“You don’t know that she’s yours,” Rochelle says.
“She’s mine,” I say, standing up and grabbing my suit coat. Rochelle rolls her eyes. But when I walk over to kiss her, she kisses me back. “She’s mine,” I repeat, whispering the words into her mouth. I place a hand on Adley’s blonde head of fluff. “Be good, Adley.”
She’s mine. There is no doubt in my mind that kid is mine. I’d like a DNA test, but it can wait until the whole threesome thing wears off with Bric. He won’t want a real relationship. Hell, his mind is already on the weekend at the Club.
I give Bric a month before he gets tired of Rochelle’s objections with the Club. She won’t put up with it. Not this time. Not with the baby involved.
Bric might not want rules, but Rochelle will.
She’ll get tired of his half-assed commitment. He’ll get tired of her expectations and questions. And then Rochelle and I will have a real talk about what’s going to happen going forward.
Chapter Fourteen - Rochelle
We’re in this forever. Not, We’re in this together. Which is how that saying usually goes.
I sit quietly in the small sitting area in front of the elevator, just staring out the window. Wynkoop Street is busy at night. And during the day as well, I guess. But not in the same way. I can’t see the street unless I stand right up next to the window and look down. So from my chair I can just see the mountains peeking over the not-so-tall buildings.
Adley is sitting on the floor playing with some brightly-colored plastic blocks that she likes to taste instead of stack, perfectly content to explore her new world on her own terms. She’s very easy-going as far as babies go. Easily satisfied, easily entertained, and a champion sleeper. This probably means she’ll be a wild teenager and I will be forced to reflect back on my own wild teenage days, consoling myself with stupid mom-isms like, Just wait until you’re a mother. Or, Paybacks are a bitch, sister.
The buzz of the elevator startles me out of my introspective thoughts and I look quickly over at the security panel. Someone is in the elevator coming up. I don’t stand to greet him, not even when the doors open and he steps into the loft.
“Well,” Smith says, wearing his trademark dark suit. “This place is quite nice.”
“What do you want?” I ask, annoyed. Why does he bother with me? I never understood it.
“It’s my day, right? Fridays? They still belong to me?”
I stare at him, open-mouthed. “Are you joking?”
“I am the one who kept paying. I still have a stake.”
“You want me to fuck you—”
“No,” he says, a disgusted look on his face. “Hell, no.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
“It is still my day, Rochelle.”
“The game is over, Smith.”
“You came back, Rochelle. I might need a refund.”
We stare at each other for several long moments. His eyes narrowed in… I don’t know. Hate, probably. He has always hated me. I could feel his hate even before he started ignoring me. He was never interested in anything. Bric is also like that with me. At least he was. But Bric’s indifference is based on selfishness and ego. Smith’s indifference is based on… dislike. I’m a bad taste in his mouth. A foul smell or that grossed-out feeling you get when you’re walking barefoot in the dark and step on something… squishy.
Disgust.
“How did you get up here with no code?”
“I have the code. I just told you, it’s my fucking day.”
“So Bric gave you the code? He knows you’re here?”
“Quin gave me the code.”
I turn away and find the mountains on the other side of the window again. What the hell is going on? “Well,” I ask, “what do you want to do?”
I catch a shrug from the corner of my eye. “Talk, I guess.”
Whatever.
“Adley,” Smith says, getting down on his hands and knees and crawling over to my daughter. “What are you doing?”
She smiles at him. Like he’s a nice person. And then she waves a red plastic block in the air before putting it back in her mouth.
“She’s very cute, Rochelle,” Smith says.
“Thank you,” I mumble.
“So you really don’t know who the father is?” he asks.
I don’t even bother answering that stupid question. “What did you want to talk about?” I ask, trying to find a polite way to move this along so he’ll get the hell out.
Smith chuckles as he gathers up all Adley’s colored blocks and starts stacking them. Adley watches him intently. Her eyes follow each move from the time he picks up a block, until the time he stacks it. She never loses focus. “It’s not me who needs to talk.”
“OK,” I say. “What do you want to know?” I have found it’s far easier to give Smith Baldwin what he wants than it is to fight with him. Giving in makes him go away.
“I want to know,” Smith says, placing the last block on top of the swaying tower, “who that guy was you were arguing with on the corner of Fifteenth and Champa the day before you disappeared. Because I was stuck at a red light that day and I saw you.”
I stop breathing.
“And as a follow-up,” Smith says, standing up and then sitting back down in the chair, “I want to know if that guy is the reason you don’t want a DNA test.”
I inhale and then let it out with a chuckle. “Get the fuck out.”
He ignores my order. Just absently rubs a palm across his scratchy jaw. “I know what you are, Rochelle. I might not know anything about your past, but I saw enough of you while we were together to form an opinion. You’re an opportunist. You got yourself invited into the game. You played until you got what you needed. And then you left to go get something else. So why are you here?”
My stomach tightens up. I feel sick for exactly three seconds as I internalize his characterization of me. “I know what you are too. And we’re not so different.”
“Is that so? Do you think we’re equals, Rochelle?”
“Well.” I laugh. “We’re both playing the same game, Smith. So I’d have to say yes. We are equals.”
He thinks about this for a little while.
“Do you know why I decided to give my money away?” he finally asks.
“I have no clue. And I don’t really care. I’m not here for anyone’s money. Certainly not yours. I’m happy to pay back what you gave me. In fact, I insist on it. I will have that money—”
“Because rich people are weird, you know?” He looks at me with one eyebrow raised, like that question was not rhetorical and he’s expecting me to agree.
“Oh, you guys are weird all right. Bric and his game. Quin and his revenge. I get the picture, thanks.”
“We grow up segregated from the real world. In my case, it was the good kind of segregation. Up in Aspen—”
“Yeah, because Aspen is not a microcosm of rich assholes. Not at all.”