“Tell me why.”
“I don’t want to talk, Dice. I want to fuck.”
That right there tells me everything. She’s not looking for sex. She’s looking for oblivion.
“You know how much I always want you. But not like this. Not when it’s about something you’re trying to lose yourself in.”
She jerks away, eyes flaring. “What difference does it make?” she snaps.Angry.
“It makes a difference to me if your body’s here but your head’s somewhereelse.”
“Fine. Whatever. I’ll just grab Queenie and go. There’s some leftover lobster if you’re hungry.” She flicks a hand toward the fridge. “Oh, and since you didn’t crate her, she destroyed one of your Jordans. Let me know what I owe you.”
She’s already walking away, like she didn’t just try to rip my clothes off. I go after her, stumbling over the mutilated sneaker, and find her in the bedroom, trying to coax Queenie down from the windowsill.
“What the hell was that, Lot? One minute you’re begging me to fuck you, the next you’re blowing me off.”
“Why are you being so dramatic? You said no, so it’s no.”
“You didn’t want sex,” I fire back. “You wanted me to pound something out of you, and I want to know why.”
“Wow.” Her laugh is sharp, mocking. “You want a heart-to-heart, Dice? I thought you wanted a fuck buddy.”
I hold my temper. Barely. “That was your label, not mine. I said I wanted you, in and out of bed.”
“Hanging out,” she corrects. “That’s the phrase you used. Doesn’t sound that deep.”
“Don’t twist this. You know I care about you. If something’s wrong, I want to know.”
“So now I’m supposed to spill all my messy feelings on you? That wasn’t part of the deal.”
“There was no fucking deal, Lot. Don’t act like we’re on some handshake arrangement. You know it’s more than that.”
“Whatever. I’m not in the mood to fight.”
“Fight?” My jaw tightens. “You came at me like it was war. Why?”
Her voice drops. “It doesn’t matter.”
I take a breath and look at her. Really look. She’s frayed. Unraveling at the edges, working overtime to hold herself together. Something went down tonight.
Lot’s emotions are like a pressure valve—either frozen solid or boiling over. I just got the heat. Now I’m getting the ice.
With any other woman, I’d let it go. I don’t chase drama. I don’t do messy. But this is Lot.
“Talk to me,” I say, softer now. “Tell me what happened. Maybe I can help.”
“I wanted you to help,” she says, frustrated, arms crossed. “But you ruined it by wanting to talk.”
I would laugh at her pouty complaint if I didn’t think whatever happened was serious.
“Aren’t you pissed about your Jordans?” she deflects, nodding toward Queenie who hasn’t come down to face the music.
“It’s done.” I shrug. “No point being mad.”
“Yeah,” she mutters. “You’re good at that.”
“Good at what?”
