The Romance Report Page 5

  “You’re a laugh a minute. Thanks for reminding me of Silence of the Lambs right before I get ready to meet a potential date. Let’s get inside before these cats make me their turkey dinner.” Quinn yanked open the door of the club. As her eyes adjusted to the colored lights that pulsed in time with the music, Quinn glanced around her. “Oh, hell no. Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”

  Chapter Seven

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  A blog dedicated to the pursuit of love and happiness.

  The Romance Report

  Saturday, September 14, 1:05 a.m.

  Here goes nothing. Since I recounted my European travel in my previous blog, Tales of a French-fried Foodie, I created this new blog, The Romance Report, to share my dating trials and tribulations.

  Dating is not for the weak of heart. If I’d been a two-pack a day smoker in my fifties on her first blind date since her divorce, I’d be on the next boat to Alaska where the temperatures hover below thirty degrees the majority of the year. Clothes are your friend, dear readers! Please don’t take them off in public and gyrate with others! I imagine the confused looks on your faces and promise to explain my love of parkas, long johns and lots and lots of layers.

  Due to my dear, dear friend’s (or frenemy after tonight!) machinations, I went on my first date courtesy of the dating site, True Hearts. My date, who I’ll call Saul to protect his identity, passed the vetting process with flying colors. He’s a successful realtor, loves animals and has no criminal background. A date, sight unseen, seemed perfectly harmless. Who knew that by the end of the night I would end up chained to a dungeon wall.

  Thanks to a certain writer who shall remain unnamed, bondage has become quite the craze among the bored housewives and thirty-something singles here in the city of Richmond. Why, dear readers? I do not want to ever call a boyfriend, Sir. I certainly don’t want him to spank me or vice versa. Ew!

  Unbeknownst to me, my date’s choice of club, Dark Dreams, caters to those who want a taste of the lifestyle without taking the full plunge. Imagine my surprise when my friend and I walked into the club and our eyes were assaulted by various and a sundry clubbers in leather chaps, bustiers which failed to boost, and creepy men in leather masks who will give me nightmares for the next fifty years. To my further dismay, my date, Saul, recognized me from my profile picture. He snagged me before I could turn tail and run. I assume he was as handsome in real life as he was in his photograph. I couldn’t tell because of the leather eye mask he’d chosen as the accessory to his black leather vest and skin-tight jeans with a pair of handcuffs dangling from his belt. Gulp! I was waiting for him to go all Zorro and bring out the whip.

  Saul tried to be charming. He really did. He bought me a Bloody Mary (a portent of things to come? Maybe.) He chatted with my friend and me about the real estate market, his dog, Peeadore, and his most recent vacation to Florida. Try as he might, I failed to succumb to his charms or laugh at his witty banter. Why? Behind him was a lovely couple who were slightly chunky. They liked to display their bodies like pork chops in a butcher shop. To top it off, Mr. Pork Chop kept snapping his small whip on his beloved Mrs. Chop’s derriere which made her giggle and bray, “Oh, Marty, you bad, bad boy. I live to serve you.”

  Feeling slightly nauseous from the sweaty, half-naked bodies packed like sausages in leather casings, I excused myself to the ladies’ room. As I fought my way past whips and chains, I made the mistake of catching some Marquis de Sade wannabe’s eye. He grabbed my arm, slapped it in a wrist iron hanging from the wall and commanded me to beg. He wanted submission, but he got a swift kick in the groin and me screaming bloody murder instead. Fearing a lawsuit, management rescued me and offered free drinks to my date and me. I graciously declined their offer, grabbed my friend (frenemy) and slid my buttery butt all the way home (which is a story for another post.) Needless to say, dear readers, my quest for a life partner will no longer take place online. I’m off to the shower to wash the butter and the memories of Dark Dreams off of me. If I could only figure out a way to wash the vision of the Pork Chop couple from my memory. For now, sweet dreams and goodnight.

  COMMENTS:

  Britney11: I LOVE Dark Dreams. You should give it another chance. It allows you to be you without fear.

  QuinnieBee: I can be me without being naked and afraid in a club with whips and chains.

  Dreambuilder: I want to know why you had butter all over you. Do tell.

  QuinnieBee: One should always keep their house fully stocked with lotion when trying to wear tight leather pants. Enough said.

  Dreambuilder: LOL. J

  Chapter Eight

  Quinn awoke the next day to her thirty-pound cat kneading the pillow next to her head and her cell phone ringing. Half awake, she fumbled and answered, “Hello? Whoever this is, it is way too early to call anyone on a Sunday morning.”

  “It’s ten o’clock, Quinn, and it’s about time you answered my call.” The ice crystals practically formed on the phone as Quinn’s mother spoke.

  “Oops! Sorry, Mother. I was on a blind date last night and got in a little late.” Quinn pushed Fat Panther off her bed and struggled to sit up. Stifling a yawn, she got up and scuffed her way into her kitchen to start coffee.

  “A blind date? Interesting. You can’t date the nice young man and family friend I set you up with, but you can trip the light fantastic with some stranger? What did this guy do for a living? Musician, street artist, mime?”

  “No, Mother. He’s a realtor. His name is Paul, but I don’t think I’ll be going out with him again,” Quinn set her cell phone down and poured herself a cup of coffee. Her mother’s voice squawked through the phone. Quinn heard something about growing up and time to settle down. Blah, blah, blah. She added a spoonful of sugar and a dash of creamer, took a sip of her coffee, then picked up the phone. “Mom, I am a grown up. I have a job, my own apartment and don’t want to settle down until I find the right guy. I don’t plan on compromising just because he earns a good paycheck. There’s more to life than money and career.”

  Her mother stayed silent so long that Quinn thought the call had dropped. “Mom? Are you still there?”

  “I’m still here. Is that what you think I did? Married your dad for his money?”

  Quinn sighed. No matter what she said, it was always wrong when it came to her mother. “No, Mom. I know you love Dad and that’s why you married him. I’m just saying that a guy like Tad might earn a good living, but he’s not a very nice person.”

  “I worry about you,” her mom said softly. “I want to know that you’re married and settled down with a family and a career. I want you to be okay.”

  “I am okay. I’ve made a few poor choices in the guys I’ve dated in the past, but here’s a happy thought. I didn’t marry them! I like working with Uncle Patrick. It’s giving me a chance to decide my next career move. And if the right guy comes along, I’ll know. Tad wasn’t the right guy.”

  “His dad’s an ass, too.”

  “Mom!” Quinn exclaimed in shock. Her mother rarely cursed.

  “Well, he is. It was actually T.K. that asked me to set you up with Tad. Turns out Tad has a habit of bringing strippers to company functions. T.K. hoped Tad would bring you to the next partner function. I didn’t know any of this until afterwards.”

  “Are you serious? Oh my gosh! That’s funny. Well, I don’t feel bad about trying to hit him with my shoe then.”

  “Did you really throw your black Pradas at him? Those shoes aren’t cheap, dear. You didn’t damage them did you?”

  “No. I actually hit the guy at the next table in the back of the head. That little move sealed the deal on getting fired.”

  Ann chuckled. “If it makes you feel any better, I got fired for from my first writing job, too. I called the editor of the paper an insufferable prig after he trashed one of my stories.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “For what?” Her mother asked.

  “Fo
r cheering me up,” Quinn said.

  “That’s what moms do. Speaking of moms, the reason I called is about Grandma’s birthday. Her seventieth birthday is next month, and your uncle and I wanted to have a big birthday bash at his restaurant. I need you to help me with the guest list and invitations.”

  “Sure. I’ll come by the house later today and we’ll come up with a list.”

  “Thanks, dear. You should wear the David Koma dress I gave you to the party. You can never go wrong with a little black dress.”

  Quinn rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you’re right, Mother. I’ll talk to you later.” Quinn hung up and took a sip of her coffee. She grimaced. It had grown cold while she talked to her mom. She dumped it into the sink and poured another cup. Her uncle’s restaurant was closed on Sundays, so Quinn planned to do laundry and go to the grocery store. Her cupboards had grown bare and she was down to canned soup and some moldy cheese.

  Quinn showered and dressed in her favorite pair of jeans and a turquoise t-shirt on over her damp hair. Slipping her feet into an old pair of flip-flops, she opened her apartment door and found Zach standing in front of her.

  “Oh! Hello. We almost had another run in,” Quinn said with a smile.

  “Good morning. Sorry to bother you, but I came to ask you a huge favor,” Zach said.

  “Sure. What do you need?”

  “I have to go out of town for a week, and I wanted to see if you could feed my fish,” Zach said. “If you could just stop by once a day and throw some fish flakes into the tank, it would be a huge help. Mrs. Garza offered to do it, but I know she has a hard time climbing the stairs, so…”

  “No problem.”

  “Great. I appreciate it. Here’s my spare key and the flakes are right next to the tank. I’ll be back before the end of the week.” Zach handed her the key to his apartment. “I’ve got to catch a flight this morning. Otherwise, I’d finally buy you that cup of coffee. When I get back?”

  “Definitely. Have a safe flight,” Quinn said. She closed and locked her apartment door behind her. “I’m off to restock my refrigerator. It’s down to a block of cheese and a few stray crumbs.”

  “Thanks again. See you later,” Zach said.

  “See you later.”

  Quinn walked the five blocks to the closest market and grabbed a cart. She cruised up and down the aisles. She was looking at the selection of cat food when she heard a voice call her name. She glanced around and spotted a man pushing a cart towards her. He looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t quite place the face.

  “Quinn Daniels. How are you?” He gave her a wide smile showing his dazzling white teeth. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  “I’m sorry. You look familiar but…”

  “Doug Martin. We had Professor Djos’ Intro to Journalism class together. Remember?”

  “Yes! Oh my gosh. Doug, how are you?”

  “I’m doing good. Ended up not going into journalism. Decided after Dr. Djos’ brutal class that maybe journalism wasn’t in the cards for me. Got my degree in teaching instead. Nowadays, I’m Mr. Martin to a bunch of eighth-graders.”

  “Middle school? You’re a brave man, Mr. Martin. Well, I stuck with journalism, but right now I’m helping my uncle out as a pastry chef at his restaurant.”

  “Married? Kids?” Doug asked.

  “Nope. How about you?”

  “Nah. I’ve been too busy with teaching. Listen, do you want to grab lunch? We could eat at the little café next door?”

  “I’ve got all these groceries to get home, and I have to visit my parents this afternoon. Can I get a raincheck?”

  “Sure. Let me get your phone number and maybe we could go out sometime.”

  “I’d like that,” Quinn responded. She gave Doug a closer look. He was fit without being brawny, and his blue eyes sparkled in his lightly tanned face. She dug in her purse for a pen and piece of paper and jotted her phone number down for him.

  He grinned and slipped it into his jeans. “I’ll call you soon. It was good seeing you.”

  “Good seeing you, too. Talk to you later.” Quinn turned back to her cart and a big smile spread across her face. A guy showed interest in her, and he wasn’t a starving artist or a musician. She grabbed a bag of cat chow and tossed it in her cart. She decided to hit the hardware store when she was finished here. Maybe a little paint would add some flair to her apartment. Humming softly, she glided her way through the rest of her shopping.

  chapter nine

  Quinn spent Sunday afternoon painting her bedroom a bright shade of turquoise with cream paint on the crown molding. She decided to take a break at four o’clock and head over to her parent’s house. She washed her paintbrush and roller and put them both in a plastic bag so she could finish the room the next evening. She walked the two blocks to where she parked her beat-up Volvo sedan. With limited parking in her neighborhood, Quinn usually rode the bus rather than drag Old Susannah out of her parking spot. Quinn patted her trusty metal steed on her dashboard when the engine turned over on the first try. Thirty minutes later, she pulled into her parent’s circular driveway.

  “Mom? Dad?” Quinn called out when she went inside.

  “We’re out on the deck, dear,” her mother called from the rear of the house.

  Quinn walked through the house and onto the back deck to find her parents playing Scrabble and drinking iced tea.

  “Who’s winning?” Quinn asked, although she could guess the answer.

  “Your father, of course, but I’m close enough to taste victory,” Anne said. She laid down her tiles and cackled in delight. “Zephyrs. With triple word score that gives me a twenty point lead!”

  “Lucky draw,” Quinn’s father drawled. He puffed on the cigar he had clenched between his teeth.

  “Luck!” Anne squawked. “That, my dear husband, was skill and strategy. Oh my goodness. What in the world have you done to your hair?”

  “I cut it and stripped the color back to my natural shade,” Quinn replied. She waited for the barrage of criticism.

  “I like it,” her dad said. “It suits you.”

  “You look like Mama,” Anne said softly.

  “Does that mean you like it?”

  “It means that you look like your Grandma Rose when you let your hair run wild like that,” Anne said with a prim set of her lips.

  Quinn sighed and sat down next to her mother. “I thought we were going to come up with a guest list for Grandma’s birthday party. I can ask Uncle Patrick who he wants to add to the guest list when I go to work tomorrow.”

  “Your mother told me you’re working for Patrick. Honey, I have connections and can get you a stringer job at the Times or one of the smaller local papers. Just say the word and it’s done,” David said with a snap of his fingers.

  “I’m okay working for Uncle Pat, Dad. His pastry chef broke her leg so I’m helping him out for the next two months. After that, I’ll figure it out.”

  “I’ll go ahead and make a few phone calls and start laying the groundwork,” her dad said. “Zigzag. That puts me back in the lead and leaving you in the dust.”

  “Drat!” Anne said, wrinkling her nose as she looked at her tiles. “Too many vowels on that last draw.”

  “Dad, don’t make any calls yet. Give me time to figure out my next career move,” Quinn begged.

  “Fine, fine,” her dad said with a distracted tone. “Where’s the pitcher of tea? It’s hotter than the blazes out here. I told you we should have put the shade umbrella up.”

  “It’s in the kitchen. Why don’t we all go inside and get out of the heat. I call it quits on this game anyway,” Anne said. She stood up and dumped her letters into the box.

  “Another victory for David Daniels and the crowd goes wild,” Quinn’s dad made the sound of a crowd cheering.

  “No one likes a sore winner, Dad,” Quinn joked.

  “Says the girl who has never won a game of Scrabble against her old man.”

  Quinn helped her
mom pick up the game and carried the box into the kitchen. She pulled the pitcher of iced tea out of the refrigerator and after refilling her father’s glass poured herself one. “So any idea how many people you want to invite to Grandma Rose’s party?”

  “The restaurant can’t hold more than seventy-five people, so the party will be a little more intimate.”

  Quinn rolled her eyes mentally at her mother’s definition of an intimate party. “We may want to see if any of Grandma’s friends from bridge are able to come.”

  “Add their names to the list,” Anne commanded as she put a pad of paper and a pen in front of Quinn. “I’ve already started contacting people. Once we get everyone’s name down, we can pare it down if we need to.”

  Quinn perused the list of guests. “Mother, why do you have Tad on the guest list? Really? I doubt he’ll want to come within five hundred miles of me after our dating fiasco a few weeks ago.”

  “Your father and his father have been hunting and fishing buddies for years. It would be rude not to invite them. I’m sure he’ll decline, but the invitation has to be sent.”

  “Ugh. Well, if he shows up, I’m kidnapping Grandma and taking her club hopping for her birthday. I’m forewarning you now.”

  “I invited Marjorie Kellogg. Her son is in medical school and would be a catch.”

  “Casey Kellogg had the worst case of acne I’d ever seen in my life and he breathes through his mouth.”

  “Which is why he’s going to be a dermatologist. He’s a nice man. You could do worse.”

  “I doubt it. Anyway, I might bring a date of my own to the party. I ran into an old college friend today. He asked for my phone number and wants to take me out on a date.”

  “What does he do for a living? Something in the arts I’m assuming.”

  “No, Mother. He’s not a musician or a starving artist. Doug’s a middle school teacher. He’s a nice guy.”