A Private Affair. Donna Hill

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      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 conversation. Right now she couldn’t even remember her own name. She slurped a sip of her drink.