Sookie Stackhouse Boxed Set (Books 1-8) - Charlaine Harris [605]
Then we were both in the car, belted in, and Quinn did an expert backing maneuver to point the Lincoln back to Hummingbird Road. I breathed out, slowly and carefully. It took a few quiet moments for me to feel calm again. Gradually my hands relaxed. I realized the silence had been building. I gave myself a mental shake. “Do you go to the theater often, as you’re traveling around?” I asked socially.
He laughed, and the deep, rich sound of it filled up the car. “Yes,” he said. “I go to the movies and the theater and any sporting event that’s going on. I like to see people do things. I don’t watch much television. I like to get out of my hotel room or my apartment and watch things happen or make them happen myself.”
“So do you dance?”
He gave me a quick glance. “I do.”
I smiled. “I like to dance.” And I was actually pretty good at dancing, not that I got many chances to practice. “I’m no good at singing,” I admitted, “but I really, really enjoy dancing.”
“That sounds promising.”
I thought we’d have to see how this evening went before we made any dancing dates, but at least we knew there was something we both liked to do. “I like movies,” I said. “But I don’t think I’ve ever been to any live sports besides high school games. But those, I do attend. Football, basketball, baseball . . . I go to ’em all, when my job will let me.”
“Did you play a sport in school?” Quinn asked. I confessed that I’d played softball, and he told me he’d played basketball, which, considering his height, was no surprise at all.
Quinn was easy to talk to. He listened when I spoke. He drove well; at least he didn’t curse at the other drivers, like Jason did. My brother tended to be on the impatient side when he drove.
I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. I was waiting for that moment—you know the one I mean—the moment when your date suddenly confesses to something you just can’t stomach: he reveals himself as a racist or homophobe, admits he’d never marry anyone but another Baptist (Southerner, brunette, marathon runner, whatever), tells you about his children by his first three wives, describes his fondness for being paddled, or relates his youthful experiences in blowing up frogs or torturing cats. After that moment, no matter how much fun you have, you know it’s not going anywhere. And I didn’t even have to wait for a guy to tell me this stuff verbally; I could read it right out of his head before we even dated.
Never popular with the regular guys, me. Whether they admitted it or not, they couldn’t stand the idea of going out with a girl who knew exactly how often they jacked off, had a lusty thought about another woman, or wondered how their teacher looked with her clothes off.
Quinn came around and opened my door when we parked across the street from the Strand, and he took my hand as we crossed the street. I enjoyed the courtesy.
There were lots of people going into the theater, and they all seemed to look at Quinn. Of course, a bald guy as tall as Quinn is going to get some stares. I was trying not to think about his hand; it was very large and very warm and very dry.
“They’re all looking at you,” he said, as he pulled the tickets from his pocket, and I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” I said.
“Why else would they be staring?”
“At you,” I said, amazed.
He laughed out loud, that deep laugh that made me vibrate inside.
We had very good seats, right in the middle and toward the front of the theater. Quinn filled up his seat, no doubt about it, and I wondered if the people behind him could see. I looked at my program with some curiosity, found I didn’t recognize the names of the any of the actors in the production, and decided I didn’t care at all. I glanced up to find that Quinn was staring at me. I felt my face flood with color. I’d folded my black wrap and placed it in my lap, and I had the abrupt desire to pull my top higher to cover every inch of my cleavage.