Chapter 41
Chapter Forty-One
Lot
Long distance isn’t built to last.
Dice doesn’t want to see the Statue of Liberty or eat a hot dog in Times Square.
He’s not checking tourist boxes. He wants my New York.
The way I move through it. Where I hang, where I shop.
The spot where I get my dirty chai latte.
The nearby park I walk through when I’m stressed or just need to chill.
The boxing gym where I train. He wants to see my murals.
I love how invested he is in me and my life here.
I’m trying not to read too deep into it or imagine roots he hasn’t said he’s looking to plant.
He has a house, friends, a whole ass following of partygoers back in Bayside.
A full life. But the way he watches me—like I’m the main attraction and the skyline is background noise—makes it hard not to hope.
After a full day, we return to the apartment, give Queenie some attention, and order Chinese food from my favorite little hole in the wall. We eat straight out of the cartons, curled up on the couch, with Queenie tucked into me on the other side.
I thought we’d be in a hurry to rip each other’s clothes off.
But instead, we connect over just being together.
Kissing. Touching. I’m still not a big hugger, but Dice makes it easy.
He’s definitely not stingy with his affection or PDA.
If his hand wasn’t in the curve of my lower back, it was around my waist or holding mine.
While he finalizes his music selection, I get ready. Somehow, he still manages to finish first.
“Don’t let me have to kill a man tonight,” he says, lounging on the bed, watching me glide liner along my eyelid, teasing it upward into a sharp wing.
I know I look good. My skin is glowing. My strapless romper is beaded with tiny rhinestones, short on the thighs, and tiiight.
“I’m sure I’ll be the one fighting off the ladies,” I toss back, because Lord have mercy, my man is fine.
Black leather pants. Fitted black tee. Thick silver chains.
His waves are fresh, diamond studs flashing in each ear, beard lined, cheekbones sharp.
He looks like the centerfold for an edgy, sexed-up GQ spread.
He gets up, slow and syrupy, stalking over until his hands settle on my thick hips. “You’re all the woman I want… and need.”
“You don’t miss it?”
“What?”
“Your player lifestyle? Your honeys?”
“No.”
I lift a brow.
“I’m serious. I had opportunity while you were in Bayside and since. Wasn’t even tempted to act on it. I got all I can handle right here.”
“I feel the same,” I say. “Tinder boys got nothing on you. Still, don’t get too comfortable or slack on the job.”
“I got this promotion on lock.” He squeezes my ass, then gives it a playful smack. “Missed that jiggle.”
I shove him back, laughing, and finish up. Hair pulled to one side. Lipstick a neutral gloss. Dazzling drop earrings. Ready.
Queenie’s worn out from playing. With calming jazz in the background and chamomile spritz in the air, she goes into the crate without much fuss.
I reward her with the clicker and a treat.
She takes it greedily, then curls up next to Spider-Man, while the new plushie, Gob—the villain Dice named after Spider-Man’s arch nemesis—sits in the corner already missing an eye.
We catch an Uber to the club. It’s a warehouse-style venue deep in Bushwick. LED lights snake up the brick facade, bass pumps so heavy you can feel it in your chest. DJ Soulidify’s name shines neon on the marquee, and the bouncer waves us through after checking the list.
Inside are steel beams, strobe lights, and a crowd dressed to impress. We bypass the main floor and head up to the VIP lounge with a prime view of the dance pit and a private bar.
Dice leans in, lips brushing my ear over the music. “This is wild. You sure I’m not dreaming?”
“If you are, don’t wake up,” I shout back, tugging him toward the edge of the balcony.
We dance. We drink. Dice, just a small amount. Soulidify works the room with a blend of deep house and hip-hop. Dice’s face glows, his fingers twitching at every drop and beat shift, eager to jump in.
Then he gets his shot.
He’s summoned behind the booth, where DJ Soulidify—tall, bald, with a braided beard and gold tooth—daps him up and leans into the mic.
“Party people, make some noise for a special guest tonight. Straight outta the Chi: Dyson fucking Jones! Known as DJ Dice!”
Dice steps up, thanks him, and slots his USB into the deck, nodding at the booth tech. I hold my breath.
Then he spins. Just like he was born to do it. Pouring passion into the set. Old-school remixes that send the dance pit into chaos. He finds me, grins mid-transition, then drops a beat so sick, I scream his name, dancing like my body’s possessed.
This isn’t Docks. It’s New York. A city that will boo your ass in seconds if you don’t come correct.
But Dice brings it. Owns it, just like I knew he would.
When his set ends, the DJ hugs him, and the crowd chants his name. He returns to the lounge, sweaty and breathless, adrenaline still pumping. I hand him water.
“That was absolute fire,” I say, excited for him. “How did it feel?”
His arm curls around me. “Insane. Like an out-of-body experience until I saw your face.”
“You killed it. Commanded the room.”
“Yeah, I did,” he says proudly. “Thanks, Web, for making this happen.”
I’m so glad I was able to give this to him. Having that client made it possible. That’s what I like about New York. Networking and opportunity.
The party stays turnt into the wee hours. Around two, we swing by the booth to thank Soulidify again, then head home. Dice is still buzzing, flying high.
I let Queenie out of her crate and kick off my boots. In the bedroom, I strip down to my thong and strapless bra. I’m tipsy, throbbing, and hot for my man.
He’s shirtless, top button of his pants undone. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, I’m gonna assume I’m gettin’ jumped.”
“You are.” I lift my mouth to his for a lusty kiss and slip away from his roaming hands.
“Where you going, baby?” he protests.
“You’ll see.” I slide open my closet door and pull out my wedge sex pillow. Plush gray velvet with a sharp incline.
“What’s that?”
“Humphrey,” I say, tossing the wedge onto the bed with a bounce.
His brows lift. “Should I be jealous?”
“Uh-uh.” I unzip the center pocket, pull out my dual-stim dildo, and slot it just right with a sheen of lube. “It’s like a throne. For mutual worship.”
I unhook my bra, tossing it aside, and wiggle out of my thong, damp with my arousal. Dice scoops my panties up, presses them to his face, and breathes in. “Your pussy’s like perfume. I just wanna roll all up in it.”
His words make me want to be hotter for him. I flick the switch to my favorite setting, climb astride the pillow, and slide slowly down the sleek wand. “Ohhh.” A moan rips out when the vibration grinds against my walls. I rock back and forth, winding my hips.
“Fuck—” Dice cups himself through his pants. “You riding that throne like a queen.”
“Mmm.” I fuck the toy, breasts bouncing for his gaze, my fingers playing with the tips, plucking my nipples.
The blissful benefits of hands-free. I’m used to pleasuring myself and I’m not shy about performing.
Especially when I know how much watching me turns him on.
But he’s here, and I don’t want to play alone.
“Come here,” I rasp. “While Humphrey works me, I’m gonna take care of my king.”
His pants and briefs hit the floor, cock heavy and swinging as he strides over, ready to be worshipped.
I lean forward, my knees spread around the pillow, grip his thighs, and take him into my mouth. Sucking softly, tongue tracing, coaxing. My thumbs roll his sac, lifting to tease the tender skin beneath.
“Jesus, Lot…” His hand cups the back of my neck. “You ain’t playin’, baby.”
The phallic part of the toy vibrates deep, while the rabbit end pulses against my clit, working me inside and out. I moan around his cock, syncing every grind of my hips with the hollowing of my cheeks.
Dice groans, hips thrusting. Muscles tight and straining.
I rock harder and faster.
“Do it, baby,” he grits out. “Come while you’re sucking me off. I want to see it. Feel those waves roll through you while my cock’s down your throat.”
His command ratchets up my pleasure. I swallow him deeper, tongue skating veins and ridges. My thighs tremble, my whole body on the brink. His hand on my nape tightens as his other hand squeezes my breast, rolling my nipple. I moan, high and ragged, and that’s it—
I climax on a slow, punishing quake. Not the crashing kind, but sharp, body-splitting tremors.
He snaps.
Pulls out and flips me off the pillow so fast it hits the floor with a thud. Still standing, he spreads my legs apart, drapes them over his shoulders, and drags me to the edge of the bed.
“I’m about to outperform Humphrey’s ass.”
Then he plunges in—and proves it.
We wake the same way we fell asleep. With Dice on top. Slow, sinuous morning sex that stretches into noon and jumpstarts the day with a bang.
Queenie meows with delight over Dice’s nuked eggs, scarfing them down like it’s a gourmet meal. I whip up waffles while he handles the coffee and cleanup. Easy. Domestic. Comfortable.
Later, I show him the finished hair salon mural. He praises the art, snapping pictures, and I brim with pride. Dice respects my work. He respects me. With him, I never feel like I have to shrink any part of myself.
I’ve been with men who thought I was too independent. Too blunt. Too ambitious. Too sexual. Just… too much. Men who tried to whittle down my edges to fit their expectations.
Dice doesn’t want to change or control me.
He accepts me as I am. Messy, chaotic, sharp corners and all.
I’m falling more in love with him each day.
But long distance isn’t built to last. He’s just starting to get a taste of New York.
The kind of parties he could have here. Soulidify already said he’d have him back anytime.
I saw Dice on that stage, saw the thrill in his eyes.
This could be his world. Our world. We could be a real creative team. Here. Together.
That thought spins in my head as we wander hand in hand through Brooklyn, past spots Biggie immortalized in his songs.
Dice glances over at me. “What’s on your mind, Web?”
“Nothing.”
He arches a brow. “You forget how well I know you. I can feel you thinking.”
“It’s nothing we need to talk about now.”
“If it’s on your mind, we should talk about it.”
“I don’t wanna come off clingy.”
“You are the least clingy woman I know. Talk to me, Web.”
My heart gives a sharp twist. “I was just thinking about how good this feels. Being with you. Here. And how hard it’s gonna be to say goodbye in a few days. It’ll probably be weeks before we see each other again. I know it’s early, we just started this new dynamic, but…”
“But what?” His voice is thick.
“I’m worried the distance will eventually wear us down. Put a strain on our relationship. We’re both rooted where we are. And once we hit that crossroads, one of us will have to move, or…” I let silence finish the sentence.
Dice slows, pulling me to a stop in front of a bodega. Grilled meats from the cart beside it scent the air with Middle Eastern spices, but all I notice is the hard line of his jaw and the clench of his fingers around mine.
“We end this, is that what you’re saying?”
“I’m stating facts. What could happen down the road if nothing changes.”
“We both know you’re not leaving New York. Bayside would stifle you. I wouldn’t want that. So, the bottom line is if I don’t move, we’re done.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Sounds like it.”
“I shouldn’t have even brought it up this soon. I’m just impatient. Wanting it all.”
“You deserve that, Lot.” His voice drops low. “I feel like I’m already letting you down.”
“You’re not.” The denial rushes out of me. “You know how I am. If you give me a little, I’ll want more. I’ve always been like that. But it’s on me to level-set.”
“Don’t downgrade your expectations for me.” He lets go of my hand.
I exhale hard, frustration scraping my throat. “You’re taking everything I say out of context. Why are we even fighting?”
“We’re not. You told me how it is, so let’s just enjoy the rest of the day.” He shuts the door on the conversation, retreating behind his walls.
“Dice—”
“Let it go, Lot. I don’t want to spend our time together circling something I don’t have answers for.”
So, no discussion. No reassurance. Not even a willingness to sit in the unknown with me. It’s not like I expected him to uproot his life right now. He’d just made a big change. I only wanted to know if New York was at least a possibility.
But looking at his tense profile, I do as he asks. Let it go. Giving him space… for now.
Back at the apartment, we dress for dinner and a show.
The restaurant in the West Village is cozy and mellow.
I order lobster ravioli; Dice goes for a bone-in strip topped with crab and garlic butter.
The food is incredible. We share bites off each other’s plates, sip wine, laugh, keep it light.
On the surface, we’re a happy couple on a date.
But underneath, that earlier conversation lies like a landmine we’re both tiptoeing around.
After dinner, we catch the subway to see Alicia Keys’ musical production of Hell’s Kitchen.
The songs fill the theater with the soulful ache of chasing more than you’re given.
Some of the lyrics cut close, especially when the cast launches into “Kaleidoscope.” An upbeat anthem about thriving, not just existing.
That’s how I like to live. Loud and passionately.
Dice watches the stage, shoulders pulled inward. His hand stays on mine the whole time, but the warmth somehow feels muted. We need to talk, but I can tell he’s not ready.
I clap hard with the crowd at the finale, letting the roar of applause fill me. We skip the late dessert and nightcap we’d planned and head home. Neither of us initiates lovemaking. We crawl into bed, sharing body heat and quiet breaths in the dark, but not our unspoken thoughts.
Sleep comes slow and restless. When a low ringtone stirs the morning, I’m half-awake. Dice had plugged in both our phones, but his is the one ringing. He answers, rubbing sleep from his face.
Then I feel his whole body go rigid.
“Don’t hang up this time,” he says sharply, slipping out of bed. “You obviously have something you want to say.”
He disappears into the bathroom, the door clicking shut, his voice muffled.
Unease pools in the pit of my stomach. Don’t hang up this time. Whoever it was had called before.
I sit up, waiting. When he finally returns, the shift in the air is like a cold front sweeping through.
“Dice?” I climb out of bed, approaching him. “Who was that?”
He hesitates, phone still clutched in his hand. Then—
“A kid who says he’s my brother.”