"What if something happened to her?" Quin asks.

"Like what? She wasn't into anything I know of that might put her in danger. She's just one of those free-spirit girls, Quin. The flighty ones, you know? Not the type to stick around long."

"Three years?" Quin says, his voice loud and filled with disbelief. "I'd call a three-year relationship sticking the fuck around, Bric."

"I'm just trying to be nice," I say.

"Well, don't bother. It's not helping."

The doors open and Quin can't exit fast enough. He hooks left and the sentry standing guard to Smith's private bar on the second floor is quick to detach the black velvet rope to let him enter.

I follow and take a seat next to him at Smith's usual table overlooking the Black Room down below. I snap my fingers for the bartender and say, "Something good, please. Quickly."

He brings a bottle of Hors d'Age Dupeyron and two snifters, no ice. I pour the drinks myself and then push a glass towards Quin with one finger.

He's not even paying attention to me. He's looking down at the party, lost in thought. Questions. He has to have so many questions.

I have questions too, but I'm not very interested in the answers.

So she left? Who cares. I think Smith had a point. It was getting boring. It was getting old. We've never had a game going for three years before. It was probably just time to call it quits. It's not like we even played by the rules anymore. We kept our days sacred, but nothing else. I'm with Smith, I decide. I'm glad she's gone.

But I can't say any of this to Quin.

"We talked about it the last time we met."

"Talked about what?" I ask, then take a sip of my drink.

"Leaving."

"Her?" I ask. "Or you? Or the both of you?"

"Both of us."

"What the fuck, Quin?" It pisses me off. "You were gonna skip out on us? And you didn't think to mention it?"

He looks at me and frowns. "It was just talk, you know? I like her. I like her a lot, actually." Love her is more like it. I've known him long enough to tell. "But it's a big decision to walk out on what we have."

"It is," I say, setting my glass down and letting out a long breath. I look down at the party too. Lucinda is flanked by her husband on one side and Jordan Wells on the other. He's new and eager. And young. Not even thirty yet.

But... they will end up downstairs together tonight. I can tell. Reading people is a skill I've honed over the years. The club is closed tonight for Lucinda's private party, but it is her party and she can fuck whoever she wants. She gets to do that downstairs. Just her, and her guests, and her choices-as long as her husband is there. Because she's a guest here as well. Her husband, Clark, is the member.

But Lucinda isn't the type to step out on him, so I don't even bother worrying about it. There are more important things right now. Like Quin.

"Look," I say. "I don't think you should take this the wrong way."

"How should I take it?" Quin lifts his snifter and drinks. A long sip. Not how you drink a good brandy.

"Maybe... I don't know. It's not personal, Quin. That's the whole point, right? It's not personal. It's a game, it's pleasure, it's arranged, and safe, and satisfying. She didn't join us for you and she didn't leave us for you."

Quin is silent again. People are laughing down below. Good times. Fun times. Some of the guests have cleared out, gone downstairs to find a space to watch the show. But plenty of them still remain.

I wonder if Smith will go down there later? I'll go if he does, but Lucinda is a little tame for my tastes. I'm not sure she's worth staying up all night to watch, to be honest.

The elevator door dings. Quin and I both redirect our gaze to find Smith and the new girl stepping out onto the landing.

The first thing I notice are her eyes. They dart back and forth, giving off a nervous vibe. Her hand is clutching Smith's arm, and even though Smith is walking forward, she freezes, makes him stop. Pulls him back.

Smith leans down into her neck and whispers something. Her eyes dart up to his. Caught in his trap.

"Do you fucking see that?" Quin asks.

"It's pretty hard to miss." I scan the party to see if anyone has noticed Smith's appearance yet, but they are all still busy fluttering around Lucinda, looking for attention.

"She's wearing Rochelle's coat," Quin says.

I redirect my gaze back to Smith. "And the dress I bought her for that Christmas party last year." I'm pretty sure those shoes belong to Rochelle too. I'm pretty sure I bought them for her.

The girl-no, woman, I realize. Older than Rochelle by a few years, at least. Maybe thirty? Thirty-two? The woman is pretty. Maybe even more than pretty. Her long dark hair is draped over her shoulders. Her skin is fair-in fact, she looks quite pale. Her face is sweet. The face of someone who grew up beautiful.

Smith is still talking to her. She is nodding her head. Biting her lip.

"Don't do that," Smith says. "Don't bite your lip. Don't look at anyone. Ignore the people and the party. This will all be over in a few minutes."

"Hey," I call out. They are only about twenty feet away and the din of the party down below is enough to keep any guests from overhearing. "Do you want me to take it from here?"

Smith looks right at me, probably pissed off that Quin and I are sitting at his table without him. "No."

I shrug. Sip my brandy. And scoot a little closer to the edge of the ledge so I can watch the show that's about to happen.

A moment later, when the woman in the red dress is collected and steadied, they descend the stairs slowly and deliberately. The way Smith does everything.

"What the fuck is he doing?" Quin asks. "Why the hell is she dressed up like that?"

"I can only assume her clothes weren't dress code-appropriate and he improvised."

"I don't like it," Quin says.

"He doesn't care," I reply, absently. The party almost goes silent when people notice Smith and the woman. Not quite. There's music and people in the Black Room can't see him yet, so it's only the grand lobby that shuts up. But it's enough to be noticeable.

Lucinda is first to approach. "Smith." I can't really hear her soft greeting, but I can read her lips. "I didn't think you were here." He kisses her on both cheeks, leaning in the way he does. Probably to say happy birthday. And Lucinda smiles, pulls back, and studies the woman on Smith's arm. "Who's this? Is she your date? I was hoping..." She trails off.

We all know what she was hoping.

"I've got to take my date home, Lucinda. I'm sorry, I'll probably miss the opening scene. But I'll be back later." Smith's voice is easily heard. The entire club is watching now.

"Do you promise?" she asks, hurt and disappointed.

"Promise," Smith says, using that charming smile he's mastered over the years. "Don't wait for me though. I'll find you later."

"Jesus Christ," Quin says, grabbing his snifter of brandy and downing the rest of it. "What kind of drugs is Lucinda on? He's not coming back for her."

"He'll be back," I say, watching Smith work the crowd as he makes his way to the front of the lobby. The staff at the door are busy, trying to get the car up to the curb before he reaches them. He hates to wait. They know that much. "If he wasn't interested in the afterparty he'd have never showed up at all."

By the time Smith and the woman make their way to the front podium where the White Room maitre d' stands, quietly barking orders at the valet men, a coat-check girl is helping Smith with his coat.

A few seconds later they disappear into the snow.

Quin sighs.

"She was pretty," I say. "Don't you think?"

"She certainly looked good in Rochelle's clothes. Does that mean... Do you think Rochelle left everything behind?"

"I don't know," I say. But it's a lie. We both know she did.

"Do you think it means she's coming back?"

"If she does," I say, "we won't be keeping her."

"Fuck," Quin says, standing up. "I'm going upstairs."

I grab him by the sleeve of his jacket and stand as well. "You're going home," I say. "She left, Quin. It's over. You're not staying up there."

"She could come back," Quin says, shrugging off my grip. "Maybe this woman was some kind of kink? You know? Maybe Rochelle stepped out to get something?"

"What?" I laugh. "You actually think Rochelle brought that woman upstairs to fuck? With you? And then she forgot she needed condoms? Went to the drug store to pick some up? Is this something the two of you do?"

"No," Quin admits.

"She left, Quin. I'm sorry. I liked her too. It was fun for a while. The fact that it lasted as long as it did is a small miracle. But it's over now. You're going home, we're gonna clear that apartment out, and we'll decide what to do next together. Do you understand?"

Quin doesn't answer me. Just walks out. I watch him as he descends the stairs. He stops to talk to Lucinda, who has her hands all over his body, something she wouldn't dare do to Smith. But Quin is easy-going. Doesn't mind being touched. Enjoys it, actually. His smile is forced as he makes his polite, parting conversation. And by the time he's finished, the coat-check girl is ready for him.

He steps out into the snow as well.

I wait a few minutes. Sip my drink. Watch Lucinda choose Jordan as her guest of honor downstairs. Probably because of the fact that he's new. I stand up as they make their way towards the back of the lobby where the sentries stand guard in front of the other elevator. The one that goes down instead of up.

I'm not going. Not yet. But I would like to go upstairs and check out Rochelle's apartment real fast before Smith gets back. I don't think Quin looked around too much. I think he was in shock. And if Rochelle left anything behind I need to know about, I'd like to find it before he does.

A few minutes later I'm standing in the living room. The decor has a Bohemian flair. Crushed velvet couch, soft yellow in color. Too many pillows to count. Long, heavy drapes in the darkest purple you can imagine. The coffee table is a clunky thing. The kitchen is neat and tidy. It has a French-country feel to it. Distressed yellow cabinets and butcher-block counters.

The four-poster takes up most of the bedroom. It's massive and Rochelle has long draperies hanging from the canopy at each corner.

I spy the new girl's clothes on a chair and decide Smith had no choice but to dress her up. Jeans. Shearling boots. She couldn't have come up through the front, which means Rochelle sneaked her in the back. Hid her.

And the woman went along. I guess that's the part that troubles me the most. Why the hell did she go along with this? Why did she let Quin fuck her? Did Rochelle tell her about our arrangement? Did she set us up with a new girl? So we'd forget all about her and leave her alone? Did she think we wouldn't leave her alone?

The last question bothers me. Why would she go through all this when she knows we'd never follow her? We'd never look. It's part of the rules. And yeah, we bent some of the rules. But leaving is sacred. If a girl wants out, she leaves. No discussion is required, or wanted, if I'm being honest.

I spend another five minutes checking for a message. An envelope with our names on it or something that might give me a clue as to what just happened. And more importantly, why?

It's not like I really care that she's gone. I'm not attached to her. I like her. She played the game well enough for me. But why bring that woman into it?

Rochelle has to have talked. Has to have told her what to expect once Quin came up here. Has to have explained our arrangement.

Which begs another question. Who the fuck is that woman? And more importantly, what does she want? Will she try to blackmail us?

I shake my head. Conspiracy theories abound. But I'm not really a conspiracy theory kind of guy. So I let it go. I leave, go back down to Smith's room. Sit at his table. And wait.

A good thirty minutes later he walks back in. The lobby has cleared out by now. Everyone has gone either home or downstairs.

Smith shrugs off his coat, looks up at me as he's relieved of it. And then he's passing the sentries as they hold open the black velvet rope and walking up the stairs.

"Well?" I say, when he enters the bar and takes a seat across from me where Quin was sitting. I'm in his chair and I know that pisses him off. But it has the best view. "What happened?"

"I really wanted to fuck her in the car." He says this while he fills the snifter the bartender has placed in front of him and takes a drink.

"Why?" I ask. Trying to think it through rationally.

He shrugs. "She's dirty, I can tell. I played with her pussy in the closet and she got wet. She sucked my finger like it was a cock." He shrugs again. "She's new and shiny. And it's been a while since I had a fuck. So it crossed my mind. Are you going downstairs?"

"Are you going downstairs?" I ask, cocking an eyebrow.

"If you're gonna play, I'm not staying behind. Are you gonna play?" He takes a long sip of his brandy, his heavy-lidded eyes trained on mine.

"Probably," I say.

"Well, then," he says, standing up. "Let's go."

I follow him out of the bar, then downstairs. We wait at the back-lobby elevator. "Did you get her name?" I ask.

"Nope," he says.

I nod as the elevator doors open.

We step inside and descend.

Chapter Four - Chella.

I met Rochelle Bastille about six months ago. I say about, because I'm not really sure when she first appeared in my life. The only thing I know for certain is that I first noticed her last July while I was at Buskerfest at Union Station. She was one of the street performers. A strikingly beautiful girl, but not in any of the classical ways that I often notice.

She was like a throwback from the Sixties. Long, straight, dirty-blonde hair with flowers weaved through braids on either side of her head that ended up as a chain of daisies.