by Donna Hill
If this was a come-on line, she didn’t care. There was just something about him. Something earthy and real, from the rich timbre of his voice, his don’t-give-a-damn attitude, to his inaccessibility. Not like the sophisticated, suit-and-tie, Ivy League men that she was accustomed to. She felt out of her league in his presence, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself from wanting more and had no intention of trying. She was about to take the leap of her life.
“You’re right. I didn’t forget.”
He took her hand as if he had all the right in the world. “Quinn.”
When she looked down at the large, smooth hand that swallowed hers, then upward into his dark eyes, she was a ship at sea. Somewhere, deep inside, she knew he was her anchor. “Nikita.”
“Nice. It fits you.”
His smile was slow and easy, like a hot, lazy summer afternoon, with Mama serving cool lemonade on the porch, by the swings. You just wanted to take your time with it and make it last.
“You from around here?”
“No. I live on Long Island.” She hated how that sounded—all smug and above it all. But what else could she say?
He leaned back in his seat, cocked his head to the side, and kind of rolled his eyes up and down her body. “No doubt. Never met nobody from Long Island. So, you one of them w-a-y uptown girls.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She pulled her hand away and wrapped it around the cold glass to cool it.
“Whatever you want it to mean. You want it to mean something that’s gonna piss you off, then it will. And from the look on you face, it does. Why’s that?”
“It doesn’t piss me off, as you put it.” Defensive was not the sound she was striving for, but it came out, anyway. She took a sip of her Pepsi and tried again. “What I mean is, I like where I live. I didn’t intend to sound otherwise.”
He looked at her for a long moment. “Hey, that’s cool. You’re a big girl. Feel any way you wanna.” He wanted to push her, to test her, test her sensibilities. Would she be put off by him? If he let her into his world, what would she do about what she saw?
“How’s the apartment?”
The question pulled him back from the turn of his thoughts. “Comin’ along. I’m settlin’ in.” He grinned. “Maybe you’ll get a chance to see it for yourself.”
Her stomach fluttered and she had to wiggle her toes to shake off a tingling sensation. “Who said I wanted to?”
He leaned closer across the table. “I know you do. Maybe not tonight, but you will.”
“You sound awfully sure of yourself for someone who doesn’t know me from Adam.”
And then he said the most startling thing, in clear, plain English, and she wondered for a second if he were a ventriloquist. “No, I’ve known you all my life, Nikita. We’ve just waited until now to make it official.”
He was one smooth talker, there was no doubt about that. “Is that right?”
“Yeah.”
He grinned, and all those pretty white teeth sparkled against that good-enough-to-eat skin. Nikita was in creamy-black-chocolate heaven.
“So, you got a last name to go with that first one?”
Nikita laughed. “Yes. It’s Harrell.”
“Hmmm.” Quinn nodded. “Nikita Harrell. Sounds important. You important?” His dark gaze probed her.
“I hope so.”
Echoes of countless conversations with Lacy danced through his head. How many times had she told him that your worth, your own importance, could never be measured by the make and model of your ride, or the size of the roll in your pocket, or how many people moved out of your way when you walked down the street? He hadn’t listened.
“You hope so. That’s kinda lame, comin’ from a girl like you. Either you are, or you ain’t. Simple. Don’t think about it. If you don’t know, then who will?” She had that look again, like somebody’d just pinched her behind and she was rarin’ to slap ’em. But he didn’t even care.
“You have a very interesting way of making my words turn into what you want to hear.”
“I call ’em like I see ’em. Ain’t that what women look for in a man—honesty?”
“A little diplomacy wouldn’t hurt your repertoire.”
Quinn laughed, a deep hearty laugh, and Nikita struggled to keep the smile from her lips.
“You know you wanna laugh.” He chuckled. “So why don’t you just let go and give in to how you feel? You ever done that before, Nikita Harrell, just gave in to how you was feelin’ without worryin’ about tomorrow?”
Then, suddenly, his tone changed—softened—caressed. His eyes moved in on her and the world disappeared. It was just the two of them. His finger stroked her hand, setting off the electric currents.
It’s getting hot in here. She opened her mouth to speak, but he just put that same finger to her lips. His mouth curved up on one side.
“Don’t answer. Not now. I want that first to-hell-with-the-world experience to be with me.”
She should have gotten up. She should have run as fast and as far away from this man as possible. But his presence held her there, as surely as if he’d tied her down.
“There you are.” Parris bent down and pecked Nikita on the cheek, successfully snapping her out of her trance. “I was wondering if you were still coming.” She looked from one to the other.
Nikita blinked and smiled up at Parris. “Of course I was coming. I’ve been here a while.”
Parris raised her eyebrow.
“Oh, Parris McKay, this is…Quinn. Quinn, Parris. She’s Nick’s wife. He owns the club.”
So this was the boss’s wife. Damn, Nikita Harrell traveled in high circles. He’d seen Parris’s videos and her face more times than he could count. He stood. “Nice to meet you. I was talkin’ with your husband earlier. He said he’d introduce us, but Nikita here saved him the trouble.”
“Oh, you’re that Quinn! Nick hasn’t stopped talking about you. When do you start?”
Nikita frowned. What in the world were they talking about?
Quinn shrugged. “Probably next week.”
“Great. I’m dying to hear you play. Girl, you didn’t tell me you knew such a fabulous piano player.”
“Had I only known.”
Parris squinted as if she couldn’t see her. “Anyway, I have to run. My first set starts in an hour. Come to the office afterward, Niki. We can talk then.” She stuck out her hand to Quinn, which he took. “Pleasure to meet you. Welcome aboard.”
“Same here. Thanks.”
Parris waved, then hurried across the floor and into the back room.
Nikita set her gaze on Quinn’s don’t-have-a-care-in-the-world face. “You play piano—here at the club?”
He chuckled. “I ain’t even gotta look up the word disbelief. It’s all over your face. What’s so hard to believe?” His smile was gone. “Hard to believe a guy like me could do anything besides—what—find a short way into your pants? Everything ain’t always how it seems on the outside. Take you, for instance.” He leaned back. “Under the icy, uptown, Ms. Clean exterior, I know there’s a hot-blooded, double or nothin’, wanna-take-a-chance-with-you-Quinn woman dyin’ to get out. All she needs is somebody to unlock the garage door.”
She pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. “Oh, really?”
“Oh, yeah,” he crooned and took her hand, pulling her to her feet and in line with his body, forcing her to look up at him. “I’m gonna show you, right now.”
He led her out onto the dance floor and they flowed as one perfect unit to the moods of Whitney’s “I Believe in You and Me.” One song segued into the next, as they glided together across the smooth hardwood floor.
Although short women never held much appeal for him, this one was different, he thought. She felt perfect. She fit. Like some missing piece—of what he wasn’t sure. Nikita Harrell was no Sylvie, that was for damned sure, or anyone else like her. She was more like those women on the cover of Essence and Black Elegance. You could see ’em, b
ut not touch ’em. Getting with a woman like Nikita Harrell was that elusive dream. Would she be his dream come true?
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.”
Chapter 5
Wishin’
Chilling 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 a
s 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.