A Private Affair (19 page)

“Where should I—”

“Go 'head,” Quinn said.

Nikita took a breath. “First, I think we're going to be great together.” Her gaze ran across his face. “I've never lived with anyone before, other than roommates at school.” She smiled. “I don't want your life to change because I'm here. I know there are things in your life that don't include me. Maybe they will one day, maybe they won't. I…just want us…to be happy when we
are
together. And to just work toward making us work.”

Us.
Damn. He'd never been an “us.” “Sounds cool. We'll just take it one day at a time.”

He bent down to pick up a box. “I'ma take this upstairs. You can put all your clothes in the closet in the guestroom. I'll find some space for your…other stuff in my dresser.”

He took the box and walked toward the door, stopped and turned. “I'm glad you're here.”

Revelations

N
ikita floated through her days at work, eager to get home to Quinn. More often than not, he was there when she got in, and they talked a bit, shared a meal, but by ten o'clock he was gone, usually not returning until the early morning hours.

Her mother called her at work practically every day, telling her what a mistake she'd made, that there was no way it would last. Her father was bolder, calling her at the apartment but refusing to acknowledge Quinn if he answered the phone.

She saw the sting of her father's treatment reflected in Quinn's eyes, the tight set of his jaw, the momentary faltering of his proud stance. And she hurt for him, pushing her parents even further away. And the further she pushed, the closer she clung to Quinn.

“Can we do something this weekend?” Nikita asked, stacking the dishes in the dishwasher.

“Don't know, Nik. You know I got things to take care of.” He walked across the kitchen, took the pot off the stove and emptied the wild rice into a plastic container.

When she moved in, she'd had only an inkling of how Quinn
spent his time. Three months later, she didn't know any more now than she had in the beginning. She just sort of accepted things the way they were—as the norm. It was only now and then, like now, that it bothered her.

She didn't want to ask too many questions, pressure him or demand too much of his time. She just didn't want to rock the boat. She wasn't going to prove her parents right. She didn't say anything when he stayed out half of the night. She didn't tell him how she felt about being left home alone. She didn't say how much she resented all the time that he spent with Maxine. She wanted to be the one to go with him to see the lawyers. And she already knew that talking about Lacy Parker was out of the question. He'd made that perfectly clear when she'd asked him what happened to Lacy, though he'd finally told her what had happened to his sister. He'd been distant and almost analytical about the tragic details, as if the only way he could relay the events was to remove himself.

Tonight, she was tired of being shut out.

“Why do you have to be in the street every night, Quinn? I know you could get a real job and just work during the day like everybody else.”

Slowly he turned to face her and her heart went on a rapid-fire rampage. She'd never seen such fury emanate from him. She swallowed, determined to stand her ground. She watched him bite down on the inside of his lip and shake his head. She wasn't sure if it was in disbelief or dismissal.

“Later.” He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, snatched his keys from the table and walked out.

 

Quinn sped down Seventh Avenue, racing the lights, swerving around cars, barely missing getting sideswiped by a yellow cab. He turned the music louder, hoping that it would block out the thoughts that ripped through his head.

It ain't gonna work.

He was a fool to think that it could. Nikita couldn't understand his life. The way it had been. The way it was now. Naw. Never. Even if he tried to explain, it wouldn't come out right, and she'd try to find a way to make it better.

His heart settled down a bit and he took in a long breath. That's just the way she was. Always striving, trying to do better, make things better. And it was all good. He dug that about her, except when it came to him. She had to know that.

He jumped onto the FDR and headed uptown.

He'd never been able to talk to anyone about himself, explain all the whys. They just understood, or didn't care enough to want to know. Most of the time it didn't matter, anyway.

He pulled up in front of B.J.'s, looked around, saw the usual sprawled out here and there, smelled the pungent smell of marijuana that left a permanent aroma in the air, the streetlights—every other one lit—that cast hazy shadows along the gray concrete and brownstone buildings.

Yeah. He saw it all. Saw where he fit into the puzzle. And he saw himself behind the black and whites in a club where you didn't have to go through a metal detector to get in.

He opened the car door. The alarms beeped into place. Where did he belong…really?

He moved easily among the brothers and sisters who society had written off, but had been like distant relatives to him all his life.

Middle ground. Where was it?

 

Nikita wandered aimlessly around the house, turning lights off and on, turning the stereo up, then down, but the sinking sensation just wouldn't go away.

Was she wrong for wanting more from him, knowing that he was capable of giving it? Why should he want less than the best for himself? She couldn't understand that.

Restless, she finally found herself in the bedroom that they shared, and she suddenly felt so alone. She needed to be close to him, hear him say that it was going to be all right between them.

She strolled over to his closet and opened it, inhaling his scent. She looked at the array of suits, shirts, sports outfits, rows of shoes and books on the shelf. She started to close the closet when she noticed several black-and-white notebooks tucked in the corner.

She'd never gone through his things before, and had made a silent oath to herself that she wouldn't. But her curiosity went into fifth gear.

She stretched. She tiptoed. She couldn't reach them without knocking everything down in the process. Now her curiosity was beginning to heat up like a fever. She hurried across the room and dragged the small nightstand from next to the bed and pulled it up to the closet.

Climbing up, she reached the trio of books and took them down.

Her heart was racing, expecting a security guard to tap her on the shoulder at any moment and hustle her off to a back room for interrogation.

Hopping down, she pushed the stand back in place and took the books to the bed. Fluffing the pillows around her, she sat cross-legged on the bed and opened the first book.

Never in her wildest dreams had she expected to discover what she'd found.

There were more. Dozens and dozens of poems, short stories, song lyrics. Some finished, most incomplete. Many brought tears to her eyes and others made her laugh, but all of them left her feeling the weight of his hopelessness.

Throughout all of the work ran the single thread of a buried hurt. Many were half-written stories about a little boy who had to become a man too soon, who did what he needed to do to survive.

She closed the last book, trying to absorb the enormity of what she'd read. Through his writing he was able to express his feelings, his outrage, even weakness, which he'd never dare to show anyone.

Retracing her pattern, she returned the books to his hiding place.

Quinn had talent. Raw, phenomenal talent. But he hid it, kept it to himself, unwilling to share.

She couldn't let that happen. She had to find a way to get him to see how important it was to sharpen his skills and share them. And from all that she'd learned about him, it wouldn't be easy.

 

Quinn returned around 2:00 a.m. She heard him try to be quiet as he moved around the room. She lay perfectly still until she felt the weight of his body push down on the bed.

Usually when he came in he'd wrap himself around her, kissing and caressing her body, warming her by degrees until she was hot with need. Tonight he made no move in her direction. He kept his back turned.

She opened her eyes.
So this is how it's going to be. Whenever he's upset he's going to pout. That's not how things are going to work.

“Quinn.”

He knew she'd say somethin'. Had to. That was Nikita. Couldn't let anything rest. But, bottom line was, it was his intention, anyway. He'd wanted her to make the first move.

“Hmm?”

“We need to talk, Quinn.”

“About what?”

“Could you at least turn around?” She sat up in the bed.

He turned on his side and propped up on his elbow. “What? I'm listenin'.”

She blew out a breath, then wrapped her arms around her bare knees.

“About earlier…I'm sorry if I said something to upset you. It's just that I want so much for you. I get afraid for you when you're gone all hours, who knows where. I look at the news and hold my breath, hoping and praying that I don't hear your name connected with something awful. I can't take a decent breath until I hear your key in the door.”

“Nik, I been takin' care of me and my sister since I was sixteen years old. I did what I had to do. Being out there, turnin' a dollar into two, runnin' numbers…whatever. I did it. I got good at what I did. I got respect from everybody on the street, and then I got better. The world you talkin' about…Naw, it ain't no place for me. Corporate America is lookin' for people they can control. I control what
I
do.”

“But what about tomorrow, Quinn, and the day after? What about when you have a bad week and the money doesn't come in? What if you get sick? Does Remy provide health insurance, a pension plan?”

Quinn looked at her dejected profile, the way her shoulders hunched over, and the way she kept biting on the inside of her lip like she was going to cry.

She'd better not cry.
That was the one thing he couldn't handle—a woman's tears. Put a gun to his head, and he wouldn't feel as weak and helpless. He hadn't meant to hurt her.

Damn.
There was that first tear, running right down her cheek. Sniffles, too? Damn. But how could he ever explain how alien he felt out of his environment? How scared he was of failure? Not to her. Not to his lady.

“Niki, baby…” He sat up and pulled her into his arms, and her sobs broke like a burst water main. He shut his eyes and stroked her hair. “Come on, baby. It's gon be all right. I just gotta do things my own way. Ya know. You need to understand that.”

“Quinn…I get so scared. I…just want the best for you.” She sniffled and wiped. “You have so much going for you. I…I don't want anything to happen to you.” She buried her face in his chest. “I don't want to be without you, Quinn. I love you.”

His heart slammed in his chest and he would have sworn his stomach was trapped in his throat.

Love? Who'd ever told him that they loved him? Only Lacy. Sure, women had said they loved him in the middle of hot sex, but he knew good and damned well it wasn't
him
they loved, but what he was doing.

Love?

He eased back and lifted her face. Her beautiful brown eyes glistened. So many things he wanted to say with her looking at him as if he was the most wonderful thing in the world. He ached to make things right for her. Sure, he could tell her he'd do whatever would make her happy. But he might be lying. And he never wanted to lie to her.

Instead, he kissed her. Really kissed her. Long, slow, searching, pouring into that kiss all that he couldn't say. Hoping she'd understand.

She clung to him, needing his nearness like a fix—desperate for a part of him. The longing made her feel weak and light-headed. She knew that the unquenchable desire she had for Quinn was a dangerous thing. It blinded her to the realities all around her. But she couldn't help it and she didn't care.

When she felt his large hands stroke her heated flesh, his fingers separating the tiny folds, she shivered, whispering his name. She moved closer, not able to get close enough. She wanted him to know just how important he was to her, that being with him like this was not just a physical need, but an emotional fulfillment.

Feeling her wet heat surround and draw him in, he let loose his doubts, if only for the moment, succumbing to the comfort and security of her giving, hoping to convey with his body all the things he could not say.

If only for the moment, the gap that separated them was bridged once again.