Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Lot
Your Prince Charming impression needs work.
The wink isn’t only an emoji. Tre Simmons uses it in person at the end of every sentence.
“Damn, mama, you so fine.” Wink.
He can’t think that’s cute. But he’s good-looking, with broad shoulders that would fit my thighs just right. I wasn’t about to let my favorite thong from Love, Vera and this dress go to waste.
“Let’s dance,” I’d said to stop that eye from closing every hot minute.
Now, we’re on the dance floor. The place is hopping, wall-to-wall people.
Dice is at the helm, driving this party like he owns the night.
A living, breathing testament to his success.
He looks good up there in the booth. Red and black tiger print shirt, open to mid-chest, silver chains glinting around his neck, thick bling weighing down his wrist. Bold and flashy, setting the mood.
His tinted sunglasses hide his eyes, and yet somehow, I feel them on me.
Felt them the instant I stepped into Docks.
I suggested Tre meet me here for drinks because it’s public and close to home. I’ve dated enough Tinder boys to know an exit plan is essential. But aside from the annoying wink, he isn’t a weirdo, and I have no plans to run.
Dice blends “These Are the Breaks” with “Rapper’s Delight,” and the room goes wild.
Bass thumping. Booties twerking—including mine—and Tre is right behind me to catch it.
These are my jams. Songs I heard dozens of times at Dice’s place, hanging out while he tested beats, asked my opinion, blended and reworked them, figuring out what slapped and what didn’t.
I loved those nights. Even if I spent most of them wanting more.
“You can dance, mamasita,” Tre says in my ear. His breath moist, arm around my waist, hips grinding against my backside.
Normally, a stranger touching me like this would get a black eye, but I’m feeling myself tonight, and I don’t care. I’m just out for a good time.
Dice announces a break and switches to a prerecorded mix that still hits. I watch him leave the booth, then lose track of where he’s gone… until I see him weaving through the crowd, making a beeline straight to me.
“You’re the DJ,” Tre says, intercepting him. “Your shit is fly, bruh.”
Dice spares him a clipped nod. “Thanks. I need a minute with my cuz here.”
His cuz. I could smack him.
“Next drink’s on the house,” Dice tosses out like some kind of consolation prize. Then he wraps his hand around my upper arm and tugs me through the crowd toward the staff-only hallway that leads to my father’s office.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I shake him off, jerking free. “I told you not to manhandle me.”
“I wasn’t manhandling you. I was escorting you here.”
“Well, your Prince Charming impression needs work.”
“Are you fucking him?”
I blink. Stunned. “Excuse me?”
The intensity of his gaze—dark and sharp—even behind the brown tint of his glasses, pins me in place. It’s like I’m trapped in the center of his focus.
“Are you?” he presses, teeth clenched.
“How is that any of your business?”
“Answer the question.”
“If I have an itch, it’s no concern of yours who scratches it.”
“I’m making it my concern.”
“I’m a big girl, Dyson. I can take care of myself. I don’t need you acting like some big brother or cuz, as you put it.”
“I’m not tryna be either.” He brings a force of heat as he steps closer, sucking the oxygen from my lungs. “If you need someone to scratch that itch, let it be me.”
So shocked I’m dizzy, I sway a little. He places a hand at my waist to steady me, firm and warm through the thin layer of my dress.
I know I should move it, but I like it there too much. Still, confusion rules.
“Have you been drinking?” I ask.
“No.”
“Had a bad fall? On your head, maybe?”
“Lot, I’m stone-cold sober and not at all concussed.”
“Then why are you saying shit you don’t mean?”
“I haven’t said anything I don’t mean.”
“Then make it clear so I know I’m not misreading.”
“I want to fuck you. Is that clear enough?”
My heart pounds like horses at a stampede and my coochie pulses with wet joy. Dice Jones just said he wants to fuck me. Yes! Yes! And yes! my impulsive brain screams. But the rational part slows me down.
“Why?” I ask. “You’ve never wanted me before.”
“You’re wrong. I’ve wanted you since you were eighteen. Wouldn’t allow those thoughts before then.”
Could that be true? Had I not seen the signs, or had he hidden them? I want to believe it, but… “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“You were too important. Too special. I didn’t want to ruin our vibe with sex.”
“And now you do?” I persist, my skeptical brain warring with my eager body.
“Situation’s different now. Vibe’s different. You’re going back to New York.”
His words ram into me like a punch. I should’ve known better than to let myself indulge, even for a second, in some fantasy where Dice truly wanted me. My anger doesn’t creep in, it rolls in hot and fast.
I knock his hand away. “So, because I’m not important or special anymore and I’ll be gone soon, you think I should just spread my legs for you? Let you use me for a few weeks without any care or consequence?”
“Jesus, Lot. That’s not it. That’s not what I—”
“Yeah, right. I know you. I know how you make women feel good, then discard them like day-old garbage.”
“Hold up—”
“Save it. I should never have given you the time of day.”
“Lot—”
“You know what, Dyson? You want someone to fuck? Go fuck yourself.”
If I had a drink to toss in his face, I would. But all I have are my middle fingers and I use them with great emphasis before I storm down the hall.
Fuming, I find Tre, make my excuses, and grab my coat. My B.O.B. would have to do the job tonight. It won’t be anything close to banging the hell out of Dice, but it’s a whole lot safer for my heart and self-worth.
“He said what?” Rayne sits curled up on one end of the sofa in her bonnet and robe, me on the other end still in my dress.
“You heard me.”
“I’m shook. Like earthquake shook.”
“So was I. The nerve of that man.” I’ve wanted him to want me for so long—but not like that.
“He made it clear the timing was right now because there are no feelings involved and I’ll be gone soon.
Just another honey. Another notch on his bedpost. Another kill to add to his body count. That ain’t gonna be me.”
“Damn right. You’re nobody’s convenience. Nobody’s drive-through. If he wants you, he better come correct and offer more than some Big Mac to go.”
“Mm-hmm.” I nod, still reeling.
“I can’t believe Dice would be such an asshole. I know he’s a player, but I always saw him as a good guy.”
“Like I said before, you might not know him as well as you think.”
“I guess not. But damn, that’s disappointing. Did he even try to explain what he meant?”
“What’s there to explain? He’s a walking red flag. Like, flashing neon red. I’m not fucking with that, Rayne. He said what he said, and I wasn’t gonna give him the chance to smooth out the edges with some bullshit.”
She shakes her head, still in disbelief.
Dice might fool everybody else with his big-hearted player rep, but there was no heart in what he said.
It’s not like I was expecting a relationship or for him to pledge his undying love—but his words were calculated.
He reacted out of jealousy and ego, trying to one-up Tre and entertain himself with a new toy.
Typical toxic male behavior. And I’m not here for it.
“So what happened to Mr. Winky?” Rayne asks.
“I told him something came up.”
“You gonna see him again?”
“Probably not. I’m just going to do my time at Docks. Be here for Mom, and step as soon as I can. Three weeks, tops. After that, I’m not sticking around to guard Maurice’s liquor or whatever. I have my own life.”
“What about Queenie?”
“I’m sure they’ll find her a home by then.”
“She looks at home to me,” she says of the cat cozied up against my side.
“I’m not keeping her.”
“Okay.”
I cut my eyes at her.
“What? I said OKAY.”
“Hmph. I told Mom I’d ask if you could do brunch or dinner with us on Sunday.”
“I can’t do brunch. I’ve got a meeting with a potential campaign advisor.”
“You’re really going for it?”
“I think so. I want to find out more of what it entails, but I can already feel myself invested.”
“Look at you, Ms. Mayor. I can see you up on the podium in your blue suit, winning everyone over.”
“From your lips…”
“I have faith in you, cuz.”
The cuz trips my brain straight back to Dice. I clench and unclench my fists. “What about dinner, then?”
“It’s Sophia’s going-away party.”
“Shoot. C told me about it last week, but I forgot.”
“He sent a text yesterday.”
“I haven’t checked.”
“Girl! How do you run a business?”
“I figure stuff out when I need to and get it done.”
“You should have a system.”
“Don’t try to organize me. This works.”
“Running out of gas and drawers says otherwise.”
“I’m doing a wash tomorrow,” I grumble.
“Been saying that for days.”
“Whatever. Did you get Soph a gift?”
“Yep. The day C mentioned it. A nice leather planner. Teal with butterflies.”
“That sounds perfect for her.” C’s little sister was moving to Chicago to work in advertising and live with her former college roommate. After what Sophia just went through, it shows her resilience—and how much Lexie has helped chill out her overprotective brother.
“I need to get her something too,” I say, adding a note in my phone and setting an alarm. That’s a system.
“Did Dice text you?” Rayne asks.
“Dunno. He’s still blocked.”
“Oh, right. So what now?”
“Nothing.” Honestly, I’m almost grateful for his stupid behavior tonight. I was worried about backsliding. Now I hate him all over again.