Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Dice
Hell No!
The bass is heavy, the lights are low, and the crowd at Docks is riding my rhythm like they’ve forgotten they’ve got bills, jobs, or responsibilities.
Funky Fridays is in full swing. I’m spinning house remixes of old-school jams—one hand on the mixer, the other raised in the air, timing the beat drop.
Bam. It hits and the floor erupts. Sweat, bodies, drinks sloshing.
This is my domain. I could never play an instrument like C, but I could build a set of beats and make them bounce.
Back in high school, I spent summers hauling trash, cleaning yards, and washing dishes.
Whatever I could to afford a mixer, turntables, and some vinyl.
A couple of months after I started working here, I talked to Maurice about turning this place into a weekend party zone.
He said he wouldn’t have people gyrating in his establishment like this was Footloose and he was the anti-dance police.
Why he ever wanted to run a bar was beyond me. The man put the “tight” in tight-ass.
But Lot pushed me to do it anyway. Her advice: don’t beg him for permission, show him the goods.
She and Rayne helped get the word out, and C, with his large following, posted it on his socials.
When the night came and the people turned out, Funky Fridays was born.
With a small cover charge and drinks flowing, Maurice made more money than he’d ever seen in one night.
Did he thank me or offer a cut? No. But the hypocrite didn’t stop me either.
I kept playing and the people kept coming. With its growing success, I added Sin & Soul Saturdays and gave him an ultimatum: pay me my due or I’m gone. He complied, hating me even more for it. I didn’t care. There was no love lost.
I knew what he thought of me. The bastard kid of a low-life con. I’d heard him say it. Heard him tell Lot she should stay away from me. Their relationship was already turbulent, but I wondered how much of that came from her standing by me all those years.
Damn. I hate thinking about the past. A mother who never wanted to be one and a deadbeat who bailed before I was born. I don’t even know his name. Never asked and she never said. Some things are better left unknown.
I refocus and grin at the women posted up near the booth, dancing extra hard, trying to get my attention.
A blonde with glitter on her chest gives me the look while sucking suggestively on her straw.
Another flashes me a smile and yells out for “something dirty.” I give it to her—a remix of Vanity’s “Nasty Girls” blended with Prince’s “Erotic City.” The combo is straight-up sexual fire.
I throw in a siren horn and blow the roof off. Benny, John, and Chelsea keep the drinks flowing, watching out for the overzealous guzzlers. Tiff and Lamont are working the floor.
Lot was a no-show. Not that I expected her. But a part of me had hoped. I wanted her to see what I’ve built since she’s been gone.
Here I am, thirty-four and still trying to impress her.
“Thanks,” I say when Lamont refills my water. I don’t drink on the job, or much outside of it either. I don’t like anything that impairs my self-control.
It’s past ten, and I’ve been playing over an hour when Lot walks in. I do a double take. Lips painted red wine like a Shiraz. I imagine how they would taste smeared against mine. Her locs are loose, her dress matches her lipstick. It bares her shoulders and—fucking hell—hardly covers her crotch.
I swallow spit. Lot is all soft curves with fat, lush thighs a man wouldn’t mind dying between.
I wonder what she smells like tonight. Something dark and lusty.
Keeping my desire under wraps is going to test every ounce of willpower I have.
If I thought a roll with another woman would satisfy my hunger, I would have done it by now.
But it’d be like craving steak and being served chicken.
I like chicken just fine, but it’s not going to do it for me like a big, juicy sirloin.
Lot looks over and damn, I want a bite. My hand lifts before I even realize it, ready to wave like a fool. But it’s not me she’s looking at. It’s another man.
An ebony brother. Five-ten, fade with twists on top, leather jacket, jeans. He leans in, his hand lingering at her waist like he’s got a right to.
My stomach clenches and my heart claws its way into my throat. That old familiar bastard takes hold—jealousy. Hot, intense, irrational. It never mattered who she was with, I hated them all. Hated the way they didn’t know her like I did and still got the pieces of her I wanted for myself.
Why’d she bring him here? Was it on purpose? To get a rise out of me? Points for her because she sure as hell has. My temple throbs, the muscles ticking like a bomb about to blow. I tear my eyes away from them, from her, to focus back on the crowd and cue up the next track.
“When I Hear Music” fills the room, strobe lights flashing. I’m trying not to think about her, about what they’re doing, talking about. Did she let out that same rare, gut-punching laugh with him? Was he holding her hand, touching her arm? All this shit is playing in my head when I see them again.
On the dance floor.
Grinding.
Him pressed tight against her ass, her rubbing on his dick like it’s her favorite hobby.
Hell no! A chill runs down my spine.
I’m about to cockblock this motherfucker.