At nine AM on Tuesday morning I was one hundred percent sure I wasn’t showing up for lunch with Chella at the Club. By nine-thirty I was at a solid eighty-five percent.
You can see where this is headed.
I show up at Turning Point ten minutes early.
Margaret, Bric’s White Room manager, is gushing over me like a mother because I’ve been MIA for so long. She takes my coat and straightens my tie, asking me a million questions that both annoy me and make me feel special at the same time.
“I’m fine, Margaret,” I say, brushing her hands away from the lapels of my suit. “Stop it.”
“Sorry. I’ve just missed you.” Margaret stares up at me, hands clasped together in front of her, like I’m giving her a proud moment and she needs to soak it up. “Mr. Bricman and Mr. Baldwin are up in Mr. Baldwin’s bar.” Margaret shakes her head. “Both of you… back on the same day.”
“I’m here for lunch with Chella,” I say. “In the White Room.”
“Oh, she called a little while ago and said she’d be late. That’s why Mr. Baldwin is here, I suppose. And you know how he is about his privacy. Plus he brought a dog.” Margaret tsks her tongue. “Mr. Bricman was not happy about that. So lunch will be up in the Baldwin Bar.”
I turn around and look up, and sure enough, there’s Smith holding that little rat with the pink bow. He waves one of her paws at me, smiling.
I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to the dog-dad version of Smith.
I can’t see Bric from down here, but I guess I’m stuck seeing the whole thing through. I climb the stairs up to the second floor asking myself why I’m really mad at Bric. I believe him when he says he just gave Rochelle her options. So OK, he didn’t actually tell her to have an abortion. But the part where he keeps that little conversation to himself, even after she left and he knew I was devastated—well, I’m having more trouble with that.
He kept things from me. It’s on the verge of lying. Not quite, but very close. It was total betrayal. I don’t like lies. And I hate the feeling of betrayal even more. What we were doing was based on trust. And loyalty. He broke his oath with me.
Maybe he did mean to tell me about his conversation with Rochelle. But I don’t think so. I think he deliberately didn’t tell me she was pregnant because he didn’t want me to leave the game.
This, I decide, is the root of my problem.
Bric is selfish. Sure, he plays Mr. Philanthropist at Smith’s instructions. He looks generous and benevolent on the outside. Always in control, always ready with a big ol’ check to hand out just when people need it. But it’s not his money and it’s not his goal.
He’s like a paper-doll version of Smith. The mask Smith refuses to wear.
And I understand now—completely understand—that the reason he didn’t tell me about Rochelle being pregnant was because he didn’t want to make a change in his life.
His life.
Fuck her life and the problems she was facing. Fuck my life and the epiphany I was slowly realizing. If I knew about Rochelle’s pregnancy we’d both leave the game. And what would happen to Bric then?
Really, what would happen to him if he didn’t have Smith and me around? Keep him in check. That’s why we make such a good team. Smith and I keep him in check. The Club keeps him in check.
I’m not surprised that he’s selfish. I’ve always known that. So that’s not why I stopped hanging out here or stopped talking to him. I made the unconscious decision to distance myself from Elias Bricman a while back when I realized he was a dick.
I’m probably a dick at times. Smith is a dick almost all the time—except with Chella. But Bric—Bric is a dick because he doesn’t care. I think Smith cares about people. Why would he give all that money away if he didn’t? And I care about people. I’m not usually a dick. I had a few moments with Chella when she first showed up, but I think I was justified.
I’m the nice guy in this group. I like to make the girls happy, and not just sexually. I like to make them happy in life.
Smith played the game because he was into the concept of sharing. He wanted things, but they had to be offered. It made sense when he said it.
But Bric likes to make them bend to his will, even when they don’t want to. He likes this game because he can do all that dark shit he hides up in that head of his and call it playing.
When I get to the top of the stairs I turn right and head up the second, shorter set of stairs that lead into the private bar. Smith is in his usual seat, smiling down at his dumb dog. Bric is also sitting in his usual seat, across from Smith, but not on the balcony side of the table.
“Wassup,” Smith says, shaking a dog paw at me.
“Where’s Chella?” I ask, taking a seat next to Smith instead of my usual, on the other side of Bric. Bric looks at me. Gives me a slight nod of his head. Then snaps his fingers for the bartender to bring me a drink.
“She texted me twenty minutes ago and told me to come here. She’s running late,” Smith says.
Smith is wearing… sweats. At the Club. I almost can’t take this guy. I’ve only ever seen him wear sweats to bed. And this hoodie? I had no idea Smith Baldwin owned a hoodie. “What the fuck are you wearing?” I ask.
“I was at the gym down in Five Points,” Smith says. “I came right over.” He looks at his watch. “I can’t stay long because I’m boxing with some thugs in an hour.”
“They’re gonna kick your ass,” Bric mumbles down into his glass of whiskey.
“Probably,” Smith says. “But it’ll be fun.” He smiles into his drink as he takes a sip.
The bartender comes with my glass, offers me a smile and says, “Nice to see you, Mr. Foster.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking the drink. It’s a good whiskey. Better than the shit I drink with Robert on Friday nights.
“So what’ve you been up to?” Bric asks. I assume he’s talking to me, even though he’s still staring down at his glass.
“Same old shit,” I say. There’s an awkward silence after that, which I do not feel the need to fill. Hey, if these assholes want me here, they can provide the entertainment.
The three of us are shifting in our seats, unaccustomed to the new relationship we find ourselves in—or lack of one—when Chella comes running up the stairs.
She stops a few feet from the table, huffing. Like she ran across town to get here. She says nothing. Just stares at me. Her face is flushed and her heavy breathing makes her chest quickly rise and fall underneath her cream-colored silk blouse.
“What?” Smith asks. “What’s going on?”
She doesn’t look at Smith. She stares straight at me. And then she bursts into tears.