Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Lot
Do you know how hard it is to kill a cactus?
I’m a mood cook. Tonight, I’m making waffles from scratch, even if it is after ten o’clock.
“Can’t you do that without the mess?” My cousin Rayne frowns as batter drips off the ladle, splattering the counter on its way to the iron. She’s parked at the kitchen table in silk pajamas, pink rollers stacked in her hair, sipping tea and completing a crossword.
“I’ll clean up after.”
We’re both thirty, and like all Webber women, we’re built the same—thick thighs, fat ass, big boobs—but personality-wise, we’re night and day.
She’s structure and plans. I’m impulse and imagination.
It’s no surprise I drive her crazy sometimes.
Still, she didn’t hesitate to let me crash here while I’m in town.
Thank God. The thought of living under my father’s roof again gives me hives. We never got along. Our fights were constant, with my mom always stuck in the middle.
“How was Docks?” Rayne asks, filling in the downward squares.
“It’s whatever.” I shrug. “I’m not really doing anything. Maurice just wants me there to supervise, like his staff’s gonna steal his liquor or slack off. His distrust is on a whole ’nother level. He’s still micromanaging everything from home.”
“That’s gotta be tough on Dice.”
I side-eye her over my shoulder. “Why you bringing that man into this convo?”
“I’m just saying, he’s been at Docks a long time. He should’ve been left in charge. He’s earned it. You know it too, so you can quit shooting daggers at me.”
“Hmph.” I close the waffle iron and set the timer. “Maurice will never give him the reins. Dice is a fool for staying this long, but whatever. That’s his problem.”
“Maurice is a hard man,” she agrees, her brow wrinkling. “Funny how two people can grow up in the same house and turn out so different.”
“Yeah. Uncle Mo is definitely the better brother.” My envy isn’t subtle, never has been. She got the cool dad and I got the rigid, small-minded one.
“Soo…” She draws out the word. “How did it go at Docks tonight?”
“Ssskt.” I kiss my teeth. “Boring, nothing for me to do, so I decided to sketch some new logo ideas ’cause you know that ship-and-polo look is tired as fuck. I’m doing my thing, then outta nowhere, Dice comes for me… getting all up in my face.”
“What?” She leans forward.
“Mm-hmm.”
“I mean, I can understand his frustration,” she says. “But getting in your face doesn’t sound like Dice. He’s usually so easygoing.”
“Maybe you don’t know him as well as you think.”
She sets down her puzzle book and looks at me with a sympathetic expression. “He doesn’t know he hurt you, Lot.”
“Who said he hurt me?”
“It’s me, girl,” she says gently. “I know how your mind works. You think he didn’t care that you left, but maybe he was dealing with his own feelings.”
“He had no feelings about it. He basically said, ‘See ya.’”
“You wanted him to ask you to stay?”
“No. But I sure as hell expected something more than ‘bye and good luck.’ Anyway, I’m over it.”
The tug of her lips says she doesn’t believe me. “He asked about you the whole time you were gone. Talk to him. Tell him everything. He doesn’t have a clue.”
“Then he should get one.” My words snap out sharp. Not because I care. The memory just pisses me off.
“You’re obviously still not ready to hear this, so I’ll shut up before I get cut.”
I give her another side-eye. It’s never been simple with Dice.
Not when we were kids, and not now. Back then, I was the one watching for his flashlight through my bedroom window, stashing his favorite snacks in my backpack, sharing my tent with him on those cold nights when we both needed an escape from our problems at home.
Pretending not to notice the dried tear tracks on his cheeks.
But he never saw me as more than comfort in the dark.
Even when we got older and the four-year age gap wouldn’t matter anymore, I was still just Lot. Always the girl next door. Always the one he came to. But never the one.
Instead, I had to watch him charm all those women with his laid-back moves and that damn smirk. They fell for his swagger without ever knowing the scars it hid. I nursed my hurt and jealousy by at least believing I mattered to him. Until he shattered that illusion.
I’d been talking about moving to New York for as long as I can remember. About getting out of Bayside and away from my father. At twenty-five, I decided it was time. “I’m going,” I told him. “I need something more. Something bigger.”
“Yeah. You do,” he agreed.
“What about you?” I asked, looking into his eyes, hoping he’d come with me. New York was art, music, culture. He could’ve blown up on the DJ scene. I thought he might take that leap with me.
“Naw. I’m good here. But best of luck in the Big Apple.” He said it like I was a stranger. Like years of history didn’t mean shit.
He never even came to say goodbye. So, I left without risking another casual shrug that cut me in half. And when he texted a week later
How’s NY?
I blocked him. Done chasing something that wasn’t chasing me back.
Now he’s acting like I’m the offender. Like he wasn’t the first man to break my heart by never bothering to even see it.
The waffle iron beeps, yanking me back to the kitchen. I grab a plate and make space for it around the flour dust, batter streaks, and eggshells.
“Please don’t let me wake up to this disaster,” Rayne groans, rising to rinse her mug at the sink.
“When have I ever done that?” I ask, sliding the golden waffle onto the plate.
“Two nights ago.”
“Girl, that was clean. You were using a magnifying glass to find crumbs.”
“And I found them, didn’t I?”
“Ssskt. You need some dick to occupy your mind. Out here hunting crumbs for entertainment.”
“You’re not wrong,” she admits with a grin.
Her job as Director of Bayside Tourism and head of the Waterfront Committee keeps her busy.
“I do need me some good dick. But if I’m going to run for mayor against Diablo, I have to be discreet.
You know how it is for women. Everything, including my sex life, will be under scrutiny. ”
“Fucking double standards.”
“So true.” She sighs. “That’s why I want a seat at the table. Mayor, then governor, senator. And who knows, maybe the first Black woman president.”
“If anyone can make it happen, it’s you.
” I admire Rayne. She’s beauty and brains.
Stands ten toes down on business. Doesn’t let anything, including vitiligo, hold her back.
When the discoloration on her hands and face started spreading in her teens, she went through it but came out fighting on the other side.
“Thanks, boo.” She hugs me.
My body stiffens, the way it always does when touch sneaks up on me. I grew up with affection. Mom is warm. It’s just not my thing.
I pat her back and count to five before letting go. Any longer and I feel smothered. Any shorter and I look rude. That guessing game—what’s the magic number—has been my whole life. Gauging what’s acceptable.
I like control. Hugs feel like the opposite, like I’ve ceded the steering wheel of my body to someone else.
But Rayne gets me and doesn’t take offense. “Night.” She waves. “Lock up.”
“I will.”
Left alone, I sit with my waffles drenched in butter and syrup.
Maurice’s knee surgery went well, but he’ll be down for a few weeks.
As great as it’s been spending time with Mom and Rayne, I miss New York.
My studio apartment. The buzz of the city, the creativity.
I’m an artist. Graffiti and urban designs are my jam.
I also run an online T-shirt shop full of snark.
If you can read this, back the fuck up and Eat Me! I’m Vagitarian are my best sellers.
If only my father trusted Dice, I wouldn’t even be here. But Maurice judges him by his past and his player lifestyle.
The honeys have no complaints about me in this shirt. Or out of it.
Damn him for saying that. For making me picture him shirtless—all tatted and muscled.
I shove a forkful of waffle into my mouth, chewing hard. I’ve had five years to get over him. Five years of no contact. Dice is like vaping. Addictive. Dangerous. One hit and I’ll be hooked again. I quit both. I’m not going back.
I load the dishwasher and clean the kitchen spotless. No way Rayne finds fault this time. When I’m done, I double-check the back door. I forgot to lock it a few nights ago after putting out the trash, and she pitched a fit, like Bayside Harbor was some crime capital.
“Meow.”
The faint sound pulls my gaze to the porch. A charcoal-gray cat with huge evergreen eyes sits on the mat, staring up at me.
“Go home,” I mutter, shooing it away through the glass.
“Meow.”
“Go.” I flip off the light and head to the guest bedroom.
I step over a heap of laundry I meant to wash earlier but got distracted by something or other. I brush my teeth, shower, drop my towel on top of the pile, and get ready for bed.
But curious to see if the cat’s gone, I check the back door.
“Meow.”
Still there. Dammit. I don’t want this responsibility, but I fill up a bowl with water and set it down. The cat immediately starts lapping it up.
Probably hungry too. I cut up some leftover waffle and before I can prevent it, she struts right in through the narrow opening. A girl for sure, she’s got that diva energy.
“Uh-uh, you can’t stay,” I tell her as she nibbles the waffle out of my hand. “I’m not good with living things. A cactus died under my watch. Do you know how hard it is to kill a cactus?”
“Meow.”
I feed her small bits of waffle and try ushering her back outside. She looks up at me with pleading eyes. But I refuse to be moved. I’ve never liked cats, even if we do share similar traits—a preference for our own company and living by our own rules.
“You need to go.”
“Meow.” She nuzzles my foot.
Stupid cat. “Fine. One night. Then off to the shelter.” I scoop her up, grab a cushion from the living room sofa, toss a blanket over it, and place it beside my bed. Girlfriend curls right up, looking way too at home.
“Don’t get comfortable. I mean it.”
“Meow.”
I side-eye her, then lie in bed, scrolling the dating app on my phone.
If I’m going to be stuck in Bayside, my B.O.B.s will only hold me for so long before I start craving the real thing.
I love sex. The physical part. The hot and sweaty kind.
I don’t need—or want—the emotional strings.
I don’t want to adjust for anybody or count on anyone either. Casual works.
Tre’s profile pops up. He’s a Morris Chestnut knockoff, but still fine. Thirty-eight, works in construction. Says he’s good with his hands and looking for fun. I’m down for both. I hit Like and discover we’re a match and that he’s already sent me a message:
Hey, sweet thing. Would love to meet for drinks.
The winky face has gotta go, but I can overlook that based on the rest of the package.
Except I feel… nothing. No spark. No tingles.
Instead, my mind swings right back to Dice.
To how he’d caged me in at the office. He’s never done anything like that before.
And oh man, was I ever tempted to finally get a taste of him.
To rub my hands all over that wavy fade, suction-seal my body to his, and kiss those full, beautiful lips until we were both breathless.
When just the mere thought zings my coochie to life, I clench my thighs. How am I going to preserve my peace living in the same town with him again, working in the same place?
Only way is to limit my time at Docks, stay in the office when I’m there and work on my designs. No contact.
I shut my phone off with Tre still pending and glance over at the cat content on the makeshift bed.
Cute or not, she’s leaving tomorrow.