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-minutecrawl 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 reluctantclunkand 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 readsSoft 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.”
