Page 18 of Turning Back

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.

Smith and I both get up at the same time. We’re surrounding her a second later, Smith holding on to her shoulders, asking her over and over again. “What’s happening, Chella? What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

I don’t say anything, and I don’t touch her. Just hover like a third wheel. Not allowed to touch her, Quin. But I want to. And when she reaches for me instead of Smith, I let it happen. I pull her in and let her hug me tight.

“Chella?” I ask. “What’s going on?”

Smith is there too, the three of us pressed together tightly. It hurts. God, it hurts. I’ve missed her. I’ve missed him too, if I’m being honest. But mostly I’ve missed… this.

The us.

“I don’t know how to tell you this,” Chella says, leaning her head on my shoulder. “I have no idea how to tell you this.”

“Tell me what?” I ask.

“Just say it,” Smith urges. “Tell me what the fuck is happening.”

“Rochelle is back,” Chella says.