by JA Huss
“Sure,” I say. Rochelle gets up, shushing Adley as she walks down the hall to try to keep her asleep.
I don’t want to lose them. I don’t want to lose Bric either, but I’m willing to give him up for them. I need this to work out in my favor. I really do. Because if it doesn’t… if it doesn’t, I see a really fucked-up life in my future. A future that validates all the preconceived notions I have about myself. A future that validates the reason I started playing this game with Bric and Smith in the first place.
It might ruin me.
I get up and walk towards Adley’s room, listening to Rochelle talking quietly to the baby. She’s a good mother. She’s the perfect girlfriend too. We have argued more recently than we did in the past, but we had big problems. We talked through them. We got over them. And yes, Bric was a big part of that. I’m gonna be thankful for his help, no matter what.
But they’re mine. He has to know that. He has to.
Rochelle walks to the door, slides them closed, and smiles at me. “What are you doing?” she asks, coming forward to press her head into my chest and wrap her arms around my middle.
“Thinking about how much I love you guys. What a great mom you are.”
She leans back so she can look up at my face. “You have no idea how much that means to me.”
“I can guess,” I say, wrapping my arms around her too.
“Now tell me why you really came home early.”
She knows me. She gets me. That’s the reason I fell in love with her in the first place. And I know her. I get her too. We get each other.
“I wanted some time alone with you,” I confess. “Both of you, really. Just the three of us. But I’m not afraid to say, I’m kinda happy Ads is sleeping.” I stop hugging her, take her hand and lead her towards the bedroom. “Because I’d be lying if I said I don’t want you all to myself. I don’t want to share you, Rochelle.” I look over my shoulder as we enter the bedroom, then, once she’s inside, I slide the doors closed.
“You don’t want to share?” she asks. Hesitantly.
And I’m not sure if that means she’s hesitant for what that means for Bric. Or if she’s happy I have finally been able to admit this to her. To myself.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t feel like sharing anymore.” She’s wearing a thick cable-knit sweater, which I begin to unbutton.
She blushes like a girl as I do this. And when I slip the sweater down her arms and let it fall to the floor, she lowers her head, like she’s embarrassed. She stands there like that. Her bra is pink and made of cotton and not black and made of lace. Something sweet. Something a girl would wear. It feels so much like a beginning, I want to die.
“Undress me,” I whisper. “Slowly. So I can enjoy it.” So it feels like it used to, I don’t add. But that’s what I mean. We used to have all these moments together. No one else to think about. No one else to interfere.
We wasted our beginning on doubts and fear. We pretended our way through a two-night-a-week relationship. But it’s just not enough. None of what we’ve been doing will ever be enough for me.
She takes off my tie. Tugs my shirt up out of my pants and starts unbuttoning from the top down. When she gets to the last button, her hands slip inside my shirt and she presses her palms against my skin as she slides them around my back. She leans in. Sighs into my bare chest.
“I’ve been waiting for this for a very long time, Quin Foster.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, reaching down to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear so I can see part of her face. “I have loved you for so fucking long, Rochelle Bastille. None of that has changed. My feelings for you have not changed. It’s how I feel about myself that’s changed.”
She pulls back and takes off my cufflinks. Sets them on the dresser. Makes my shirt slide down my arms. Unbuckles my belt. Looks up and gives me a shy smile.
Yes, I decide. This is definitely a beginning.
She unbuttons me. Unzips me. I do the same to her. And then we take off the rest of our clothes and face each other.
Naked. Stripped bare. Nothing to hide.
“We’re gonna make it,” I say.
“I know, Quin.”
I lead her over to the bed and sit down. She climbs onto my lap and holds me tight.
We sit there for a little bit. Just enjoying each other. We’re not in a rush. There is no hurry. So we take our time. We kiss. We touch. And when we’ve had enough of that, I lie back on the bed and she straddles my hips. Puts me inside her.
My cock slides in and fills her up. She closes her eyes and moans as she begins to move. Rocking her hips. Pressing into me and leaning forward so she can rub her clit across my lower stomach.
I place her hands on my chest. Flat. One of them over my heart so she knows how much I like this.
I make love to her. Slowly. I burn each moment into my brain. This is us. This is what’s real. There’s no game. There’s no rules. There’s no doubts.
We’re in love.
Chapter Twenty-Six - Rochelle
Chella’s Tea Room is a contradiction in style. On the one hand, it’s very opulent and luxurious. Just like the Club next door. But on the other hand, it’s old-fashioned and comfortable. The floors are made of perfectly polished rustic wood. Maybe even reclaimed wood. They are distressed and beautiful. Most of the tables are small and square, with four comfy, over-stuffed chairs placed around them. Some tables are rectangles and have couches along the long ends. The fabrics are all different, but all are some variation of yellow and white. There are more than a dozen crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceilings, and each of them is different. They are antiques, I realize. One wall is lined with distressed china cabinets that all hold eclectic sets of white china.
It says lazy, summer afternoons—not dirty, dark nights. If I were to design a tea room in my head, it would look just like this.
The place is packed. I recognize some of the ladies. They are Club wives and Club mistresses whom I’ve seen over the years. I’m not friends with any of them, and this is very clear when we come in because everyone—I do mean everyone—stops talking to gawk at me.
I take a deep breath and kiss Adley’s head. We’re dressed up like spring today. She’s wearing a tiered pink chiffon dress with long, cream-colored lace sleeves, off-white leggings, and furry pink booties. I’m in a long dress as well. Vintage-looking, just like Adley’s. My old style, updated, I realize.
I haven’t lost myself. It makes me feel good.
The sun is shining through the tall windows that face the street, making the room the perfect illusion of a lighter season.
Chella comes up to us with her hands outstretched, looking sophisticated and fabulous, as usual. But also approachable and casual. Her wide-legged winter-white trousers are paired with a matching double-breasted jacket with rhinestone buttons that reflect the light from the chandeliers above. It’s got a little flare at her waist, making her look powerful and feminine at the same time.
“You made it,” she says, kissing my cheek and running her fingers through Adley’s silky blonde wavy hair. “And you two look gorgeous.”
“Thanks,” I say, still looking around with uneasiness. “Everyone is staring at me.” And whispering, I don’t add. Because that makes me sound paranoid.
“Just jealous, sweetness. That’s all. You own the hearts and minds of the two most eligible bachelors in this town.”
Yes. I guess I do.
“Come on, I have a special table set up in back for you and the little princess.”
I follow Chella through the maze of tables and people. Some are sitting down, but many of them are standing and they make no attempt to hide the fact that they are staring at me as we pass.
We are led to a table near the revolving door that leads to Turning Point. There are already four people sitting at the table, none of whom I recognize.
“Rochelle,” Chella says, stopping at the head of the table to smile. “These are my friends from the gall
ery. Michell and Kathryn.”
“Hi,” I say, hitching Adley up on my hip. They greet me with pleasant hellos, which makes me feel better. At least I’m not stuck at some table with a bunch of Club women.
“And this is an old friend of mine, Darrel. He used to be my security detail when I was younger.”
A man wearing a light gray suit, probably in his late thirties, stands, bows, and then says, “Very nice to finally meet you, Miss Bastille.”
Oh. Well, I guess that means they’ve been talking about me, because Chella never said my last name. No awkwardness there. “Pleasure,” I say. “And this is Adley,” I say, looking down at her.
“Oh,” the other woman says. She’s older, maybe fifties? Sixties? “I would recognize her anywhere.”
“What?” I laugh nervously.
“This is Kitty Foster,” Chella says with a wide smile. “Quin’s mother.”
Holy fucking shit. You have got to be kidding me. I look at Chella, ready to bolt. But she places a hand on my arm and smiles. Even bigger, if that’s possible. “Rochelle, she’s been dying to meet you. Apparently, Quin has talked quite a bit about you over the past week.”
“This baby!” Kitty Foster says, standing up and coming over to us. She is tall and slim and dressed up for a tea party. “She’s adorable! May I hold her?” Kitty already has her arms outstretched, so what I can say?
“Sure.” I smile. I’m secretly hoping Adley will get fussy, but nope. Her happy personality shines right through my discomfort.
Adley coos up at Quin’s mother. She coos right back at her and takes her seat again.
I take my seat as well, and everyone resumes their conversations. Except Kitty Foster. She’s too busy to deal with anyone else. She’s dressed up like a… I try my best to give it a name. It’s a style I recognize. Very vintage, which is cool. 1920’s, I decide. She even has one of those floppy lace hats on her head. Garden party—that’s her costume. And it’s definitely a costume Something I’d wear. Her dress is pale pink, made of silk chiffon with a pretty lace bodice and a large clasp—maybe rhinestones, but if I know Quin, it’s diamonds—at her waist. She and Adley match, I realize.
Isn’t that special.
There’s a high chair next to me, but it goes unused. Because Kitty has no intention of giving my daughter back until she’s forced.
“I am one lucky grandma!” Kitty exclaims.
This is just fucking great. Does she know what kind of relationship Quin and I are in? Did he tell her Adley is his? He was so certain before that allergic reaction to the mango. But now… I think all of us are having serious doubts about that.
“Have you been enjoying your time in Denver again?” the man named Darrel asks.
“What?” I say, still preoccupied with my new… mother-in-law? Maybe? Kinda? Sorta? “Oh, yes. It’s nice to be back.”
“You know,” Kitty says, leaning in my direction, “she looks just like Quin when he was a baby.”
“Does she?” I ask. I’m so uncomfortable right now. I have no idea what to say to that.
“I bet you’ll grow up to be just like him,” she squeals at Adley. Adley, to my dismay, is eating it all up. She is cooing, and babbling, and performing for her… grandma… God help me. “His father was so proud of him.”
“Oh?” I say, paying more attention. I guess this is a good opportunity to get more personal info on Quin. I should enjoy it while I can. Quin has never talked about his family life. I have no real idea who he was before we met. “What was Quin like as a child?”
“Perfect,” Kitty says between coos at Adley. “He was a good eater, a good sleeper, and he loved everyone.”
“Well, Adley is like that too.” I laugh. “She’s definitely a people person. So where do you live?” I ask.
“Oh, we still live in the same house Quin grew up in. If you bring this bundle of sweetness over sometime, I will show you his childhood bedroom.”
“Oh, Lord,” I say, smiling as I imagine that. “I bet I’d learn a lot about him from that.”
“Indeed, you would, young lady.” Kitty says, with what might be genuine affection for… me. She likes me? Even though I’m in a plural relationship with her son? She cannot know about that. Can she? No, I decide. Absolutely not.
“All his baseball trophies are still lined up on the shelves and his debate awards are all framed on the walls. In fact,” she says, turning towards me, taking her attention off Adley for a moment, “it’s the exact same bedroom set we bought back when he was eight.” She shakes her head, like she can’t even begin to imagine where the time went. “Our house hasn’t changed much. He’s got that fancy place in downtown now, but he came from humble beginnings.”
“Really?” I ask. Why have I always thought of Quin as a trust-fund kid?
“Yes. I think he’s embarrassed to bring you home and that’s why he hasn’t.”
I highly doubt that’s why he’s too embarrassed to bring me home. But I don’t say anything.
“Our house in North Denver is so small. Just two bedrooms. But that’s all we needed. We had each other.”
“Hmm,” I say.
“And he went to the local public school until junior high when he got that scholarship.”
“Scholarship?” I ask.
“Yes,” Kitty says, in between kisses to Adley’s cheeks. Those make my daughter squeal with delight. “He worked so hard to get that place at the school. And then his whole life changed. He met Bric, and Smith. And just look at him now. So successful and important.”
“Yes, he is,” I say, absently.
“I’m so proud of him.”
“Yes,” I say. “Me too. Quin is one of the good ones.”
“He is,” Kitty says, looking poignantly at me. “I always worried that he’d inherit too much of his father and not enough of me. But it was silly. He is my boy, through and through. He never complained about church, even though I never made him go with me. He was always polite and well-mannered. Helping the older single ladies on the street whenever they needed their lawn mowed. He still does that.” Kitty chuckles. “Every summer he mows Mrs. Jolenki’s lawn. And never takes a dime from her. Not even when he was a teenager. She pays him in homemade casseroles to this day.”
Kitty Foster talks about Quin for long stretches of time. We are served tea and champagne and she is telling me how he ran the church bakery booth for her when he was fourteen. They sold so many pastries, the church got new desks for the office that year.
By the time we’re done eating tiny cakes and cookies from the triple-tiered pastry stands, most of the women in the room are well on their way to drunk and I’ve learned that Quin was an Eagle Scout, sang in the church choir, and spent two weeks every summer building houses for underprivileged families until he was seventeen.
What the hell is happening?
All this time I thought he was like Smith, and Bric, and… me. Wounded. Damaged. Ruined.
But he’s not. He’s… normal.
And if we’re not the same… then we’re different.
If we’re not two fucked-up people just trying to fake their way through a fucked-up life… if we’re not in this together, then who are we?
And that’s when I see her. The mistress. The woman from the mansion party the other night.
And she’s walking straight for me.
Chapter Twenty-Seven - Bric
“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 smi
le 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—”