apartment feeling like a zombie. I needed brains. The Quinn Sullivan rollercoaster left me completely exhausted. Nevertheless, instead of sleeping, all I wanted to do was sit, stare into space, and obsess about everything that had occurred. I embraced this desire to obsess because I knew it was what normal people did.

Elizabeth was lying on the carpeted floor; her legs were up, legs against the wall, all in all an excellent Viparita Karani. She had on oversized headphones which were connected to her stereo system via a remarkably long cord.

Elizabeth had an impressively strange record collection and would frequently relax by sprawling on the floor, contorting into yoga poses, knitting or reading medical journals, and listening to records. She loved boy bands and had vinyl records for most, starting with New Kids on the Block, since her birth. She must have noticed the movement of my entrance because she turned just her head and gave me a quizzical smile. She sat up straight, set her knitting aside, and pulled off the headphones; her eyes moved over me in open assessment.

Elizabeth frowned, “Were you just with Jon?”

I shook my head, dazedly sitting on the couch. I picked up a decorative pillow and clutched it to my stomach, “No, I was with Quinn.”

She shot up and claimed the seat next to me on the couch; I could hear the faint sounds of boy band One Direction coming through the small speakers; “Oh my God.” She said, “What happened? Was this for work? Where were you guys?”

My face fell to my hands and I shook my head, “Elizabeth, you are not allowed to take concurrent shifts at the hospital ever again.”

I started by telling her about bumping into him on Wednesday at Smith’s and included the ambiguous arrest details Quinn had given me about the alleged girl-drugger from club Outrageous.