I don’t believe that for a second. She came to visit me with Rayne several times; he refused to, calling New York a cesspool. He says the same about every big city, never stepping foot outside his narrow little bubble. But seeing the good in people is my mom’s thing—even when it’s misplaced.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I promise, opening the front door. “You, Rayne, and I can meet up for dinner or brunch on Sunday.”
“I’d love time with both my girls.”
“Let me talk to Rayne and we’ll make it happen.” I kiss her cheek. “Love you, Ma.”
“Love you too, sweet girl.”
The walk back to Rayne’s is all tight shoulders and fumingbreaths. I wind through the neighborhood, wanting to scream. When I open the door, Queenie’s bell jingles as her head lifts, eyeing me with disdain through the bars of the carrier. I hated to lock her up but the one time I left her alone she tore up two of Rayne’s chenille pillows.
I let her out and she snubs me until I get back in her good graces with a treat. Then she’s all fake again, brushing against my ankles like we’re friends.
I strip off my jeans and long sweater, shedding the camouflage I wore for that overbearing man. I toss them on the floor, ignoring the laundry that still needs doing, and stand in my underwear and bra, catching my reflection in the dresser mirror.
This is me. Tattooed. Pierced. Fat. Resting bitch face. I try smiling at my reflection. Feels weird. Forced. Not me. Maurice wanted something else in a daughter. Someone less willful, less opinionated. More dainty and compliant. A demure Charlotte who painted lovely portraits and landscapes. Not street art or graphic tees. But I’m not changing for anyone, least of all for him.
I pull on shorts and a sports bra. In the living room, I cue up a boxing routine on YouTube. It won’t be as intense as the workouts I get at the boxing club I joined in New York. I like the physical aggression of going full force with a speed bag. It helps me de-stress and stay active, and Blaire, one of the trainers, says I’ve got a solid left hook.
Queenie hops up on the arm of the sofa, watching me kick and punch the air. It feels good to move. To sweat. To stop thinking. After the forty-minute class, I shower and wake my iPad. Queenie curls up beside me on the bed.
“Uh-uh, girl, this is not a thing.”
“Meow.”
I open the dating app and scroll to the message I ignored last night. Tre had texted again.
You have a wicked body. Bet you could wreck me with it.
Not the winky face again. I roll my eyes. But this is exactly what I need right now. Someone I have zero chance of catching feelings for. I don’t know what Dice was up to with all that Mr. Nice Guy crap, but I wasn’t going to let it weaken me.
I tap out a reply that’s sure to get Tre’s attention:
I promise not to wreck you for good. Just put a little hurting on you.
You sound like my kinda woman. Up for that drink tonight?
I can’t with the emojis. But we make plans to meet at ten. Then feeling the low hum of anticipation that I’ll be getting some action—a palate cleanser from Dice—I hit the closet to pick something hot to wear. Something to wreck Tre’s world.
Chapter Seven
Dice
Hell No!
The bass is heavy, the lights are low, and the crowd at Docks is riding my rhythm like they’ve forgotten they’ve got bills, jobs, or responsibilities. Funky Fridays is in full swing. I’m spinning house remixes of old-school jams—one hand on the mixer, the other raised in the air, timing the beat drop.
Bam. It hits and the floor erupts. Sweat, bodies, drinks sloshing. This is my domain. I could never play an instrument like C, but I could build a set of beats and make them bounce. Back in high school, I spent summers hauling trash, cleaning yards, and washing dishes. Whatever I could to afford a mixer, turntables, and some vinyl.
A couple of months after I started working here, I talked to Maurice about turning this place into a weekend party zone. He said he wouldn’t have people gyrating in his establishment like this wasFootlooseand he was the anti-dance police. Why he ever wanted to run a bar was beyond me. The man put the “tight” in tight-ass.
But Lot pushed me to do it anyway. Her advice: don’t beg him for permission, show him the goods. She and Rayne helped get the word out, and C, with his large following, posted it on his socials. When the night came and the people turned out, Funky Fridays was born. With a small cover charge and drinks flowing, Maurice made more money than he’d ever seen in one night. Did he thank me or offer a cut? No. But the hypocrite didn’t stop me either.
I kept playing and the people kept coming. With its growing success, I added Sin & Soul Saturdays and gave him an ultimatum: pay me my due or I’m gone. He complied, hating me even more for it. I didn’t care. There was no love lost.
I knew what he thought of me. Thebastardkid of a low-life con.I’d heard him say it. Heard him tell Lot she should stay away from me. Their relationship was already turbulent, but I wondered how much of that came from her standing by me all those years.
Damn. I hate thinking about the past. A mother who never wanted to be one and a deadbeat who bailed before I was born. I don’t even know his name. Never asked and she never said. Some things are better left unknown.
