Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Lot
Tattooed. Pierced. Fat. RBF.
Mom opens the door, her face lighting up as she pulls me into a tight, squishy hug. I squirm a little, even though her hugs are like being wrapped up in a warm blanket. She smells like the lilac perfume she saves for special occasions.
“My lovebug,” she says like I’m still five. “Let me fix you some lunch.”
“I’m good, Mom. But I’ll take some sweet tea if you’ve got any.”
“You know I always keep a pitcher for you and your daddy.”
“Your hair looks pretty,” I say, taking in the freshly cut bob—flat-ironed sleek, with new caramel streaks framing a face that looks a lot like mine.
Except the eyes. Hers are a soft walnut-brown.
Mine are hazel, like Grandpa Webber’s. “The chin length and color are so good on you.” It complements her bronze skin.
“Thanks, honey.” She fluffs the ends, pleased. “Needed a change.”
“Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine.”
I study her. Fifty-eight. Petite and compact. Dressed in sage scrubs. While I was growing up, she was a stay-at-home mom. Now she works mornings at the dental office. Belinda Webber is all heart. Sweet in a way I didn’t inherit. I always thought she deserved better than Maurice.
“Where’s General Patton?” I ask.
“Lot,” she scolds gently, “your father just had a scope and a replacement. Try to go easy on him.”
“I promise not to fire first.”
She sighs and pours two glasses of tea, handing them to me like I need a peace offering.
The house has that lived-in, homey feel.
The kind that makes you expect chocolate chip cookies to be cooling on the counter, the scent wafting through the air.
But my father’s too traditional to bake and my mom can’t, though she gave it her all.
I used to dread potluck days at school when she’d send me off with those hard disks passed off as ginger snaps.
They could’ve snapped a tooth, all right. I smile inside at the memory.
Where Mom is hugs, warmth, and positivity, my father is all discipline, rules, and critique. Delivered under the banner of “this is for your own good.” When really, it’s just his assholery on display. They’re the epitome of opposites attract.
When Rayne lost her mother at a young age, mine stepped in, caring for her and Uncle Mo.
That’s just how Mom is. It was the same with Dice.
We never knew the full extent of what was happening next door.
I still don’t, because Dice never talked about it.
But we all knew Jasinder Jones had a reputation for lying and deceiving.
She was a scammer who would swipe your wallet while smiling in your face.
I was there the day the cops took her away in handcuffs when Dice was sixteen.
Mom never judged. She was the one who always told me Dice deserved kindness—even if my father disagreed.
I find Maurice in the den, leg elevated on his brown leather recliner, the outline of the bandage showing through his dress pants. Even post-op, the man doesn’t do casual. Neat afro, face clean-shaven. Button-down shirt, tweed cardigan, reading glasses low on his nose, spreadsheets across his lap.
He’s an accountant by trade. Still has a handful of clients he does tax returns for, but he always wanted to run a business.
When Docks was about to go under, he stepped in and bought the old watering hole.
If it weren’t for Dice and his ability to see opportunities where my father couldn’t, Docks 2. 0 might not have survived either.
“Hello, Charlotte,” he says, peering over his half-frame glasses.
“Maurice.”
His brow twitches. I told him years ago that I’d stop calling him by his first name when he respected my decision to go by Lot. Fifteen years later, we’re still in a standoff. I’ve conceded on other things—covering my midriff when I’m in his house—but I won’t compromise on my name.
“How’s the knee?” I ask, setting the tea down beside him on the table.
“Still attached. No thanks to that butcher of a surgeon.”
“You mean one of the best ortho specialists in Illinois?”
“Best? He stitched me up like bargain-bin fabric.”
I drop into the floral armchair across from him. “Glad to see you’re not being dramatic.”
“Hmph. Is my business still standing?”
“You know it is. You watch the numbers like a hawk. I’m wasting my time there. You’ve got capable people and I’ve got a business I need to get back to.”
“Making lewd T-shirts,” he grunts.
“It’s making art in a way that works for me.”
“You could’ve gone to any art school. Had your work in fine galleries. Why you chose to graffiti shirts and buildings is beyond me.”
“Graffiti is life. It’s urban. It speaks. I did a mural in New York celebrating Black pride. That’s my gallery.”
“In a filthy city where street people urinate against your so-called art.”
I sip the iced tea. Nice and cold. Doesn’t do much to cool my temper. But this old battle isn’t worth fighting anymore.
“What was the inventory order?” he asks, flipping through the printouts. “I didn’t see it.”
“I don’t know. Dice signed off on it.”
“What?” He whips off his glasses with an outraged glare. “I’m gone a week and he pulls this stunt. Inserting himself where he has no place. I told you, in no uncertain terms, I expected you to oversee everything. You. Not him.”
“I’m the one who told him he could.”
“You had no right to do that.”
I bite back the retort on the tip of my tongue. “He knows the inventory. Dice knows the business.”
“How would you know what he knows or doesn’t know?”
“It’s obvious. Everyone sees it but you.”
“He’s not to sign off on anything else, you understand me? I’m not having him rob me blind.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Do I appear to be joking, Charlotte? I hired him because you and your mother badgered me into it. I never understood the soft spot you both had for that boy.”
While my feelings for Dice are… complicated, I still believe in fairness. “It paid off. He knows how to draw in the people, not just the locals. That’s money in your pocket.”
“And I pay him accordingly. I don’t owe him anything more.”
“You should have put him in charge. Not me. He deserves more responsibility. Not to mention your trust.”
“Dyson Jones will never have either.” He slices the air with his hand like it’s final.
“Because of his mother?”
“I’m not getting into that with you. You know how I feel.”
“It’s not his fault.”
“It wasn’t his fault when he stole from my car.”
“Jesus, Maurice. He was twelve,” I argue. “He took two dollars for a comic book. He felt awful afterward.”
“Awful that he got caught.”
“He didn’t have anyone to show him. He had to raise himself.”
“Raised himself to be a manwhore.”
I push to my feet. I just can’t with him. “I’m leaving before this gets ugly. But for the record, you’re unfair and ignorant.”
“And you’re a bleeding heart.”
“At least I have one.”
My mom’s waiting in the hallway, concern etched in every delicate line of her face.
“Don’t worry about it, Mom. It’s just our usual.”
“I was hoping your coming home would smooth some of the waters. He missed you.”
I don’t believe that for a second. She came to visit me with Rayne several times; he refused to, calling New York a cesspool. He says the same about every big city, never stepping foot outside his narrow little bubble. But seeing the good in people is my mom’s thing—even when it’s misplaced.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I promise, opening the front door. “You, Rayne, and I can meet up for dinner or brunch on Sunday.”
“I’d love time with both my girls.”
“Let me talk to Rayne and we’ll make it happen.” I kiss her cheek. “Love you, Ma.”
“Love you too, sweet girl.”
The walk back to Rayne’s is all tight shoulders and fuming breaths.
I wind through the neighborhood, wanting to scream.
When I open the door, Queenie’s bell jingles as her head lifts, eyeing me with disdain through the bars of the carrier.
I hated to lock her up but the one time I left her alone she tore up two of Rayne’s chenille pillows.
I let her out and she snubs me until I get back in her good graces with a treat. Then she’s all fake again, brushing against my ankles like we’re friends.
I strip off my jeans and long sweater, shedding the camouflage I wore for that overbearing man. I toss them on the floor, ignoring the laundry that still needs doing, and stand in my underwear and bra, catching my reflection in the dresser mirror.
This is me. Tattooed. Pierced. Fat. Resting bitch face.
I try smiling at my reflection. Feels weird.
Forced. Not me. Maurice wanted something else in a daughter.
Someone less willful, less opinionated. More dainty and compliant.
A demure Charlotte who painted lovely portraits and landscapes.
Not street art or graphic tees. But I’m not changing for anyone, least of all for him.
I pull on shorts and a sports bra. In the living room, I cue up a boxing routine on YouTube.
It won’t be as intense as the workouts I get at the boxing club I joined in New York.
I like the physical aggression of going full force with a speed bag.
It helps me de-stress and stay active, and Blaire, one of the trainers, says I’ve got a solid left hook.
Queenie hops up on the arm of the sofa, watching me kick and punch the air. It feels good to move. To sweat. To stop thinking. After the forty-minute class, I shower and wake my iPad. Queenie curls up beside me on the bed.
“Uh-uh, girl, this is not a thing.”
“Meow.”
I open the dating app and scroll to the message I ignored last night. Tre had texted again.
You have a wicked body. Bet you could wreck me with it.
Not the winky face again. I roll my eyes. But this is exactly what I need right now. Someone I have zero chance of catching feelings for. I don’t know what Dice was up to with all that Mr. Nice Guy crap, but I wasn’t going to let it weaken me.
I tap out a reply that’s sure to get Tre’s attention:
I promise not to wreck you for good. Just put a little hurting on you.
You sound like my kinda woman. Up for that drink tonight?
I can’t with the emojis. But we make plans to meet at ten. Then feeling the low hum of anticipation that I’ll be getting some action—a palate cleanser from Dice—I hit the closet to pick something hot to wear. Something to wreck Tre’s world.