by JA Huss
I’m still looking at the empty doorway where he disappeared when Bric comes out of the bathroom. “What the fuck happened to Smith?”
He just turned into my obsession.
That’s what happened.
Bric walks me up to my apartment on his way to work. He kisses me goodbye too, and I have to wonder about the jealousy thing. How do they not get insanely jealous of each other?
I wonder about this while I shower and get dressed for work. I’m still thinking about it when I take the elevator down and ask the valet to bring my car. I’d like to drive today. I’m tired of the chauffeur.
They must’ve had this kind of arrangement so many times, they’ve already made the mistakes and now they’ve got it all figured out. Maybe they do get jealous but they’re good at handling it?
I don’t think either of them are jealous of Quin. Because he’s not even interested in me. He feels like a friend-with-benefits kind of thing. He’s totally in love with Rochelle. Still. I know this with all my heart.
My car comes and I get in and start the short drive over to the 16th Street Mall.
Besides. I don’t think Bric was really into Rochelle. And Smith didn’t like her at all. So what’s to be jealous about?
Maybe they set it up that way on purpose? Quin said one of them usually leads and that person takes the Number One spot. It feels right. It feels like Smith and I are negotiating our way out of this arrangement. In fact, it has always felt that way. Since the very beginning. He’s been very insistent. Moving into my house? What the hell is up with that? And he did take me down to the Club last weekend. And fuck me. Totally within the rules, and yet… not. Not at all. I hardly think Bric and Quin would call that little move valid, since I wasn’t supposed to be downstairs at all in the first place. And they didn’t know I was there.
No. That was a total rule-breaker.
I pull into the garage, make my way over to my reserved space, and ease my car in.
I sit there for a moment, still trying to figure Smith out, and then decide I have no clue what that guy is about. Not one bit.
I turn my car off and get out, leaning back to grab my purse from the passenger seat. When I slam the door and turn around I come face to face with Jordan Wells, standing on the other side of the car next to mine.
“Hey,” he says, his voice low as he nervously looks around the parking garage.
I am so taken aback at being here with him, I… can’t talk.
“Sorry,” he says. “I don’t mean to unsettle you, Chella. It’s just… do you remember me?”
“Remember you?” I ask, finding my voice. “From…”
“From when we were kids?”
“Kids?” I repeat, sounding like an idiot.
“And the Club, of course. I was the one…” He looks around the garage again. “I was the one with Quin and Bric last weekend. You were up in the observation room, right? With Smith? I know you had a mask on, but… we’ve all seen you with him.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, deciding to feign ignorance.
“Chella.” He laughs. “It’s OK. I’m not going to tell anyone, I swear. I was on that fucking waiting list for five years before they let me in. I’m not about to get myself kicked out now. I just wanted to know if you remembered me? Because I remember you. From when we were kids.”
I search my memory for any recollection of this man. Where the fuck does he know me from? Which of the many, many fucked up times in my life did he witness?
“You came to my eighth birthday. And then I was at your ninth birthday party, remember?” he says.
I breathe out a long sigh of relief. Nine. Nine is OK. Nine, I repeat over and over in my head.
I have no clue who he is, nor do I remember him from any party other than the ones I’ve seen him at recently. “Sorry,” I say, shrugging. “I don’t remember. But don’t take it personally. I block out most of my childhood.”
“That’s OK,” Jordan says, coming around the side of his car. “Anyway, the reason I’m bothering you is because three years ago, when I got this assigned spot, you and I were here at the same time. Just like now,” he adds quickly. Like he needs to get all the words out as fast as possible. “And I said something so rude, it’s haunted me ever since. But you and I don’t work the same hours—days—whatever,” he says, lifting up his briefcase. “I’m a partner at Wells, Well, and Stratford. Couple blocks over. I work eighty-hour weeks. And you—” He laughs. “You don’t.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say.
He takes a deep breath. “That first day I parked here, I said, ‘I don’t care who had to die for me to get this spot, I’m happy I got it.’” He frowns. Deeply. “And then I got into work and found out… it was your mother’s parking spot. And she had just died.”
Relief floods through my whole body. I smile. Like, big. And Jordan, confused, smiles with me. “Oh, Jordan. I’m so sorry you’ve felt guilty about that. I don’t even remember that day, but even if I did, believe me. I wouldn’t have taken it the way you assumed.”
He exhales a long breath of relief. “I’m so sorry though. I’ve been sitting here for an hour and a half waiting for you. Determined to make this right now that I’ll be seeing you regularly at the Club. I just needed to get that off my chest. I didn’t want you to think I was an asshole. I’m not,” he says. “I’m really not.”
“An hour and a half?” I ask, still quite uncomfortable, but I’m getting a handle on it.
“Yeah, and you know, I’ve wondered about you a lot over the years.” I’m back to being weirdly uncomfortable and it must show on my face, because he amends quickly. “Not in a stalker way, Chella. Just… a curious way. I was only a kid. I thought you were pretty. And then one day you disappeared. It was just strange for me. Of course, I know now what happened.”
I might fall over and die.
“You went to boarding school. But I didn’t even know about boarding school until I was sixteen and my parents sent me away.” He laughs. “I was so clueless. Anyway. I’m glad I got a chance to apologize.” He points off to his left. “Wanna walk together?”
I point to the opposite direction, still trying to process. “I’m going that way,” I say.
“All right.” he says. “I’ll see you around the Club then, OK? Have a nice day.”
Jordan walks off. He might be… whistling. Happy about his cleared conscience.
I’m not whistling as I walk over to work.
I’m fighting off a panic attack.
Chapter Twenty-Seven - Smith
I’m just getting out of the shower when I hear the doorbell down on the first floor of Chella’s townhouse. What the fuck? I wrap a towel around my waist and walk over to the bedroom window that faces the front of the house. There’s a black car outside, idling at the curb.
I smile as I think about what this might mean.
Jesus Christ. Last night was the best fucking threesome I’ve ever been in. Ever. And it definitely wasn’t Bric, because he’s been with me for all of them.
I wonder if they want me to go to the party with them tonight and that’s why they dropped by?
Shit, I’m not even dressed. But if they’re asking, I’m going. And I don’t want them to change their minds, so I yank my trousers off a hanger and pull them on, then hop down the stairs two at a time just as the doorbell rings again.
I pull my zipper halfway up as I jog to the door, then disarm the alarm and pull it open. “You lost your fucking key, or you just want me—”
I stop mid-sentence.
“Excuse me?” Senator Walcott asks me.
“Uhhh…” I might be speechless. “Ummm…”
“Who are you?” he asks. “And where is Marcella?” He pushes past me. “Chella?” he calls up the stairs. “Chella?”
I stand there, looking out at the snow falling on the black car. What the fuck is happening?
“Is my daughter here or not?” Senator Walcott demands a few
seconds later.
I tap the door closed and spin around, trying to pull myself together. “No, sir. Sorry. She’s… uh, at a party tonight.” Not a lie.
“Who are you? And if she’s not here, why are you here?”
Shit.
“Do you live here?”
I look around to see how much evidence there is of my habitation. The entire dining room table—which seats twelve—is completely covered with files and papers. I’ve got two pairs of shoes in the hallway, and a t-shirt hanging over the arm of the couch. The kitchen is littered with dishes I haven’t bothered to put in the dishwasher, and if that wasn’t enough, the house sound system is playing I Wanna Be Sedated, by the Ramones. A song Chella would never—ever—listen to, let alone own in her music library.
“Yeah,” I reluctantly admit. “I’m really sorry, Senator. Chella didn’t mention you’d be coming for the holiday.”
“What is your name?” he snaps at me.
I get my shit together and extend my hand. “Smith,” I say. “Smith Baldwin. I’m very sorry, sir. I just wasn’t expecting you. And we have a party tonight.” Which really isn’t a lie.
“If you have a party tonight, then why aren’t you there with her?”
“I’m meeting her there. She got off work early and I…” I don’t fucking work, but that’s not something you tell your girlfriend’s father. “And I told her to just go ahead because the party is close to work.”
Shit. I’m five minutes from her work right now. I’m totally fucking this up.
“Why don’t I call her?” I ask, walking over to the messy dining room table to try to find my phone. “Yeah,” I say to myself. “I’m gonna get her on the phone… figure this out…” I find the phone under a pile of paperwork and press her contact. I smile at him as it rings, and rings, and rings… “She’ll pick up, don’t worry,’” I say, hoping.
He glares at me.
The call goes to voicemail so I spin around and say, “Sweetheart,” as I cup my hand over the phone. “Your father is here. At home. Call me back.” I end the call and turn around to face him again. “I’m sure the music is just loud and she’ll see the message in a minute.”
I put my hands in my pockets, realize when they drop below my waist that I’m still unbuttoned—and I have no shirt on. I clear my throat. “So how long are you in town for?”
Senator Walcott just purses his lips at me, checks his watch, and then pulls out his own phone. “I’ll call her.”
But just as he says that, my phone buzzes. “Hello?” I say, smiling at him again.
“What the hell?” Chella asks.
“Your dad is here, Chella. At home. I’m here with him. At our house. He’s… a… You should talk to him.” I hand him the phone and he walks off, speaking as he goes.
What the fuck? Why didn’t she tell me he was coming to town? I would’ve crashed at the Club for a few nights.
I button my pants, grab the dirty t-shirt from the couch and pull it over my head.
Senator Walcott comes back just as I’m doing that. “We’re meeting her at the restaurant.”
“We are?” I ask. “For…”
“Dinner?” her dad snaps.
Jesus Christ. He’s kind of a dick. I almost laugh at my blasphemy, since he is pretty religious. I don’t know him, but I know of him. “Oh, OK. I’m cool with dinner. Where we going?”
“Get dressed, Baldwin. We’re already late. And turn that music off.”
Right. I hit the off switch for the music as I hop up the stairs, hoping he won’t follow me. Because I don’t know how to explain the fact that I’m sleeping in a guest room and not the master.
But I don’t have to worry about it. When I get back downstairs, put together and my normally settled self, back in full swing, he’s standing in the kitchen drinking a glass of my nine-hundred-dollar-a-bottle Scotch as he talks business on his cell phone.
I wait patiently as he finishes his call. When he hangs up he looks me up and down like I’m cattle.
I’m a damn good catch, I think in my head. He can look all he wants. I’m not a chump.
Except I don’t think he agrees with my self-assessment.
Why do I care? I’m really not the kind of guy you bring home to your parents and all that good shit. But I’m not a chump.
He waves his hand at me, signaling we’re leaving now, and then heads towards the front door. “You’re riding with me, Baldwin. Chella says she has her car and I should bring you.”
“Did she now?” I mutter under my breath as I grab my coat off a bar stool. I bet she’s thoroughly enjoying the fact that I’m stuck with her father right now.
I wonder what Bric thinks about all this? I lock up the house and follow him out in to the snow. He gets in the back-passenger side, so I have to walk around and get in the driver’s side. We close our doors at the same time, and then Walcott says, “The Palm, Clarence,” talking to the driver. “I don’t get home to Colorado much anymore,” he says, looking out the window.
“Right. Chella mentioned that. We weren’t expecting you for Christmas.”
“I’m only here for one night, Baldwin. So don’t bother marking your territory.”
I raise an eyebrow at him.
“I won’t interfere with your plans.”
“Well.” I clear my throat, trying to process this man. “That’s not what I was insinuating. I’m sure Chella is thrilled you’re here.”
“I’m sure she is. But as I said, I won’t be staying.”
“Got it,” I growl.
Thankfully, the Palm is right downtown, so I endure a seven-minute silence as we fight our way through snow and holiday traffic. We’re dropped off just outside the restaurant and Walcott doesn’t even wait for me to walk around the car, just enters the building, me trailing behind him.
I’m kinda pissed off by this point, and wondering if she’s still with Bric, since it is his night. But then I see Chella, alone, dressed up in a black dress I’m sure she’s wishing she didn’t wear tonight, because her tits look fucking fantastic in it.
I smile, forgetting all about her dick of a dad as I walk up to her, slide my arm around her waist, and pull her close as I whisper, “I love this dress,” and then kiss her.
It’s not a sloppy I’m-gonna-fuck-you-later kiss, even though I really want to piss her dad off with one of those. Just a nice one. Which makes her smile.
“So,” she says, fake smile all over her face. “You’ve met my dad. How special.”
I nod. “Yup. So nice of him to drop by. I was afraid I wouldn’t have your full attention tonight with that party.” And then I look at the senator. “But now we don’t have to go. You saved us from a boring night of hell, Henry. I owe you for that.” I wink at him just to thrust that knife in a little farther.
“OK,” Chella says. “Dad, I know you’ve met, but this is Smith. We’ve recently started a relationship.”
“And he’s living with you already?” her father blurts. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”
“Excuse me?” I say, pulling Chella behind me a little so I can look this piece of shit in the eyes. “She’s not,” I say in a low voice. “But even if she were, she’s a grown woman, Walcott. And she would tell her father about it when she was good and goddamned ready.”
“Senator,” a woman says, obviously uncomfortable with the tone of our conversation. “We have your table ready. Would you like to follow me?”
He stares daggers at me for a second longer than is polite, and I stare back. He can be a big old dick to me all he wants. But I won’t let him talk to Chella that way. Not while I’m around. And especially not in public.
Chella sighs as her father follows the woman. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers as we walk. “I had no idea he was going to show up. He told me he couldn’t make it for Christmas, so I naturally assumed—”
“Shh,” I hush her as we walk. “You don’t need to make excuses for him to me, Chella. I’ll handle this.”
W
e’re seated at a table for four next to a window and settle in, handing our coats over to the wait staff, who are over-eager to please the senator. His reputation for being an asshole precedes him.
After the server tells us the specials, we look at the menu in silence. I reach under the table and grab Chella’s hand.
She shots me a look of panic and shakes her head, mouthing, Stop it, at me.
But I shoot her a lopsided grin that says I’m absolutely not interested in backing down from this one.
“So,” Walcott asks, once we’ve ordered. “What do you do, Mr. Baldwin?”
“Dad.” Chella laughs. “Smith Baldwin?” she asks him, incredulous that he doesn’t know who I am.
“I’m talking to your friend, Marcella. I’m sure he can speak for himself?” He gives her a glare so ominous, I feel her wilt next to me.
I squeeze her hand harder. She doesn’t squeeze back.
“Nothing,” I say, answering his question.
“Excuse me?” her stunned father replies.
“I don’t do anything, Senator. I don’t have a job.”
He has the smuggest look on his face when he turns to Chella with raised eyebrows. “Not exactly cream of the crop, is he?”
“Actually, Senator Walcott, I am the cream of the crop. I don’t have a job because I’m richer than God, sir. I’m worth forty-seven billion dollars, to be exact. And my mission in life is to give it all away.”
“Really?” Chella asks, turning away from her father and towards me.
“Really,” I say, taking time out from the Mexican standoff her father and I are having to smile at her bewildered face. “It never came up.” I shrug. “So I didn’t bother mentioning it.”
“Giving it away?” her father asks, his temper tempered. “What does that mean?”
“Well,” I say, scratching the stubble on my face that I forgot to shave. “I don’t have a job because I don’t have time for one. I spend my days looking for people who need help. Sometimes that’s a corporation that I feel can make a difference. Sometimes it’s a non-profit. Sometimes it’s just a single mother who needs a hand up. You see, I give out one point six billion dollars every year and it’s not as easy as it sounds to spend that much money, Senator. At least for private-sector people like myself. I’m sure you government types could find a good war to spend that on, but that’s a conversation for another night.”
