I refocus and grin at the women posted up near the booth, dancing extra hard, trying to get my attention. A blonde with glitter on her chest gives methe lookwhile sucking suggestively on her straw. Another flashes me a smile and yells out for “something dirty.” I give it to her—a remix of Vanity’s “Nasty Girls” blended with Prince’s “Erotic City.” The combo is straight-up sexual fire.
I throw in a siren horn and blow the roof off. Benny, John, and Chelsea keep the drinks flowing, watching out for the overzealous guzzlers. Tiff and Lamont are working the floor.
Lot was a no-show. Not that I expected her. But a part of me had hoped. I wanted her to see what I’ve built since she’s been gone.
Here I am, thirty-four and still trying to impress her.
“Thanks,” I say when Lamont refills my water. I don’t drink on the job, or much outside of it either. I don’t like anything that impairs my self-control.
It’s past ten, and I’ve been playing over an hour when Lot walks in. I do a double take. Lips painted red wine like a Shiraz. I imagine how they would taste smeared against mine. Her locs are loose, her dress matches her lipstick. It bares her shoulders and—fucking hell—hardly covers her crotch.
I swallow spit. Lot is all soft curves with fat, lush thighs a man wouldn’t mind dying between. I wonder what she smells like tonight. Something dark and lusty. Keeping my desire under wraps is going to test every ounce of willpower I have. If I thought a roll with another woman would satisfy my hunger, I would have done it by now. But it’d be like craving steak and being served chicken. I like chicken just fine, but it’s not going to do it for me like a big, juicy sirloin.
Lot looks over and damn, I want a bite. My hand lifts before I even realize it, ready to wave like a fool. But it’s not me she’s looking at. It’s another man.
An ebony brother. Five-ten, fade with twists on top, leather jacket, jeans. He leans in, his hand lingering at her waist like he’s got a right to.
My stomach clenches and my heart claws its way into my throat. That old familiar bastard takes hold—jealousy. Hot, intense, irrational. It never mattered who she was with, I hated them all. Hated the way they didn’t know her like I did and still got the pieces of her I wanted for myself.
Why’d she bring him here? Was it on purpose? To get a rise out of me? Points for her because she sure as hell has. My temple throbs, the muscles ticking like a bomb about to blow. I tear my eyes away from them, from her, to focus back on the crowd and cue up the next track.
“When I Hear Music” fills the room, strobe lights flashing. I’m trying not to think about her, about what they’re doing, talking about. Did she let out that same rare, gut-punching laugh with him? Was he holding her hand, touching her arm? All this shit is playing in my head when I see them again.
Onthe dance floor.
Grinding.
Him pressed tight against her ass, her rubbing on his dick like it’s her favorite hobby.
Hell no! A chill runs down my spine.
I’m about to cockblock this motherfucker.
Chapter Eight
Lot
Your Prince Charming impression needs work.
The wink isn’t only an emoji. Tre Simmons uses it in person at the end of every sentence.
“Damn, mama, you so fine.” Wink.
He can’t think that’s cute. But he’s good-looking, with broad shoulders that would fit my thighs just right. I wasn’t about to let my favorite thong from Love, Vera and this dress go to waste.
“Let’s dance,” I’d said to stop that eye from closing every hot minute.
Now, we’re on the dance floor. The place is hopping, wall-to-wall people. Dice is at the helm, driving this party like he owns the night. A living, breathing testament to his success. He looks good up there in the booth. Red and black tiger print shirt, open to mid-chest, silver chains glinting around his neck, thick bling weighing down his wrist. Bold and flashy, setting the mood. His tinted sunglasseshide his eyes, and yet somehow, I feelthem on me. Felt them the instant I stepped into Docks.
I suggested Tre meet me here for drinks because it’s public and close to home. I’ve dated enough Tinder boys to know an exit plan is essential. But aside from the annoying wink, he isn’t a weirdo, and I have no plans to run.
Dice blends “These Are the Breaks” with “Rapper’s Delight,” and the room goes wild. Bass thumping. Booties twerking—including mine—and Tre is right behind me to catch it. These are my jams. Songs I heard dozens of times at Dice’s place, hanging out while he tested beats, asked my opinion, blended and reworked them, figuring out what slapped and what didn’t. I loved those nights. Even if I spent most of them wanting more.
“You can dance,mamasita,” Tre says in my ear. His breath moist, arm around my waist, hips grinding against my backside.
Normally, a stranger touching me like this would get a black eye, but I’m feeling myself tonight, and I don’t care. I’m just out for a good time.
Dice announces a break and switches to a prerecorded mix that still hits. I watch him leave the booth, then lose track of where he’s gone… until I see him weaving through the crowd, making a beeline straight to me.
