Through the Fire by Donna Hill Page A

talk us to death. Don’t you have a set to get ready for?” she asked, making her voice light.
    “Yeah, yeah, you’re right,” he said as if suddenly remembering that fact. “Listen, maybe we can talk after my session. Love to hear your thoughts on my set. Most of these folks in here don’t know the difference between Monk and Liberace.” He laughed at his own joke. “Anyway, thanks for coming.”
    “Yeah,” Quinn mumbled, watching the man walk off toward the bar that lined the wall opposite them, then stopping to speak to the brown-skinned woman, the same woman Quinn had seen here before, who kept staring in their direction. Her stare was making Quinn uncomfortable so he switched seats with Rae so he didn’t have to look at her. The place was packed once again but their table seemed to be getting all of her attention. She made him uneasy theway she looked at him, the sound of her voice, the way she seemed to want to touch him.
    “You made it,” Rae said, moving the lit candle on the table so she could see Quinn’s face without its obstruction, and pulling him away from the dark turn of his thoughts. “I didn’t think you were coming. You sounded…anyway…thanks for making the effort.”
    “Yeah,” he said absently, motioning to the waiter. “What are you drinking?”
    “Red wine, French,” she replied, looking at him with concerned eyes. “Are you okay? You look tired. I’m sorry about Amir. I didn’t think he would go on like that. I know how that kind of stuff bugs you. Is that what it is?”
    She was looking at his face, the skin drawn taut to the bone and the dark circles under the eyes. The slight signs of wear took nothing away from his handsome face, only enhanced the ruggedness of his masculine features. It was the face of a man who was living life, struggling with its challenges, and occasionally getting the upper hand. Whatever damage had been done could be erased with a couple of good nights of sleep.
    “Yeah. I’m all right,” he said, still trying to get the waiter’s attention. “Forget it. Just tired like you said.”
    Finally, the waiter came, apologetic about the delay in service, noting that the café was especially crowded tonight. Two tourist buses brought a load of people from some midtown hotel—Japanese and Korean visitors looking for a safe bite of the Apple, all curiosity and cameras. Their heads swiveled from one sight to the other, trying to take everything in at once.
    After the waiter brought Quinn’s drink, a shot of Jack Daniel’s, he disappeared but quickly returned to refresh Rae’s glass, and laid two menus on the table. He stood at the table, waiting for their order, seeming quite peeved when they requested salads rather than meals. Quinn didn’t want anything because his stomach was acting up. Had been since their little talk hours earlier. Rae, on the other hand, was watching her waistline, staying away from anything with too many calories, especially after sunset.
    “What’s the deal with you and Amir?” he asked, an edge to his voice, wanting to find something out of place.
    Rae frowned at the accusatory tone. “An old friend. Plays piano. He sometimes backs me at auditions, rehearses with me. Nice brother, a little eccentric. But sweet, loyal, and sincere. Studied at Julliard for about three years but didn’t do anything with it until now. He lived in Africa for about ten years, teaching and learning about their native music. You should see his collection of native African instruments, incredible stuff, some of it’s probably priceless.”
    She finished talking, drank her wine, and drummed her fingers on the table, trying to figure out what was wrong with him. “Are you still upset with me about last night?”
    He sniffed, wrinkling his nose. “You got me to talk but when your turn came, you gave me a short and quick version.”
    “What do you want to know? Ask whatever you want.”
    “All right,” he said, raking his fingers through his