“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.”
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 inmeand 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 thewall. 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, andtiiight.
“I’m sure I’ll be the one fighting off the ladies,” I toss back, becauseLord 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 façade, 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?”
