Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Dice
Of course it’s her out in the middle of the road.
“Whaddup, Lex?” I ask, stepping to the counter of the Acoustic Café. “My boy still treating you right?”
“Always.” She smiles, her dark-blue eyes sparkling behind her glasses. “How are you?”
“Can’t complain.”
“Hmm.” She cocks her head. “Why don’t I believe you?”
Because I’m lying. Woke up with blue balls and in a foul mood, which pretty much sums up my life in the days since Lot’s been at Docks. I could’ve gone home with Delaney, but I made it a rule never to screw the regulars or anyone close to home. That just gets messy.
The flirty brunette from Chicago who slipped me her number would’ve been a sure thing. I wanted to—if only to shut my brain up—but didn’t. I just pocketed the napkin with a wink and a smile.
And for what? So I could go home alone with Lot’s scent still in my head and stare at the ceiling like a simp with a hard-on. But I’d be damned if I was gonna jerk off to thoughts of her.
Hell no. That’s the last time I let Lot throw me off my game.
I need coffee. Maybe a lobotomy.
“I’m good,” I insist. “Black Eye to-go.”
Lexie scrunches up her nose in distaste. “I don’t know how you and Chaz drink that.”
With two shots of espresso added to a cup of black coffee, it’s like an injection of caffeine straight into the veins. “It’s an acquired taste,” I say as she fills a paper cup.
“What’s shaking, my brother?” Chaz Delgado, owner and singer-songwriter extraordinaire, finishes serving a customer and comes over. We exchange the handshake we made back in the day. Palm slap, fist bump, and a sprinkle of bro sauce.
If Lot was the first person I trusted, C was the second. We met when he moved here with his mom and sister. Seventh graders bonding over comic books, music, and Marvel movies.
“Better not be trying to steal my woman,” he jokes, teasing me about my player rep.
“Can’t blame a man for trying.”
Grinning his dimpled smile, he slides an arm around her.
She’s been a great addition to his life.
Long-term ain’t my thing. Never saw that kind of love growing up.
It’s not part of my DNA. Wouldn’t even know how to do it.
But I’ve never seen my ride-or-die happier.
He’s been through a lot—they both have—and they deserve this.
“You and Lot figuring things out?” he asks, looking me over.
“Nothing to figure out. She’s there, I’m there. That’s it.”
“You haven’t tried talking to her?”
“Yeah, I tried.” Maybe I could’ve finessed it better, but dammit, she was like a wildcat—claws out, hissing and spitting. “But you know Lot. Gave me nothing but attitude.”
“I don’t know her that well,” Lexie interjects, handing me my coffee. “But if you want a woman’s take, I think she’s hurting.”
“I didn’t do anything to hurt her,” I say in my staunch defense.
I’ve run through our last conversation before New York dozens of times over the years.
I wished her the best, even though I didn’t want her to go.
I kept that shit to myself. And she just left, never spoke to me again, and then had the audacity to say she didn’t owe me an explanation for her shitty behavior. What the fuck is up with that?
Now my feelings are riper than before. Rawer. But I have my self-respect.
“I’m not trying again. Next move is hers.”
C shakes his head. “Hanging on to anger and pride is dangerous, bro.”
“So is trying to get anywhere with Lot.” I reach for my wallet, and C stops me.
“On the house. Can’t take money from a man when he’s down.”
I’m not down, dammit. But to get my mood right, I change into insulated tights beneath nylon shorts, a snug Dri-FIT top, and wind-resistant jacket. After lacing up my runners, I tug on a beanie and head out for a jog.
An upbeat mix plays through my earbuds, spurring my pace. While the brisk breeze along the waterfront still clings to winter, the high noon sun melting the snow promises spring is just around the corner.
Bayside’s located two hours from Chicago, a tourist haven in the summers.
Stunning coastal views, water activities, and the town square with a quaint boardwalk, shops and eateries lining Main Street.
Booming nightlife at Docks Bar overlooking Lake Michigan with a weekend club vibe I bring on Fridays and Saturdays.
That’s where I thrive, spinning vinyl and mixing beats.
After an hour, I’m heading back through the neighborhood when I spot it. Maurice Webber’s black Audi R8. The same 2008 model Tony Stark drove in the first Iron Man movie. But Maurice is no Tony Stark, that’s for damn sure.
The car is stopped like it gave up mid-errand. I slow my pace, and as I get closer, I see an outline of a person through the slightly tinted windows. Maurice is still recovering, and Mrs. Webber drives a Buick, which leaves only one other person.
Lot.
Of course it’s her out in the middle of the road. No hazards blinking. Typical.
I should leave her fiery ass right here to fend for herself. But I don’t have it in me to just walk on by. Even mad, I still care too much. Plus, it might just give me an advantage, and I can use all the ammunition I can get when it comes to dealing with her.
Pocketing my beanie and earbuds, I stroll over to the car and knock on the driver’s side window.
There’s a moment of hesitation as if she’s deciding whether or not to open before the glass lowers a few inches.
Sunlight pours into the car, and I’m staring into the eyes of the woman I’ve missed like hell.
Her locs are piled on top of her head, several tumbling around her neck and shoulders. She blows out a breath, and the expression I know too well says she’s moments away from exploding. But too proud to ask for my help, she glares at me. “What do you want?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Car trouble, or just think you own the street?”
“It ran out of gas,” she says as if the car’s at fault.
“You do realize that gauge on the dashboard and flashing yellow light mean something, right?”
“I know that. I kept meaning to fill it up, but… well, I didn’t. So, you can run along.” She shoos me with her ringed fingers and black nails. “I can figure this out myself.”
“Meow.”
“Is that a cat?” I brace my hands on the roof of the car and lean in, catching another scent of her. Something sweeter today. The feline, perched on a pillow, stares back at me, unimpressed. “I thought you didn’t like cats.”
“I don’t,” she mutters. “Just showed up at the back door last night, but we’ve come to an understanding.”
“Which is what?”
“It’s temporary. The shelter will put up signs, and if no one claims her, they’ll find her a new home. I’m fostering in the meantime. Food and shelter, no attachment.”
“Meow.” The cat slides over and curls up on her lap.
“Someone didn’t get the memo.” I laugh. “What’s her name?”
“How would I know? She’s not mine.”
“Tell that to her.”
“Can you just—not?” she says, at the end of her rope.
“Okay.” I take pity on her plight. “Put on your hazard signal to be safe.”
“Oh. Right.” She presses the red arrow.
“Have you called anyone?”
“Phone’s dead.”
That was typical too.
“If you put the car into neutral, I can at least push you over to the curb. Then I’ll grab my wheels and fill up a container at the station.”
“Could you just call Rayne for me?”
“You want me to call Rayne at work when I’m right here?”
“Yes,” she deadpans.
“Why?”
“Rayne’s help will come with her annoyance. Yours comes with smugness. Of the two, I’d rather the first.”
“Well, Spiderweb, we don’t always get what we want.”
“Don’t call me that.”
The old nickname had popped out naturally, without thought. I started calling her that—later shortened to Web—when we were kids because of her last name and the way we met. “I can’t make any promises. Put the car in neutral.”
Not happy about her predicament, she moves the cat back to the pillow and begrudgingly shifts the gear, like she’s doing me the favor.
Lot’s a real piece of work. So why the hell am I still so damned drawn to her?