Through the Fire. Donna Hill
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son needs you, Quinten,” Mrs. Finch had counseled during Jamel’s four-week stay. “But the boy needs more than the shell of a man you’ve become. Let her go, son,” she’d whispered, clasping his large hand in her thin, frail ones.
Quinn’s insides contracted and his chest became full as they did any time the thought of Nikita was evoked, her name was mentioned or even alluded to. He heaved in a breath. When would it ever end? When?
He turned away from the window, head bowed, and started off toward the exit. The truth was, he mused as he caught glimpses of happy, hand-holding couples and laughing families, he didn’t like who he’d become these last three years. Didn’t like how he moved through his day like a shadow, there but untouchable. He hadn’t written a piece of music since Nikita’s death, hadn’t played in the band, hadn’t written a word for his long overdue second novel. All he’d done was try to find a way to open his eyes each morning and hope he could get through the pain of the day until he could close them again.
He turned on the engine in his Jeep and eased out into the airport traffic. He wanted his life back—a life back, filled with that joy he’d once known. But he was terrified. Terrified of how that pain would feel if he ever dared to love and lose again.
Chapter 2
When Quinn returned to the house, Mrs. Finch was, as usual, out front sweeping the yard. He shook his head in amusement as he alighted from the van and headed toward the wrought-iron gate. Mrs. Finch was no more sweeping the walkway than he was an astronaut. Her only purpose for that raggedy broom was to give her some semblance of legitimacy as she eagle-eyed the comings and goings of her neighbors. An almost religious activity she’d indulged in for as long as he’d known her.
“You missed a spot, Mrs. Finch,” Quinn wryly commented, fighting down a grin.
Mrs. Finch squeezed her eyes into what she believed to be a formidable stare and pointed a slender finger at the towering form in front of her.
“Don’t you sass me, Quinten Parker.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled, his dark eyes twinkling. To this day, she was still the only person he allowed to call him Quinten.
She leaned on her broom. “So…how was it?”
Quinn’s expression darkened. He looked away for a moment, than back at her. He shrugged. “Awright. Not bad.”
She looked him over, registering the hollowness in his eyes that had abated during Jamel’s visit, but had taken up residence once again.
“Hmmm,” she murmured, reaching out to pat his shoulder. “Life is hard, son. But we get through it. Think of this as a new start instead of an ending.”
Quinn looked at his surrogate mother skeptically.
“I know you don’t see it now. But you will. If you give yourself a chance.”
Just as Quinn opened his mouth to object, Mrs. Finch cut him off. “I need you to go to the supermarket and pick up a few things for me and stop at the vegetable stand, too.” She reached into the pocket of her pink-and-white checkered shift and pulled out a piece of paper and a roll of one-dollar bills. “Here’s the list and the money. If it’s not enough, you add the rest.” She waved her hand dismissively. “I’ll give it back to you…later.”
Quinn peered at her from beneath his thick lashes, his brows raised. He’d been running errands for Mrs. Finch for six years. She had yet to give him enough money to purchase anything. If it was a pack of gum for a quarter, she would assuredly give him a dime. If he added up all the money she owed to him he’d be a very wealthy man. But he loved her.
“And don’t take too long,” she warned. “I want to get my supper started early. Smothered chicken,” she singsonged to his retreating form, knowing it was one of his favorites.
He shook his head and chuckled. She always knew how to get to him.
Quinn sauntered in to the supermarket, the blast of cold air smacking him, raising the chill bumps on his bare arms. He slipped his dark glasses off his nose and slid them into the top pocket of his black sleeveless T-shirt. Grabbing a noisy shopping cart he headed toward the frozen food aisle. He opened one of the glass refrigerator doors and pulled out a can of Coke. He popped the top and thought immediately of Nikita. It was her favorite drink—with lemon. After being with her those few short years, he’d found himself addicted to it as well. So many things, he thought, so much of who she was had become a part of him. No one could understand that kind of love, why it was so hard for him to let her go and move on with his life. Sometimes it seemed as if the very air he breathed held her scent.
“Can’t be that bad,” a throaty voice from his right commented, the words lilting like the verse to a song.
Quinn turned his eyes in the direction of the melody. The face was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. “’Scuse me?”
“I said, it can’t be that bad.” Her steady gaze appraised him, the first time she’d actually seen him up close. He was even more dangerously handsome in person.
He cut his eyes back to the freezer and shut the door. “Maybe it is,” he returned in a monotone. He adjusted his body to face her. She was tall, he subconsciously registered, full and firm. Not bad. Not interested.
“If you believe it, then you will make it be.”
Quinn laughed in his throat. “So what are you…some kinda fortune-teller or something?” He lightly ran his tongue across his lips.
She smiled and, all of a sudden, something inside him moved as if the darkness had been pushed aside with a beam of bright light. The sensation was so immediate, so powerful it was physical. He swallowed over the sudden dryness in his throat, stunned by the inexplicable sexual arousal that was making itself boldly evident against the confines of his jeans. Her smile wrapped itself around him like loving arms, stroking him so tenderly that he felt his heart beat out of time. He needed to get away from her, away from whatever it was she was doing to him—with a simple smile.
“You’re Quinten Parker, aren’t you? I’ve seen your picture in the back of your book and on your CD cover. You haven’t done anything in a while. You’re missed.”
“Fan?”
“Ego stoking?” she countered.
Slowly, Quinn began to relax, allowing himself to get reacquainted with the bob and weave of the mating game, the preliminary chat. “You’re on point, huh?”
“I’ve spent too much time in my life biting my tongue and being diplomatic.” A momentary shadow passed across her warm brown eyes. “It cost me.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
She shrugged. “We all have to move on.”
Quinn stared at her for a moment, that all too familiar refrain settling like a weight in his belly. “What if you can’t?”
“Then we stay in that same place, unchanged and hurting.” Her unwavering stare held him in place. “And we lose the essence of what life is all about—evolution and change.”
The corner of his mouth quirked upward. “Sounds like you’ve thought about it a lot.”
She glanced away, focusing on the contents of her cart. “I’ve had time,” she stated simply. She took a breath, then suddenly brightened. “You like poetry?”
Quinn shrugged. “Some.”
She pulled a flyer out of her purse. “Come down to Encore tonight. You might enjoy yourself.” She handed him the flyer and began to move away. “Nice to meet you, Quinten Parker.”
Quinn watched her walk away, studying the sensuous sway of her hips, the way her hair in curly twists caressed her face, until she turned down another aisle and was gone. He glanced at the flyer in his hand: Rae Lindsay—Appearing Tonight at Encore. Rae Lindsay? He folded the flyer and shoved