“I don’t have the answer,” she says softly, her voice catching. “You deserved it.”
Rage prickles just under my skin. “He never called. Never showed. Never even tried. But for Damon, he’s out here playing father of the year.”
Lot doesn’t tell me to calm down. Doesn’t serve up any polished platitudes. Just listens.
“I don’t hold that against Damon. I really don’t. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t bitter as hell. Can’t believe the motherfucker wants to talk to me now. Finally grew a pair after thirty-four years. And for what? To clear his conscience?”
She shifts in her seat, angling toward me, our knees brushing. “It’s not what he wants that matters. It’s what you want.”
“I for damn sure don’t need a father now. Too late for that.”
“Do you want answers? Do you want to tell him how you feel? Would any of that bring you closure?”
“I don’t know.” I exhale hard.
“It’s a lot.”
“It’s a lot for you too. Don’t think I don’t see that.”
“This is life, Jones. And I’m in it with you.” She laces our fingers tighter. “Your partner.Full stop.”
Partner. Said again like a vow.
“I’m lucky to have you, Web.”
“I know,” she says, all cheeky. “Don’t forget it.”
I laugh—first one all day—and tug her close. I breathe in her warmth, her comfort. “Impossible to forget that.”
She slides her fingers under my jaw and kisses me with the kind of love that breathes straight into my chest.
When we part, my situation’s still the same. But the weight of it is lighter knowing she’s there to help me carry it.
\
Chapter Forty-Five
Lot
I’m holding it in reserve.
The past two days flew by in that way time does when it’s slipping through your fingers no matter how tight you squeeze. Back in New York, we’ve been living on borrowed days and borrowed nights.
Damon and Dice text on the daily, sharing music, reels, and random stuff. Nothing deep yet, just slowly laying bricks. Dice still isn’t ready to call his father. Maybe never will be. For now, he’s getting used to the idea of a little brother. And a woman who’s his.
I feel it in those spontaneous moments when his fingers brush mine or he just looks at me for no particular reason. It’s like something solid has taken root.
We talked about him moving here. No pressure, no firm plan, more like Dice easing into a mix until the beat’s just right. Yesterday, he met with DJ Soulidify and came back lit up. He swung me off my feet, buzzing about a massive showcase in July. Think Coachella,but with the hottest DJs from across the country. Soulidify’s production company, hosting the event, gave Dice a slot. Buy-in fee required, but he’ll get a cut of ticket sales and merch. Real money. Real exposure. A real shot.
The kind of door you don’t just ease open, you kick it off the hinges. This opportunity shows him what he could have here. That’s the hope I’m holding on to as we spend our last night together. We’ve already promised to meet up again as soon as possible. Rearrange work schedules and obligations, even if it means fitting in only a couple of days. That’s long-distance reality. But we’re both stubborn enough to make it work.
Earlier, Dice cooked dinner. Tacos with jalapeño and avocado crema, a recipe C taught him. He told me about the “bet” and said with his sexy smirk,I’m in my domesticated era.
Some of the tacos were extra crispy, but I still cleaned my plate. They had the right amount of spice. Dice saved the real heat for later, putting my toys and his fine body to maximum use. Even multiple orgasms got humbled.
Now we’re sprawled in bed, sheets twisted and half off, skin still damp from everything we just did. I’m stretched across him. My fingers trace his pec, caressing the muscle, feeling the even rhythm of his heart. His make a soothing crawl up and down my back. The quiet-after is deep, steady, almost hypnotic, both of us wrapped in that postcoital hush.
“Gonna miss you, Jones.”
