And for what? So I could go home alone with Lot’s scent still inmy head and stare at the ceiling like a simp with a hard-on. But I’d be damned if I was gonna jerk off to thoughts of her.
Hell no. That’s the last time I let Lot throw me off my game.
I need coffee. Maybe a lobotomy.
“I’m good,” I insist. “Black Eye to-go.”
Lexie scrunches up her nose in distaste. “I don’t know how you and Chaz drink that.”
With two shots of espresso added to a cup of black coffee, it’s like an injection of caffeine straight into the veins. “It’s an acquired taste,” I say as she fills a paper cup.
“What’s shaking, my brother?” Chaz Delgado, owner and singer-songwriter extraordinaire, finishes serving a customer and comes over. We exchange the handshake we made back in the day. Palm slap, fist bump, and a sprinkle of bro sauce.
If Lot was the first person I trusted, C was the second. We met when he moved here with his mom and sister. Seventh graders bonding over comic books, music, and Marvel movies.
“Better not be trying to steal my woman,” he jokes, teasing me about my player rep.
“Can’t blame a man for trying.”
Grinning his dimpled smile, he slides an arm around her. She’s been a great addition to his life. Long-term ain’t my thing. Never saw that kind of love growing up. It’s not part of my DNA. Wouldn’t even know how to do it. But I’ve never seen my ride-or-die happier. He’s been through a lot—they both have—and they deserve this.
“You and Lot figuring things out?” he asks, looking me over.
“Nothing to figure out. She’s there, I’m there. That’s it.”
“You haven’t tried talking to her?”
“Yeah, I tried.” Maybe I could’ve finessed it better, but dammit, she was like a wildcat—claws out, hissing and spitting. “But you know Lot. Gave me nothing but attitude.”
“I don’t know her that well,” Lexie interjects, handing me my coffee. “But if you want a woman’s take, I thinkshe’s hurting.”
“I didn’t do anything to hurt her,” I say in my staunch defense.
I’ve run through our last conversation before New York dozens of times over the years. I wished her the best, even though I didn’t want her to go. I kept that shit to myself. And she just left, never spoke to me again, and then had the audacity to say she didn’t owe me an explanation for her shitty behavior. What the fuck is up with that?
Now my feelings are riper than before. Rawer. But I have my self-respect.
“I’m not trying again. Next move is hers.”
C shakes his head. “Hanging on to anger and pride is dangerous, bro.”
“So is trying to get anywhere with Lot.” I reach for my wallet, and C stops me.
“On the house. Can’t take money from a man when he’s down.”
I’m not down, dammit. But to get my mood right, I change into insulated tights beneath nylon shorts, a snug Dri-FIT top, and wind-resistant jacket. After lacing up my runners, I tug on a beanie and head out for a jog.
An upbeat mix plays through my earbuds, spurring my pace. While the brisk breeze along the waterfront still clings to winter, the high noon sun melting the snow promises spring is just around the corner.
Bayside’s located two hours from Chicago, a tourist haven in the summers. Stunning coastal views, water activities, and the town square with a quaint boardwalk, shops and eateries lining Main Street. Booming nightlife at Docks Bar overlooking Lake Michigan with a weekend club vibe I bring on Fridays and Saturdays. That’s where I thrive, spinning vinyl and mixing beats.
After an hour, I’m heading back through the neighborhood when I spot it. Maurice Webber’s black Audi R8. The same 2008 model Tony Stark drove in the firstIronManmovie. But Maurice is no Tony Stark, that’s for damn sure.
The car is stopped like it gave up mid-errand. I slow my pace, and as I get closer, I see an outline of a person through the slightly tinted windows. Maurice is still recovering, and Mrs. Webber drives a Buick, which leaves only one other person.
Lot.
Of course it’s her out in the middle of the road. No hazards blinking. Typical.
