Page 98 of All Saints Day
Luckily for me, the Dottore steps in to field this final question.
“I'm afraid that we are not qualified to answer any questions about findings related to unpublished DPW or Windmill research beyond that which we have to share with you today about theZeitnot prime and Windmill strains along with our continuing development of a vaccine and contributions to the research on the emergent omicron designation. We too look forward to hearing from the DPW and DOJ on these matters in the future.”
Clearly not the response they had wanted, the crowd erupts into shattered questions along with the snapping of shutters and blinking of camera flashes.
The Commissioner is left to wrap up the presentation as Doctor Perla and I stand from our seats and are escorted off the stage and out of the ballroom, away from the waiting reporters, and out onto the sidewalk.
There Caz sits waiting behind the wheel of a shining black armored sedan with dark tinted windows.
Quentin, looking expensive in a well-tailored dove gray suit, unfolds himself from the front passenger seat, swinging the door wide and offering Doctor Perla his hand.
“That color is incredible on you, Dottore,” he flatters her, waiting for her to place her hand in his before he brings her knuckles to his lips for a gentle kiss.
“Thank you, Tin-tin, you old flatter, you.” She blushes, allowing him to help her into the front seat.
“You both did well. I almost didn't recognize you, Seb, you looked so—” Caz starts up as he eyes me through the rearview mirror.
“What? Clean? Professional?” I sneer, trying to get out ahead of any jabs as I make my way into the back seat.
“I was going to say confident, intelligent, handsome,” he tuts. Reaching back to give my knee a squeeze, with one hand still on the wheel.
“Oh, well. In that case, keep going then.” I reach forward over the shoulder of the driver's seat to reach my hand into the unbuttoned collar of his dress shirt. My fingers slip down to run over the tiny indentation of scarred bite marks on his left clavicle before I sit back, exhausted after being around so many people.
Quentin slides into the seat beside me andoffers me a cigarette before leaning between the driver and passenger side seats to offer the Dottore a light—a cigarillo already perched between her plum-painted lips.
“Alright, Cazzy, take the Stough tunnel and head for the waterfront. As long as the traffic isn't too bad, we should make it back to the hotel in time to catch the others on the TV,” Quentin instructs, stretching one arm out and over my shoulders casually, as if we were teens on a date at the movies.
I allow myself a moment to be tucked under his arm, pulled against him in a sidelong hug.
Quentin’s comforting scent of scotch, rich rose, and sweet sandalwood curls around me as I let him press his lips to the angle of my jaw.
“You did very well. Nobody would have known how much you hate crowds or being in front of the camera,” Tin-tin teases.
“Yeah, yeah. Not all of us can be great actors,” I razz him, lifting a hand to clap over the nape of his neck, my palm making contact with the scars of my bonding bite.
All of us take a moment of silence as we feel Louise and Dennis practically shaking apart with nervous energy as they await their time in the spotlight with no small amount of trepidation.
When we arrive back at the hotel bar, Doctor Perla excuses herself even though all of us object.
Back in our lavishly appointed Liberty Plaza Club suite—we find Frank pacing the length of the generous balcony, chain-smoking and slugging down black cherry sodas in lieu of alcohol, in order to keep Rook out of the evening’s dealings.
Inside the large living area, the monolithic flat screen television runs the news, stories cycling as they lead up to Louise and Dennis' press conference, with the volume turned down low.
Clearly he’d been at it a while, a trail of crushed, empty cigarette boxes and spent soda cans lining the sleek, modern coffee table.
“Can one of you please get him to stop pacing?” I grumble under my breath to Caz and Quentin. “If he keeps darting backand forth like that, I’m going to snap and put him on his ass. He's making me nervous as hell.” I wring my hands, unable to look away from the television for more than five-second intervals at a time even though Frank's barely contained nervous energy demands I focus on him.
“Sure, I'll go get Frank and have him wind it down a bit before he joins us.” Quentin moves in to handle the situation.
“You make sure to loosen up too, hmm?” Caz snorts a laugh at me, kicking off his dress shoes and peeling himself out of his slacks, belt, and button down in record time in favor of slithering into a freshly laundered gray sweat suit and white t-shirt.
Caz spins on his heel, producing a can of bright blue energy drink and a plastic tube containing a large, pre-rolled cone-joint seemingly from nowhere—like some kind of close-up magician.
I give him a dumbfounded look, up and down.
“You know, I was just about to say how good you were looking, all nice and cleaned up,petit fantome.” I laugh, kicking off my own pinching wingtips on my way to join him on the huge leather couch.
“What, you don't think I look good like this?” Caz taunts, the joint already balanced between his lips as he lifts his shirt to showcase his rock hard abs above the waistband of his sweats and boxers, giving the taut skin a gentle pat before he drops his shirt and cracks open his energy drink unceremoniously.
