Читать книгу A Private Affair - Donna Hill, Donna Hill - Страница 13

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 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.”

“Very funny. You don’t think I eat corn bread?”

He slanted his gaze at her. “Do you?”

“Sometimes,” she lied. The truth was, her parents were so removed from their roots and black culture in general, that her diet growing up had been strictly European. As she grew older, she’d just never acquired a taste for “soul food.” Her dates generally took her to French, Italian and anything other than black ethnic restaurants. It was a status symbol to be able to read French menus and make reservations a week in advance to get a table. That was her world. But the possibility of entering his thrilled her little “I thought I had arrived” suburban soul.

Without further ado, Quinn jumped on the FDR Drive and headed uptown. He’d intended to give her a real culture shock, an awakening. But then he thought better of it. What if she freaked? He didn’t want to scare her off. There would be plenty of time to show her the other slice of life. Then again, maybe not.

He snatched a quick look at her, taking her all in with a blink of an eye. Small, smooth-looking hands were folded neatly in her lap, ready for a class picture or something. That compact body of hers was pressed so close to her side of the car that if she moved any farther she’d be outside. She was staring straight ahead, like she wanted to make sure she knew what was coming at her. And she was tapping that right foot like she had that shaking disease.

Naw. He couldn’t do that to her. Nikita was a lady. No doubt. Those females up on the avenue would eat her alive. Nikita was the type of woman you wanted to protect, not use to protect you. She was used to the smell of cut grass, not the stench of piss in an alley; nightclubs that didn’t have secret back rooms; meals that were served on real dishes, not on foam with the little pockets and had to be stapled closed. Damn. What was on her mind? He didn’t have any business being with her.

He checked her out again—lookin’ all scared, but trying to be cool. And then he knew why. He needed someone like Nikita Harrell in his life. Someone to remind him that there was a whole world that existed outside the one he found himself confined in. He needed to be reminded that there was still some goodness in the world. She could do that, and that made her special.

Yeah, that’s why he was with her. And the thought scared the hell out of him, as sure as if he’d stepped into a pitch-black room with no telling what was inside.

“You ever been to the Soul Cafe?” Quinn asked, exiting at 42nd Street.

Nikita released a silent breath when he made his exit. At least they weren’t going too far uptown. “No. I never heard of it.”

“I think you’ll like it. It’s owned by that brother on New York Undercover, Malik Yoba.”

Her eyebrows raised. “Oh, really! I love that show. I watch it whenever I can. I hadn’t heard that he had a restaurant.”

“It’s a pretty new spot.”

“This is great. Maybe we’ll see him,” she added, sounding like a schoolgirl.

Quinn slanted his eyes in her direction and smiled, seeing the look of anticipation on her face. So that’s the kind of stuff she digs. This was nothing. He couldn’t count the number of famous faces he’d either met, eaten with or seen. Everyone at one time or another came uptown to get a taste of can’t-be-beat cooking, no matter how much loot they were making.

“Yeah, may-be.”

She breathed a silent sigh of relief. This wasn’t too bad. He’d had her a little nervous at first when he just took off from Zuri’s like that. Although she really did want to see where he was talking about, she just wasn’t sure if she wanted to see it today. She’d heard such awful things—the people, the violence, the filth. All she could imagine was what she’d seen on the evening news. Then again, anyone with a grain of sense knew that the news only showed what they wanted to show. They always interviewed the most snaggletoothed, illiterate black person they could find to represent whatever the issue was for the day. She promised herself she’d keep an open mind.

“So, what nights are you playing at the club?”

“I’m not.”

“Why? I mean, I thought you were. It was set.”

“Changed my mind.”

“Oh.”

“Problem?”

She shifted for a minute under his gaze. “No. Why should it be? It’s like you told me. I’m a big girl. You’re a big boy. Right? Do what you want.”

“Yeah. Exactly.” That was easy. No pressure. He should feel relieved. Then why did he feel like somebody had just let the air out of his steel-belted radials? He kind of wanted her to ask some more questions. He wanted to explain that he’d never played for anybody besides his sister, Lacy. That Lacy was dead. That things hadn’t been the same for him since. That the time in the club was the first time he’d played since her death. He wanted to tell her that the pain was still too strong, so bad sometimes that he just wanted to disappear so he could stop being afraid. He didn’t have anybody to keep him from being afraid anymore. He wanted to tell her.

He didn’t.

Nikita wrinkled her nose. She sure hoped he wasn’t one of those trifling Negroes. Supposed to do things, make commitments and then back out. If this was any indication of how he handled his business, well—well, she just didn’t know.

Quinn took the liberty of ordering for both of them. Lunch was a combination of hot and spicy jerk chicken, peas and rice, callaloo, fried chicken fingers, a side of homemade coleslaw, not that supermarket stuff, and melt in your mouth corn bread—cooked to a perfect golden brown and served up in healthy chunks.

“How’s the food?” he asked.

“Delicious,” Nikita mumbled over a mouthful of corn bread.

Quinn reached across the table and brushed the tip of his finger against the corner of her mouth.

A bolt of electric energy shot straight through her. She went perfectly still.

Quinn smiled. “That’s what I wanted to see,” he said in a tone so low it seemed to reach down to her soul, “what that pretty mouth would look like with golden crumbs around it.”

She swallowed. “What does it look like?” she whispered in a tone to match his.

“Very tasty.” He grinned.

She bit back a smile and shifted her gaze to her plate. “Is that right?”

“Yeah.”

He ran his finger across her lips again and the thrill was twice as strong. She fought down a shiver.

“So what are we gonna do about that?”

She put her fork down, folded her arms on the tabletop and leaned closer. Her cinnamon-colored eyes held his. “We’re going to have to work that out, Mr. Parker. One day at a time.”

“I like the sound of that. Night and day meeting at dawn.”

“You sound like a poet.”

“Naw. Ain’t nothin’ like that at all. Classy lady like you brings out the melody in a man. Sometimes,” he added. “So don’t get no wild ideas in your head.” His eyes crinkled, and she smiled in return.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

And Quinn thought about the fact that he’d never told her his last name. So she’s been askin’ about me. Nice.

He pulled up in front of the building where she worked exactly two hours later. He turned off the engine. They sat in silence for several moments.

Now what? Should she just thank him and get out? What if he tried to kiss her? She knew she probably tasted like some kind of spice and peppers. But then again, so did he. If he tried, she was going to let him.

He unfastened his seat belt and angled toward her, draping his arm along the back of her seat. His fingers played across her exposed neck.

Uh-oh.

“So why don’t you give me your number and I can call you sometime?”

“Is that another question or a command?”

The corner of his mouth curved up in a grin. “A question, your high-ness.”

“In that case, I guess I can give you my number so you can call me sometime.” She dug in her purse, found a pen, and tore off a piece of paper from her pocket notebook and wrote down her number. “That’s the number at my office.”

He took the paper and checked out the number, then stuck it between the sun visor and the roof of the car.

“Got a man at home that’s gonna get ticked if I call you?” he teased, fishing.

“No.”

“What if I feel like hearin’ your voice after hours?”

“One day at a time. Remember?” She smiled, closed her purse and pressed the button to release the lock on her door. “Thanks for lunch.” She got out of the car, shut the door behind her and trotted up the steps, giving him one last look at her legs.

“Thank you, Nikita Harrell,” he whispered, watching her disappear beyond the door. “Thank you.”