A Private Affair (12 page)

“Later, Max.” He hung up the phone with a big grin plastered on his face.
That Maxine was somethin' else.

Maxine slowly returned the receiver to the cradle. “Yeah, you'll never know, will ya?” she whispered.

 

Quinn pulled up a seat and pressed the play button on his answering machine. There were calls from three of his women friends, each wanting to see him and wanting to know why he hadn't called.

“'Cause ya'll ain't got nothin' to talk about. That's why,” he said out loud.

There was a call from his landlady, Mrs. Finch, wanting him to take her food shopping in the morning, even though she knew he slept late.

Well if ya know I sleep late, why ya want me to take ya shoppin' in the mornin'?
Women. Young, old, didn't make any difference. Difficult.

No call from Nikita.

She still hadn't given up the number to her crib, and he wondered why. Maybe she was really living with some dude. He frowned, the thought taking all kinds of twists and turns. He didn't like the feelings that were building. It wasn't like him to care one way or the other.

He tried to shake the sensation off by turning on the stereo. The sultry voice of Phyllis Hyman's “You Know How To Love Me” pumped through the speakers. He trotted up the stairs to his bedroom and the music followed him through the sound system built into the walls.

He changed out of his jeans and denim shirt into his standard night attire. Checked his piece and was ready to roll. He frowned. If Mrs. Finch ever found out—She just
wouldn't
find out. He didn't bring his business home. That was a strict rule. He shook off the twinge of guilt.

He bounded down the stairs, double-checked the locks and windows—old habit from the hood—and went out.

 

Cruising up the West Side Highway to the sounds of Heavy D, Quinn thought about his nightly commute. Not that driving bothered him or anything, though the trip would eventually put some wear and tear on his ride. But he had to admit he was growing to really dig where he lived. He liked to be able to come home to a quiet block, without the wail of the ambulance and the scream of police sirens which always followed the
pop-pop
of gunfire.

He could see a woman like Nikita fitting right into this new world that he was building for himself. Just as she had the other night. He'd begun to feel safe and warm again, knowing that she
was right in the next room. More than once he'd been tempted to break his promise and creep into her room. But he'd never do that. A man had to be held by his word and he was a man of his word.

The way he knew he could allow himself to feel about Nikita scared him. The women who'd ever meant anything to him had left—one through choice, the other through death. He wasn't going to ever live through that kind of bottomless pain again—the unending emptiness that ate through your soul, leaving you barren as a desert. He'd have to go really easy with his feelings, keep his heart locked down and out of reach.

He pulled up in front of B.J.'s, double-parked his ride and pushed through the blacked-out door.

“Turk, my man,” he greeted, giving the old bartender a five. “What it look like?”

“It's all good. Jack?”

“Yeah. I got a few minutes.” He slid into a vacant seat at the bar and took a look around while Turk fixed his drink, his eyes quickly adjusting to the dim smokiness of the room.

Music pumped from the decade-old jukebox and couples bumped and grinded on the miniature dance floor, while the rest of the regulars huddled in corners, leaned against walls and sat at old wooden tables that wobbled from side to side, depending on who was leaning which way the hardest.

All so familiar. It felt good.

“Here ya go.” Turk put the glass in front of Quinn.

“Thanks, man.”

“I hear they lookin' for some other suspects in that shootin' that took out your sister, man.”

The glass stopped just before it reached his lips. His stomach rolled. “Say what?”

“Yeah. That's the word on the street, brother. I thought you knew.”

Quinn tossed the drink down his throat, the burning liquid boring through the sudden chill that iced his belly. His gaze narrowed. “Who's lookin'?”

“Cops. Been sniffin' 'round the neighborhood all day. Quizzin' people 'n shit.”

Quinn pulled a five from the knot of bills in his pocket and slapped it on the table. Standing, he finished the rest of his drink. “Later.”

“Yeah. Take it easy, money.” Turk wiped down the bar, watching Quinn as he moved toward the back room.

Once inside he didn't see or smell a thing. His focus was on getting with Remy. If anybody knew what was going down, it was Remy. He brushed by Sylvie, barely acknowledging her when she smiled her smile. He pushed into the back room, and Remy's eyes momentarily rolled up from the cash in front of him.

“Whatsup?”

“Need to kick it with you for a minute.” His dark eyes cut across the faces of the two men counting and stacking. “Private.”

“Gimme five, ya'll.”

The two men hauled themselves out of their seats and ambled out of the room.

“Rest ya self,” Remy said, indicating a chair with a toss of his head.

Quinn shoved his hands in his pants pockets, his fists balled. He remained standing.

“What's the deal with the cops askin' questions 'bout the…shootin'?”

“SOS. Askin' questions 'bout who was where. Said they had the 411 'bout it being someone from 'round here that fired on the cops.”

“Yeah, but what about the dudes they locked up?”

Remy shrugged. “Way I hear it, dem boys swearin' they ain't do it. Said only ones shootin' was the cops.”

A rock settled in Quinn's stomach. He swallowed, trying to douse the burning that scorched his insides. “You sayin' it was a cop's bullet?”

Remy looked at the man who had been like a son, knowing what he was about to tell him could change his whole life. “Yeah. Dat's what I'm sayin'.”

Remy's eyes, which always looked as if they carried the burdens of the world, held his in a silent moment of reckoning.

Slowly Quinn sat down, taking in the implication of what he'd been told.

He clenched his jaw. It was as Max had said, and what a dark corner of his heart had held at bay. They were trying to cover up what they'd done. Trying to use their “black-on-black” crime slogan as their reason for the lie. He stood. “I got a run to make. Be back in about an hour.”

“Q.” Remy stood up. “Don't do nothin' stupid.” His voice held a warning edge from too many years of knowing what moves made on raw emotion could do.

Quinn just cut him a look from dark, angry eyes. “Later.”

 

Maxine was curled up on her couch, cuddled in the curve of Dre's arm. Tonight was the night. She was kicking her doubts to the curb and taking her relationship with Dre to another level. She was ready.

Her eyelids fluttered closed as Dre's soft lips brushed against her neck. Tiny tingles scuttled through her body. It had been a long time since she'd had some good loving, and her deprived body was shifting into overdrive with anticipation. She wiggled a bit closer when Dre's hand drifted from her shoulder to cover her right breast.

He felt her shudder and squeezed just a little. “You feel good, baby,” he whispered in her ear, catching the soft whiff of Eternity. He felt sure that once he'd made it with Maxine, she'd be his—finally—and wouldn't so easily walk away from him when she found out he was unemployed. Maybe she'd even let him stay with her for a while if things got too tight financially. He intended to tell her. He just wanted to be sure the time and timing were right.

Dre angled his body so that his face was inches from hers.

The doorbell rang like a shock wave shooting through her body. She jerked back.

“Leave 'em out there,” Dre groaned, trying to hold on to the intimate moment and the one that was slipping from his fingers and getting up from the couch.

“It could be important,” Maxine said, disconnecting herself from Dre.

He hung his head in disbelief as he watched her walk down the narrow hallway to the door, straightening her blouse and buttoning the top button of her pants.

The lock clicked and he heard the distinct rumbling timbre of a male voice. He sat up straighter, straining to hear. He sure as hell hoped this wasn't gonna turn into an ugly throw down.

“Q?” Her heart rocked in her chest.
Damn, fine time for you to be showin'up, lookin' and smellin' good, too.
“Whatsup?”

“Need to rap with you for a minute.”

She blinked, sensing the rumbling vibes pulsing from Quinn's body, thought about Dre for a hot second. “Sure. Come on in.”

Quinn stepped inside while Maxine relocked the three locks. He followed her sinewy form down the hall, noting how good she looked in her cream silk shirt and the way her pants hugged her hips and full behind. He came up short when he spotted a brother lounging on the couch like he owned the joint. His muscles tightened.

“Quinn, this is André Martin. Dre, Quinn Parker, Lacy's brother.”

Dre stood, extending his hand, and they exchanged the handshake of the day.

How men could ever figure out which of those intricate handshakes to use was always a mystery to Max. Must be a secret brotherhood thing.

“Heard a lot about you,” Dre said.

“Yeah?”
Never heard about you, my brother.
He slanted a look at Max and wondered what she saw in this cut-off version of Michael Jordan with a chipped front tooth.

“Me and Quinn need to talk for a minute, Dre.”

“No problem.” He resumed his spot on the couch.

“Come on in the kitchen, Q. 'Scuse us, Dre.”

 

“Have a seat,” Maxine offered, pulling out a chair from beneath the butcher-block table. She couldn't recall a time when Quinn had sat in her kitchen. It was kind of nice. “So…what's with the visit?”

Quinn sat, long legs stretched out in front of him. He crossed his arms, leaned forward. “Word's out that it was a cop who did Lacy,” he said, a shaky edge to his voice.

“I knew it!” She slapped her palm on the table, her eyes blazing.
“That's why they been slippin' and slidin' about gettin' to the bottom of things.” Her brown eyes settled on his stern expression.

“Yeah, but 'cording to Remy they're lookin' for some other dudes. Been through the hood askin' questions.”

Maxine's smooth, dark brown features bunched up in a frown. “You think it's true?”

He pushed out a breath. “I ain't sure what to believe, but we definitely gotta press on with these lawyers, see what they can find out. Ya know?”

“Absolutely. This week. When's the best time for you?”

“Whenever. I'll make time.”

Maxine nodded. “I'm calling them tomorrow.”

“Cool.” Quinn rose from his seat. “Listen, I gotta roll. Just wanted to, ya know, drop that on you.”

Maxine got up. Her heart beat a little faster. She pressed her lips together and clasped her hands in front of her. Her gaze rose and rested on his face. “I'll, uh, walk you to the door.”

Quinn turned his head down the hallway and saw Dre sitting in the same spot. “Later, man,” he called.

“Later,” Dre called back, relief in his voice.

Quinn stopped at the door and looked down at Maxine, his loose locks swung across his shoulders. “He treatin' you cool?” he asked with a lift of his chin in Dre's direction.

“Yes.” She gave a half smile.

Quinn nodded. “Better be. I don't wanna have to hurt nobody.” He grinned.

“What do you think?”

“About him?”

“Yes, about him.” She planted her hand on her hip and arched her neck.

Quinn shrugged. “If it's what ya like, baby.” He flicked her chin with the tip of his index finger. “Go for it.” He gave her a wink. “Talk to ya.” He turned and left.

Maxine slowly closed and locked the door behind him. She turned and saw Dre watching her. Smiling, she walked toward him.

He got up and met her halfway. “Meeting turn out okay?”

“Yeah. No problem.” She ran her hands down her hips, wiping
away the dampness, and looked at him. “Uh, can I get you somethin'? Thirsty?”

“Naw. Thanks. Listen, it's gettin' late. I'm going to get moving.”

Maxine took a breath and nodded. “It
is
getting kinda late.”

He picked up his jacket from the couch. “I'll call you.” He walked down the hallway to the door, then turned to Maxine. “I think you oughta think about what you really want, Max.”