“Hey,” Smith says, walking up to the Black Room bar. He motions to the bartender for a drink. I’m trying my best not to look at Jordan Wells as he fights with that new girl he’s got over in one of the window booths. I can’t quite figure out if it’s real, or they’re in some kind of playful sexual spat.
Either way, I’m fucking turned on. She’s slapped him twice already. If she ever did that to me, I’d chain her ass to a fucking wall and make her think twice about her domination idea.
“What the fuck are you looking at?” Smith says.
“Nothing.” Not my problem. I face the bar again and smile at Smith. “You showed.”
“It’s Chella’s dream. I can’t not show.”
“Well, I’m giving you points anyway. Even if you never make it over there.” We laugh.
“You’re not over there either,” he jokes.
“Fucking women. I have prepared myself for major drama. If these women think the rules don’t apply over there”—I shake my head—“I’m gonna have to set them straight. I’ll pop my head in eventually. Expectations and all. But tea parties are not my thing.”
“Where’s Quin?” Smith asks, looking around the bar.
“Not sure. Don’t think he’s here yet. Kitty’s here though. She’s probably sitting with Rochelle right now.”
“What?” Smith asks, looking over towards the White Room, like he can see through walls or something. “What are they doing?”
“Talking?” I say. “I dunno. Whatever a grandma talks about with her granddaughter’s mother, I guess. I have no clue.”
“And you’re not worried about this?” Smith is giving me an incredulous look.
“Why would I worry?”
“He didn’t tell Kitty that the baby was his, did he?”
I shrug. “Who cares?”
“Because it’s not his kid, Bric. He can’t go telling Kitty that’s his kid.”
“Why not? It’s his mother. I don’t see the big deal.”
“She’s like… everyone’s mother. That’s not the point. The point is, Kitty knows she’s not my real mom, but she likes to mother me, right? And she knows you’re not her real son either. But what’s one more man to take care of in Kitty’s book? She knows Quin is her biological son. She treats him like a son. She doesn’t stay up nights wondering how I’m doing. She doesn’t want to have lunch with you every month. That’s stuff reserved for Quin. And I don’t want Kitty thinking that Adley, adorable as she is, is her blood. Because she’s not.”
“You don’t know that,” I say. He’s starting to get on my nerves.
“I do know that.”
“Look, the allergy doesn’t mean anything concrete. Lots of people have allergies and aren’t—”
“I’m not talking about the fucking allergy test, you idiot.” Smith is actually seething.
“Dude, what is your problem?”
“Rochelle, that’s my problem. I don’t want Kitty thinking that’s her granddaughter because I figured her out a long time ago. I know something about her you guys don’t.”
“About who? I’m so fucking confused.”
“Rochelle, you idiot. Did we ever ask her about her past?”
I think about it for a second because I’m almost positive we did. “I don’t know,” I decide. Because I can’t quite remember. “It was a long time ago. I’m sure we did.”
“We didn’t. And did you ever ask yourself why I really stopped associating with her?”
“You don’t like her. I think you’ve made that pretty clear.”
“Why don’t I like her, Bric?”
“Who knows. You hate everyone.”
“Not true. I love a lot of people. I just hate opportunists, Bric.”
“Like me,” I joke. I take another sip of my drink.
“It’s not funny, asshole. I have a pretty good idea what kind of person Rochelle really is and this stupid fucking game the three of you are playing is gonna turn very bad as soon as you pull your heads out of your asses and get that DNA test.”
“Why’s that?”
Smith and I both turn away from the bar to find Quin right behind us.
“What?” Smith says, playing dumb.
“Why would we regret playing this game if we got the DNA test? I just talked to you about this yesterday and you were all supportive and shit.”
“No,” Smith says. “I was evasive. And if you didn’t have your head up your ass, you’d have recognized that.”
“Evasive about what?” Quin asks. He looks as confused as I am.
“About your goddamned girlfriend. You don’t know anything about her, Quin. You never ask. Why the fuck do you let her get away with all this shit?”
“Hey,” I say, putting my hands up, trying to defuse the situation. “We’re not gonna do this again. Not here.”
“We’ve never actually done this,” Smith says. “I just keep minding my own business, hoping the two of you will finally come to your senses about this woman. She’s playing you assholes, Can’t you see that? I looked her up last year. Something you guys never bothered to do. But hey, who am I to interrupt someone’s fun, right? So I let that go. But then I fucking saw her last year—”
But my phone buzzes on the bar next to me and interrupts him. “Shit,” I say, looking down at the text. “We have a problem at the tea party.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight - Quin
“Saw her where?” I ask. But Bric is on his feet, already walking towards the White Room. Smith goes after him, so I have no choice but to follow. We push our way through the revolving doors just in time to see a woman throw a drink in Rochelle’s face. Some of it even lands on my mother. And Adley.
“What the fuck is going on here?” Bric bellows the words out so loud, the whole room lets out a shocked gasp.
The woman, who is so drunk she’s swaying, takes her fury to Bric. “This little cheating whore!” she yells. “She’s just like her mother. Just like her father. The disgusting deviant side in her comes naturally. She thinks she’s so much better than me? Well, let me tell you a little bit about Rochelle Bastille! She’s—”
But Bric has his hand over her mouth and is dragging her ass back towards the doors we just came through.
I walk over to Rochelle and take Adley from my mom. “Are you OK? What the hell was that?”
“I’m fine,” Rochelle says, wiping champagne off her face. I take my pocket square out of my suit coat and offer it to her. “Thanks,” she says, with a frustrated sigh. “And that was my father’s ex-mistress throwing a tantrum because Bric threatened to kick her sugar daddy out of the Club if she didn’t keep her trap shut about how she knows me.”
“How does she know you?” I ask. Smith’s words are still ringing in my head. You don’t know anything about her, Quin. You never ask. But then some guy in a gray suit starts dabbing my mother’s dress with a handkerchief. “And who the fuck are you?” I ask him.