Page 1 of Pleasure and Mane
ONE
QUINN
Quinn's fingers fumbled with the zipper of her red dress as Kate navigated through downtown Denver's evening traffic. The silk fabric felt foreign against her skin after twelve hours in scrubs, and she caught her reflection in the passenger window—disheveled hair, smudged mascara, and the telltale exhaustion of someone who'd just guided twin babies into the world.
"You look like you've been wrestling alligators," Kate observed, taking a sharp turn into the civic center parking ramp.
"Twin boys. Close enough." Quinn flipped down the visor mirror and winced. Dark circles shadowed her green eyes, and her brown waves hung limp around her shoulders. "Why did I agree to this again?"
"Because maternal health advocacy doesn't happen at your kitchen table." Kate slid into a parking space with practiced precision. "And because someone needs to remind these donors that midwives exist for reasons beyond their Instagram feeds."
Quinn dragged a brush through her hair, muscle memory guiding her movements while her mind remained anchored to the birthing room they'd left an hour ago. Tara Morrison had labored for ten hours before her boys decided to make theirentrance—one breach, both healthy, and their father had cried harder than anyone in the room. The raw beauty of birth never lost its power over her, even when it left her feeling hollowed out and running on fumes.
"Lipstick." Kate thrust a tube toward her. "The good stuff. You'll need armor for this crowd."
The civic center's atrium glowed with warm amber lighting, and the gentle strains of a string quartet drifted over the murmur of conversation. Donors in expensive suits clustered around cocktail tables while medical professionals gravitated toward the silent auction displays. The air hummed with the particular energy of people convinced their money could solve the world's problems—not entirely wrong but missing half the equation.
"Dr. Marrow!" Lisa, their office administrator, appeared beside them with a clipboard and the slightly manic smile of someone drowning in logistics. "Thank God you're here. The mayor's wife has questions about water births, and I've been stalling with appetizer recommendations for twenty minutes."
Quinn straightened her shoulders, her professional mode sliding into place like armor. "Where do you need me?"
The next hour blurred past in a kaleidoscope of handshakes and careful conversations. She found herself gravitating toward a young nurse standing alone near the dessert table, her shoulders hunched in a way Quinn recognized—the particular discomfort of someone who'd rather be anywhere else.
"First time at one of these?" Quinn approached with two glasses of sparkling water, offering one to the woman.
"That obvious?" The nurse—her name tag read 'Emma'—accepted the glass gratefully. "I'm still in my residency program. Everyone here seems so... important."
"They are. But so are you." Quinn gestured toward the crowd. "Half these people have never held a laboring woman's hand or watched a baby take their first breath. You have. That matters."
Emma's posture relaxed slightly. "I want to specialize in maternal-fetal medicine, but sometimes the politics feel overwhelming."
"The politics are overwhelming. That's why we show up anyway." Quinn was about to elaborate when a shadow fell across their conversation.
"Ladies, I hope I'm not interrupting anything too serious." The voice carried the confidence of someone accustomed to being welcomed into conversations uninvited.
Quinn turned to find a man in his early forties, broad shoulders filling out a perfectly tailored navy suit. His smile was practiced, the kind that probably worked on most women, and his eyes lingered on Quinn's face with undisguised interest.
"Dr. Quinn Marrow," she extended her hand professionally. "And you are?"
"Shawn Whitfield." His handshake lasted a beat too long. "I'm with the Whitfield Foundation. We're one of the evening's sponsors."
"How generous of you." Quinn's smile remained polite as she gently extracted her hand. "This is Emma, one of our up-and-coming maternal health specialists."
Shawn's attention barely flickered toward Emma before returning to Quinn. "I'd love to hear more about your practice, Dr. Marrow. Perhaps we could continue this conversation somewhere quieter?"
The invitation hung in the air, loaded with implications Quinn had no energy to navigate. She felt Emma shift uncomfortably beside her and sensed Kate's watchful gaze from across the room.
Quinn's phone suddenly buzzed in her hand. She glanced at the screen—two messages. The first from Jessica Martinez, due date tomorrow, asking about early labor signs. Quinn's thumbs moved over the screen without conscious thought.
Normal Braxton Hicks. Real contractions will be regular and intensifying. Call if pattern changes. You're doing great.
The second message appeared from her mother:Family dinner Sunday. Please don't cancel again. Dad's making your favorite.
Quinn's chest tightened. Three cancelled visits in two weeks, each excuse valid but wearing thin against her mother's patience. She let the message sit unanswered.
"Work never stops," Shawn observed, stepping closer. "Maybe you need someone to help you unwind."
Quinn looked up from her phone, meeting his expectant gaze. The exhaustion hit her freshly—bone-deep weariness that made even polite conversation feel insurmountable.
