Quinn paused on the threshold to let her eyes adjust to the dim office. Her desk was just as she’d left it the night before, with piles of invoices and orders to approve, checks to sign, and client files to review. Dust floated in the beam of sunlight that hit the floor in front of her feet. Quinn forced herself to look deeper into the room, to Sam’s desk, usually just as full as hers, if more neatly organized. She held her breath as her vision sharpened, and movement turned into Sam’s hand making sharp notations on a printed spreadsheet. He flipped open a file and tapped a few keys on his keyboard without looking up at her.
“How long did you sleep?” he asked.
Breathing was suddenly easier than anything she’d done so far today. Sam asked her that every damned morning. “Eight hours, thirty-three minutes.” Her perfect internal clock had amused and delighted him at first, then became nagging when he used it to manage her. But that was what he was being paid for, after all, and she welcomed the symbol of normalcy. He nodded his approval and kept working. Quinn went to her desk and booted up her computer.
Sam said, “You hear from Nick?”
“No.” The ongoing lack of contact had contributed to the night’s anxiety. She’d slept long enough, but not well. “Sam, I—”
He shoved to his feet and headed out front. “We’re low on vodka. I’ll pull some up.”
Quinn sighed and slumped. So much for normalcy.
That was how it went the rest of the day. Sam worked out front while she was in the office. When she went out front, he retreated to the back. Bets and Katie were back, and it was a quieter night than the last, so the staff could work the bar without both Sam and Quinn. She stopped trying to talk to him, hoping the space would be a buffer both for their personal and professional relationship, and for her fading moon lust.
There was still no word from Nick.
Around nine that night, Quinn settled herself in a corner of the bar with her laptop to handle stuff that had piled up over the week. Her e-mail inbox was full, and the routine work, the easy decisions, helped her relax. Requests for appointments and vendor info she forwarded to Sam. Most of the rest was related to the Society. Quinn served as the board’s secretary, and many of her personal e-mails were related to the annual Society meeting next week. Those she moved into a folder to address later. The official Society list e-mail was full of political posts, with elections coming up in November, but she skimmed and deleted most of them.
She’d gotten into such a rhythm that when Nick’s name appeared, it was a moment before reaction caught up. The words were innocuous at first, so she didn’t understand the fear filling her until it merged with her ongoing, low-level anxiety over last night’s phone call.
I plan to ask Quinn to put this on the agenda for the meeting, but I thought you should all know ahead of time, so you can be careful.
Nick Jarrett’s gone rogue.
Under the Moon November 1, 2011
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