Games Divas Play (A Diva Mystery Novel) (11 page)

I told him about growing up in Chicago and how, like him, I had a take-no-mess mom who fought to get me into the best city schools, which earned me a scholarship to Harvard. I told him I loved being a reporter, and while I was covering entertainment at the moment for the paper, ultimately I wanted to start a political
magazine.

All of it sounded kind of flaky when I said it out loud in the face of a guy who just told me he tracks down violent gang members during the day and goes to law school
at night.

“That’s cool, Nia. I look forward to reading your stuff.” No one I ever dated had said they looked forward to reading my stuff before. Most guys I had dated up to that point just wanted to talk about themselves, boast about their own jobs, and pretend to be interested i
n my life.

When the bartender flicked the lights off and on and pointed at the clock on the wall, I was startled to see it was two in th
e morning.

“Wow, where did the time go?” I asked as I slid off the bar stool to put on my blazer and pick up
my purse.

“Time goes by quickly when you’re having fun,” Terrence said as he smiled and slipped on a well-worn brown leath
er jacket.

“Or maybe time goes by quickly when you’re getting hustled,” I said, heading for
the door.

“Hustled? I’m a New York City police officer and future DA. Now does that sound like the type of cat that would hustle
somebody?”

Laughing, we stepped out in the crisp Manhattan night. The cool air felt good after being in the stuffy bar so long. I stepped to the curb and put my arm up to hail a cab. Luckily, it was so late that there were plenty to choose from. A speeding taxi swerved over across the street, cutting off several other cars, and stopped in fr
ont of me.

“So, Nia, I never got your number,” Terrence said as he opened the taxi’s door for me so that I could slip into the
backseat.

“Yeah, I know,” I said, looking at him as I shut the door and then tapped the driver’s plastic partition, telling him to
pull off.

I turned around in the cab to look at him laughing as he stood in the middle of t
he street.

The next day, he called my cell phone while I was sitting at my desk. My pulse quickened when I heard his voice on the other end of the line. I was glad to hear from him but tried to keep my voice level because I didn’t want to seem
too eager.

“How’d you get this number?” I asked, pretending to be pissed even though I was grinning like a Cheshire cat when I heard
his voice.

“I’m a cop—I can find anyone I want in this city,” he said. “Nah, I’m just playing. Jake dimed
you out.”

“Jake, huh . . . I’ll have to talk to him about giving my number to just
anybody.”

“Well, I’m not just anybody, and it’s the least he could do for his old roommate,” he said, laughing. I loved
his laugh.

That night we met for dinner, and shortly after that we were pretty much inseparable. We got to know each other over long conversations into the night while dining at cheap hole-in-the-wall restaurants that only Terrence seemed to know about. We talked passionately about our favorite books, politics, and pop culture. We had heated discussions about the city’s crime, the gentrification of Terrence’s old neighborhood that could soon force his mother to sell their family brownstone, and New York’s growing drug gang p
opulation.

But the best part of our relationship was the lovemaking. Terrence explored every single inch of my body with his hands and tongue. He had a precision I had never before experienced. He left me quivering and begging. And while I’d had my fair share of partners, nothing came close to the intense physical connection that we created with our bodies. I craved that man. I couldn’t get enough of his chiseled brown body and the way he whispered my name when we
made love.

In a word, I w
as sprung.

It was almost perfect. His job was the most difficult part of the relationship for me. I tried not to let him see how afraid I was, but whenever the news reported that an officer had been shot, I worried that it was
Terrence.

And if it wasn’t Terrence this time, I was certain it could be him
the next.

My concern for his safety and what I felt was his cavalier attitude about his well-being were the source of the only arguments we ever had. I pushed him to speed up his plans to leave the force and join the DA’s office while he finished his last year of law school, but Terrence said there was still more work for him to do. I tried to understand, but the fear wouldn’
t go away.

Spring came. We had been dating for nearly six months and were practically living together. We kept toiletries and several changes of clothing at each other’s apartments, and at the end of our evenings together, we would decide where to sleep based on whose apartment w
as closer.

As summer approached, things were heating up with Terrence’s investigation into the Mexican drug gangs. While he never specifically discussed the details of the case they were building, as a reporter I was good at piecing together information from the bits of his cell phone conversations I would overhear when he thought I was sleeping and from pumping Jake on the crime desk. As the temperature rose, so did the gang violence. There were many nights when Terrence was roused from our bed to go out to a new crime scene. I found myself unable to sleep until he
returned.

At the end of the summer, I got a job offer in Los Angeles from
Hollywood Scoop!
We had just seen
Two Trains Running
, the August Wilson play, and I had planned to tell him about the offer and ask him to join me. We had returned to Terrence’s apartment in Harlem when he got an urgent call on his cell phone. I began to change my clothes and could tell from his clipped tone that something major was going down. When he got off the phone, he came into the bedroom and quickly stripped off his slacks and shirt to change into dark jeans, a black T-shirt, and boots. He pulled out something from the back of the closet I hadn’t seen before: a bulletp
roof vest.

“What’s going on, Terrence?” I asked, my voice trembling as I watched him slip the protective vest over his head and attach the Velcro straps around
his body.

“You know I can’t talk to you about this, Nia,” he said tightly as he sat down on the bed and pulled out a long metal box from underneath it. He unlocked it, and inside was a menacing-looking cache of guns of varying sizes. He quickly selected two, checked to confirm they were loaded, and slipped one into the waistband of the back of his jeans and the other smaller gun into an ankl
e holster.

“Terrence, baby, what’s going on?” I asked as I came and sat down on the bed next to him and put my arms tightly around
his waist.

“Nia, don’t do this now. I ha
ve to go.”

His eyes had changed from the bright, laughing eyes that always sparkled at me. They had a thunderous darkness and intensity I’d never se
en before.

He grabbed a black nylon NYPD jacket from the closet and threw it over the vest. Then he grabbed his police shield off the dresser and put it around his neck. I followed him as he walked to the door, begging him not to go. There was a feeling in the pit of my stomach that told me something bad was going
to happen.

Tires screeched to a halt outside. I walked over to the window and leaned out to see two unmarked police cars parked in front of the building, their engines running. They were here for
Terrence.

“But I need to talk to you about s
omething—”

As he reached the front door, he turned back to look at me as I came up behind him. He took my face between his large hands and saw the fear in my eyes. He leaned down to kiss me softly on
the lips.

“Nia, I love you. I’m going to
be fine.”

That was the first time he said he loved me. My heart jumped, and tears began to slide down my face. I wanted to tell him I loved him, too, but before I could say anything, he walked out
the door.

The next phone call I received was from his mother, Brenda Joyce, telling me that Terrence had been shot and was in surgery at Lenox Hill
Hospital.

The rail-thin restaurant hostess, dressed in the ubiquitous tight black sheath, weaved her way through the room of lacquered tables, leading me to Terrence. Since I had last seen him in that hospital bed five years ago, I had changed quite a bit. My body was a little curvier and my hair much shorter. I could see as we approached the banquette that he looked the same, if not better, as he stood to
greet me.

I was glad I had stopped by my apartment to change my clothes and freshen up my makeup before coming to dinner. I had hopped in a quick shower and then slipped into black Yigal Azrouël leggings, a black silk DKNY T-shirt top, and a black leather Prada blazer with three-quarter sleeves I pushed up at the elbow. Six-inch Alexander McQueen black woven platform sandals with burnished gold studs, a couple of gold round and square bangles, and a black lizard envelope clutch completed the look. Luckily, the weekly manicure MJ insisted I have was still passable. My favorite OPI purple wine color still looked glossy
and fresh.

Terrence’s uniform of jeans, boots, and jackets that he had worn when we dated had been replaced by a well-cut wool Italian suit, crisp white shirt with French cuffs, and black tie. I’d never seen him in a tie before. His hair was still closely cropped, but there were a few flecks of gray coming in that made him look even more handsome. His mocha skin was as flawless as ever, and his dark brown eyes still sparkled brightly when he smi
led at me.

“Hello, Nia,” Terrence said, his deep voice husky in my ear as he reached in to kiss me on the cheek. He ignored the awkward hand I stuck out as if former lovers seeing each other for the first time in five years would shake hands. I inhaled his scent. The clean soap smell was now layered with a hint of cologne. He always used to tell me he hated cologne, so what had changed? A new girlfriend’s gif
t perhaps?

I scold
ed myself.

Damn, Nia, did you think that he wouldn’t have a girlfriend or, hell, even a wi
fe by now?

A man this fine—straight, educated, and employed—wasn’t going to stay single forever. I snuck a glance down at his ring finger as I slid into the plush leather banquette and saw that it was bare. I cautioned myself that a naked ring finger didn’t mean there wasn’t a serious g
irlfriend.

“How are you, Terrence?” I asked, wondering why my heart was suddenly beating s
o quickly.

“I’m good. It’s nice to see you,” he said, settling back into his side of the banquette. The light from the small votive candle in the center of the table danced around. I was happy the waiter immediately came over to our table, giving me a chance to compose myself. I wasn’t sure why I was suddenly s
o nervous.

“Good evening. My name is Blaine, and I’ll be your server this evening. Can I interest the lovely couple in a bottle of wine this evening?” the wai
ter asked.

“Oh, we’re not a couple,” I jumped in to correct Blaine. “We were once. But not
anymore.”

“No, Blaine, we’re not a couple, but it seems like she could definitely use some wine,” Terrence said,
chuckling.

“Oh, my apologies, Mr. Graham.” A slight flush crept up Blaine’s face. “Well, perhaps I can interest you and
your guest
in a bottle o
f merlot?”

“That sounds perfect. Sound good to you, Nia?” Terrence asked as he handed the wine list back to the fluster
ed waiter.

“Sounds good to me as well,” I said, shifting uncomfortably i
n my seat.

“Wonderful. I’ll go get your bottle of wine, and you can have some time to look over yo
ur menus.”

I glanced down at my menu, grateful for the momentary di
straction.

“So, how are you?” asked Terrence, as he leaned toward me. I wished he would stay on his side of the
banquette.

“I’m fine. Excited to be back in New York,” I replied. “How have
you been?”

“Good. I’m happy in the DA’
s office.”

“The DA’s office? You’re not on the force
anymore?”

“No, I left the force after I finished law school. I’ve been a special prosecutor in the district attorney’s office for the last thr
ee years.”

He told me that after his five years on the police force in the narcotics unit and three years in the DA’s office, he was continuing his work in narcotics by working on the prosecutor’s special drug task force to help state and federal agents to build cases against large international dru
g cartels.