“No, baby, we drank it. Sorry.” She grimaces.

“I’ll go order more,” Winter says, setting her wine glass down.

“No, sit,” I say, already standing. “I’ll go.”

Preston and Winter protest at the same time, insisting I’m paying for too much.

What the hell do I care? Money is money. I haven’t spent time with people like this in ages. I’m too busy with work to have much of a social life, save for the events I attend for work, but even then, conducting business and being my father’s golden boy is the only thing on the agenda.

The chumminess between the girls and Keith is fun. They genuinely love each other. There’s no competition or cattiness. They support each other and build each other up. Certainly not what I’ve witnessed in the circle of acquaintances I’ve been subjected to in New York.

And being able to have a drink with my oldest friend—probably my only friend—has been nice. I’ve missed our friendship. I even enjoy seeing him and Sondra together. Preston found someone who truly makes him happy, and it’s nice to see.

“Sit, sit, I’ve got it. Should we just do wine?” I ask Preston.

“Yeah, that’s perfect.”

Smoothing out my pants, I lift my eyes to Winter’s gaze traveling up my body. When she sees that I’m watching her, she snaps her attention to Keith.

Tsk, tsk, baby. You were quick, but not quick enough—I saw you.

Making my way to the bar, I spot my married friend Rebecca sitting at the end, sipping a glass of white wine. Her eyes find me immediately and she smiles, lifting her glass to me. I smile back, ambling toward her.

“Well, well, well. How are you, handsome?”

“I’m alive. You’re still here. This must be some business trip.”

She stands and lifts onto her toes, sliding her arms around my shoulders, pulling me into a hug. I hug her back, glancing at the table. Winter sips her wine, laughing at something Dottie has said, then lifts her eyes to me briefly, and back to Dottie.

Looking to amend our agreement, baby?

I’d be flattered if I didn’t think doing anything more—sexually—with this woman was a bad idea, wrapped in a terrible decision, laced with disaster. So I slide onto the stool next to Rebecca.

“Which one is she?” Rebecca asks.

“Who?”

“Did I tell you what I do for a living, Aleck?”

I shake my head and lift my finger to catch the bartender’s attention. “No, you didn’t.”

“I’m a therapist. I smell bullshit before it’s even been stepped in.”

“I once saw a therapist. I was about eleven. He suggested my fear of rejection stemmed from a fear of my penis. Conversely, my parents—my birth ones—starved me, beat me, and all but pimped me out to their friends for packs of cigarettes and laced doses of heroin. My penis was the last thing I was afraid of. And now it’s my favorite thing in existence. My point? Therapists are the most fucked up people of all. And I’m pretty sure that therapist was attempting to groom me. What’s your point?”