Without looking up, Quinton Ellis had the girls pegged—model types. That was all well and good for some, but not for Q. Music was his mistress. The two femme fatales didn’t go long without conversation, although their primary target, Q, was immersed in a beat and was oblivious to their presence. In the back of their mind they would allow the minor detour, since mingling with the entourage was part of the process to get in with their leader, but ideas on how to devour the scrumptious brother kept their spirits high. Two hangers-on, residents of the control-room sofa, immediately pounced on the prey, or at least the prey they thought they had. Q just didn’t have time for women who wanted to get into his circle with hopes of catching fame by riding his coattails. He definitely didn’t want the hassle of evicting anyone from his bed the next morning only to have her return a year later with a kid who had big brown almond-shaped eyes like his. Besides, he didn’t need any distractions.
