Neanderthal Seeks Human

“Do you want something to drink?” He asked.

I shook my head; even though I was thirsty I was having difficulty swallowing. Instead I folded and refolded my hands on my lap then over my knees. The car engine started and the limo began to move. I glanced out the window directly in front of me but the glass was so dark it significantly dulled the landscape beyond.

Several long moments passed in silence and, for once, I welcomed my mind’s wanderlust. I counted the lights along the wood panel of the ceiling and tried to imagine the robot on the manufacturing assembly line responsible for such detail work. I liked the idea of robots and hoped I would live to see robots become assimilated into households like pets or companions. Rover would become Robo-rover and the elderly might own a Robo-panion.

Quinn’s voice was quiet as he interrupted my musings, “What are you thinking about?”

I cleared my throat and shrugged, answering honestly before I could think to stop myself, “Robots.”

“Robots.” He mimicked; I heard him shift on the bench then move to the seat directly across from me. Our knees and ankles touched. “What are you thinking about Robots?”

My heart skipped then galloped at his closeness. I shrugged again, focusing my attention on the blue silk of his tie. It looked dark purple in the dim cabin. Despite my best intentions and attempts at self-control, the physical contact of our legs made my stomach erupt in an angry wasp nest of nerves. I remained silent because I found my mouth no longer functioned.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees; his hands were clasped, hovering above my thighs. “Janie,” his voice sounded tightly controlled, as though he were struggling to keep his temper in check, “Why haven’t you returned my calls?”

I lifted my gaze to his, surprised by the use of my first name. I swallowed, “I- Mr. Sullivan-”

“Don’t do that.” He half groaned, half growled and covered my hands with his.

I studied him for a moment, a thick knot was in my throat and the wasp nest was swirling furiously in my stomach, incited by his touch, but I finally managed to choke out, “I’m not sure what you want me to say.”

He narrowed his eyes at me, just a slight outward indication of frustration; but then they flickered to my lips, “Why did you turn off your cell phone?”

I ground my teeth; the buzzing wasps were turning into an angry Africanized bee colony. Their feelings of hostility began to spread through me, my body humming with aggravated resentment. I was surprised by how angry I was when I responded; “Why didn’t you tell me that you were the Boss?”

His gaze met mine again, pinned me in place, “I did.”

I stiffened, pulling my hands from his and gripping the seat on either side of my legs, “Oh, was I asleep for this conversation?”

He frowned, “Are you angry with me?”

I blinked at him, maybe three times, possibly four, in stunned confusion, “I- I’m not-” I stuttered then finally managed, “I’m not angry with you.”

“Well then you do a good impression of angry.”

“Mr. Sullivan-”

“Don’t call me that.” He interrupted me again but his voice was softer, “Don’t call me that unless you want to.”

“I do want to.”

My statement was met with silence; his expression was hard, frustrated, determined. He openly watched me for what seemed like several minutes. I tried but couldn’t quite meet his gaze. My anxiety increased with each passing second and, therefore, my mind began darting in every direction. The car rolled along and I thought to myself that it must have extremely good shocks as it felt like we were gliding. I imagined the car on ice skates gliding across a frozen lake, being pushed by robots.

Finally, very quietly, he said, “Why?”

“Because-” I swallowed, my chest felt impossibly tight, “because I have a habit of saying some wildly inappropriate things- as you know. And you are not just my boss, you are the second ‘B’ in ‘B and B’, which is Betty and the Boss. I can recall at least seventeen things that I’ve said to you that I should never say to the Boss. And, if I keep calling you-” I took a deep breath, my fingers dug into the leather seat, “-keep calling you Quinn then I’ll say at least seventeen more- if not thirty four more, or two hundred and eighty nine more.”

“Then you should most definitely keep calling me Quinn.”

I sighed and eyed him warily.

Suddenly he leaned further forward and gently lifted one of my hands from the bench. His thumb moved in slow motion over the back of my knuckles as he held it between both of his palms. “Look. I’ve really enjoyed all of the seventeen wildly inappropriate remarks you’ve made and, if you recall, I’ve said at least seventeen myself.”

The sensation of his thumb moving over the back of my hand was doing something unexpected to the middle of my body. In an effort to mask the effect, I swallowed rigidly, my lips firming into a stiff line, and said nothing. What I wanted to do was start unbuttoning my shirt and ask him to mimic that motion elsewhere.

“I would be very disappointed if you started behaving differently around me.” His features and his tone were serious, imploring; his eyes appeared to be a dark, fiery cobalt in the dimly lit limo; but it was his thumb that was my undoing.

I felt flustered, confused; so, my tone more accusatory than I intended, I asked the first question which came to mind, “Why did you hire me?”

His thumb paused, just briefly, before he responded, “Because, despite what you insist to the contrary, you do have a photographic memory, you have an extremely analytical approach to business practice, you are a fantastic accountant, and your legs looked amazing in those zebra print stilettos.”

I pulled my hand out of his grip and, for lack of knowing what to do with the trembling appendages, I crossed my arms over my chest; “You can’t say things like that. You are my boss.”

His jaw flexed and he balled his empty hands into fists, “But I’m not just your boss, am I?”

“You’re right; technically you’re my boss’s boss.”

He ignored my comment, “We’re dating.”

“Well, I don’t date my boss, so…” I closed my eyes, wanting the car ride to be over. Hoping that if I just closed my eyes maybe all the lama drama would just go away.

I heard him sigh; it was an angry sound. His legs were still pressed against mine and I could feel the warmth of him through our layers of clothing.

My eyes were still closed when I asked, “Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”

“I did. More than once.”

I released a slow breath before countering, “You know what I mean.” I lifted my lids and met his subtly seething gaze. “You knew I didn’t know, that I misunderstood. Why didn’t you correct me?”

His eyes flashed with blinding intensity behind an irascible mask. When he spoke his tone was severe: “Would you have stayed with me, at the concert, if I’d told you? Would you have let me kiss you? Would you have gone out to dinner with me? Stayed at the park?” His eyes were narrowed and my stomach dropped to my feet when I saw his expression slide, with each word, further into a mask of indifference.

I shook my head slowly and answered honestly, “No. No I would not. But you knew I was going to find out eventually.”

He looked away from me and straightened his tie, smoothing his hand down the blue silk, his tone sodden with superior sarcasm, “I’d hoped, by then, it wouldn’t make a difference.”

The car slowed and stopped. I swallowed a giant lump in my throat. I didn’t want to ask the next question but I needed to know, it was better to know; “What are you going to do now?”

His voice and his face were devoid of emotion, he almost sounded bored, as he responded, “What do you mean?”

“I mean, do I still have a job?”

He flinched as though I’d slapped him, his lips parting and his dark brows lowering over eyes which seemed to be suddenly shooting fire in my direction, “What?” for a moment he looked truly stunned.

I lifted my chin, grabbing fistfuls of my jacket at each of my sides in order to steady my hands. “Do I still have a job?”

The car door opened and my eyes moved automatically to the light. To my escape.

When he didn’t move or respond I reluctantly focused my attention on him again; he didn’t look quite so severe. Rather his gaze had softened considerably. If possible, the quiet understanding of his expression troubled me more than the cold stoicism he’d employed earlier. I sighed and shifted along the seat toward the door, lying to myself that I wanted to forget this car ride, forget that Quinn was ever anything but my boss.

I exited first and walked toward the trunk, hoping to grab my bag and disappear into the large casino lobby. I might even cry. Limo #2 was maneuvering into the casino but was still some distance away.

I felt Quinn hovering behind me, felt his hand close over my arm just above my elbow, the heat of his words on my ear and neck made me shiver despite the warmth of the Las Vegas sun.

“I’ll find you later.”

I turned toward him but he’d already released my arm; he was walking away, towards the hotel lobby, and away from me.