A Private Affair (4 page)

“Not that I know of.”
Damn, she's fine.
He towered over her—catching a whiff of sea breeze and baby powder—on his way to the van. A pulse pounded low in his groin, unsettling him with its suddenness. He turned back in her direction, his long black locks swinging across his bronze shoulders. Dark eyes held her in place for a brief moment before dancing away. “Sorry.”

She shrugged, wanting to appear as cool and unaffected as he did. “No problem.”

He leaned against the truck, his arms folded across his chest as he watched her walk away. “Good luck.” He wanted to say more, talk to her and make her stay a minute. He didn't.

Nikita stopped and turned. Her insides seesawed when she saw him grin. It made his eyes kind of crinkle. She smiled, and his stomach clenched. “Thanks.” She continued on, with just the slightest tremor in her legs, wondering what she could have said to a man like that to lengthen the moment.
Nothing.

“Nice.” Quinn hummed in appreciation as he watched her departure until she reached the corner and turned. For a moment he saw the light again.

 

Nikita looked up from the menu just as Parris stepped through the doors of B. Smith's. Every head turned and murmured whispers of recognition and speculation. Parris McKay had made her debut in the music world three years earlier, taking listeners and producers by storm. She and Nikita had met even earlier, while Nikita was an exchange student in France and Parris was in search of her mother.

To those who did not know her, Parris was an elusive beauty with the voice of Ella, Mahalia, Sarah and Whitney all rolled into one. But to Nikita, Parris was just her
girlfriend,
the one who told her like it was, borrowed her clothes, was light enough to be accepted by her parents and brazen enough not to care. Fame hadn't changed her one bit.

Nikita stood and they hugged, long and hard. “It's good to see you, girl,” Nikita said into Parris's tumble of midnight hair.

“You, too. It's been too long, sis.”

They both stepped back assessing each other with knowing up-and-down looks.

“That's my dress. I've been missing it since the last time you rolled into town,” Nikita spouted, one hand on her hip and the other pointing at the red sleeveless linen dress.

“Just wore it so you wouldn't forget what it looks like,” Parris taunted in a quick comeback. “You've finally grown into those dreads. Lookin' good, too.”

“Yeah, they'd probably look real good with that dress.”

“We'll never know, now will we?”

“We'd better!”

They bug-eyed each other and broke into sidesplitting laughter, collapsing into their seats.

“Whew. You still have that fast mouth, Parris.”

“You just bring out the best in me. What can I tell you? Did you order?” She picked up the menu.

“No. I was waiting for you. As usual.”

“Don't want to go changing on you. You'd be disappointed.”

“I doubt it.”

“It was that bad, huh?” Parris asked later over a mouthful of blackened salmon.

Nikita nodded her head slowly. “Worse. It wasn't so much the scene. It was the things that were said. I've never seen my father that furious.”

“You've never had the nerve to go against him before. He was probably as stunned as you were.”

“Yeah, well the shock should be over. That was almost four months ago. Even though I started working he still barely speaks. I can't wait to get out of there. I feel like I'm sitting on a time bomb.”

“You're always welcome to stay with me and Nick. We're hardly ever there, anyway.”

“Thanks, but no. I need my own space.”

“I can understand that. Just remember the offer is always open.” She shoved more food in her mouth. “Tell me about the job. I always knew you had a flair for the written word. I never could see you in the doctor getup. And your bedside manner is lousy.”

Nikita laughed. “Yeah, how about that? But the job is great. My boss, Ms. Ingram, is a real character. A throwback to the sixties, and she must be about seventy-five. But she's determined to get her magazine out to the masses. I'm learning the business from the bottom up. Distribution, printing, layout, sales. She's even letting me edit some stories that have come in.”

“Sounds great. How much does it pay?”

“Not enough, unfortunately. I get subsidized with hands-on training.”

Parris eyed her speculatively. She leaned across the table. “Tell me. Is this really what you want, or are you just doing this to be a pain in the ass to your folks? I was only kidding about the bedside-manner thing. You'd be great at whatever you did. But you know how you have your moments—breaking up with Grant, then not going away to school, having
musicians
as friends…”

“The truth?”

Parris nodded.

“For as long as I can remember I've wanted to write. You know that. When I was little I saw myself standing in front of this massive desk with a huge floor-to-ceiling window behind me. And I knew I was a publisher, and that was my office. But you also know I was never encouraged in that direction. I was always pushed to fill my father's unfillable shoes.” She paused, then looked at Parris. “I'm taking some writing courses at New York University, and I'm learning the business. I can feel it Parris, this is for me.”

“Then go for it, hon. Give it everything you've given to all the other challenges in your life. This time put
your
heart in it.”

 

Nikita keyed in the last page of a women's health article on the need for mammograms just as Ms. Ingram bustled through the door.

“Niki, you're still here? I thought you'd be long gone by now,” she said, hanging her sweater on the brass hook behind the door. The scent of lavender wafted around her, cooling the room.

“I'm almost finished. I have a class tonight, anyway. Six forty-five, remember?”

“Oh, yes. How is it going, by the way?” She crossed the small room, her footsteps muffled by the Aubusson area rug. She went to her cluttered desk, which was scarred by years of use, and sifted through the stack of mail.

“So far, so good. I love my instructor.”

“Glad to hear it.” She wagged a brown finger at Nikita. “We'll make a journalist out of you yet.”

Nikita pushed back from the desk and stretched her arms above her head. “Ms. Lillian?”

“Hmmm.”

“I was thinking—what about adding an entertainment section to the magazine? I mean, I know the magazine is issue-and-health oriented, but I can't imagine that your subscribers wouldn't like to read about places in the city to go, interviews with entertainers who are in town.”

Lillian stopped her perusing of the mail and settled her hazy
brown gaze on Nikita's face. “Sounds like a wonderful idea, but who's going to write and edit that section?”

“Well…I'd like to, if you'd be willing to give me a try. As a matter of fact, Parris McKay is my closest friend. I could easily get an interview with her,
and
pictures.”

“Parris McKay is a friend of yours?”

Nikita beamed. “She sure is. And she wears my clothes every chance she gets.”

Lillian laughed her weatherbeaten laugh. “Niki, if you can get an interview with Parris McKay, I'll let you run the entertainment section anyway you want.”

Nikita popped up from her seat, darted around the desk, and closed Lillian's lean frame in a bear hug. “Thank you. Thank you. It's going to be great. You'll see.”

 

The weather had been unusually warm for late June. The temperature had spiraled into the nineties and remained there for more than a week. For the first time since she'd returned home she was grateful for the extravagance that her parents poured into the house. The entire structure was equipped with central heating and air. All of the major rooms had their individual thermostats. She had hers on frosty.

“You must have Parris out before she goes on tour again,” Cynthia said, stepping into Nikita's dressing room.

Nikita sat in front of the oval mirror circled by professional makeup lights and looked at her mother's reflection. The entire top of the white-and-gold-lacquered tabletop was covered with a huge assortment of nail polishes, lipsticks, beautifying creams and ointments. She sprayed her locks with oil sheen and held back a chuckle when she saw her mother demurely turn up her nose.

“I'll ask her. But you know how busy she is.” In actuality she didn't want to be subjected to her parents' monologues about how wonderful Parris's life was, what a wonderful husband she had, all compared to Niki's apparent non-accomplishments. Although in private they abhorred the “loose, debasing” life of singers and musicians, Parris was
“different.”
Sure.

“Do try. It would be so good to see her again. And tell her I said good luck with her performance tonight.” Cynthia turned and floated away. Nikita just shook her head and finished with her makeup.

Parris had said dress would be extremely casual at the club. Nick had been having problems off and on with the air-conditioning unit. Some nights it was the Antarctic, some nights the Sahara. Nikita opted for a spaghetti strap, cotton knit T-shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. She grabbed the matching jacket and folded it over her arm, just in case.

She checked her purse: lipstick, notepad, tape recorder, two pens and a pencil. Grinning, she felt like a real journalist. Parris had promised to give Nikita the interview for the magazine after her set. Although Nikita couldn't imagine what Parris could tell her that she didn't already know, she wanted to do this the right way. “And anyway, I don't want you sneaking in any lies about me borrowing your clothes,” Parris had warned.

Taking one last look in the mirror, she flipped off the lights, grabbed her bag and was on her way.

 

Nick stepped out of his office, drawn by the way-down soul that cried out from the black and whites. Clear, sharp, precise and so packed with emotion it gave him pause. He stood in the shadows of the archway, mesmerized.

When the music came to its stirring conclusion, Nick applauded. Not the kind of frenzied, hurried applause of concertgoers, but the slow, rhythmic beat of hands that comes from those who have been transported.

Quinn snapped his head in the direction of the clapping and quickly pushed away from the piano. Nick approached.

“Sorry, man. I didn't see anybody around, so I just kicked it for a minute.” He held up his palms. “I'm out.” He started to back away.

“Hold on. Hold on. I liked what you just did,” Nick said to Quinn. “Where'd you study?”

“I didn't.” Quinn raised a brow, uncomfortable being asked about his background.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, just what I said. I taught myself. Listened to what I dug and copied it, that's all.”

“Self-made man.” Nick grinned, cautious, seeing the feral look of one caged and ready to pounce. “I like that.” He stuck out his hand. “I'm Nick Hunter. I own the place. Me and you have a lot in common.”

Quinn eased his guard down, relaxing his stance as he shook Nick's hand. He cocked his head to the side. “How's that?”

“Come on in my office. Let's talk.”

“Naw, man. I got things to do.” He turned to leave.

“If you can play like that I might have a spot for you here some nights.” He waited a beat. “Interested?”

Quinn looked at him from over his shoulders, letting his eyes and his senses take in the man in front of him. Nick Hunter had the look of a man who had it all together. Money, clothes, his own business. What could he possibly have in common with him? It was only happenstance that he'd even wandered in. The heat on the street was unbelievable, and he'd ducked in to get a quick drink. Then it was as if something pulled him in the direction of the baby grand. He'd never played on a first-class piano before, and when he heard what it could do he couldn't seem to stop himself from drowning in the music.

It's okay, Q.

Quinn shrugged his broad shoulders and followed Nick into his office.

 

An hour later Quinn walked out of Nick's office with a job, one night a week, playing piano with Nick's band.

“Why don't you hang out a while and get a feel for the place?” Nick offered. “It usually gets pretty packed in here by ten. Besides, my lady is singing tonight. I'll introduce you.”

Quinn nodded. “Sounds good.”

“All right then, so I'll see you later.”

“Bet.”

Sitting at the bar, sipping a glass of his usual, Quinn tried to make sense out of the past few hours. Out of nowhere he was now employed as a musician, no less. The idea scared him. He
had a mind to just tell Nick to forget it. He didn't have the time. But the reality was, he wasn't sure if he could cut it. He'd never played for a soul in his life, other than Lacy. Suppose he froze up like a punk when he was up there on the stage? What if his homeys ever found out he was some nightclub piano player? What would that do to his rep uptown?