And here, for your reading pleasure, is our free excerpt:
My heart skipped two beats. I turned fully around.
Oh my god, it’s you.
“Oh my god, it’s you.” I realized too late that I said and thought the same thing in unison.
He gave me a whisper of a smile, his blue eyes moving over me: lips, neck, shoulders, chest, stomach, hips, thighs, legs, shoes. The slow deliberateness of his perusal made me shiver even as I felt a dismaying hot flush rise to my cheeks.
His gaze lingered on my shoes before it traveled upward again.
After a long pause, his blue stare met mine again, “Yep. It’s me.”
I was speechless; my usually cluttered brain was blank. I could only gape at him. Thankfully, Elizabeth spoke from behind me. “Hi, I’m Elizabeth.”
His eyes moved beyond me to where she stood. I took the opportunity to make some semblance of an attempt to gather my wits from where they lay scattered on the floor, on the bar, on the ceiling, like blood from a gunshot victim.
“Hi, I’m Quinn.” He gave her a closed-lipped, socially acceptable for the situation, friendly enough smile, and I tried to think of something to say as Quinn and Elizabeth shook hands over the bar.
Quinn. His name is Quinn. I must remember to call him Quinn, not Sir Handsome McHotpants.
The best I could come up with was, “What are you doing here?” and then I tried not to cringe when I realized it sounded somewhat accusatory.
His attention moved back to me. “I’m working.”
“Are you a bouncer?” My brain, like a skipping record, seemed to be stuck on stream-of-consciousness questions.
“My company…” He paused for a moment as though considering something, and then he continued. “My company does the security for this place.”
“Oh—the same company that does the security for the Fairbanks building.” I stated this rather than asked. The Fairbanks building was where I used to work.
I started to feel marginally more relaxed in his company, as his presence at the club made more sense. However, his presence at the bar, with us, was still a mystery. Before I could stop myself, I asked, “Are we in trouble?”
His eyebrows lifted. “Are you in trouble?”
I nodded. “What I mean is, did we do something wrong? Is that why you were sent over here?”
He shook his head, not answering right away; confusion and something akin to uncertainty flickered over his features. “No, no one sent me over here.”
“Oh,” I said, and my mind went blank again.
He was watching me in that measured way he’d employed in the elevator after my episode of verbal nonsense. A moment passed as we looked at each other. Then, he tipped his head toward our champagne glasses on the bar. “Are you two celebrating something?”
I looked to Elizabeth for help, but she was pretending to read the drink menu.
“No.” When I met his gaze again, I found him watching me with unveiled interest. His attention was maddeningly distracting; my unresponsive brain felt covered in molasses. My body, however, felt rigid and aware. I felt every stitch of clothing I was wearing touching me: my backless, strapless bra felt too tight; the caressing silky softness of the dress caused goose bumps to rise over my neck and arms; the friction of my lace undergarments and stockings burned my inner thighs.
I swallowed with a great deal of effort and forced myself to speak, not really paying attention to my words. “One of Elizabeth’s patients gave her the tickets, and she wanted to take me out because she thinks I need cheering up.”
“Because of your job?” He prompted, shifting closer to me, resting his hand on the bar between us.
His new proximity caused my heart to gallop, effectively kicking my brain into overdrive. Words tumbled forth unchecked. “Yeah, that and I just broke up with my boyfriend. Although, I don’t know if broke up is the right term for it. It’s hard to find words and phrases which really accurately reflect actions. I find verbs in the English language to be lacking. What I really like are collective nouns. The nice thing about them is that you can use any word in the English language as a collective noun, which allows you to ascribe both features as well as character traits to the collection or group. Although, some collective nouns are well established. As an example, do you know what a group of rhinoceroses is called?”
He shook his head as he tilted it to the side, watching me.
“It’s called a crash. I like to make up my own collective nouns for things; like, take that group of women over there.” I indicated across his shoulder, and he turned to see where I pointed. “See the plastic-looking ones on the purple lily pad? I would call a group like that a latex of ladies with the word latex being the collective noun. And those cages, with the monkeys and the couples—I would call them collectively a vulgar of cages with the word vulgar being the collective noun.”
He lifted his hand to get the bartender’s attention as he spoke. “I would switch them. I would call the cages a latex of cages and the women a vulgar of women.”
I considered his comment before responding. “Why is that?”
He leveled his gaze on me and gifted me with a small smile. “Because that group of women over there are more vulgar than what is happening in the cages, and the couples in the cages are wearing latex.”
I watched him for a moment, my brow wrinkling, and then I moved my eyes to one of the cages to watch the couple. I chewed on my lip as I studied them. “The women look completely naked, and the men are in monkey suits. Where is the… the-” I sucked in a breath, my wide eyes moving back to his. “Are you saying… they’re, are they…?”
He laughed and shook his head; a bright full smile lit his eyes with amusement. “No, no. I guarantee they’re not engaging in any monkey business.” He laughed again as he watched me. “I know for a fact it’s all choreographed. It’s a show.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “It’s a show?”
His laugh was deep and open, and it was doing strange things to my insides, especially since I suspected he was laughing at me. My stomach fluttered with a mixture of embarrassment and apprehension. I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to ignore my body’s continuing hysterics. “It’s still disconcerting. I mean, would you want one of those cages in your house?”
He continued to grin at my incredulousness and answered, “Not with the monkey in it.”
“The man or the primate?” I countered.
“Neither.” His gaze narrowed, mimicking mine, and he leaned still closer.
I swallowed unevenly and managed to croak, “But, you would want the woman?”
“Not that woman.” His voice was so low I almost didn’t hear his response. His eyes moved from mine and traveled over my hair, forehead, nose, cheeks, then remained on my lips for longer than I felt was necessary… or appropriate… I wasn’t sure which, but there had to be a word that adequately conveyed my discomfort at that moment.
“What do you need?” The bartender’s polite query sounded from my left, which, to my dual relief and disappointment, caused Quinn to move his attention from my lips.
“Hey, David, please put whatever these two are having tonight on my account,” Quinn said.
David shook his head slowly, his eyes flickering upward then back to Quinn. “I can’t do that, Mr. Sullivan.”
Quinn frowned. “Why not?”
“Someone else already volunteered to cover their tab.” The bartender grimaced, his shoulders stiffening.
“Who?” Quinn asked.
David’s voice was tinged with uncertainty when he responded. “I can’t tell you that.”
The bartender’s response surprised Quinn; I could tell by the narrowing of his eyes. I saw the muscle tick at his jaw before he murmured in a low voice, “Yes you can.”
I turned to Elizabeth, but she was distracted by her pager, which, I didn’t notice until that moment, must have been going off. I gave her a questioning glance as I listened to Quinn and David’s discussion.
I heard David sigh. “Alright, listen, I’ll tell you, but don’t look at them, ok? They’ve been really great with the tips.”
“Who is it?” Quinn didn’t raise his voice, but his tone clearly betrayed impatience.
“It’s the guys on the second floor—don’t look up there—the ones in the Canopy room.” David sighed again.
I sensed rather than saw Quinn step closer to me as I suppressed my urge to look up to the previously unnoticed second floor. I wondered where the Canopy room was. Before I could give this much thought, I felt a shock as Quinn placed his hand on my arm above the elbow and turned me to face him.
His gaze was no longer warm and friendly; in fact, it almost looked hostile as he addressed me. “You need to leave.”
His touch, his closeness, the intensity of his stare all made my insides feel like lava. I couldn’t understand my erratic and completely unintentional reactions to him; it was as if I was someone else, some daft dimwit.
I resolved to pull myself together, and opened my mouth to respond but, before I could, Elizabeth chimed in from behind me.
“Yeah, actually, we do need to go.” She waved her pager, stepped to my side, and gave me an apologetic frown. “I just got paged. They need me to go in. I’m sorry, Janie.”
I looked between Elizabeth and Quinn, a confused frown securely in place. “Wait—why do I need to go?”
Quinn’s hand moved down my bare arm, causing me to immediately shiver, and engulfed my hand; his fingers linked through mine. He tugged impatiently and began leading me toward the entrance as he spoke.
“Because your friend is leaving, and it’s not safe to be in a club by yourself like this, looking the way you look.”
“But…” I sputtered, trying to understand what was happening and the meaning of his words, but my body was still achingly sentient, focusing on where his hand held mine, and my mind was decidedly distracted. Again, I looked to Elizabeth for help, but she was already some distance behind us, and I wasn’t certain she could hear our conversation. He wasn’t moving particularly fast, so we walked side-by-side holding hands.
Finally, I said, “What’s wrong with how I look? And aren’t I safe with you?” My skipping record of stream-of-consciousness questions seemed to be spinning again.
He glanced at me from the corner of his eyes and hesitated a moment before speaking, as though he were about to give away a secret reluctantly. “Not necessarily.”
“Can’t I just stay here?”
He withdrew his hand from mine and placed it on my back, pressed me forward as he answered, “No. You can’t.” His firm strength at the base of my spine reminded me of how he’d escorted me to the basement on my worst day ever and I felt aggravated. My annoyance spiked when he added, “Someone like you shouldn’t be in here anyway.”
I stepped abruptly away from him and stopped walking; we were approximately ten feet from the entrance.
His words felt like a snowball to the face. “Someone like me?” I asked, squaring my shoulders, even as I felt an irritating blush spread up my neck and over my cheeks. I glanced around at the perfectly formed animated mannequins in the club and knew exactly what he meant.
I was used to remarks about my strangeness, and I’d long ago resolved to rejoice in the awkwardness of my appearance, but the offhand comment, coming from him, the benighted source of my weeks-long stalkerish fantasies, chaffed against a wound I thought had healed into a concealed scar long ago.
His attention followed my movements as I pulled away, a mixture of surprise, annoyance, and confusion apparent in his features. He took a step to close the distance between us and reached for my hand, but I crossed my arms over my chest to avoid further contact.
I wondered at my seesaw of emotions, hot then cold; I didn’t enjoy how unbalanced I felt, especially when he touched me. I didn’t like that I’d given him some strange power over my inner mechanics and chemistry just because he was beautiful. I didn’t like how my body seemed to be intent on sabotaging my brain, especially since my brain was so good at sabotaging itself. The burning in the pit of my stomach was replaced with a cold ache. I felt seasick and truly absurd.
“I think I can navigate the last few feet just fine without an escort. I do know how to walk.”
I tried not to notice how very nice he looked in his black suit, and I gave him what I hoped was a withering glare, but I suspected it was merely a stiff stare, and I walked around him and headed straight to the door. I didn’t look back as I exited the club, and welcomed the windy, Chicago city air.
Elizabeth must have been a significant distance behind me, because she didn’t join me for what seemed like several minutes; this gave me ample time to work myself into a tornado of heated annoyance and embarrassment.
When she finally arrived she was on her cell phone, obviously talking to the hospital; she gave me a huge smile, nudged my elbow with hers, and mouthed oh my god. I frowned at her elated expression and shook my head. Elizabeth covered the receiver of her phone to block our conversation from whoever was on the other end; a questioning crease was between her eyebrows, and her smile replaced with meditative concern.
“I thought you’d be over the moon,” she said in a loud whisper, indicating the club with a quick nod of her head. “He was flirting with you!”
I sighed and turned away from her. “No, he wasn’t.”
“What, are you crazy? He’s completely into you. Did he…yes…” I listened as Elizabeth turned her attention back to the voice emanating from her cell. “Yes, I’m still here.”
I ignored the rest of her phone conversation. My thoughts were a black cloud of grumpiness at my maladroit personality disorder and gargantuan features. There were very few times in my life I truly wished I looked different and simply was different from the person I am: the middle child in a family of three girls, and the one who is universally acknowledged as the smart plain Jane of the bunch.
We were the Morris girls. My older sister, June Morris, was the pretty one; I was the smart one; my youngest sister, Jem Morris, was the crazy one. Jem’s first arrest came when she was nine, shortly after our mother’s death. She stabbed one of her teachers in the hand with a cafeteria knife then told the police she had a bomb hidden in the school.
Even from an early age, I was at peace with my family and my place in it. In recent years both June and Jem had become known, collectively, as the criminal ones. June had just been found not guilty in California for her part in running an organized escort service, as my dad called it. He was too polite to call it what it was—her prostitution business.
The last time I heard from Jem she was calling the shots at a chop shop in Massachusetts just outside of Boston. To their credit, June and Jem were both leaders in their respective fields, masterminds at their craft. I, meanwhile, went to college to become an architect, and the closest I’d come to realizing my dream was securing a job, bought by my at-the-time-boyfriend’s dad, as a staff accountant at a mediocre firm.
I wasn’t sure it was even my dream anymore.
Elizabeth pulled me back into the present with a tug on my arm as she led me toward a waiting taxi. “Here,” she shoved cash into my hand. “Just go to the apartment. I’ll take a different cab to the hospital; it’s in the opposite direction.” She gave me a quick hug as I looked from her to the money in my hand. “We’ll talk tomorrow. I won’t be home ‘til the afternoon.”
I nodded dumbly as she shoved me into the open door, closed it, waved through the window, then turned to hail another taxi.
The car was moving. I frowned at the pile of bills in my fist. I wondered why my sisters were so fearless. I wondered if I had missed out on that gene along with June’s beauty gene and Jem’s crazy gene. I wondered why everyone—Jon, Elizabeth, and even to a certain extent Sir Quinn McHotpants—felt like I needed oversight: someone to escort me, to take care of me, to tell me what to do and point me in the “right” direction.
“Where to?” The cabbie’s baritone cut through my dazed preoccupation, and I realized we’d already gone two blocks. “Where are we going?” his voice sounded again from the front.
I quickly considered my options. I could go back to the apartment, read my new book on the history of viral infections, and embrace my hermit tendencies, or I could ask the driver to turn the cab around, take me back to the club, and—just for one night—live my life unescorted while I tried to unlock my Morris Girl fearless gene.
“Take me back to Outrageous.”
~*~
There are times, after drinking too much alcohol, I wonder if the prohibitionists were on to something when they coined the term demon liquor. It felt like I had a demon inside of me who was stabbing my eyes with a corkscrew, scooping pieces of my brain out with a spork, twisting cotton in my throat, and wearing soccer cleats as it jumped up and down on my bladder.
This was only my third time with a hangover and, like all the other times, I promised myself it would be my last. The first time was not my fault; my younger sister, Jem, diluted my breakfast of orange juice with vodka on the morning of the SATs. She said it was a protein drink, and it would keep my brain alert. I ended up throwing up all over my examination, and the proctor screamed that I’d ruined his perfect test administration record.
The second time I was with Jon at a tiki bar near his parents’ house in the Hamptons. He ordered me a drink called “the hurricane,” which didn’t taste like anything but fruit juice. I ordered several, liking the little umbrellas and other accoutrements that donned the rim of the glass, and ended up getting sick on the beach. I passed out on the sand, and Jon, being just my height and of a lean build, wasn’t strong enough to lift me. He had to call two of his friends over to help him pick me up and carry me back to the guesthouse. When I woke up, I wanted to die.
Now, lying face down on a strange bed with my mouth tasting like whatever the Grim Reaper served at Thanksgiving, I knew three things for certain: I was not at Elizabeth’s apartment; I was wearing only my bra, thigh-high stockings, and underwear; and I wanted to die.
I squeezed my eyes shut tighter, wanting to postpone my collision with reality for as long as possible, and willed myself back to sleep. I wasn’t certain how much time passed as I lay there hoping that my fairy godmother would appear along with little talking birds and mice and clothe me in jeans and a T-shirt, put me in a pumpkin carriage, and send me to Starbucks for a soy latte. When I finally opened my eyes, all my earlier unpleasant assertions proved true.
I wasn’t in Elizabeth’s apartment. In fact, I had no idea where I was. Swallowing with a great deal of exertion, my mouth professedly free of saliva, I slowly moved my gaze around the room. My eyeballs felt like sandpaper, and I had to blink several times, both in response to the unforgiving brightness of the world and the dryness resulting from sleeping in my contacts.
When my eyes were appropriately lubricated, I scanned my surroundings from where I lay. It was huge, with walls of exposed red brick, and it was sparsely decorated. The ceiling was tiled tin, rusted in a few places, beige everywhere else. There were no overhead light fixtures; rays of sunlight poured in through tall windows along two adjacent sides of the room. Near the bed was a floor lamp, which was currently off. The floor was sealed cement.
From my vantage point, I saw only five other pieces of furniture besides the mattress and the floor lamp: a drafting desk, a tall wooden chair for the desk, a bookshelf, a brown leather couch, and a side table. The drafting table was covered in papers, and the bookshelf was littered with what looked like machine parts.
I was wearing only my bra, stockings, and underwear. I confirmed this belief by peeking under the white sheet pooled at my mid-back. I glanced again around the room and found my dress folded in half over the back of the wooden chair and my shoes neatly settled under the desk.
I struggled to sit upright and find equilibrium in the vertical world. My hands automatically went to my chest to adjust the strapless bra and ensure it covered my breasts, minimal modesty intact.
My hair fell to my lower spine in a puffy, untenable tangle of curls; it must have come completely loose sometime during the night. Elizabeth called it my mane of hair; I called it my bane of hair. I kept it long, though, because it looked far worse when it was short, sticking straight up or out at awkward angles. At least when it was long it almost obeyed gravity.
I wanted to die. Almost as soon as I was in a sitting position on the mattress, but before I was fully able to bring the world and my current misadventure into focus, I perceived the sound of running water, emanating from a door to the right of the bed. A sudden thunderbolt of panic struck my heart and I stiffened, immediately regretting the ungraceful movement and the resulting stab of pain in my temples.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I took several deep breaths. As exigently as possible, I went to the invisible closet space in my head and went through the motions of wrapping up the panic in the beach towel, somehow fumbled with the lid of the box, finally found the damn key for the box, and inserted it into the lock.
I tried to ignore the shaking of my hands as the pretend me in my head put the box on the top shelf of the closet, quickly turned the light off, and ran screaming from the make-believe closet.
I needed to focus. I really needed to.
I had to get out of here before the mystery person emerged from the bathroom. My memory was drawing a complete blank. I had no idea if the mystery person was a man or a woman. I wasn’t sure if, at that moment, I really had a preference in their gender but I drew some hope from the fact that I saw no discarded monkey suits by the bed or littering the floor.
I raced to the chair, grabbed my dress, and quickly pulled it over my head. It felt just as inadequate in daylight as it had the night before. I shimmied into my shoes just as I heard the water cut off in the bathroom.
“Oh, god.” I couldn’t find my handbag.
My gaze swept over the desk and the chair but they proved to be a purse-free zone. My eyes darted to the brown leather couch and side table—again, no handbag. I tiptoed to the queen mattress and lifted the sheets. The box spring was lying directly on the floor; otherwise, I would have crawled around looking under the bed.
I gave up my search for the bag and instead started hunting around the room for a phone. However, before I could initiate my first sweep, I heard the handle on the bathroom door turn, and I sucked in a sharp breath.
This was it.
This was going to be my second walk of shame in two weeks. I just hoped that whoever was on the other side of the door didn’t insist on a no-eye-contact breakfast. It wasn’t just the fact that my stupidity had resulted in a one-night stand and maybe a plethora of incurable venereal diseases or my immediate embarrassment at the situation, but that Jon and Elizabeth had been right: I needed an escort. I had reclusive tendencies for a reason; I couldn’t be trusted to live in the world and make decisions on my own.
I swallowed again, my hand on my stomach, as I turned to face the door.
When he emerged, I thought I was hallucinating or, at the very least, still passed out from my night of drunken disorderliness. I had to blink several times to understand, and several more times to accept that McHotpants was standing in the doorway, clothed only in a white towel wrapped low around his waist as if it didn’t matter to him whether it stayed in place or pooled on the floor.
I vote for the floor!
Even through the lingering, pounding pain of my hangover, I couldn’t help but gape at the perfection of him, of his bare chest, arms, and stomach. Every part of him looked photo shopped.
Finally, after what felt like an hour, but what actually might have been four seconds, I realized I’d been starting at not his face and moved my gaze to his eyes. He wasn’t smiling. In fact, his expression wasn’t cool or warm or disgusted or pleased; it was completely unreadable. We stood, watching each other; me with a burning unfamiliar mixture of lust, mortification, and complete astonishment, him with a marble mask of calm. This stalemate protracted for an indeterminable amount of time.
He was the first to break the stare, his eyes moving over my now-clothed form. I shivered involuntarily.
Finally, he removed his attention from me and walked farther into the room, crossing to the bookshelf. “I believe you are looking for this.”
I watched him, how the muscles in his back moved, still struck dumb by his sudden appearance; he easily reached to the top of the bookshelf and retrieved my bag. His bare feet made hardly any noise as he moved to where I stood and handed it to me. I took the offered purse and tucked it under my arm.
“Thank you.” My voice was surprisingly calm given the fact that my brain and heart and lungs and stomach and lady bits were all rioting. I was determined to stay off the seesaw of crazy; I was going to be unaffected by him.
“You’re welcome.” He replied, his eyes skimming over my face. Without warning, he brazenly reached out, pulled a thick puffy tendril from my mass of bedraggled hair, and looped it around his forefinger. “You have a lot of hair.”
Suppressing a flock of butterflies in my stomach, I nodded and cleared my throat. “Yes. I do.” Before I could stop myself, I continued. “Hair is one of the defining characteristics of mammals.” I quickly bit my lip to keep from telling him that there were only four species of mammal still alive that laid eggs; among them were the platypus and the under-publicized spiny anteater; everyone always forgets about the spiny anteater.
He released the lock of hair and crossed his arms over his chest. “What are the other characteristics of mammals?”
I watched him intently for a minute, about to tell him about sweat glands and ear bones, but then a flash of memory from the previous night penetrated my consciousness. I suddenly felt sure that he was making fun of me. I remembered the absurdity of my innate response to him; I remembered the way my brain and body were at complete discord. I remembered his words to me just before the first time I left the club—that someone like me didn’t belong there. I was determined to remain in control, detached, invulnerable to his glittering physical perfection and soul-baring blue eyes.
I focused on his teasing. I didn’t especially enjoy being teased when I couldn’t be certain of the person’s intentions, so I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
His eyes narrowed for the briefest of moments as he studied me, his mouth curving into a frown; he looked displeased. Then he said, “What do you remember about last night?”
I lifted my chin, gritting my teeth. “I remember you making me leave the club.”
“Can you remember anything after that?” His tone was guarded.
My attention drifted to the left, and I blinked, trying to figure out precisely what I did remember from the previous night. I had been so preoccupied with my hangover and my escape that I hadn’t stopped to think about how I’d ended up in his apartment, in his bed, in my underwear. I was talking as I was thinking, and before I realized it, I said, “Not much. You were there, and I remember leaving the club.”
“Which time?” He interjected.
“With Elizabeth—I left with Elizabeth, and she put me in a taxi. I asked the driver to take me back. When I got back, sunglass man waved me in; then I…” My eyes lost focus as I tried to pull the memories forward. “When I walked in, I bumped into a man; he said he was looking for me. He…” I cleared my throat and squinted. I felt sure that I had bumped into someone I knew, a man I recognized, but I couldn’t remember his face. “I think someone took me up some stairs; it actually looked like a tree at first, with a tree house in it, but it was a room.”
“The Canopy room.” Quinn’s voice was matter-of-fact, but a veiled sharpness in his tone brought my attention back to him. He moved his hands to his hips, his blue eyes dark with some unreadable thought. “What else do you remember?”
I studied him for a moment, and my own thoughts, before I continued. “Not much.” I licked my lips. It was the truth; I didn’t remember much. I remembered being offered and then drinking a shot of something that burned, but I couldn’t really make out the size or shape of the room or any of its tangible, physical characteristics. I knew that several people had been present because I remembered hearing them laughing, but I couldn’t remember what they looked like. It was like I walked into the tree-house room and was swallowed up by a black fog.
A sudden thought occurred to me, and I quickly wrapped my arms around my center. “Does that happen a lot? After drinking?”
“What? Losing your memory?” he asked.
“Yes.” I nodded.
“No, not after drinking. When I found you upstairs in the Canopy room, not long after I thought you’d already left, you were still awake, but you weren’t making any sense, so I carried you out.”
“Wait, you carried me?” My body responded strangely to that information.
He nodded. “Yeah, one of our…” He seemed to struggle for the right words. “One of the club patrons was dancing with you, but you weren’t exactly cooperating so much as critiquing his dance moves. I think someone must have slipped you something.” He surveyed me as though he were carefully studying my reaction or rather bracing for a freak-out.
“You mean someone gave me bendothi… bethnzodiath… benzodiazepid…” I huffed, gritted my teeth, took a deep breath, and sounded out the word slowly. “Ben-zo-dia-ze-pines?”
“Yes, I think someone slipped benzodiazepines into whatever you drank up in the Canopy.”
“Oh.” I twisted my mouth to the side and thought about someone giving me a date-rape drug. It seemed far-fetched but not out of the realm of possibility, especially considering my lack of memory. I felt it would be best to be certain. “Do you have any pharmacies nearby?”
Quinn nodded his head. “I imagine you could use some aspirin. There is some in the bathroom.”
“Oh, thanks, but I was thinking I’d pick up a test. Did you know that pharmacies will sell you over-the-counter tests to detect whether you have benzodiazepines in your system?” He lifted his eyebrows in what I interpreted as confusion, so I felt the need to clarify. “It’s a urine test, not a venipuncture.”
He frowned deeply, his tone incredulous. “How do you know this? Has this happened to you before?”
“No, no, I’ve never lost my memory before, and I’m not much of a party-club-bar person. One time my sister spiked my orange juice before the SATs, but that was just vodka; the other time I got drunk was also an accident.”
“The other time? You’ve been drunk two times?” His frown eased, and he blinked at me. I noted again that his eyes were very blue, and his chest was very naked.
I didn’t respond immediately, as I was not really sure what to say, especially because I was feeling mounting discomfort under his bared-chested scrutiny. At last I shrugged, using a tactic introduced to me by Sandra, the psychiatry intern in my knitting group, and I answered his question with a question. “How many times have you been drunk?”
He smiled faintly. “More than two.” His gaze was inscrutable. I wondered how he could be so comfortable in nothing but a towel in front of a complete stranger. “Do you remember how you got here?” Quinn tilted his head to the side; the movement reminded me of our bar conversation and the way he’d tilted his head last night.
I searched my memory, my head starting to hurt with the effort, before I slowly shook my head. “No, I don’t remember coming here or,” I said, and then swallowed before adding, “or anything else.”
He shifted closer to me, his voice low. “Nothing happened.” My eyes widened, not immediately understanding his meaning. “Nothing happened last night.”
I blinked at him again, opened my mouth to speak, and then closed it again.
Nothing happened.
My eyes moved to his chin then lowered to his chest.
Nothing happened.
Of course, nothing happened.
I licked my lips involuntarily and nodded. “I know.” My voice sounded like a croak.
“Really?” he asked.
I nodded again; my heart twisted painfully in my chest, and I shifted on my feet. I couldn’t meet his eyes. I couldn’t understand my reaction to his statement. Nothing happened. Why did I feel suddenly disappointed when I should have felt nothing but relief? I didn’t understand myself. I should have known that nothing had happened between us as soon as I saw him coming out of the bathroom door. Why did I feel surprised?
Of course, nothing happened. Of course, he wouldn’t be interested in me. Of course, he is ten thousand leagues out of my league.
“How do you know?” he countered; he sounded defensive.
I took a step back and tried to run a hand through my hair, but my fingers encountered stubborn tangles again, “I get it, ok? I, uh, I need to get out of here. What time is it?” I turned from him and started walking toward the couch, looking for the front door.
“You don’t look like you believe me. This is my sister’s apartment. I promise; nothing happened between us.” I heard his voice close behind me, and knew he was following me.
I turned to face him, not quite meeting his gaze. “No, I really believe you. I know with certainty that nothing happened.” I added under my breath. “Of course nothing happened.”
He didn’t seem to hear the last part. Quinn came to a stop in front of me again, standing at least several feet away this time. “Good.” he nodded, his hands gripping the towel at his waist. “Let’s go get some breakfast.”
“You want to go get breakfast?” I couldn’t keep the surprise from my tone as I finally met his eyes. He nodded again, and I stammered. “Like- like this?”
He gave me a small sardonic smile. “No, obviously I’ll get some clothes on.”
“But-” I blinked again in confusion. I needed to stop blinking so much. “But, why?”
He shrugged, and before he walked back to the bathroom, he said, “I’m hungry. You need eggs and bacon for that hangover. And, I’m hoping you’ll tell me more about the defining characteristics of mammals. I’m pretty sure you know more then you’ve let on.”
I am a writer, co-founder, entrepreneur, photographer, explorer, and an idiot. Because of these qualities, I like to think I'm important. I've worked in Baghdad while a war was raging, in Bahrain while riots were ensuing, and in Saudi Arabia where women don't exist. I lived in Italy where a simple task takes days, and in Australia, where men wearing pink shirts is the new norm.
While exploring twenty-five countries on five continents, speaking bad Italian, horrible Spanish, and decent Arabic, I've befriended Americans, Arabs, Australians, Brazilians, Chileans, Italians, and New Zealanders, all while faithfully remaining the odd one out.
Through four years of craziness, staring death in the face on four occasions, meeting hundreds of beautiful people, and exploring a myriad of new cultures, I now feel arrogant and important enough to commit my overvalued thoughts to fake paper and tell people exactly what to think. The culmination of all this randomness, is Random Rationality: A Rational Guide to an Irrational World.
