by Donna Hill
Quinn understood it, too, standing in the doorway, watching her without her knowledge. Feeling what it felt like to come home to someone. Someone who mattered.
He took a short inhale. Nikita could really matter to him. If he let her. It was gonna take time. She wasn’t one of the “around the way girls” that he could play on. He would have to be for real, up-front and correct with Nikita. But the life he led didn’t allow for diversions. And she could sure become one. Having someone close always caused problems. They became your weak spot, a way for your enemies to get to you. That’s why he’d stayed free of any heavy relationships. They weighed you down, slowed your step. But she looked real good sitting there, just like that’s where she belonged. Maybe she did.
She sensed his presence. Instead of being startled at being caught unawares, she felt comforted, secure. Slowly she opened her eyes and turned her head toward the door. He was almost beautiful, like a black Messiah, framed in the doorway, haloed by the light from the hall.
“Hi,” she said softly, as if she’d always sat in that very spot waiting for him to come home.
That lazy smile slowly spread. “Hi, yourself. Lookin’ mighty relaxed on my couch,” he teased, stepping in and closing the door.
“Per your instructions.” She sat up straighter as he languidly approached.
He leaned down, placed a hand on each side of her head. “Let’s try this,” he said, leaning a bit closer, “and get it out of the way. Then we can spend the rest of the time gettin’ to know each other.”
Ever so slowly he drew nearer until she just wanted to snatch him by his shirt and pull him to her, to stop the unbearable anticipation. When his lips touched down on hers, tiny sparks started popping in her head like a million flashbulbs. He pressed a little harder, letting the tip of his tongue brush across her lips, asking for access. She heard her own sharp intake of breath when he penetrated her mouth and felt the rush of heat that followed, flooding her body.
Did he moan or did she? She couldn’t be sure with so many new sensations and emotions tumbling around at once.
His hands caressed her face, his fingers tracing her jawline until they reached her chin and he gently withdrew.
Quinn pressed his head against hers, closing his eyes, letting the impact of that kiss subside. He hadn’t expected to be taken like that, not over some kiss. Something happened. He couldn’t explain it. Nikita was trouble. He didn’t need trouble. But some part of him needed her.
“How much time you got?” he asked, looking hard into her eyes, because he knew this was going to take a while.
Chapter 9
Taking Chances
“Where’s Nikita tonight?” Lawrence asked, stepping into the bedroom.
Cynthia, sitting in front of her vanity mirror, continued applying a heavy coat of cold cream to her smooth, red-tinted complexion in practiced strokes—up and out, just the way her masseuse and the beauty magazines advised.
“She said she was going out for a while. She didn’t say where.” Gray-green eyes with just a hint of crow’s feet at the corners stared back at her. At fifty, Cynthia Harrell was just as striking as she had been at twenty-five—her daughter’s age. Her daughter, by some genetic twist of fate, had acquired a prior generation’s dose of melanin, resulting in her warm, caramel tones. Cynthia pursed her thin lips at the thought.
“If she’s going to continue living here indefinitely, she will not be traipsing in here at all hours.” He loosened his tie and removed his jacket, hanging it in perfect alignment with his others in the walk-in closet.
Cynthia watched his movements in her mirror. “Don’t marry a man darker than you,” her mother had warned. “You’ll wind up with black babies with nappy hair.” Well, she hadn’t. Lawrence Harrell was about as close to white as you could get without crossing the line. Lawrence was what was referred to in some circles as “high yella,” with jet-black wavy hair and gray eyes. And still, nature had fooled her.
“We have to have rules in this house,” he added without conviction.
She took a tissue from a lacquered box and began removing the cream. Nikita would never have to worry about sunburn and premature aging of her skin. Cynthia wiped some more. She’d have other things to worry about. Like being an obviously black woman in a white world. Having to work twice as hard to get half as much—to never truly be recognized for her accomplishments by whites and her own people, if not more so.
“How was your day, dear?” she asked, not in the mood to debate with her husband.
“The usual. Two major surgeries today. Both successful.” He sat on the edge of the bed and removed his shoes, covertly looking at his wife. When did the woman he’d married turn into the woman in front of him—distant and cold—he wondered. Somewhere during their thirty-year marriage they’d become so absorbed in their own careers and their accomplishments that they’d forgotten about each other.
He released a sigh. The only times he’d been truly happy were when Nikita was born, when she soared to new heights, accomplished new goals. Which was why he was so devastated when she dropped out of medical school. He wanted to talk with Cynthia, tell her how he truly felt. But they had stopped really talking a long time ago.
Cynthia studied her reflection. Nikita, Nikita, that’s all he ever seemed to care about from the moment she was born. Cynthia wiped some more. She resented Nikita, so she pushed her, and punished Lawrence for sharing the love that she craved for herself alone. She envied the very harsh reality that at least Nikita, for all that she might or might not be, was accepted in a world that had turned its back on her mother. “A credit to her race.”
Cynthia, on the other hand, had been rejected by her own. Her fair skin might have won her easy entrée into the white world, but black doors were always shut in her face. “You think you white,” was the favorite taunt. “You think you too cute,” others would say. Then there were those who believed she’d steal their men, with her white-girl looks and long, sandy blond hair.
She brushed her hair, remembering how many times it had been pulled, twisted, even doused with food coloring—by ninth-grade girls. And how she’d cut it up to her ears in tenth grade, in the hope that maybe they’d like her then. They never did.
So Cynthia withdrew into a world of books, concentrating on her studies, excelling, besting all of those who had thought so little of her. She made friends with the white girls in college, and then at work. They became her contemporaries, her confidantes, her role models. And just when she thought she had pushed that dark, painful world behind her, there was Nikita, her little brown baby, there to remind her of all the women who’d always hated her. She’d never get away from the humiliation of who she was. Nikita would always be there to remind her.
So she demanded more than Nikita could ever give. More than she could hope to deliver. Whenever Nikita could not meet or exceed expectations, Cynthia felt vindicated. She proved that she was better than those “cullud” girls who had tormented her. Nikita’s return home was her supreme triumph, and still Lawrence dwelled on Nikita, even in her failure.
Slowly, Lawrence pushed himself up from the bed, rising to his full six-foot height. “I’m going to take my shower,” he announced.
“I think I’ll read for a while. I have a meeting with the department heads in the morning,” Cynthia replied, brushing her hair.
Lawrence walked toward the master bathroom, then stopped. He turned to his wife. “Why did you marry me, Cynthia?”
She swiveled around in her chair. “Larry, what a ridiculous question.” She turned back around and continued brushing her hair until it gleamed. “This isn’t one of those mid-life crisis things, is it?” She chuckled.
“Yes, it is ridiculous, isn’t it?” He stepped into the bathroom and shut the door.
Moments later Cynthia heard the rush of water.
Mechanically she returned the brush to the tabletop. “Why did you marry me, Larry?” she whispered to her reflection.
Quinn eased back
, then took a seat in the space next to Nikita. He studied her, saw the eagerness and doubt drift and change places on her face. He lifted the lock that dangled with the tiny shell, and tucked it behind her ear. He felt her shiver.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he said, stroking her ear.
Nikita swallowed. Did he really expect her to spend the night with him? “About how much time I have?”
“Yeah.” He grinned.
She didn’t want him to think she was totally uncool and had to run home to Mommy and Daddy. But then again, she didn’t want him to think she was easy, either. “Uh, I guess I have some time. Why?”
He shrugged that easy-does-it shrug. “I figured we could listen to some music. You could tell me ’bout yourself, and then take it from there.”
Nikita nodded, then smiled. “That sounds okay. But what about you telling me about yourself?”
Quinn stood up and chuckled. “You hungry?”
“A little.” He hadn’t answered her question, but that was answer enough. If he thought she was going to be giving the 411 and he was just going to listen, he had another think coming. She smiled to herself. Maybe she could finally put her reporter skills into practice.
“How’s your story comin’ on your friend?” he asked, reading her mind again.
“I finally finished,” she said, standing and following him into the kitchen. She leaned against the counter while he rifled through the fridge.
“Burger and fries cool?”
“Sure. Can I help you with something?”
“Hey, I’m down for equal opportunity.” He grinned, and his dimples winked at her. “What’s your pleasure, seasonin’ the meat, or arrangin’ the fries?”
Why’s my heart doing a tap dance because of a simple question? It wasn’t so much what he said, just how he said it. Season the meat, huh? “I’ll handle the fries.”
Quinn placed an unopened bag of frozen french fries on the counter. “Work your magic, babe. The oil is in the cabinet over your head.”
They worked together in a comfortable silence, the music from the stereo mixing with the cling and clang of pots, utensils and popping grease. Soon the kitchen was filled with the aromas of sizzling ground beef that Quinn had molded into two perfect patties, sauteed onions and steak sauce.
Nikita’s stomach gave an embarrassing shout out, which she tried unsuccessfully to camouflage by shutting a cabinet.
Quinn smiled but figured he’d give her a play and not tease her.
“You have anything to make a salad?” Nikita asked, turning just in time to catch the tail end of his smile.
“Check the fridge,” he said, flipping a burger.
Nikita was pleased to find a fresh bag of spinach, mushrooms, cucumbers and cherry tomatoes. He kept surprising her.
“We can eat up front,” Quinn said, taking the plates into the living room. He placed them on the coffee table, then went to the bar. “Fix you a drink?” he asked, pouring a shot of Jack Daniels over two cubes.
“I saw some Pepsi in the fridge. That’s fine with me.”
“Help yourself. There’s a lemon in the vegetable bin.”
She angled her head over her shoulder as she walked to the kitchen. Their smiles met.
“How long you gonna be livin’ with your people?” Quinn asked over a bite of the burger. Juice dripped out and he caught it with his tongue.
“Every day is too long,” she moaned. “But I’m trying to save. It’s just taking a long time.”
“Make the most of it.”
Nikita frowned. “The most of what?”
“The time you have with your folks. Can’t get it back, ya know?”
She watched his profile for a moment, trying to see beyond his words. She took a sip of soda. “Where’s your family?”
She saw the slight flare of his nostrils as if he were struggling for air. His eyes drifted away. He seemed to be looking beyond the window that faced them. “Just me,” he said finally.
His voice sounded as vacant to her as an abandoned building.
Quinn got up from the couch, took their empty plates and put them in the dishwasher.
She watched him walk away, distracted, as if he were traveling to some other place. So family was off-limits. It was obviously something he didn’t want to discuss. Maybe some other time.
Quinn returned and went straight to the stereo. Nikita silently prayed that he wouldn’t turn on that rap music, but that’s just what he did. She cringed when the first pulsing wave jumped through the air with a life all its own. Initially, she couldn’t make out a word of what was being said, and didn’t want to. If he was planning on their talking and getting to know each other, how in the world could they do that over all the noise?
Quinn seemed oblivious to her discomfort, his long, muscled body rocking to the beat as he sorted through his cache of CDs. The pounding of the drums vibrated through her, pulling her unwillingly along. She knew all they were talking about was how women were just “hos” and “bitches,” how they were going to kill cops and get high. Wasn’t that what everyone said? She wanted to tell him to turn it off, that she didn’t want to listen to the noise, but the lyrics began to make sense, pushing past the barriers she’d erected. The singer was talking about his mother and how hard she’d struggled to raise them in the projects. How much he respected and loved her, no matter what she did to bring the money in. It was sad, powerful and filled with a painful kind of love.
“Who’s singing?”
Quinn turned. “Tupac.”
“Oh.” The name sounded vaguely familiar. “Is he the one who was killed in Las Vegas?”
“Yeah. Didn’t think you kept up,” he teased.
“I don’t, at least not with the music, but I do listen to the news.”
“Hmmm. The news…” His voice drifted away. “Believe what’s on the news and you’ll keep a twisted picture of what’s real.” Her body tensed at the sudden underlying anger that tinged his voice. “They tell you what they want you ta hear, how they want you ta hear it. Especially when it comes to black folks.”
“That’s probably true, sometimes. But not always.”
He just looked at her, a half smile curving his lips. “Yeah,” he said without an ounce of belief.
“Why do you feel that way?” she asked, wanting to know, even if the question made her sound silly and naive.
He took a breath and changed to “Jook Joint” by Quincy Jones. His smooth, unlined features seemed to distort into a mask of hatred. “I been there,” he spat. “Seen it all the way live and then watched it get twisted in the papers and on the news.”
“I’m sure there are plenty of reporters who look for the truth and tell it.”
Quinn crossed the room in slow, easy strides. “Yeah, baby. You probably right. No doubt.” Sarcasm dripped from his lips, like the juice from the burger. “The reality is, the ones who report the news ain’t large enough to be in charge. Everything is run by somebody with their own agenda.” He gave her a long look. “Same thing with you. Your boss got her own opinion about what she wants said in her magazine, what stories she wants told. Right or wrong?”
Nikita was thoughtful for a moment, taking in the enormity of what he said in his own unorthodox style. Regretfully, she had to admit that Quinn was right. It was a scary concept, that the entire world was manipulated by the thoughts and opinions of a handful of people. How long had she lived in this vacuum? And what happened in his life to make him so cynical and bitter? “I guess you’re right.”
Quinn joined her on the couch. “I ain’t tryin’ to be right. That ain’t what it’s about,” he said, the easy, crooning resonance of his voice returning. “I’m just tellin’ it like it is.”
He looked at her for a moment before turning away. She was green. No doubt. But at least she had thoughts in her head—even if they were bent out of shape—and she was willing to listen, wanted to hear somebody talk besides herself. The only females he knew like that were Lacy and Max. N
ow, those two could definitely hold their own in a conversation, but they always wanted to hear the other side, whether they agreed or not. He dug that. And he really dug Nikita, too.
“Let me show you the rest of the place,” he said, shifting gears. He stood and took her hand.
Her heart began to pound. “Sure.”
He opened the door and went up the stairs, with Nikita close on his heels.
“Do you have the whole house?”
“Naw. The landlady lives on the ground floor. Nice lady, but she wears me out runnin’ errands for her.” He chuckled. “Every time she sees me she finds somethin’ for me to do. But it’s cool.”
That’s sweet, she thought. It was hard to picture big, tough, macho Quinn Parker running errands for old ladies. But hey, her horizons were opening up by leaps and bounds.
He opened the door at the top of the stairs and flipped on the light.
A thick, mint green carpet covered the floor of the huge bedroom. Black lacquer furniture consisting of a six-drawer dresser, armoire, two nightstands and a bed straight out of House Beautiful, complete with a built-in stereo system in the headboard, filled the room.
“Come on in.”
She timidly stepped across the threshold, feeling as if she’d just fallen into a lion’s den. A mud-cloth bedspread and matching valances were the only decorations.
A television hung from brackets in the ceiling in the far corner of the room. Along one wall were two doors. He opened one.
“This is the bathroom.” He stepped in. “Come on.” He grinned.
Nikita stepped inside a totally masculine bathroom done in beiges and browns. He walked across the cream-colored tiles to a door in the opposite side. He opened that door and Nikita beamed when she saw another room.
Although sparsely furnished compared to the rest of the house, it was just as tastefully done in cool, creamy leather with brilliant art on the walls.
“I’m not sure what I want to do with the room yet. I guess it was supposed to be a bedroom.”
“This place is fabulous, Quinn,” she breathed.
