A Private Affair (7 page)

“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.”

From Here to There

O
nce again Parris was out of town, and Nikita desperately needed someone to talk with. She sat up in bed and dialed Jewel's number. They'd met several years earlier when Jewel's lifetime partner, Taj, started working at Nick's club. Although Jewel was at least eight years older, they'd become fast friends. Jewel'd had her own battles to wage when she met and fell in love with her much younger mate. She'd bucked the odds and the comments, and come out on top. Next to Parris and Nick, there wasn't a couple more perfect than Taj and Jewel. All she could hope for was to find the same kind of happiness one day.

The phone rang three times before Jewel's eighteen-year-old daughter, Danielle, picked up.

“Hey, Dani. It's Nikita.”

“Hi, Aunt Niki. How are ya?”

“Just fine.” Nikita laughed. She was tickled every time Danielle called her “Aunt.” Jewel had a strict rule in her house: adults were addressed as Ms. or Mr. so-and-so, or they were inducted into the family as honorary aunts or uncles, an African practice. Nikita had opted for family status.

“How's everything with school?”

“My second year at Howard was phat! I had a ball, and the most gorgeous men—chocolate-chip heaven with a little macadamia for variety.”

Nikita laughed along with Danielle. “Sounds good, but what about your classes?”

“Oh, those. I aced them. No prob.”

Danielle had been an above “A” student since grammar school, skipped grade levels twice and received a full four-year scholarship to Howard.

“Keep it up. I know your mother is proud.”

“She oughta be. Maintaining my social calendar and a 4.0 ain't easy.” She chuckled.

“I can imagine. Where is the lady of the house?”

“She just got out of the shower. Hang on, I'll get her. Take it easy, Aunt Nik. Come out and see me before I go back.”

“I'll try.”

A few moments later Jewel's softly Southern voice came on the line.

“Hey, girl. It's been too long. How are you?”

“Pretty good. Just needed some girl talk.”

“In that case, let me assume the girl talk position.” Jewel fluffed two oversize down pillows behind her, crossed her legs and sat back. “All right, who is he?”

“Why does it have to be a he? Maybe I'm just calling to get your opinion on a new outfit.”

“Girl, pleeze. I know good and well you didn't make this toll call from Long Island to Connecticut to ask me about some clothes. Unless we're trying to devise a way to keep that thieving Parris out of our closets!”

They both erupted in a fit of laughter, thinking of all the missing items that mysteriously turned up on Parris's long, lean body.

“Yeah, Parris thinks she's
in
Paris when she shops at my house,” Nikita said, chuckling.

“I just don't understand it,” Jewel continued. “Girl makes enough money to buy her own department store.”

“Don't I know it. But she says it keeps her close to us because she's away all the time. She keeps a little piece of us with her.”

“I know,” Jewel replied, sobering. “Whatever helps. I know I couldn't lead that kind of life for all the money in the world. I need roots.”

“That's the truth. At least she has a man who understands and accepts her lifestyle.”

“Which brings me back to my original question—who is he? And take as long as you want to tell me all about him. It's your quarter.”

Nikita took a breath. “Well, his name is Quinten Parker…”

 

“So, you have nothing in common. He acts and talks like the characters in that
Sugar Hill
movie with Wesley Snipes. You're not sure what he does for a living and don't want to think about it, and you can't wait to see him again. That about right?” Jewel brushed another coat of clear polish on her toes.

“Gosh, Jewel, you don't have to make it sound like that.” The scenario did sound rather awful.

“If it's not like that, then tell me what it is like. I mean, be real and tell me.”

Nikita took a long, thoughtful breath. “I know he represents everything I've been told to stay away from. And on the outside he seems like a real character. But beneath it all is a humanity, a sensitivity, a goodness. I can just feel it. I know this all sounds crazy, but—”

“Listen Niki, nothing is crazy when it comes to a person and their feelings. They can't be explained most of the time. There are no real rules or regulations. Sometimes you just have to go with how you feel and hope for the best. Don't worry about how everyone else is going to feel about your decision. You're the only one who has to live with your choices. If I'd worried about how everyone was going to feel about me and Taj, I would have never married him, and I'd have missed out on the greatest experience of my life.

“Sister, I can't sit here polishing my toes and tell you he's the wrong one for you. I can't tell you he's
the one,
either. Only the two of you and time can tell.”

“Yes. You're right. I was feeling the same way. I guess I just needed to hear my thoughts out loud. The truth is, I don't know how it is,” she blew out in frustration. “He scares me—in an I-want-to-get-back-on-that-ride-again kind of scary. He's not like the men I've dated. He's crude, but sensual, and as much as he puts on the tough guy act, there's something else there. Something gentle and needy.”

“The only advice I can offer is to go slow. And be sure of your reasons for getting involved.”

 

“Yo, Max!” Quinn called out of his car window, simultaneously blowing his horn.

Maxine slowed her long-legged strut and turned in the direction of the familiar voice. When her gaze rested on Quinn's smiling face, the heavy baggage of her day, of dealing with corporate backstabbing and annoying customers, seemed to slide from her shoulders. She hadn't seen Quinn since he moved out of the neighborhood. She'd asked around and heard through the vine that he was still looking good and doing well. He'd taken some time off from working for Remy, but word had it that he was back.

Quinn pulled alongside Max and put the car in park. “Hey, baby. Long time. Lookin' good.”

Maxine jutted her hip and accessorized it with her hand. “You don't look so bad yourself—stranger. Just forgot all about your friends.” She adjusted her shoulder bag. “How you been?”

He shrugged and half smiled. “Awright. Hangin' in. Where you headed?”

“Home. Where else?” she joked.

“Get in. I'll take you.”

“That's what you better have said,” she teased.

Quinn broke out laughing and realized that he actually missed seeing her.

Maxine slid in next to Quinn and all the months without seeing him slipped away. His scent, those delicious dimples and that cool arrogance. Damn, she'd missed him.

“So what's been happenin', Max? I been kinda out of touch, ya know.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Their gazes touched in silent understanding.

“I finished that course I told you about,” she said, moving away from the painful memories. “Got my certificate and everything.”

“Congrats, baby. Knew you could do it. No doubt. We gonna have to celebrate,” he grinned. “What you wanna do? Name it, you got it.”

“No shit?”

Quinn looked at her and burst out laughing. “Yeah, no shit.” He'd forgotten how regular Max could get when she wanted to. “So, what's it gonna be? Your call.”

“You know what I'd really like to do, Quinn?”

“What?”

“I'd like to see your new place. See what you've done with it.”

Quinn nodded. “Cool. Here we go.”