A Private Affair (6 page)

Nikita closed her eyes. Allowed her senses to soar. She felt him everywhere, warm, hard, large and strong. Strangely enough she felt secure, as if this man could easily keep the bogeyman away. Keep her safe—from herself. He wasn't threatened by the foreign world she only imagined being a part of, because he lived it. Still, she felt that there was more to him than the hard, thug-like, don't-give-a-damn, too cool aura that he gave off like an expensive cologne. Against every bit of good judgment that had ever been ground into her, she wanted to find out what was beneath the surface.

“What do you do when you ain't hangin' in nightclubs and pickin' up strange men?” he said deeply into her ear.

A flood of heat roared through her body, jerking her away from her daydreaming. She arched her neck back to be able to look up at him. His eyes were crinkling at the corners. She swallowed. “I work for
Today's Woman
magazine. It's pretty local at the moment. But we're growing.”

“Cool. What do you work at?”

She smiled. “I do everything—read manuscripts, answer phones, lick stamps. But I've finally gotten my big break. The publisher, Ms. Ingram, liked my idea for an entertainment section, and she's letting me write my first article. It's going to be an interview with Parris.”

“You got my attention. Tell me more.” He wanted to tell her about his own writings and his sister's dreams for him. He didn't.

The music moved from body-locking to hand-clapping, so Quinn guided Nikita back to their table.

“I'm listenin'.” He held her chair while she sat down.

Niki looked up at him for a moment, the small, uncalculated gesture reaching her. So she talked. And he did listen. In small doses, she explained about her abrupt exodus from Cornell and the tension-filled four months at home.

“So, you gotta save enough loot to get your own crib?”

“Loot?”

He grinned. “You know,
Dinero,
cash, money—loot.”

“Oh.” She smiled in embarrassment. “Yes, I do. And soon.”

Quinn nodded. “How long you been takin' classes at NYU?”

“I just started this semester.”

He lounged back in his seat, splay-legged. “So now what—you're gonna be a writer—what happens to all your doctorin' skills?”

Nikita's soft brown eyes slowly traversed the room as though searching for the answer, or for the words that would bring her emotions to the forefront. She looked for understanding. “It just wasn't me,” she finally said. “I tried to make it work—”

“Because your people wanted you to,” he said, finishing her thought, “so you hung in there until you couldn't hang no more.”

She nodded.

“Sometimes you just gotta do your own thing, ya know?
Everybody ain't gonna always understand or accept that. But you just gotta keep it real and go for yours.”

Nikita looked at him. Even through the crudeness of his words she knew he understood. When had any man she'd ever been with ever grasped what she thought and felt, or even cared enough to voice an opinion that reached beneath the surface? Her male associates had always been too concerned with their own success to show any interest in her needs or feelings. Quinn was in total contrast to what she'd imagined he would be. With a little polish he could really shine.

“What about you? What makes it real for you?”

“Maybe I'll rap with you about it sometime.” He stood. “But I gotta be pushin' on.”

Nikita hid her disappointment behind the glass she lifted to her lips.

His eyes crinkled as he touched her cheek with the tip of his finger. “Take it easy, Nikita Harrell.”

“You, too.”

He turned, smooth as a velvet-toned Nat King Cole album spinning on a crystal turntable platter, and, like vaporous wisps of cigarette smoke, was gone.

She didn't know whether to be angry or insulted. He hadn't asked to see her again, or asked for her phone number. Even though he wasn't her type, anyway, he could have at least asked for her number, whether he called or not. Wasn't she interesting enough? Pretty enough? What kind of woman attracted a man like Quinn—Quinn? She didn't even know his last name.

“So, Miss Thing, what in the world was going on with you and Mr. Dark and Lethal?” Parris asked, breaking into Nikita's meandering thoughts. She took a seat.

“Nothing.” She shrugged her right shoulder and frowned. “We were just talking. That's all.”

“Really? Then what's with the look?”

“What look?”

“Like you just got your little ego stepped on.”

“Not hardly.”

Parris put on her best lecturing-her-girlfriend voice, targeted
and launched. “He's not your type, Niki. Anybody can see that from a mile away. He has bad boy written all over him.” She waited a beat, then broke into a grin. “And that's the turn on. Isn't it?” With Freudian accuracy she continued, “The other side of life that you only get to fantasize about. The whole
good-girlsdon't
syndrome is tickling your imagination, like a bird feather flicking against your nose. Only thing is, sneezing is not what you have on…your…mind…to…do.”

Nikita bit back a grin. Parris knew her as well as she knew the riffs and downbeats of her songs. Knew how to manipulate her as easily as she worked those notes up and down the scale. Parris McKay was a royal pain, and she loved her. “As usual, you're reading way too much into this. We were just talking.”

“When you believe it, so will I.” She pushed her chair away from the table and stood. “Don't look so lost, sister girl. Come back next week and you'll see him right behind that piano,” she teased.

“Very funny.”

Parris moved toward the stage, a raised platform in the center of the room, when the MC announced her name.

“See you in a bit.”

“Parris,” Nikita hissed between her teeth.

She turned, raised her brows in question.

“What's his last time?” Nikita asked, trying and failing to sound unconcerned.

Parris smiled. “Parker, hon. Quinten Parker.”

Wishin'

C
hilling on his nightly run with T.C., who'd become his regular partner, Quinn let his thoughts surf to Nikita. She was all that. A fine sistah. No doubt. Had a lot going on,
and
she was a writer. The first female, the first anybody, he'd ever met who actually wrote for a living. And she gave up being a doctor to try her hand at what she really wanted to do. That took heart. He dug that. Dug it a lot. Smothering a grin, he thought that maybe she wasn't all high-toned and uppity, after all, even though he didn't go for her type.

He'd been a sentence away from telling her about his own writing and of Lacy's dreams for him. Somehow, he knew that she would understand, like Lacy had. But truth be told, he hadn't picked up a pen to write a single word since her death. He couldn't seem to bring himself to do it. Everything related to his other life was tied to his twin sister. To write again would only reinfect the wound of her loss, as would his playing at the club. And that's why he wasn't going to do it.

“Whatsup wit you, man?” T.C. probed, peeping Quinn's silence. Generally Quinn pumped him for information about
how he was doing in school, listened to stories about his sisters and brothers, and offered the kind of older male advice that he couldn't find at home. T.C. had come to look forward to the evenings that he spent in Quinn's company. Come to expect the feeling of brotherhood that they shared. Even though Quinn had to be at least ten to twelve years older, he never talked down to him, or tried to make him feel stupid when he shared his thoughts. More often than not, Quinn told him he needed to get out of this life and lifestyle while he still could, before the money got too good and it was too late. Yeah, money was part of the reason he continued to make the runs, but the real reason was that he'd come to look at Quinn as the older brother, a missing father, that he needed. He didn't want to lose that.

“It's all good. You playin'
Jeopardy,
kid?” Quinn slid from behind the wheel and out into the flypaper night. It was the kind of evening when everything stuck to you—the air, your clothes, bugs. Even the dank smells of the street rose, wafted and clung to your skin. He cut his eyes over the hood of the car and pinned T.C. with his gaze, waiting for a response.

“Naw, man,” T.C. said, catching his breath after stepping out into the clawing night, from the cool comfort of Quinn's ride. “My name ain't Alex. You just seem quiet.”

The corner of Quinn's mouth tilted in a half smile. “It's all good, like a said.”

Quinn's dark eyes scanned the length of 115th Street. Cars double-parked. Everything from run-down, rust-coated Chevys to this morning's off-the-lot Lexuses. Music blasting from everything that could send out a tune. Pushed upward to their limit in the hope of catching a whiff of something, the gaping holes of wide-open windows, set against the run-down buildings, resembled the missing teeth of the pushcart pedestrians in constant search of a stray anything. People in every size, shape, color and design seemed to have been stirred up in a big mixing pot, then dumped out on the street, any which way. They were everywhere. Fish frying in week-old grease seeped out of Shug's Fish Shack and hung around the mouths of the regular Friday-nighters gobbling down what looked to be their last supper. Gold twinkled
around necks, in ears, on wrists and in mouths, as sure as the diamonds hidden in the mines of Africa.

This was his world.

He checked his left side and pulled his lightweight jacket securely over the bulge tucked neatly beneath his left arm. It was a calculated move. But necessary. Though he'd never had reason to use it in the past, everyone must know that he would and could in a heartbeat.

Quinn wound his way around and through the pockets of would-bes, could-bes and has-beens, accepting high and low fives, brotherhood hugs, the flavor-of-the-day handshake and the proverbial “Hi, Quinn” from the red-mouthed, everything-squeezed-in-so-it-could-pop-out, weaved, curled and braided hoochies who vied for his attention.

T.C. took up his post on Quinn's left side, etching the “I dare you” glare on his sixteen-year-old face. Watching Quinn as he parted the sea of humanity, accepting his props, T.C. knew that he wanted to be what Quinn had become. He wanted the ride, the crib, the women and the clothes. He wanted the money and everything that it could buy him. In Quinn he saw all of these things and knew that if he paid attention, worked hard, he could take Quinn's place on the street one day, or even have a territory of his own. But his mother wanted him to stay in school. “Get your education, boy. It's the only way out of the ghetto.” Quinn even told him to stay in school, make something of himself. But he wanted that something now. Not ten years from now. Anyway, he'd probably be dead before he hit thirty. That was life.

 

Nikita tried to stay focused. To make the words in her head, on her tape recorder and on her notepad come to life. She'd known Parris for years. They were closer than sisters. Why was she having so much trouble making her real?

Sighing in frustration, she pushed away from her computer screen and stood up, stretching her arms high over her head and rotating her neck to get the kinks out. She stepped out of her calfskin sandals, immediately losing the added two inches that the heels gave her, and wiggled her toes. She padded over to the
window, the cool of the wood tingling up her bare legs. From her second-floor perch, she could clearly see the lunch-goers, shopkeepers and local residents meandering up and down the block to their predesignated destinations. She pursed her lips and folded her arms beneath her ample breasts. One lock, weighted down by a seashell, dangled along the side of her face as she leaned closer.

Maybe what she needed to do was take a walk, get a better perspective on what she wanted to write. She couldn't let Ms. Ingram down, not after she'd promised she'd deliver the article. It had already been a week and she hadn't strung together one sentence that made any sense.

Be for real, sister,
that annoying voice in her head whispered. She knew good and darn well what the problem was. Quinten Parker. Plain and simple. Every time she thought about writing the article, she thought about Quinn—the way his gaze rolled over her like hot lava, the way his dark eyes sparkled and crinkled when he laughed, the deep resonance of his voice that dipped down into her soul and shook it, and most of all, the way he listened and really heard her.

She'd been back to the club twice but she hadn't seen him, and neither had Nick. She'd even walked along his block, on the other side, of course, in the hope of catching a glimpse of him. No luck.

Anyway, why was she stressing herself out over a man who obviously had no interest in her? He hadn't asked to see her again and he hadn't asked for her number. She didn't have to be hit over the head. End of story.

She tossed her pencil across the desk.
Humph. Bastard. He has some nerve. Who does he think he is, anyway?
She had doctors, lawyers and Indian chiefs running after her—hard. They wanted her time and her number. What—she wasn't good enough? One thing was certain, she was a flight up from those hussies she just knew he was used to.

She turned from the window and stomped back across the room, stepping into her shoes. “Well, you don't have to worry about me worryin' about you,” she mumbled, snatching up her purse with a vengeance. Grabbing the keys from the hook by the door, she locked the office and stomped out.

The muggy air closed in on her like a predator cornering its prey. She took a breath, adjusting her body to the change, posed for a moment while looking out at the comings and goings on the avenue—and there he was.

 

He wasn't quite sure why he'd rolled up here. He stepped out of his vehicle and slid his dark glasses up the bridge of his narrow nose. She wasn't his type. She was too damned short and too green. She didn't know nothin' 'bout nothin' except what she'd heard or read. Damn, she didn't even know what
loot
meant. That should have been his exit cue right then. But there was just somethin' about her. Maybe it was that innocence. The way she acted—all nervous and shy with him, not like those females who'd be ready to pop him where he stood if he said something they didn't like. Quite frankly, he was tired of that. Tired of women who acted just as tough, just as hard, as he did. Shit, a real man wanted a woman, not another real man. And he was getting to the point where he'd like someone sweet, someone soft and feminine who could talk about something besides having babies and videos. So here he was. Now what? He wasn't even sure how to rap with a woman like Nikita. Hey, he'd been around. He'd think of something.

He leaned against his car and waited. He hoped she'd turn up soon.
Man, it was hot.

 

Nikita didn't know whether she should run back upstairs before he saw her, stroll down the block as if she didn't see him or just act as if she hadn't noticed him and find out what he was going to do.

Maybe he wasn't even there to see her. He did look as if he was waiting for someone, leaning against that pretty BMW, fine as he wanted to be with that red T-shirt against that chocolate skin that she could almost taste. Her mouth started to water.
Could he see her, with those dark glasses on?

 

There she was, all decked out in a b-a-a-d lime green number that stopped just above her knees and those dynamite legs.
Yeah, I see you, baby, tryin' to act like you don't see me. Let me make it easy for you.

He inhaled deeply, slowly removing his shades, and their gazes connected.

With practiced ease, Quinn uncrossed his long, CK-clad legs, the precision-creased sandstone linen pants flowing around them in lazy-river fashion.

She watched him glide toward her like a director calling for slow motion.
Why was she holding her breath?

Quinn stopped at the bottom of the steps, placed one foot on the first step, and looked up at her. His eyes crinkled. “Whatsup, Nikita Harrell?”

She kind of smiled. “I was on my way—to get something to eat. Whatsup with you?” Did she just say
whatsup?

He grinned. She sounded funny, but cute. “That's what I'm here tryin'to find out. But in the meantime, why don't I take you where you're goin'? My ride's across the street. Come on.”

“Was that a question or a command?” She arched her brow.

His dimples flashed and she felt even hotter. Quinn gave a mock bow. “It was a question, your high-ness.” He looked up at her from beneath those long lashes—grinning.

She pursed her lips as if trying to decide, knowing good and well that she was going. Finally she shrugged. “I guess.”

Purposefully, she took her time coming down the stairs. There was no way she could miss the salivating look he gave her legs, and she figured she might as well give him a bit of entertainment, show him what he wasn't getting.

 

Nikita remained mute during the short ride, afraid of saying something nerdy. Quinn, on the other hand, seemed perfectly content to listen to endless unintelligible lyrics by rap artists with names that sounded lethal. She'd definitely have to do something about his music-listening habits if he planned on spending any time with her.

Then, as if he'd been reading her mind, he pressed the SCAN button and the cool sounds of pre-programmed CD 101.9, the city's premier jazz station, filtered in all around them with a haunting ballad by Phyllis Hyman.

Nikita's eyes slightly widened. He was just full of surprises, wasn't he? And he even had the station programmed.

Quinn, from the corner of his eye, could see her tight little body relax, as if someone had mercifully snatched her out of a too tight girdle. He almost laughed. Instead, he just hummed along with Phyllis. Now, Phyllis could blow. Why she'd decided to snuff herself was a mystery to him.
Ain't nothin' that bad.
And he should know.

“This the spot?” he asked, slowing down in front of Zuri's, a little outdoor café on Fourteenth and Sixth.

“Yes. This is it. There's a parking space across the street,” she offered, pointing to a vacant spot.

“What kinda time you got—regulation one hour, or what?”

She turned her head to look at him and her heart knocked hard. Quinn had angled his body so that he faced her. His long, cottony-soft locks hung loose around his wide shoulders. Dark eyes, partially hidden by half-closed lids and sinfully long lashes, gazed back at her. The beginnings of a smile played around those luscious, can-I-get-a-taste lips.

She blinked. What had he asked her? Something about time? Oh, yeah. “I have some work to take care of at the office.” She checked her gold Cartier watch. “I suppose a couple of hours wouldn't hurt. Why?”

Quinn chuckled, pressed his foot on the accelerator and took off. “I'ma take you uptown, for some real food. That cool with you?” She nodded, too surprised to do much else. “I wanna check you out with corn bread crumbs around that pretty little mouth of yours.”