“Not much yet. All he knows is that the burner only made two calls. Both to you. Said the guy probably bought it just for that. Stilesis looking further into it. He said he’ll call you directly as soon as he has more.”
“What the fuck?” I shake my head. “Why would he need a burner phone just to say his name and hang up?”
“Beats me. Your instinct still saying it’s linked to Jasinder?”
“At this point, I’m just grabbing at straws. Hope Stiles comes through with something concrete to go on.”
The guys call out from downstairs, looking for us.
We head back to the basement where the laughter’s thick and the bones are clacking. Tank’s bragging about a big six play as I sit down and pop my knuckles. Thoughts of Damon fade.
I’m ready to whoop their asses and take their money. But with Lot clear in my mind, I feel like a man who’s already won.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Lot
Let me watch you take it.
New York hasn’t changed. Still cusses you out for walking too slow. Still tucks you in with sirens instead of lullabies. Still fits me like worn-in jeans.
But I’m missing my people. Missing Dice. His humor, his cocky smirk, his hugs and cuddles (I know, who even am I?).
It’s only been three days, though it feels longer. The biggest adjustment has been not being able to see him. Touch him. After weeks of practically living together, it’s like quitting cold turkey. Thank God for technology. Video calls help, but it’s not the same as skin and breath or being in his arms.
I knew the distance would be hard. Knew it would give me too much time to think… to doubt. I’m skeptical by nature. Ask anyone. But I’m really trying not to look for problems where there are none. Especially when Dice is giving me no reason for second-guesses. He’s been consistent. Present. True to his words.
I still can’t believe he chased me to the airport, or what he did afterward. Walked straight into the lion’s den and told my father he loves me. I heard it from my mom, and damn if that didn’t make me melt like butter.
Mom was over the moon, of course. Maurice not so much. His trust will be hard-won. But I think—even though he won’t admit it—he’s got a new respect for Dice.
Meanwhile, Queenie’s taken to New York in full diva mode. The first day, she yowled so loud when I went to get groceries, the landlord called about tenant complaints. So instead of risking eviction, I bought a baby carrier. Now, for the second day straight, she’s strapped to my chest like a furry marsupial, while I tag the front window of a natural hair salon that commissioned me to give them ‘gram and curb’ appeal.
Using spray paint and glass markers, I sketch the silhouette of a woman in profile. Bohemian braids and twists bloom across the glass. One coil morphs into the city skyline. Another dips into sound waves. A third swirls upward, laced with affirmations:Textured & Untamed.Curls Are My Crown.Braided & Blessed. I add soft edges to frame her bold gaze that conveys she’s fierce, radiant, and unstoppable.
When I step back to let it dry, I feel that buzz I always get when the art speaks back.
As I pack up for the day, Queenie yawns and nestles into my chest where the weight of the carrier pressing down on my jacket has given me major tittie sweat.
I lower my gaze to her. “You really living your best life and trying to ruin mine.”
“Meow.”
We head to the subway. As I board the crowded train, a man offers me his seat, clearly thinking I’m carrying a baby. I don’t correct him. The truth is too ridiculous.
Next stop? Cat training. Didn’t even know that was a thing until I desperately Googledsupport forfeline bad behaviorat midnight, after Queenie peed on my favorite top while maintaining eye contact.Just because I refused to give the demon a late-night treat. So I’m consulting a cat guru.
Paws-itive Connection has bright-painted walls, cat posters, and a polite receptionist who escorts me to a private studio with wood floors. I’m introduced to Dreya Greene. She’s around forty, waist-length hair, Birkenstocks, and paw-print earrings swinging proudly.
“Nice to meet you,” she says, eyeing the carrier. “This must be Queenie.”
“The diva herself. Wants what she wants, gets mad when she doesn’t get it, hates her crate, and loses her mind when left alone. She’s emotionally unhinged.”
Queenie growls like she’s defending her honor.
“Girl, don’t start,” I say, unclipping the straps to let her out. “You know I’m telling the truth.”
“I can see there’s a strong bond.” Dreya smiles. “But these behaviors must be stressful. Let’s talk about how I can help both of you.”
