Chapter 40
Chapter Forty
Dice
Welcome to New York.
I’m thirty thousand feet in the air. New York City bound after nearly two weeks of keeping the emotional connection strong and the video sex spicy, refusing to let distance wedge itself between us.
We even had a movie date. Jackie Brown. Quoting lines back and forth like we used to. Old times with something new.
Now I’m on my way to see Lot. Five nights in her world. Her city, her space, her bed. I clocked it down to the hour. Each one stretched like ten. I was up early this morning like a kid on Christmas. Already packed, duffel by the door, heart pounding with excitement.
Then Stiles called.
“Phone’s a classic prepaid,” he said. “SIM’s not registered. Paid for in cash. No app activity, no texts, no criminal flags. Just those two outgoing calls to you. Traced to Philly.”
“Philadelphia?” I frowned in confusion. “For some reason I thought he’d be local.”
“Pings came from a tower near UPenn. Unfortunately, without any payment history or a last name, it’s a dead end for now. Sorry, man.”
“I appreciate all you’ve done. What do I owe you?”
“On the house. Any friend of Lexie’s is good enough for me. Hope you get some answers.”
“Thanks.” I hung up, frustrated.
Damon’s still a ghost. No leads. Nothing but a name, which could be bogus, and a city where I’ve never been.
I hate this shit. Hate not knowing. Hate not being in control.
But I can’t chase a shadow. Not today. I’ll be damned if I let a mystery caller, who I haven’t even heard from again, mess up my time with Lot.
The flight lands at JFK on schedule. I grab my bag and move through the terminal. It’s packed, but nothing like O’Hare. First time in New York, and it already hits different. I pass through baggage claim and exit, spotting her right away.
Lot’s leaning against a column, wide-leg jeans, a cropped top beneath a graffiti-splashed oversized blazer, and big hoops catching the fluorescent lights. Her locs are piled in a high bun. She’s all New York. When her hazel eyes lift and lock on mine, everything else drops away.
I speed up. She rushes to me, too. I drop the bag and catch her mid-leap. She wraps her legs around me and cradles my face. Our lips fuse in a kiss of deep longing and pure joy.
It’s a minute before she slides down.
“Hey, Jones.” That corner-lipped smile knocks the wind out of me.
“It’s damn good to see you, Web.” I kiss her again and nuzzle her neck. “Mmm. Missed your scents.”
“This one’s Creamsicle. Bergamot, vanilla, and orange oil.”
I nip her skin, then trace a slow lick.
“Boy, you better stop.” She laughs. “Save it for home.”
“Lead the way.” I lace our fingers and grab my bag.
Lot doesn’t own a car, so we hail an airport taxi.
It’s a fifty-minute crawl through big city traffic, but I don’t care.
We talk and sneak kisses, and she points out areas and landmarks that I barely see.
I can’t stop staring at her. She’s mine.
Finally. I’m fucking obsessed and not even trying to hide it.
We pull into Williamsburg just before one.
She chose this Brooklyn neighborhood for the art galleries, indie cafés, music scene, and the creative vibe.
Outside her apartment, I can feel the energy in the air.
So different from the quiet hum and slower pace of Bayside.
The street buzzes with honking horns and people moving like they know time ain’t waiting.
Her building’s four stories of brown brick, with black wrought-iron rails and a burnt-red door framed by frosted glass and decorative molding. Lot fishes out her keys and lets us inside.
The floors and walls show their age, and the wooden elevator groans with our ascent. It stops at the top with a reluctant clunk and creaks open into a short hallway with four doors. Lot unlocks hers.
One step into her loft, and I get why she loves it here.
I’d seen glimpses over FaceTime, but now I’m immersed. One open space bathed in natural light, shining through a long rectangle window. The floors are maple. The walls are exposed brick, covered in framed prints, vintage posters, and her own sketches. Not curated or tryhard. Just her.
Tucked in a corner is her work studio that contains a drafting table crowded with sketch paper, charcoal pencils, sticky notes, a mug full of markers, and a calendar still on January when it’s already deep into March.
A curvy mannequin torso stands off to the side, modeling her latest cropped tee that reads Soft Belly. Sharp Tongue.
The kitchen’s compact but modern. Black cabinets, white tile, dishes drying in the rack, a banana hanging out with two apples beside the espresso machine.
Her iPad sits on the island, surrounded by two tall stools.
The couch is made of a couple twin beds styled into a cozy sectional, decorated with pillows in an array of bold colors and patterns.
But the bedroom is where the chaos reigns.
No door, just a divider wall. Her bed’s unmade, sheets tangled.
A hoodie, jeans, and socks are on the floor, a bra flung across her dresser, laundry spilling out of a tote.
One boot peeks from under the bed, the other tossed toward the closet.
I smile and breathe it in. Smells like her.
Feels like my bedroom did when she was there.
“Don’t judge me,” she says. “I cleaned the kitchen and bathroom for you. That’s where the line is drawn.”
“It’s all you, Web. That makes it sexy as hell to me.”
A low mrowr floats from the corner. Queenie. She’s in her crate between the bed and window, watching her person with the intruder she tolerates.
Lot walks over and unlatches it. “She’s getting better. Only screamed twice this week.”
“Do I need to spritz on some chamomile?” I joke.
“Just might.” Lot laughs. “But let’s see how she does first.”
Queenie stretches her charcoal-gray body and pads out. She gives me a long, discerning blink, as if she’s thinking, Oh, this fool again.
“Hey, Queenie.” I crouch low, and to my surprise she purrs like a tiny motorboat and nudges my hand. “Is this a truce?”
“Meow.”
I stroke her head, letting her decide how much affection she wants. For now, it seems we’re cool. “Guess she knows nuked eggs are on the menu.”
“Probably. Girlfriend’s a user. But I think she missed you.”
I stand and dig in my bag. “Brought her something.”
I pull out a cat plushie. “It makes purring sounds. Supposed to calm anxiety and help with crate training. Good reviews.”
“That’s so sweet, Jones.”
I shrug and set it in front of Queenie. She sniffs, then snatches it like a trophy. The contact activates the purring. Queenie startles, then goes feral, pouncing like the plushie picked a fight.
“So much for offering comfort.”
“Point is, she likes it,” Lot says, laughing at Queenie locked in on a one-sided MMA match.
I reach into the bag again and pull out a small gift-wrapped box. “For you.”
Lot raises a brow. “You charming all the women today.”
“Just two.”
She tears it open. Inside is a delicate gold necklace with two charms: a dice and a spiderweb.
Lot’s face softens. “This is… I don’t even know.”
“Does that mean you like it?”
“I love it. Thanks, Jones.”
“You’re welcome.” I fasten it around her neck. The charms dangle, resting in the dip between her collarbones.
She checks it out in the mirror above her dresser. “It’s perfect.”
I gotta agree.
“I have something for you, too,” she says, going to the closet and returning with a limited-run vinyl. It’s a house compilation by a New York City Mixmaster, DJ Soulidify.
I run my thumb over the sleeve. “Damn, Web. How’d you get your hands on this?”
“Client of mine. The one I told you I designed the album cover for. He hooked me up.”
I press a kiss to her lips. “Really appreciate it, baby.”
“There’s more.” She lights up. “The reason I asked you to bring club attire is ’cause we’re going to one of DJ Soulidify’s shows… tonight. When I went to get the record from him, I played one of your mixes and he was impressed. Said you could spin a short set, if you’re down for it.”
“You serious?”
Lot flashes a cocky quirk of her lips.
“Welcome to New York, Jones.”