Nearly every table and booth was occupied. Smooth, pulsing jazz performed by the Howlin’ Good band added to the lively din of laughter, conversation and clinking glasses that permeated the restaurant. Surveying the crowd from the doorway, Byron grinned. “I usually miss working here. Not tonight, though.” Lexi chuckled. “I don’t blame you.” “Michael said he’d save us a table close to the stage.” Byron held out his arm to her. “Shall we?” Smiling, Lexi tucked her arm through his, and together they advanced into the deep, plush cave of the restaurant. As she scanned the faces in the crowd, she instinctively braced herself for the moment she’d see Quentin. It didn’t take long. He was seated at a table near the stage with a group of men. The “Morehouse Nine,” as the friends were dubbed back in college, had remained thick as thieves over the years. They held season tickets to Atlanta Falcons games and got together every month for a boys’ night out. Quentin was leaning back in his chair with an air of lazy self-indulgence, a toothpick dangling from a corner of his mouth as he nursed a glass of—what else?— whiskey.
