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"Quinn wanted to talk? Could talk to Felix." He paused. "Couldn't hold his hand, though. Felix might complain. But maybe not. You never know."
"He wasn't--" I shook my head. "It wasn't like that."
"Looked like that."
"He was upset, Jack. When people are upset, sometimes they just need someone around, some human contact."
"So that's what he wanted. Contact."
I felt myself blush and covered it by gulping my whiskey. Big mistake. The second it scorched my throat, I coughed, sputtering whiskey everywhere.
Jack shook his head and handed me a tissue. "Not much of a drinker, huh?"
"It went down wrong."
"Huh."
"Not like this dress wasn't a write-off to begin with. If it's okay with you, I'm getting out of this thing and taking a shower--"
I got halfway to the bathroom before his fingers closed lightly around my wrist.
"Maybe Quinn was upset. Maybe he was lonely. But give him the chance? He'd do the same tomorrow night. And the next night. He's interested. He's going to make sure you know it. Staring at you. Complimenting you. Holding your hand. It's inappropriate." He paused. "Quinn can be careless. Not with work. He's good at that. But other stuff? Personal
stuff? Shows too much. Lets his guard down. Careless."
Don't you ever want to be careless, Jack? I wanted to ask.
He continued, "You're here on a job, Nadia. Both of you. He should respect that. Hitting on a colleague--"
"--is inappropriate. I get it. Don't worry. I'm not giving him my phone number until all this is over."
From the look on Jack's face, you'd think I'd suggested taking up a third career as a street whore.
"I'm kidding," I said. "Please. You think I'm here to widen my dating pool? A hitman boyfriend--exactly what my life needs."
He grunted "good"--or something like that--then downed his drink and gestured at the bathroom. "Shower's yours."
I laid my drink down and walked into the bathroom.
After we both showered and retired, I lay there, eyes open in the dark, afraid to close them, knowing those dark dreams waited.
I could hear Jack across the room, his breathing slowing, hitting the rhythm of sleep. Or so I thought until a half hour passed and, without a hitch in that steady breathing, his polyester comforter whispered, pushed back. A crackle of joints. A soft sigh. The muffled thump of his feet hitting the carpet. I feigned sleep and listened to his footfalls as they rounded his bed, then paused at the end of mine.
I peeked just enough to see his faint silhouette in the near-dark room. It hovered there, at the foot of the bed, then moved on to the bathroom. The creak of the door shutting. The click of the light--turned on only after the door was closed, always considerate. I lay on my side, watching that glowing rectangle under the bathroom door. The toilet flushed. His feet passed through the rectangle. The gurgle of water finding its way up the pipes. Then the light went out, door opened.
He started past my bed, hesitated and came back, walking up to the side. As I lay there, eyes shut, I could hear him breathing, only feet away. Watching me. I knew this should concern me--a man standing by my bedside when I'm supposed to be asleep--but I didn't feel concern. Couldn't. Just lay there and listened to him breathing.
A catch in the rhythm, then the muffled sound of footsteps as he moved closer. I cracked open my eyes to see him bending over, still keeping a respectable distance, but getting a closer look.
"I'm not asleep," I said.
The sound of my voice didn't seem to startle him. He just grunted, "Yeah. Thought so. Wasn't sure."
I opened my eyes to see the outline of his face, one strip--from eye to chin--illuminated by the moonlight streaming through the crack between the curtains.
"Can't sleep, either?" I said.
"Nah. Too...busy."
