She lowered her gaze from his. “I think you know why, Rashad.”
He frowned. “Not really.”
She folded her arms over her chest. “You’re kidding, right?”
“I know you and I aren’t together anymore.”
Because of your secrecy, she wanted to say. But she held her tongue and tried to keep the annoyance off her face.
“You can still come and enjoy the music.”
Rolling her eyes again, she met his gaze, and instantly regretted it. There it was again, that look he was so good at giving her. The dark, coffee-colored pools of his eyes seemed to hold a mixture of sincerity and desire. The longer she stared, the more she felt herself falling into them, being dragged back into his world.
The electronic jukebox behind her suddenly started up, blasting Shaggy’s hit “It Wasn’t Me.” The pounding syncopation of the music snatched her right out of Rashad’s world and back into reality. Shaking off the remnants of his charms, she decided to use this evening to her advantage. “So, how bad do you really want Monk’s piano?”
His back stiffened, as if he didn’t like that she’d changed the subject. “I’m sure I want it more than you do. You’ve never been into Monk the way I am.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “True, but my mother is about as big a fan of Thelonious Monk as a person can be.”
Now his brow hitched in surprise. “You mean you want the piano for your mother?”
She nodded. “She’s been feeling poorly lately, and I know she’d love to have it. It’s just the thing to raise her spirits, and since I got the promotion, I figured, what the hell?”
He cupped his chin, moving his fingers along his smooth, clean shaven skin. “That’s honorable and everything, and no offense to Mrs. Smith, but I’m going to do whatever I have to, to win the bid.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. I hope your mother’s health improves, but we’re talking about a piece of jazz history here. If it wasn’t for Monk, I never would have touched the eighty-eights. I have to have this piano.”
She couldn’t hold back her chuckle. She had nothing but respect for civil servants, since she worked with them on a daily basis. However, she also knew they weren’t exactly well paid. “You and I aren’t the only ones who want it, and from the looks of Mrs. Parker, she’s got some serious resources.”
He shifted on the bar stool, downed the last of his root beer. His gaze hardened and focused on the wall of spirits behind the bar. “You don’t think I can beat her bid?”
“No offense, but it’s a possibility. She looks like she could outbid us both.”
“Speak for yourself. You don’t know everything about me.”
She scoffed. “That’s for damn sure.”
He swiveled his head toward her. “Are we really going to do this here? Do we really need to revisit your trust issues?”
She pursed her lips. “My trust issues? I’m not the one who always had something to hide.”
“Not telling you every single detail of my life is not the same as hiding things from you.”
Draining the last of her ginger ale, she grabbed her purse and slid from the bar stool. “That’s where we disagree, Rashad. I opened up to you, and all I got in return was the brush-off.”
“I’m not your ex, Lina. You’re never going to be happy until you stop blaming all men for his shit.”
That did it. She turned her back on him, and without anther word or a backward glance, strode to the door and left.
* * *
Rashad dunked a boneless buffalo wing into his cup of ranch dressing and popped it into his mouth. From his corner of the booth at the Brash Bull, he had a pretty good view of the big screens displaying various sporting events. The televisions were muted, as usual, with the closed-captioning turned on. Most of the noise in the place was coming from the booth he shared with the other members of his jazz quartet, the Queen City Gents.
The men were currently entertaining themselves by teasing Darius about his so-called honeymoon glow. Having returned less than a month ago from an island hideaway with his new bride, Eve, Darius’s personality had taken a noticeable turn toward sappy.
Darius, the band’s bassist and Rashad’s ace since their days in college, pounded his fist on the table. “Y’all are just jealous that I’m getting some on a regular basis, and from a gorgeous woman at that.”
Swallowing a mouthful of beer, Marco scoffed. “Please. I never lack for female affection.” The saxophonist, a native of Costa Rica and a self-proclaimed ladies’ man, wore an expression that conveyed just how sure of himself he was.
Darius groaned. “Marco, we’re not talking about man-whoring. We’re talking about commitment here.”
Ken “the Zen” Yamada, the band’s drummer, barely looked up from his phone as he spoke. “This is why I don’t bother with dating. Women are just a source of contention between us.”
Darius shot back. “You know, Ken, I’m starting to think your ass is gay.”
Rashad simply smiled at their banter, preferring to enjoy his wings and beer instead of get involved in their pointless debate.
From his seat on the bench, Darius elbowed Rashad. “Don’t you have something to say, man?”
Rashad shook his head, keeping his eyes on the television nearest the table. “Nope. Not a damn thing.”
He was watching the local twenty-four-hour news channel focused on happenings around North Carolina. An image of two wrecked cars appeared, and Rashad read the transcript ticking by on the screen.
As he focused on the news anchor’s words, he realized that the accident had taken place in Charlotte, and that the owner of the auction house he’d been at last night, as well as the auctioneer, had been injured. The story continued to scroll by, ending with an announcement that the auction house would be closed, and all auctions would be postponed for at least two weeks.
“What are you staring at, Rashad?” The question came from Marco, and cut into his thoughts.
“The news. It looks like I’ll have to wait for my shot at Monk’s piano. The auction house is shut down for a couple of weeks.” Rashad grabbed a napkin and wiped the wing sauce from his fingers. He’d been looking forward to going over to the auction house that night, though it wasn’t his usual Saturday night activity.
Now, with the auction delayed, he could put more of his focus on obtaining the other rare treasure he wanted to make his own: Lina.
He imagined how she would act in a courtroom, arguing some poor opposing counsel under the table; or in her office, diligently attending to client paperwork and phone calls. She took her career very seriously, and he didn’t blame her. Her passion for the law was evident, and as the old saying went, if you do what you love, you’ll never work a day in your life.
Darius elbowed him in the ribs. “Rashad, I hear there’s drama at county. What do you know about it?”
Darius’s pointed question drew Rashad out of his fantasy, and he groaned. “All I know is that the county budget is being cut, drastically. Right now, we don’t know how it’s going to affect us at the courthouse.”
“Sounds like things are pretty uncertain over there.” Marco ran his hand over his chin as if thinking.
Rashad agreed. “They are. What about you, how are things in the fast-paced financial world?”
“Same