Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Lot
You might not like the answers.
Iwiggle into my body-con dress. A coffee-brown mini with long sleeves, cut off one shoulder.
Next I pull on my over-the-knee boots, leaving my legs bare like an exclusive invitation for Dice.
My skin’s still warm from his hands, and my head’s a little hazy from everything he did…
and didn’t do. He touched me like he was relearning the map. Then he stopped.
Intentionally leaving me panting and wanting more. So Dice.
I finish pinning some of my locs to the side when he emerges from the shower.
He’s the definition of a chick magnet. Beard trimmed.
Insanely handsome. Smelling neck-sucking good.
There’s no help for the way my body reacts.
It’s visceral, instinctive, which only makes it harder to rein in my rioting emotions.
We exchange heated gazes. Mine on his broad chest, hard abs, black Calvins cradling his big cock. Just the thought of how he feels inside me, has me wanting to skip dinner and go straight for dessert.
He whistles low. “Damn, Web. Give me a spin.”
I do, showing the way the dress sculpts my ass.
“Can’t wait to get you naked.”
“You just had me naked.”
“Yeah, but seeing you covered makes me wanna unwrap you. I’ll be thinking about that all through dinner.”
So will I. “Need some help getting dressed?” I ask.
“Won’t say no.”
I grab his pants, a gunmetal gray, hanging over the chair and move to him, adding a swing to my hips, grinning inside when he bites his lower lip.
I crouch for him to step into them, then I drag them up his legs, innocently brushing my fingers across his cock, feeling the satisfying twitch and the way his abs contract when I fasten the hook.
Next, I lift the black knit sweater he’d laid out on the bed and step back to him.
He slides his arms through the sleeves, and I smooth it into place, my fingers grazing warm flesh as I button it up to the eagle on his chest. The fitted cardigan without a shirt is Dice’s own brand. Sharp, stylish, and sexy.
“You look good, Jones.” I scratch his beard, loving the soft, dense feel of it. “I got to wrap my very own gift.”
He takes my hand and brings it to his lips, kissing the knuckles. “Speaking of gifts… I have something for you.”
I tilt my head, curious. “What?”
He crosses to the closet, reaches inside his coat pocket, and pulls out a small square box. He lifts the top, and I let out a quiet gasp. It’s the bracelet from the shop earlier. The one I thought was a little too pricey. The one I wanted but told myself I didn’t need.
“You doubled back?”
He shrugs. “You liked it. I wanted you to have it.”
The wide bangle is hammered gold, the tiny depressions catching the light.
“Thank you.” I swallow past the dryness in my throat. Dice has given me birthday and Christmas gifts over the years. Never without occasion, though, or anything this personal.
He raises my wrist and glides it on, a shimmer of gold settling on me like something heavier than a piece of jewelry.
He lingers, his thumb tracing just below the metal. “I like the idea of you carrying a little piece of me around.”
If it were anybody else, I’d have no doubts he’s falling.
That’s usually when I start to plot my exit.
Feeling that claustrophobia in the shape of having to adjust my life—and myself—for someone else.
I can’t envision having a relationship… unless I put Dice in that picture.
For him I’d be willing to make some adjustments, or at least try to.
A moot point.
He cares for me. Shows it in every way. But it’s not the kind that’s built on long-term promises. Whatever Dice feels for me is more than friends. More than sex. I couldn’t explain it to a stranger earlier. I can’t explain it to myself now.
Dinner downstairs is romantic. A cozy dining room lit with vintage chandeliers and flickering votives in jam jars.
Jazz hums softly through the speakers, sultry sax and mellow piano.
We’re tucked into a curved booth near the window with a view of the water glinting against a dark sky.
The dearth of patrons on a Sunday night makes it feel like we almost have the place to ourselves.
Dice scans the wine list. As a bartender, he knows what he’s doing so I defer to him. “We’ll have a bottle of your reserve Bourdeaux, thanks.”
“Great choice with the rib eye,” the server says, taking our menus.
I lift a brow when he’s gone. “Who suddenly likes wine now?”
“Gotta respect the grape,” he says with a grin. “This trip’s got me cultured.”
“Right. Because nothing says refined like a man who smacked my ass on the way here.”
He leans in, eyes dancing, his fingertips caressing my thigh under the table. “That was appreciation, Web. Like a good wine, you got full-bodied notes.”
I roll my eyes, clocking his mood. He’s been like this all afternoon. Extra attentive. Still his usual jokes and teasing, but something else is stitched into them. Like he’s trying to be present and enjoy this time together. A last days’ kind of vibe that I’m not ready for.
The wine is smooth, pairing well with the peppercorn steak, creamy mashed potatoes, and roasted veggies.
After a few bites, he says, “I love watching you eat.”
“Why?”
“You’re not shy about it. When something’s good, you make these little moans of pleasure that get me hard.”
“You’re always hard.”
“Around you, I am.” His wicked grin has me grinning too.
“So, missing Queenie?” he asks a moment later.
“I think you’re the one missing her.”
“You dodging, Web?”
I cut another piece of steak. “Missing her, no. Thinking about her, yes. Wondering how she’s adjusting with Mom. That’s normal.”
“Sure.”
The way he says it grates. “I know you’re trying to imply something, so just spit it out.”
“Not convinced you want to leave her.”
“Please.” I chew a mouthful, then point my fork at him. “You take care of her more than I do. She’d probably end up starving in New York.”
“Naw. You’re more nurturing and caring than you give yourself credit for.”
“You’ve got it twisted. You’re the one who’s caring. And full of thoughtful surprises.” I lift my arm, the bracelet catching the candlelight.
He glances at it, the corners of his mouth curving. “It’s different with you.”
My pulse ticks up. “In what way?”
“In every way,” he says, holding my gaze, his look suddenly as soft as a whisper. “There’s always been this strong connection between us. It’s even stronger now, despite the years apart.”
Though he says it without any malice, the words still hit deep. “That was the worst thing I’ve ever done. Cutting you off like that. I know how much that would’ve crushed me if the roles were reversed. I’m sorry I was so selfish and immature.”
“We’re good, Lot.”
I shake my head. His father left before he was even born, and his mother got herself locked up. They abandoned him—and so did I. “I’d understand if you still resented me.”
“I don’t. Not anymore. I was mad as hell, hurt, until I heard your side of the story.
I shut down when you said you were moving to New York because it was easier to pretend it didn’t matter.
I didn’t want it to matter. It never occurred to me how that would affect you, because I was only thinking of myself.
That was selfish too. I can’t pretend this time.
Couldn’t, even if I tried. I know we’ll stay in touch, but… ”
“It won’t be the same.”
“Yeah.” He nods.
We eat in silence, just the scrape of forks against plates filling the space. It’s not awkward, just pensive. The food’s incredible, and I don’t leave a drop. I’d lick up the sauce if it were socially acceptable.
Once the server clears the table, leaving our wineglasses, Dice picks up where we left off, as if the conversation’s been simmering in his head the whole meal.
“I don’t know if I ever really told you how much you gave me growing up.” His gaze lingers, like he’s flipping back through the old reel of us. “You let me share your tent. Never made it a thing. You just… let me have the quiet place I needed.”
My mind drifts back, too. Fights with my father. Needing somewhere to breathe. Always feeling that sense of peace when I crawled inside and saw him there cross-legged on that ratty sleeping bag, reading comics by flashlight.
“It was the same for me. Just your presence was enough to… ground me.”
Sometimes I ranted about Maurice. Other times I was too mad to speak. But Dice never talked about what he was running from. Still doesn’t. He keeps it all locked inside.
I didn’t ever push. Maybe I should’ve. Now, with our defenses low from the wine and the reflective mood between us, this might be the time. “I know things were rough at home,” I say. “I’m not tryna pry or unearth shit… but I just wondered if you wanted to talk about it.”
His jaw tenses as his eyes darken. It’s like watching shutters slam down behind his face. A self-made shield. A reflex I know too well.
“Why are you asking now?”
“I guess because I still don’t know this part of you. And I want to.”
“You might not like the answers.”
The warning knots something in my chest, but I don’t retreat. “You agreed to trust me the other night,” I remind him. “I hope that goes beyond just the bedroom.”
He pauses, and I begin to think he isn’t going to tell me. After a hard swallow, like the truth is stuck there, he hesitantly starts talking.
“She pulled me into her scams.”
Maurice always suspected as much, but hearing Dice admit it turns my stomach. I feel sick watching the shame roll off him in thick, bitter waves. He won’t even look at me. Just stares down at the white linen tablecloth.
“I’m sorry she did that to you,” I say, the words feeling small. “I’m sorry I didn’t know… didn’t ask.”
“It’s not on you, Web. I didn’t want you to know. Didn’t want you to think I was like her.”
“I would never think that. You were just a kid.” I pause. “Did C know?”
He shakes his head. “I never told anyone. Not until I testified in court.”
That explains why he didn’t want us there, why he carried that burden alone. “Can you tell me about it now?”
He exhales. Long and deep. Like it’s the first real breath he’s let out in years.
“I was five, maybe six,” he begins, still avoiding my eyes.
“She’d take me out of town, where nobody knew us.
Said I was her ‘lucky charm.’ I learned how to cry on cue before I could tie my shoes.
Learned how to lie. How to charm people.
How to make them feel sorry. I put on that trained face and we raked in the money.
“She’d target busy mall parking lots, places with traffic. We’d hold signs begging for medicine money. Or say her wallet was stolen and we just needed a few bucks to get home. I didn’t understand all her plays, but I knew they were wrong.”
I don’t speak. Don’t sip. My whole body stills, locked on every word.
“When I was eight, she moved on to door-to-door scams. Selling fake raffle tickets. Told me if I didn’t do it, we’d go hungry. We’d have no place to live. But the real con was when she said if I wanted her to love me, I’d do it.”
My fist clenches under the table. That price tag she put on love was despicable. But this isn’t about me or my rage. I reach for his hand, and he lets me take it, though his fingers stay slack in mine.
“She got more sophisticated over time,” he continues, his voice hollow.
“Phone and internet scams. Credit card fraud. Catfishing men online for money. My con was fake charities. She’d give me scripts.
Called the targets ‘fishes’ and lit up every time we reeled one in. Cold as ice. She didn’t give a damn.
“When I stole that change from your dad’s car, it was the first time someone reacted to me.
He was furious, but what really stuck was the way he looked at me.
Like I was scum. Garbage. A real lowlife.
I started thinking about all the other people I’d never see.
The ones I’d lied to. Taken from. That’s not who I wanted to be.
I couldn’t do it anymore,” he says, his voice breaking. “I hated myself.”
“Dice,” I whisper, my heart aching. But he cuts me off with a small shake of his head.
“She lost it when I told her I was done. She despised me, said it over and over again. That I was weak. A piece of shit. Unlovable. Your tent was my escape. The only safe place I had from her. But I still didn’t tell anyone.
I knew it was illegal. I knew she was hurting people.
I was twelve, old enough to know. And still, I didn’t stop her. ”
Tears sting the backs of my eyes. “You were a child,” I say, steady and firm. “When you had the chance, you told the truth.”
“I was sixteen by then.”
“That’s still a child. And as fucked up as she was, she was your mother. It took guts to do what you did.”
“It didn’t feel brave. It felt like guilt. Not for her. For the people I scammed. She was going to serve her time. But what about me?”
“It wasn’t your crime. You were surviving. That whole situation was a prison. None of that was your fault. She was manipulative and cruel. But you still had the strength to say no. To testify. To stop her. That counts.”
He exhales again, his head still down.
“Dice,” I say softly. “Look at me.”
He lifts his head slowly, hesitantly, like he’s afraid of what he’ll see.
“You are nothing like her.” I squeeze his hand for emphasis. “I knew the day you helped guide that spider back onto its web you were the most special boy I’d ever met. And I still think that. I might not be the best with feelings and all that sensitive stuff, but I mean every word.”
A flicker of a smile ghosts his lips, and he squeezes my hand back. “You did great, Web.”
“I wasn’t fishing for a compliment.”
“Happy to give it anyway.”
“How do you feel?”
He shrugs. “Lighter in some ways. But dredging it all up sits heavy as hell.”
“It’s always been heavy. Pressing it down doesn’t make it disappear. Just makes it bleed out in ways you might not even realize.”
He nods, absorbing that. “This isn’t the dinner I had planned.”
“No, but I think it’s the one we needed.”
“Yeah… maybe it was.” He lifts my hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to it. “But on to better things. There’s a hot tub waiting for us.”