Seemed she was just as anxious as he was to get this disaster of a night over as soon as possible. “You’re welcome.” Quinn shifted the car into park. Half a minute of niceties and he could leave.
She reached for the door handle and said in a flat voice, “Consider your duty done.”
“Danielle.” He touched her arm and she turned toward him, her face half-illuminated by the street light. A perfect face. A beautiful face. He wished for a second he could be a different kind of man, a better man. “I’m sorry.”
“Why, Quinn? Why’d you leave me sitting there with those strangers, looking like a fool? Couldn’t you have just stayed? Was it that important to show everyone we weren’t a couple?”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t treat people like that.” Her eyes glistened. “No matter how much money you have, it’s not right.”
He pulled her to him, desperate to quiet her, equally desperate to kiss her. It was madness, yet that didn’t stop him from seeking her mouth, her tongue, her breast. He stroked her nipple through the gauzy lavender material, caressed her tongue with his and coaxed her to do the same. She tasted like Heaven. Pure. Honest. Tantalizing. He lost himself in the feel of her and he didn’t care. He wanted more.
Danielle jerked away.
Quinn eased back into his seat and stared straight ahead. The city had begun to settle in for the night, wrapped in the cool breeze of summer relief but inside the car, it was sweltering. What the hell had he done? And why? No woman had ever wielded such control over him, not since his mother. It had to stop. Now. He waited until his breathing steadied and said, “Well, at least now we know.”
“Know?” The word trembled through her lips.
He would not look at her. “The sex would be lousy.” In seconds she was gone, from his car, from his life. It was better this way, better to lie sometimes than stand and face the truth.
***
The Carlson’s were back, wedged into Quinn’s chairs like marshmallows, their excess oozing over the sides. They had come for another meeting, bearing more doctor’s reports and test results, testimonies to Carl Carlson’s incapacitation.
“We was talking to Larry and Rose Klapert,” Roberta Carlson said. “They got themselves some fancy lawyer in Pittsburgh who’s suing WalMart for not chaining up their bicycles. Their five year old, Kenny, wrecked one of them bikes and broke his collarbone. Can you imagine? The manager was mad at Larry and Rose, said they shouldn’t have let their kid on a bike he couldn’t ride.”
“They shouldn’t have.” Quinn scratched his neck, glanced at his watch.
“How was they to know the training wheels wasn’t attached? They looked like they was.” This from Roberta again.
Carl was extra quiet today, his big hands resting on his belly like the perfect ad for an Alka-Seltzer commercial. Quinn noticed his left hand wasn’t bandaged. “Mr. Carlson,” Quinn said, “is your hand any better?” Hard to tell about the knee since the Carlson’s both did the limp-waddle.
“It’s okay.” He avoided his wife’s beady glare. “It’s slow, but I’m getting around.”
“Carl!” Roberta Carlson pounced on her husband in a high, squeaky voice reminding him once again of Betsy, the pet pig they’d once had. “This is the first time you’ve been out of bed in a week.”
He shot his wife a dark look. “It ain’t got nothing to do with my knee.”
“Oh, good Lord, is this about that woman? ” Carl’s head sunk to his chest but he remained silent. His wife jerked her head around to address Quinn. “His mother died a week ago. You’d of thought she was the blessed Mother herself what with the way he’s been carrying on. The woman was eighty-four years old, living with his sister and her five kids, with no memory past 1988. She was mean to boot. Every time Carl went to visit her, she asked him to bring her this or that. Apples, but they had to be
She reached for the door handle and said in a flat voice, “Consider your duty done.”
“Danielle.” He touched her arm and she turned toward him, her face half-illuminated by the street light. A perfect face. A beautiful face. He wished for a second he could be a different kind of man, a better man. “I’m sorry.”
“Why, Quinn? Why’d you leave me sitting there with those strangers, looking like a fool? Couldn’t you have just stayed? Was it that important to show everyone we weren’t a couple?”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t treat people like that.” Her eyes glistened. “No matter how much money you have, it’s not right.”
He pulled her to him, desperate to quiet her, equally desperate to kiss her. It was madness, yet that didn’t stop him from seeking her mouth, her tongue, her breast. He stroked her nipple through the gauzy lavender material, caressed her tongue with his and coaxed her to do the same. She tasted like Heaven. Pure. Honest. Tantalizing. He lost himself in the feel of her and he didn’t care. He wanted more.
Danielle jerked away.
Quinn eased back into his seat and stared straight ahead. The city had begun to settle in for the night, wrapped in the cool breeze of summer relief but inside the car, it was sweltering. What the hell had he done? And why? No woman had ever wielded such control over him, not since his mother. It had to stop. Now. He waited until his breathing steadied and said, “Well, at least now we know.”
“Know?” The word trembled through her lips.
He would not look at her. “The sex would be lousy.” In seconds she was gone, from his car, from his life. It was better this way, better to lie sometimes than stand and face the truth.
***
The Carlson’s were back, wedged into Quinn’s chairs like marshmallows, their excess oozing over the sides. They had come for another meeting, bearing more doctor’s reports and test results, testimonies to Carl Carlson’s incapacitation.
“We was talking to Larry and Rose Klapert,” Roberta Carlson said. “They got themselves some fancy lawyer in Pittsburgh who’s suing WalMart for not chaining up their bicycles. Their five year old, Kenny, wrecked one of them bikes and broke his collarbone. Can you imagine? The manager was mad at Larry and Rose, said they shouldn’t have let their kid on a bike he couldn’t ride.”
“They shouldn’t have.” Quinn scratched his neck, glanced at his watch.
“How was they to know the training wheels wasn’t attached? They looked like they was.” This from Roberta again.
Carl was extra quiet today, his big hands resting on his belly like the perfect ad for an Alka-Seltzer commercial. Quinn noticed his left hand wasn’t bandaged. “Mr. Carlson,” Quinn said, “is your hand any better?” Hard to tell about the knee since the Carlson’s both did the limp-waddle.
“It’s okay.” He avoided his wife’s beady glare. “It’s slow, but I’m getting around.”
“Carl!” Roberta Carlson pounced on her husband in a high, squeaky voice reminding him once again of Betsy, the pet pig they’d once had. “This is the first time you’ve been out of bed in a week.”
He shot his wife a dark look. “It ain’t got nothing to do with my knee.”
“Oh, good Lord, is this about that woman? ” Carl’s head sunk to his chest but he remained silent. His wife jerked her head around to address Quinn. “His mother died a week ago. You’d of thought she was the blessed Mother herself what with the way he’s been carrying on. The woman was eighty-four years old, living with his sister and her five kids, with no memory past 1988. She was mean to boot. Every time Carl went to visit her, she asked him to bring her this or that. Apples, but they had to be
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