Quinn. His name was Quinn. I must to remember to call him Quinn, not Sir Handsome McHotpants.
The best I could come up with was: “What are you doing here?” and tried not to cringe as it came out sounding 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, then continued, “My company does the security for this place.”
“Oh. The same company that does the security for the Fairbanks building.” I stated rather than asked about the building where I used to work. I started to feel marginally more relaxed, his presence at the club making 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?” he parroted.
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; my mind was blank again.
He was watching me in that same measured way he 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.” I met his gaze again, 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 goosebumps 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; “No- 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 began to tumble 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 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.
I continued, “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 these 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, then moved my eyes to one of the cages to watch the couple. I chewed on my lip, studying 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 lighting 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.”