“I’ve been feeling blah lately. It sometimes happens as you get older. I just needed a little pick-me-up. Something I did for myself.”
“Oh.” Fuck. I feel stupid. Ashamed. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s not that I wanted you to be having an affair,” I explain. “I don’t think of you as someone who would break her vows. It sounds awful that I even entertained the thought. I’m so sorry, Ma.”
“Honey, this really isn’t about me. It’s about you and your relationship with your father. You see him in a certain way that doesn’t allow you to imagine I could truly love him or that he’s good to me… or good for me. I know he’s not romantic or expressive. He can be harsh. Sometimes critical. He’s not your Uncle Mo. But he loves me. And he loves you.” She squeezes my hand.
“I’m not asking you to agree with him or to change your principles or who you are. You two may always butt heads. But while you’re here, I hope you’ll both bend a little. Maybe find some middle ground. Learn to appreciate each other—differences, imperfections, and all.”
If I didn’t have to pick up Queenie from Dice’s, I would’ve gone straight home and screamed into my pillow. I’ve said some stupid, thoughtless things before, but what I said to my mother, that shit was deranged… even for me.
There was no affair. No secret looks. I’d stitched together disjointed pieces and childhood fantasies. My mom should’ve been furious. Instead, she looked at me like I was a kid who accidentally found out Santa Claus wasn’t real.
Poor Lot.
I want to scrape the night out of my head, sand it down until it’s gone, but the dreaded confrontation keeps replaying—what I said, her face, the sharp flicker of shock, then the too-sweet understanding that shamed me. I even told Rayne. I expected some slap back from her atleast, but she was the same, saying,Ah, boo. I didn’t know you still felt that way.
I didn’t want their pity. I deserved their rage.
By the time I pull up to Dice’s, I’m raw. I leave my overnight bag in the car and unlock the door with the spare key he slid on my keychain, like it belonged there. Which, of course, it doesn’t.
The porch light’s on. So is the one inside. That thoughtful shit makes me burn hotter. How dare he be considerate when I’m not worthy of even a drop of it tonight?
I just need to get Queenie and bounce before he comes home. I kick off my boots, shove the container of leftovers in the fridge, and go for the carrier. It’s empty. I go looking for her… and then I see it.
One of Dice’s Jordans, dragged into the living room like a prize kill. The leather has been chewed up, the laces shredded like spaghetti.
“Queenie!” I shout, my head about to explode.
She doesn’t show her face. She knows damn well this shit ain’t right. I took that stupid bell off her collar because the jingling was getting on my nerves, but now it feels like she’s gone stealth just to spite me.
I finally locate her little ass perched on the bedroom windowsill, grooming a paw like she didn’t just murder his sneaker.
“You ratchet little?—”
“Meow.”
I blow out a breath, hands on my hips, chest pounding like a drum. Between Queenie’s bad behavior and my own, the night feels like it’s closing in on me. Everything is just too much.
I hear the front door open, and it amps up my temper. Why the hell didn’t he crate her like I told him?
He calls my name, and I stomp out like a woman on the verge. He’s standing in the kitchen, wearing one of the new work T-shirts. Black cotton hugs his broad chest, the neon logo catching the light.
I don’t speak as I move closer. Then I crash into him, mouth on his, needing him to erase the night, wipe it clean.
He kisses me back, though there’s a hitch to it as if he’s still catching up. His hands grip me, more anchor than passion. He pulls back, questions swirling in his eyes. “What’s going on, Lot?”
“This.” I attack his mouth again, already tugging at the snap of his jeans, frantic. Desperate. Dyson Jones was designed to fuck a woman right out of her mind. And right now, that’s exactly what I need.
Chapter Twenty-One
Dice
Sorry I tried to use your dick.
Lot’s kissing me like she’s going to war. Normally, her taking charge turns me on, but this isn’t that. This is a battle, and I don’t know what the hell she’s fighting.
I catch her wrist before she unzips me. “Slow down.”
“No.” She struggles against my grip. “I want it fast. Rough.”
