The bass was shaking the glasses when Quita saw Nikia stop smiling.
He stood near the far end of the Midtown lounge beneath a wash of violet light, one hand resting on the back of a leather chair, the other curled around a sweating bottle of beer. Around him, Atlanta glittered through the tall windows—headlights sliding down Peachtree, neon trembling in the rain, the city dressed like it had somewhere better to be. Quita had spent the last hour moving through the crowd in a red dress and gold heels, accepting compliments, touching shoulders, making sure everybody saw the birthday dinner she had planned for Nikia.
But he was no longer looking at the cake.