A Private Affair. Donna Hill

Чтение книги онлайн.

      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.