Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Lot
I thought she was the tamer one.
“You better not fall asleep on me again,” he whispers against my ear.
I mumble a short laugh, even though my chest is too tight for it. The aftershocks have since settled, but we’re still joined. Like if we let go, something might come apart.
Keep it cool.
Keep it light.
“I’m too hungry to sleep.”
“Wore you out last night,” he murmurs with cocky male satisfaction. “Worked up your appetite this time. I’m batting a thousand, Web.”
I give him a playful shove. “Get up. You’re crushing me.”
Banter. Our neutral ground. The safe place we know how to navigate.
Before rising, he presses a kiss to each of my breasts, then slips out of me with a groan. “You’re addictive. But I’ll feed you before round two.”
“Who says you’re getting round two?”
He just grins like an unrepentant sinner and pulls me to my feet. I give him a once-over, taking in his muscular bare chest, his latex-clad junk soft now but still commanding attention.
I drag my gaze away from the powerful force of him, scoop up my clothes and vibrator, and slip into the bathroom down the hall. I turn on the tap, take care of business, then wash my hands.
My reflection above the sink stares back at me. My locs are dislodged from my top knot in a messy disarray, lips puffy, eyes a little glassy, and there are mild beard burns around my mouth and breasts. It’s the image of a woman who was just thoroughly fucked and loved every minute of it.
Ohmygawd! I just had sex with Dyson Jones. Rode him like a prized steed. Full country girl era: hat, chaps, and Beyonce’s “Texas Hold ’Em” blasting in my head. And damn if I can’t wait to do it again.
“Lot?” He raps on the door.
I pull back on my pajama set. He must have cleaned up in the powder room as when I open the door he’s changed into sweatpants and a tank top. Three legs of the spider tattoo peek out at the side, the match to my web. Something that will always be ours.
I look up into his face, and for a second, I see the boy I once fell for—the years rolling back to all the memories we share, all the feelings I had.
His gaze lingers on mine too, then he blinks it away. Whatever it was.
“Only thing close by is pizza delivery at this hour,” he says. “Or if you don’t mind waiting, we could order from downtown. Couple of new spots have opened.”
“Orrr… you could let me show you how to cook. You know, like a functioning adult.”
“You seemed to think I was pretty functional when you were coming all over me.”
I cut my eyes at him. “Anyway, I picked up a few foolproof things. Actual groceries. Your fridge was tragic.” Though I did notice the cream he bought for my coffee.
“You got me groceries?” His brows draw together in surprise, then his expression softens. “Thanks, Web. You didn’t have to do that.”
“No big whoop. Just a few staples. Oh, and a nonstick pan. You literally owned one pot.”
“For mac and cheese.”
“Well, that’s not on tonight’s menu. I’m in the mood for pancakes. Come on.” I grab his wrist, knowing he likes them too, and drag him to the kitchen.
Queenie is perched on top of the fridge like a judge in a high court. After what she witnessed this afternoon and tonight, she probably thinks I’m a ho. But I’m not doing the walk of shame. Girlfriend is spayed. She has no idea about good dick.
I set a treat down on the floor. She leaps gracefully to her feet and eats the pellet, then rubs against my ankles, purring. Her angelic act. But the demon comes out when Dice goes near her. She snarls and hisses, striking lightning fast.
“Jesus.” He jerks back. “And I thought she was the tamer one.”
“You wanna tame me, Dice?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, wildcat. I love you biting and scratching.”
I feel my face tighten with a frown. That word again—love. Too easy on his tongue. “C, I met this fly honey. I’m in love, bro.” Then a week later, same line, different honey.
Dice didn’t get much love growing up, if any. Maybe that’s why he treats the word as a throwaway. But to me, it’s sacred. I’ve only ever said it to my mother, Rayne, and Uncle Mo. Not even to Dice back then. And now…
The love I have for him is the caring kind. But the deeper kind? I wouldn’t let myself go there again. Even if my heart tries.
“This is how it’s done,” I say, grabbing the ingredients and slapping the box of pancake mix onto the counter. “Step one: pour some of this into the bowl. That’s your job.”
Dice raises an eyebrow. “So, I get to dump powder into a bowl.”
“Don’t mock the process.” I point a spoon at him. “Fluffy pancakes don’t just happen.”
“What’s wrong with the frozen kind? Pop ’em in the toaster. Done. Like we used to.” His eyes alight with the memory.
I remember too. The hours we spent sprawled on his old futon, eating nuked eggs, frozen pancakes, ramen, or boxed mac and cheese… music bumping or watching one of our favorite movies. Pulp Fiction. We’d preempt the lines we knew by heart and laugh in the same places every time.
“Frozen was good,” I agree. “But nothing wrong with a little evolution.”
“So now I’m a Neanderthal?”
“Take it any way you like,” I say with saccharin sweetness.
He kisses his teeth. “How much of this do I pour?”
“I just eye it.”
“I’m pretty sure it has directions,” he says, reading the back of the box.
“Whatever. Just pour. We’ll adjust as needed.”
He dumps in a generous amount.
“Now the eggs.” I nudge two toward him. “And don’t get any shells in it.”
“Please. I know how to handle an egg.” He cracks them in two clean breaks and smirks. Smug as hell.
But it’s kinda hot. Not that I’d let him know that. I pour in the milk. Too much, so I add more mix, then hand him the spoon. “Stir until it looks like a swamp but in a good way.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“You will.”
When it’s mixed, I add vanilla extract and melted butter. “The box doesn’t call for this, but it makes all the difference.”
I work to get out the remaining lumps. Batter splashes. Some hits the stove. Some lands on the counter.
He laughs. “Looks like wrecking a man isn’t your only talent.”
“Boy, be quiet.” I ladle the batter onto the heated pan, dripping a little down the side. Rayne would be clutching her chest at this point, but Dice just watches with a grin and an amused head shake.
I show him how to swirl the batter to get a circle. The first one comes out looking more abstract than round. Dice wisely keeps his mouth shut. When it’s time to flip, I hand him the spatula.
“Gentle but quick,” I say.
He glances at me sideways. “Sounds erotic.”
“Just flip it.”
His first attempt folds like an omelette. The second and third are slightly better but still weirdly shaped. Our efforts continue between laughter and heated chemistry.
When we’re done, I slap his hand in a high five. “Good job.”
“I need a gold star or just one of these.” He dips me for a dramatic kiss, and when he lets me back up for air, I’m lightheaded from more than just the sudden drop.
We bring the syrup, juice, and lopsided stack to the table.
He waits for me to take the first bite, then digs in. “These are good.”
“Better than frozen, right?”
“Yeah,” he admits, chewing thoughtfully. “There’s something to be said about making it yourself.”
“You’ll cook again?”
“With you? Yeah. Not gonna lie. On my own, I doubt it.”
“I’ll convert you yet.”
“You could just stick around.”
“That’s not happening. I miss my people here, but I love New York. Collabing with other artists, the energy, the opportunities.”
“I get it. You light up when you talk about it.” He stares at me in earnest. “I’m really proud of you, Lot. Rayne showed me the Black Pride piece you did. Incredible.”
“Thanks. I’m working on an album cover for a new hip-hop artist out of Jersey. Being in New York opened that door for me. So many doors.”
He nods, quiet.
I don’t know what keeps him in Bayside. Other than Chaz, maybe.
He works for a man who’ll never give him the recognition he deserves.
His parties could be ten times bigger in a city like New York.
We talked about this a million times before I left, and he never gave me a real answer.
He’s so good, so talented, but as much as I want to push him again, I won’t. It’s not my place.
Queenie breaks the tension when Dice lowers his hand to her with a piece of pancake and she turns up her nose.
“See? She prefers my nuked eggs.”
“Traitor,” I mutter.
After we eat, we tackle the disaster in the kitchen. There’s even batter on the cabinets and a dusting of pancake powder on the floor. But the cleanup goes fast with the two of us.
Dice hangs up the towel on the oven door and nods toward the living room. “You ready?”
“No, I need the food to settle first. Sex and a full stomach don’t mix.”
“I meant reintroducing you to the turntables,” he says wryly. “I do think about other things besides sex.”
“You do?”
“On occasion.” He smacks my ass with just enough oomph to make it sting.
In the living room, he flips through his records, fingers moving reverently through his collection.
“Remember this?” he asks, pulling out a well cared for but worn sleeve.
“The SOS Band,” I say, traveling back to the mid-eighties R&B we used to sing and dance to. “Pure gold.”
He nods, smiling. He pairs “Take Your Time” with “Outstanding” by the Gap Band, placing both onto the turntables, then motions me in front of the decks.
My hands hover, hesitant over the controls.
Dice moves behind me. Close. His body radiates heat, his chest brushing against my back.
“Relax,” he says, low and encouraging. “You know how to do this. It’s muscle memory.”
His hands reach around mine, fingertips to fingertips, guiding. He reminds me how to cue the track. Time the beat. Match the tempo.
“Right here,” he murmurs, breath grazing my neck. “Let it spin.”
The record glides beneath our hands for a moment before we release it. The bass thumps, heavy through the speakers. Through the floor. Through us.
“You still got it,” he whispers.
My breath catches in my throat. I’m trying to keep emotional distance, but all the memories we share slip under my skin and the present presses in just as close.