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?
But something greater than the fear of discovery pushed against him. The need for change, the need to be recognized for something other than a hustler. Maybe there was something to what Lacy had been saying all those years. Maybe he did have talent. Nick seemed to think so.
He looked around. This was no B.J.’s. The mirrored walls reflected shiny black tables, a dance-all-night floor, bathrooms that smelled as if they were cleaned on the hour. Even the smoke from the cigarettes didn’t seem to hang on him and clog his lungs. The people who began to filter in wore suits, classy designer clothes, casual jeans with starched shirts, and jewelry that didn’t blind him from a mile away. The women looked as if they’d just stepped off the cover of Essence, not Player. The bartender’s shirt was pristine white, not a grimy Fruit of the Loom T-shirt splotched with grease and the underarm stains from failed deodorant. The music that filtered from car windows was classic R&B, not the booming sounds of hip-hop and underground rap.
He looked at his Nike sneakers, the large gold pinkie ring, and his customary oversize jogging suit. He didn’t belong here. And he was a fool for thinking that he did. Even for a minute. To have a semblance of this kind of life and living behind the privacy of his own doors was one thing. To try to live it in the open was another.
He tossed the last of his drink down his throat, paid his tab and turned on the bar stool, ready to leave—then in she walked.
Chapter 4
Quinn and Nikita
She was whipped by the time she arrived, accompanied by a first-class attitude. She’d had to walk nearly four blocks in the suffocating heat from where she’d finally found a parking space, while listening to the cacophony of “Ooh baby’s,” “Can I get wit you’s” and countless other comments she’d prefer to forget. If another fast-talking man had another one-liner for her, she wasn’t going to be responsible for her actions.
Her clothes felt as if they’d been fastened to her body with Instant Krazy Glue, and if she hadn’t known better she’d have sworn her “Secret” had been let out of the bag.
When she stepped through the door of the club she let out a silent hallelujah when a cold blast of air hit her smack in the face, lowering her body temperature to near normal. She adjusted her eyes to the semi-darkened interior, taking in the trendy patrons and classy decor.
Slinging her Coach bag onto her shoulder she threaded her way around the circular tables and walked with an easy grace toward the bar. Years of ballet classes and etiquette training were the only things that saved her from stumbling over her own feet when she looked down the length of the bar and saw him sitting there, as cool and collected as he wanted to be. And he was looking straight at her.
Lordhammercy. Now she knew what Parris meant about the unreliable air-conditioning. It was obviously busted again. What other explanation could there be for the rush of heat that closed around her like a cocoon? She felt like stripping. Her heart was hammering so fast she thought she was having some kind of fatal attack.
With as much calm as she could summon she averted her gaze, located an empty table as far away from him as possible, took a seat and prayed for an earthquake, tidal wave, something. Luckily, a waitress rescued her and brought her a quick drink of Pepsi with lemon. Heaven knows she hadn’t forgotten him—that face, those eyes, that body. Every now and then, on her lunch hour, she’d walked along his block in the hope of seeing him again. Those times she’d been prepared with some cool and engaging