A Private Affair (16 page)

“We'll see.” He came closer. “You're stayin' with me tonight.”

It wasn't a question.

Her breathing picked up a notch when he ran his hand along the side of her face.

“In my room.” His eyes bored into hers. “So bring some clothes and stuff. We'll make it a long weekend.”

Leaning down, he brushed his mouth across her ear and along her jaw until he reached her mouth and clung there for the briefest moment.

“You better get rollin', or you're gonna be late,” he said, the depth of his voice reaching the center of her heat and stoking it.

“You're right.” Even she heard the breathlessness of her voice.
This was going to be a heck of a long day.

And the Band Played On

A
fter running Mrs. Finch all over town he finally made it to the club, and he was still early for rehearsal.
Maybe there was somethin' to this gettin' up early stuff.

He'd already squared it with Remy about getting somebody to take over his run for the night. Personal business, he'd said. He trusted T.C., but he was still too young and too green to take on that responsibility by himself or even to play the lead, as much as T.C. had protested otherwise. Remy agreed with Quinn. End of story.

“Sounding real good, man,” Nick said, patting Quinn on the back during the break.

They'd been rehearsing one of the compositions Nick had written for the band.

“It's a phat number, man. Easy to follow.” Quinn stood and stretched, flexing the tight muscles in his back.

“You could probably put something together yourself,” Nick hedged, watching for Quinn's reaction.

He shrugged. “Nothin' full scale.”

“Maybe you might want to take one of those classes up at ASCAP. Teach you everything you need to know.”

Quinn eyed him. “Yeah?”

“That's how I got it together. Like I told you, man, I was just like you. Had a natural ear. Now, man, they have computers to do all the work. You just lay down the sounds you want.”

He tossed the idea around. Sounded interesting. Maybe it was something he could do. It's not as if he didn't have the time or the loot.

He stuck his hands in his pockets. “How long somethin' like that take to learn?”

“As short or as long as you want it. You work out a schedule that suits you and fits with what they have to offer.”

Quinn slowly nodded his head, taking it in.

“I'll think about it.”

“Good enough. Take your time. You don't want to jump into something before you're ready. If there's anything I can do, or any questions you have, just let me know.” He turned back to the band. “Come on, fellas, one more run-through.”

Quinn took his seat behind the piano.

School. Classes.
Damn, he hadn't been inside a classroom in more than ten years. Study. How? But the idea of learning to write his own stuff…Maybe he really could.

He stole a glance at Nick, who was absorbed in blowing his sax notes.

Yeah.
He could do it. Changes. They were coming. No doubt.

 

Maxine hung up the phone and jumped up from her seat. Cloud Nine was her next stop. Her small business loan had been approved. She was a sho nuff bizness woman! And there was no better time than right now to start celebrating, beginning with an early lunch. She picked up the phone and dialed Val's extension.

 

“Girl, I told you you were going to get that loan,” Val enthused, taking a bite of her salad. “Now you don't even have to bother about getting hands-on training. Hire your own staff.”

“Ain't that the truth! But you know what, Val, it's kind of scary. Ya know, being on my own.”

“Listen, this is something you've been working toward for more than a year. You deserve this. Don't even stress yourself.”

“Yeah, you're right. I'm ready.”

“So what are you going to do first?”

“Start looking for a good computer system and set up shop at home, just like I'd planned, until I find a space I can afford. I've been lookin' but the rents are so high in the city. My plan is to set up my agency on the Internet. Everyone can book their travel arrangements right online, through me. When the business takes off, then I can quit this dump.”

“It's going to take off, girl, you just wait and see.” She sipped from her water glass. “Have you told Dre yet?”

“No. I wanted to surprise him. I'll tell him tonight at the club. Then we can really celebrate—later,” she said with a lifting of her eyebrow.

“It's about time you finally checked that out,” Val said.

“Who you tellin'? Been so long I may not know how to act.”

“Oh, you'll know, my sister. Just like ridin'—a bike, that is. Once you learn it, you never forget it.”

They gave high fives and bubbled with raucous laughter, drawing the attention of an elderly couple at the next table.

But as much as she enjoyed sharing her moment of triumph with Val, she wished she could run over to Harlem Hospital, grab Lacy from behind her desk and share her news. Knowing Lacy, she'd tell her how the Lord always makes a way, even for backsliders like her. She'd laugh and cry with her and tell her she needed to go to church on Sunday and give thanks, but seeing that she knew Max probably wouldn't make it, she'd say something on her behalf. Yeah, that was Lacy.

“Thinkin' about Lacy, huh?”

Maxine's gaze drifted back to look at Val. “Yeah.” A soft smile touched her lips. “Wish she was here. Ya know. The three of us talked about this for forever. You wanted to be a lawyer, I wanted my own travel agency and Lacy wanted to get her R.N. license. We were there for each other.”

“We're still there for each other. You think Lacy didn't have a hand in this, somehow? She's probably been up there twisting
the arms of the saints and pleading your case.” Val laughed softly, remembering.

Maxine laughed, wiping away the tears that had formed in her eyes. “And I'm not gonna disappoint her—or you, Val. I swear.”

“We know. Or I just might have to sue your butt.”

 

Dre was scanning the want ads. Had been for the past couple of weeks, with no luck. He'd sent his résumé to a number of security agencies and hadn't received one call.

He tossed the
Times
aside and took a sip of his lukewarm coffee. He didn't know how much longer he could keep up the front with Maxine. He dreaded “the look” that he knew he would get when he told her he was out of a job.

Maxine, his woman, was on her way up. The last thing she needed or wanted was a man that was two steps behind. All women were like that. His mother was like that. Walked out on his father like Rhett Butler did to Scarlet. Only his mother's line was, “I can do bad by myself.” Took him and his brother and never went back.

A breath shuddered through him.

He had no intention of being another André Martin, Sr. He never wanted a woman to look at him the way his mother had looked at his father that last day.

But time was running out and his savings would only last so long. In the meantime, he had to try to hold his relationship with Maxine together, on top of everything else.

If he hadn't seen how she'd looked and acted around that Quinn dude—all soft and fluffy—he wouldn't be quite so edgy. Something about how they acted around each other just shook up his basic instincts. They were a little too damned close for his taste. And everybody knew men and women could never be “just friends.” That lasted all about a New York minute.

“Damn.”

He pushed away from his small, round kitchen table, the remnants of his coffee swishing and spilling onto the newspaper, leaving a big brown stain on the “Want Ads” page.

“Figures.”

But at least he'd see her tonight, even though he wasn't all that happy about having to spend half of their time together listening to Quinn play piano. He shook his head as he used a napkin to blot up the coffee spill. Can't figure that one. Didn't seem like the type. Maybe he'd screw up, and Maxine would see that Quinn Parker put his pants on one leg at a time just like everybody else.

He had to have Max. That's all there was to it. He wasn't going to lose her, too. No matter what it took. All he needed was a plan.

 

“Are you planning on coming home tonight?” Cynthia asked, stepping into Nikita's bedroom without knocking.

Nikita turned from rifling through her closet to look at her mother. “I doubt it.”

Cynthia pursed her lips. “Will you be staying with Nick again?” Her tone was clear.

Nikita inhaled. Tonight was not the night to get into a sparring match with her mother, but it looked like it was unavoidable.

“Is that what you think? Is that what you think of
me
—so very little—that I would sleep with my best friend's husband?”

“What else can I think?” She thrust her chin forward, her eyebrows arching.

Suddenly Nikita felt like a thoroughly shaken can of Pepsi whose top had just been popped. Words spewed in every direction, landing wherever. She just didn't care.

“How about something simple like, I wouldn't do something like that.” She laughed softly, sadly. “But since you really want to know, I won't be staying with Nick. I'll be staying with someone else. His name is Quinn Parker. He's a musician. He has dreadlocks down to his shoulders. He drives a black BMW with tinted windows, and I don't know what he does for a living besides play the piano occasionally. He grew up in Harlem. Yes, Mother, Harlem—that place
you
only hear about on the news. And he took me there. And I liked it.”

She felt the blood pushing against her temples, and her chest heaved as she drew in air. She just wanted to scream, realizing that she was actually enjoying the stricken look on her mother's face.

“I've only known him for about two months, and I've never felt more alive in my life. Now, is that what you wanted to know?”

“It was only a matter of time,” Cynthia said, visibly trembling with fear or outrage, Nikita couldn't tell. “You're set on ruining your life and everything we've planned for you. Now you've taken up with some hoodlum from the ghetto and you seem thrilled. What next? You've had every opportunity in the world placed in your lap. You could have any one of countless eligible men who could offer you something.”

“Offer me something. Something like what? More of a half life, like the one I've been living?”

“You deserve more than what some street musician can offer you, Nikita.”

“Do you really think so, Mother? Isn't this where you really always wanted to see me—what you think I really deserve, so that you can somehow feel vindicated for disliking me so?”

She turned away to hide the tears that scorched her eyes. Her fingers trembled as they pulled clothes out of the closet. She heard her mother's muffled footsteps as she hurried down the hall, and the tears spilled down her cheeks.

And I could keep slipping between the sheets with white guys—or brothers with their noses so far up in the air they couldn't smell their own stink—just to satisfy you, just to prove to myself that I was worthy. Wasn't that what you wanted, Mother?

Nikita thought these thoughts, felt them deep within her. But she could never speak the words out loud. To do that would be to admit how truly shallow and meaningless her life had been. Until now.

High Notes

T
he notes were running around in his head faster than Michael Johnson on the Olympic track. He needed to rein them in so he could think. What he really wanted was a drink, but he was afraid it might mess with his playing.

Quinn pushed away the glass of Pepsi and got up from the bar, wondering how Nikita could drink that stuff. Maybe that's why she always added lemon.

He'd already walked through the club twice. No sign of Nikita or Maxine. The table he'd reserved for them was still empty.

The knot in his stomach tightened. Suppose he screwed up. Suppose he just folded in front of the whole crowd. Suppose…

“Hey, man.” Nick clapped him on the shoulder. “Loose?”

“Yeah. Yeah. No doubt.”

“Good. I know everyone usually gets first-night jitters.” He chuckled. “Hell, I remember my first time on a real stage was in some dive in North Carolina. Humph. Scared witless. Saw all those people out there just staring at me and I froze. But when that spotlight came on and I hit my first note, m-a-n, that fear was gone. It was all about me and doing my thing. I couldn't see
the audience anymore. It was like I was alone in my room, playing for nobody but me.”

Nick's eyes drifted to the present and rested on Quinn's face. “Understand what I'm saying?”

“Yeah.” Quinn looked at Nick and slowly nodded. “Yeah.”

 

Maxine untied the scarf that held down her hair, added a dab of gel and gave her hair a quick brushing until it shone.

Peering closer in the bathroom mirror, she stroked her lashes with waterproof mascara, just in case she started bawling when she saw Q onstage.

Damn, she just couldn't believe it. Lacy would be so proud. She pressed her lips together, added a hint more plum lipstick and dusted her nose with translucent powder. Returning her makeup to a small pastel pouch, she took it and rushed off to her bedroom to finish getting dressed.

Dre would be there any minute, and she hated to keep people waiting. Especially tonight.

She held up the black slip dress she'd just bought and wondered if Q…Dre would like it. She knew
she
did. It showed off just the right amount of “somethin' somethin'” without giving it all away.

Just as she stepped into her shoes, the doorbell rang. Nine. Right on time. She liked that.

When she opened the door and saw Dre standing there looking all handsome she just kissed him—one of those get-up-closer, wrap-your-arms-around, go-down-for-the-count kind of kisses.

“Whoa, what's gotten into you, baby?” Dre asked, grinning, and trying to be cool, but wanting more.

“Nothin',” she teased. “That's probably the problem.” She gave him a wicked look.

“We can fix that right now.” He stepped in.

“We can fix it,” she said, pressing a finger to her lips, then to his. “But not now. Later.”

He held her hand to his mouth. “I'm gonna hold you to that.” He kissed her palm.

Maxine spun away and strutted down the hall, giving Dre a Kodak moment.

“Lookin' real good, girl. That dress is just where it's supposed to be. On you.”

Maxine smiled, glad that he was pleased. She was feeling good and she wanted him to be feeling good, too, when she shared her news about the loan. There were plenty of reasons to celebrate, and that's just what she was going to do.

“I'm ready,” she announced, picking up her small black sequined purse and the waist-length jacket that matched her dress—just in case she got chilly in the club. Worst thing in the world was to be sitting around thinkin' you looked cute with chill bumps running up and down your arms.

Leaving the apartment, she locked all three locks and they were on their way.

She hoped Q remembered to reserve a table. She still hadn't figured out how she was going to handle sitting with “his lady” all night.

She sighed as Dre sped down Seventh Avenue. Nikita did seem nice. And Quinn seemed to like her. There wasn't anything she could do about it, anyway. Besides, she had her own man. She moved a little closer to Dre and put her hand on his thigh. Dre had his act together, was a decent brother, treated her good, and she dug him—a lot. That's what counted.

 

Her father hadn't gotten home by the time she was ready to leave, and it was just as well. She'd had about enough parental supervision for one night.

She was still shaken from the confrontation with her mother, but determined to put it behind her, at least temporarily. Tonight was her and Quinn's night, and she wasn't going to let anything spoil it. She just wished she had someone to sit with while Quinn was playing. He'd told her he'd reserved a table for her. All she had to do was tell the hostess at the door.

During the hour-and-a-half drive back to the city, listening to CD 101.9 helped to get her back in balance. By the time she arrived at the club and found a parking space, she felt like her old self.

She should have told Jewel to come. At least she would've had some company.

She reached the glass door and pulled it open, a blast of cold air slapping her right across the face.

It was a good thing she'd decided to bring the jacket to the dress. She slipped it over her bare arms and stepped into the semi-darkened nightclub.

It was barely nine-thirty, and the club was already crowded—she observed—her eyes adjusting to the dim lights.

Everyone was dressed to impress tonight. There wasn't a sign of a T-shirt or a pair of jeans in the house. Jewelry, real and fake, twinkled around necks, wrists and on fingers. The mélange of perfumes, colognes and oils blended together into one unique, expensive assault on the senses. It was definitely Friday night in New York.

“Hello. I'm your hostess, Michelle. May I help you?”

Nikita blinked, realizing she hadn't moved since she crossed the threshold. “Oh, yes. I'm sorry,” she apologized to the woman, who was at least a good head taller than her and model-thin. “There should be a table reserved for me.”

The striking woman, who was a dead ringer for Tyra Banks, picked up her clipboard. “Name?”

“Nikita Harrell.”

She scanned the list, then looked up with a toothpaste-commercial smile. “Right this way.”

Nikita followed her pencil-thin form across the room to a table directly in front of the stage—already occupied.

Maxine and Dre looked up at the same time. All three pairs of eyes bounced from one face to the next.

“Here's your seat, Ms. Harrell. A waitress will be around to take your order.”

“Thank you.” She turned to the occupants at the table, addressing Maxine. “Hi. I'm Nikita. We met—before.”

“How are you? This is André Martin. Dre, Nikita, Q's friend.”

“Pleased to meet you,” he said, standing and helping her into her seat.

When Nikita moved directly into the light, Maxine nearly
choked on her Kahlúa and milk. They had on the same damned dress! Nikita's was more filled out up top, where hers was making its statement around her hips.

Lord help us if she takes off that jacket.

“Have you two been here long?” Nikita asked, ignoring their similar attire with practiced diplomacy.

“Maybe about twenty minutes,” Dre said, happier than a kid with ice cream that Quinn had someone to keep him occupied tonight. He assumed that's what Maxine meant by “friend.” “So how do you know Quinn?”

Maxine cringed inside and took a swallow of her drink. She really didn't want to hear “the story” again.

Nikita smiled and Maxine noticed the tiny dimple that twinkled beneath her right eye.

“We met a couple of months ago when he was moving into his apartment. Then we ran into each other again here at the club. After that…” She lifted her shoulder and smiled.

After what? Maxine wanted to know. No, she really didn't need to go there.

Nikita turned her cover-model looks on Maxine. “How's everything going with finding something part-time with a travel agency?”

Was she going to ruin her
entire
night? She hadn't told Dre about the loan, and this certainly wasn't the time. “Slow but steady. How about you? What's happenin' at the magazine…um, what's the name again?”

“Today's Woman.”

“Yeah. Right. How are things?”

“Hectic. But challenging. I'm still learning a lot.”

The waitress approached the table and asked for Nikita's order.

“Are you both having dinner?”

“We ordered already,” Maxine said.

Nikita scanned the menu. “Shrimp in a basket, fries and a Pepsi with lemon.” She handed back the menu.

“I can't wait to hear Quinn play,” Nikita said, her dimple winking at Maxine. “It's so exciting.”

“This is definitely his night to shine. Been a long time comin'.” She sipped her drink.

Nikita pulled her chair closer, placed her arms on the table and leaned forward. “How long has he been playing? I know he hasn't done anything professionally, but how did he get started?”

Maxine took a breath, then a sip. “Q's been playin' piano since grade school. Used to sneak into the music room when all the kids were gone and fool around on the piano. The music teacher, Mr. Howard, walked in on him one day and heard him playin', tried to convince him to take music classes. Q told him just where to go.” She laughed at the memory. “Said it would ruin his rep. So Mr. Howard said he'd give him private lessons twice a week after school. Q agreed as long as Mr. Howard kept it secret.”

She shook her head. “But like with everything else, somebody found out and told the principal, nearly got Mr. Howard fired. So he had to stop the lessons. Q never set foot in that class again, but he still liked to play. His sister bought him a secondhand piano for his twenty-first birthday.”

“Sister? I didn't know Quinn had a sister.”

Maxine stared at her for a moment, wondering what Quinn
did
tell her—about anything. “He
had
a sister. Lacy. Let's just leave it at that. It's not something he, or I, like to really talk about.”

Nikita blinked back her surprise, her mind full of questions which apparently were not going to get answered. So
that
was
Lacy.
The name in the book.

Dre sipped his rum and coke. Now maybe they'd talk about something else. He had Quinn's name coming out of his ears.

The waitress brought Nikita's drink and Maxine's and Dre's food. “Yours is coming right up,” she said to Nikita.

Nikita looked around, hoping to catch a glimpse of Quinn, but he was nowhere to be seen. She knew if she went in search of Nick, he'd tell her where Quinn was. But she didn't want it to seem as though she was hunting him down.

She turned her attention back to her tablemates, realizing that she'd hardly said a word to Maxine's friend, which was terribly rude of her. Quinn seemed to have dominated the conversation and he wasn't even there.

“What do you do, Dre?” she asked, noticing that the ques
tion seemed to cause his fork to stop midway between his mouth and his plate.

He bit off a piece of chicken finger, then took a swallow of his drink. He turned his head in her direction for a brief moment. “I, uh, work security, for the, uh, the World Trade Center.”

Maxine cut a look at him. Why was he acting like that?

“Really? Were you there during the bombing?”

“Naw. Before my time.”

He halfway smiled, and she noticed the slightly chipped front tooth.

“Lucky you. That was awful.”

“Yeah. It was.”

Her gaze included them both. “So, how did you two meet?”

Before either had a chance to respond, Nikita's food arrived and the house lights lowered, moments before the band assembled on the small center stage area.

Nikita forced herself not to jump up out of her chair when she saw Quinn take his seat behind the piano.
Gosh, he looks good.
The stark white collarless shirt stood out against his dark brown skin. He'd kept his locks in place with a black band, tied at the nape of his neck.

Nick stepped into the spotlight and welcomed the crowd. Told them to sit back and enjoy, and let them do their thing.

The band ran through a montage of jazz and R&B classics, as well as two of Nick's original compositions, for more than an hour.

 

Quinn's fingers floated across the black and whites, zeroing in on every note with precision.

Nick was right. All that nervous energy was gone. All he could feel was the rhythm of the music. The spotlight blinded him to the audience. All he could see was what was in front of him and hear the sounds of clapping and shouts for more every time a number ended. And he wanted to play more. He wanted this feeling, this sense of power, to go on forever.