Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dice
Comfort food and a movie.
The sun’s pouring through the blinds when I crack an eye open.
Dust floats in the light, slow and lazy.
Lot’s tangled in the sheets, face smushed into the pillow, silk bonnet slipping off her head, one bare leg kicked free from the covers.
Even in sleep, she looks like trouble. Beautiful, badass trouble.
I watch her while the night before plays in high-def across my mind.
Every erotic detail. The public toy play.
Her coming in my booth while the crowd partied around us.
Fucking each other senseless in the stockroom.
The way she moaned my name like a prayer.
The way she trembled against me. The way she said, I’m yours.
Yeah. That part.
Tell me you’re mine.
Say it.
Say you’re mine.
That came right outta my mouth. Sure, I’ve said things in the heat of the moment. Dirty talk. But asking a woman to say she’s mine? That’s some next-level shit I’ve never said before. Never even thought to say it.
Lot was already sidestepping feelings before she even pulled her skirt back down, hurrying from the room like she wanted to take her own words back.
Can’t say I like how that sat. But we both acted like those claims didn’t mean a thing, spinning tracks till three, bouncing off each other’s energy like we used to.
Afterward, we dragged ourselves home with Queenie in tow, showered and crashed.
Now I can’t stop the words from circling.
I slip out of bed to get my head together before Lot wakes up.
After using the bathroom and pulling on sweats, I shuffle into the kitchen.
I fill Queenie’s bowls, and the sound draws her out of hiding.
She eyes me like I’m trespassing, then slinks over to inspect the goods.
She sniffs and lets out a sharp, disgruntled meow, batting the bowl in offense.
Okay, Your Royal Highness. I scramble an egg, nuke it, and let it cool before adding it to her dish. She inches forward, sniffs again, and purrs this time. She even lets me rub behind her ears before diving in.
“Was it good?” I ask when she’s done, trying to pet her again.
She flicks that fuck-you tail and struts away.
Go on, Queenie, with your fake self.
I pop in a coffee pod just as my phone lights up on the counter. Unknown number.
Curious, I answer. “Hello?”
“Um… is this… uh… Dyson Jones?”
Male. Nervous.
“Who’s asking?”
A beat of silence. Then—click.
The hell?
I stare at the screen like it’s gonna explain itself.
There was just something about the hesitation in his voice that won’t leave me alone.
I call back. It rings and rings. No voicemail.
Just static air and unanswered questions.
I hate shit I can’t solve right away. If it can’t be fixed, I bury it.
No dwelling, that’s my rule. Yet twenty minutes later, my mind’s still flipping between that damn call and the say you’re mine from last night.
At noon, Lot stomps into the kitchen with fire in her eyes, Queenie trailing her like a furry shadow. Her oversized T-shirt hangs off one shoulder, phone gripped in her hand like it insulted her mama.
“You will not believe what these shelter people wrote about Queenie,” she snaps, scrolling furiously. “Listen to this mess.”
I lift an eyebrow, not mad at the view, but still swimming in my thoughts.
“Quote,” she begins, dramatic as hell. “‘Meet Queenie. Gray domestic shorthair. Two years old. Nine pounds of pure royalty. This sassy feline is a pint-sized monarch. She demands treats on schedule, dishes out affection on her own terms, and will throw shade if left alone. Not for the faint of heart. Queenie requires a patient home ready to serve a true queen of the castle.’”
She lowers the phone. “I’m about to go off on these people. They made her sound like a high-maintenance diva with attachment issues.”
I bark out a laugh. “Tell me they’re lying.”
“That’s not the point,” she says, aiming the phone at me. “I told them some things to help find the right home… but this… who’s going to adopt her after reading it?”
“You sure you want her adopted?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“Hmm?”
“That hmm is annoying as shit.” She cuts her eyes at me.
“Before you go off on anybody, take a beat. I’ll make you coffee.”
She plops onto the stool and looks down at Queenie, who’s putting on her sweet-and-innocent act. “See? She’s not that bad. You could adopt her.”
“That’s not happening,” I say, grabbing the cream from the fridge.
“Why not? She’s used to you now. She likes your scrambled eggs.”
“She tolerates me because you’re here. Like it or not, Queenie’s claimed you. Put her with anybody else and she’s gonna be a holy terror. Guaranteed.”
“Well, she came from somewhere,” she argues.
“And notice no one’s come looking for her. No missing cat flyers. No desperate posters to find her. No one can deal with that diva but you.”
“Ssskt.”
I hand her the mug. “Why can’t you keep her?”
“I live in New York.”
“So? She’s got all her shots, right? Just needs a plane ticket.”
“Boy, you trippin’. That’s crazy. I don’t like cats.”
“Then give her to the shelter. Let it be their problem.”
“She can’t be in that environment.”
“You ain’t slick, Lot. You may not like cats, but you’ve fallen for Queenie. Might as well stop fighting it.”
She narrows her eyes.
“You don’t have to decide right now,” I add, taking off the pressure. “Just let it sit a while.”
“Nothing to sit with.” She pouts and starts drumming the counter with her fingers, thinking hard while pretending not to.
“This calls for comfort food and a movie,” I announce. That was always the cure when she was having a bad day or pissed after a fight with her father.
“Mac and cheese?” She perks up.
“I thought you were too chefy now for the boxed stuff.”
“This ain’t Thanksgiving, Jones. I can slum it with you today.”
I pop the cabinet open and grab the blue box off the shelf. “This right here is powdered gold.”
She laughs and sets a pot of water to boil. We move around the kitchen with a natural ease. She dumps the noodles in, and when they’re ready, I work the cheese dust magic with milk and butter.
“What movie?” I ask, filling two bowls.
Lot raises an eyebrow. “You really gotta ask?”
Five minutes later, we’re on the couch—bowls in our laps, beers on the table, feet up, Pulp Fiction cued up like it’s 2015 and we’re back in my old apartment. She sinks into the cushions and spoons cheesy mac into her mouth with a moan that’s low-key orgasmic.
“Mmm. This never gets old.”
I clink my bottle to hers, and we turn our attention to the screen. That whacked comment from last night and the strange call this morning still linger, but Lot’s presence cuts through the noise.
After we finish eating, Queenie curls up on her lap and Lot strokes her fur, like a real cat hater. The woman is delusional about her feelings.
Maybe we both are.
I sling an arm around her shoulders, keeping it chill. She doesn’t pull away, even as Queenie snarls at me.
“Hush, girl,” Lot mutters. “That’s why people be writing shit about you.”
Then, right on cue, during the dinner scene, we both say, “I’m a mushroom-cloud-layin’ motherfucker,” and burst out laughing.
We’ve watched this movie a hundred times. Quoted every line. But it feels different now. Not just nostalgia, but old bleeding into something new.
Whatever Lot and I are, it’s this.
Familiarity. Closeness. Connection.
Feels good.
Don’t need to make it about anything else.