Taking Turns (Turning #1) - J.A. Huss

Contents Taking Turns DESCRIPTION Chapter One - Quin Chapter Two - Smith Chapter Three - Bric Chapter Four - Chella Chapter Five - Quin Chapter Six - Chella Chapter Seven - Smith Chapter Eight - Bric Chapter Nine - Chella Chapter Ten - Quin Chapter Eleven - Smith Chapter Twelve - Chella Chapter Thirteen - Quin Chapter Fourteen - Chella Chapter Fifteen - Bric Chapter Sixteen - Chella Chapter Seventeen - Bric Chapter Eighteen - Chella Chapter Nineteen - Chella Chapter Twenty - Smith Chapter Twenty-One - Chella Chapter Twenty-Two - Quin Chapter Twenty-Three - Chella Chapter Twenty-Four - Bric Chapter Twenty-Five - Chella Chapter Twenty-Six - Chella Chapter Twenty-Seven - Smith Chapter Twenty-Eight - Chella Chapter Twenty-Nine - Smith Chapter Thirty - Chella Chapter Thirty-One - Bric Chapter Thirty-Two - Quin Chapter Thirty-Three - Smith Chapter Thirty-Four - Quin Chapter Thirty-Five - Bric Chapter Thirty-Six - Smith Chapter Thirty-Seven - Chella Chapter Thirty-Eight - Smith Chapter Thirty-Nine - Bric Chapter Forty - Chella Chapter Forty-One - Smith Chapter Forty-Two - Quin

Chapter Forty-Three - Chella Epilogue - Bric END OF BOOK SHIT About the Author

By J A Huss Edited by RJ Locksley Copyright © 2017 by J. A. Huss All rights reserved. ISBN-978-1-944475-16-1 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

DESCRIPTION

Chella plays the game of Taking Turns with three men as she comes to terms with her sexuality. I’ve never been afraid of the dark...but that doesn’t mean I wanted to live in it. And maybe everyone wants what they can’t have, but I should’ve thought it over before I accepted the key and unlocked the door to their forbidden world. Number One is mostly silent. He watches me with them very carefully. His gaze never wanders. His interest never wanes. Number Two is mostly gentle. But it’s the other side of him I like best. The wild side. Number Three is mostly reserved. He refuses to cross the line. Even when I beg. It was carnal, it was sensual, and it was erotic. That’s it. That’s all it was supposed to be. A trip into the dark. A peek into the forbidden. I just didn’t expect to like them.

Chapter One - Quin

From the outside, Turning Point Club looks like any other historical downtown brownstone mansion. The only thing really worth noting about it is the extra-wide revolving door made out of frosted glass— and that’s not even original. But the moment you step inside, the surreal quality of the atmosphere, the opulent luxury, and the security standing at the door quickly adjust your perception. “Mr. Foster.” The greeting comes from the formally attired doorman. He tips his head at me as I enter. “Can I take your coat, Mr. Foster?” the hostess says. It’s a rhetorical question. She is already slipping it down my arms. “Thank you,” I mumble, side-stepping a crowd of club members having a conversation in the two-story foyer. “Where’s—” But before I can get the last word out, I see Bric in the Black Room off to my right. He’s got his arm around the reason this party is happening tonight. Lucinda Chatwell is turning forty. We do business with her husband, and he’s a member, so it’s a ladies’ night. Not something I’m interested in, but Bric, ever the host, looks like he might actually be enjoying himself. He’s joking with a group of formally dressed men and women who surround him and hang on his every word like he’s the whole world. He catches my gaze and gives me a slight nod. I stand there for a moment, watching him. He leans into Lucinda’s ear to whisper a secret that makes her throw her head back and laugh. The crowd I’m in looks over and laughs with her. “I need a drink,” I say to no one in particular. “Mr. Baldwin is at his table,” the hostess says. “Would you like to join him?” I look up to the second floor and see Smith staring back at me. I don’t nod at him. “Yeah, sure.” “One moment, Mr. Foster.” The hostess whispers into the almost invisible wireless mic that wraps down her cheek and then smiles at me. “They’re expecting you now, Mr. Foster,” she says, waving me forward. I straighten the lapels of my tux and make my way towards the back of the lobby, taking a moment to appreciate the way the crystal chandelier showers the room with dew-drop sparkles of light. Once I get past the crowd I head towards the stairs, where two security guards stand sentry in front of a black velvet rope that lets everyone know there is no activity up there tonight. No one spends the night on Sundays. We’re closed on Sundays except for parties, like this one for Lucinda, or dinner in the five-star restaurant, the White Room, across the lobby from Black Room. The restaurant is closed now though. Private party tonight—and no one comes for the food. One guard unhooks the black velvet rope as I approach and by the time I’m upon him, my way has been cleared. The stairs lead straight up to a landing, which is where the main elevators are located, but I turn to the right and continue up to the second story of the lobby, where another security guard releases yet another black velvet rope and allows me to enter Smith Baldwin’s private bar. He really wants to be left alone tonight, I guess. Smith ignores me as I approach his table. He’s looking over the railing of the balcony, checking things out in the Black Room down below. I take a seat directly opposite him and crane my neck to see what’s so

interesting. “What?” I ask, when I don’t see anything worthy of his attention. Smith turns to me and takes a sip of his Scotch. “You’re early tonight,” he says. “Bored as fuck,” I say, motioning to Smith’s butler for a drink. He’s already heading towards me with a glass. I wait as he pours from the bottle sitting on the table between Smith and me, and then take a long sip. “Why the hell are you here?” “I dated Lucinda a long time ago.” I have to laugh at that. “You’re pining for Dr. Chatwell?” “No,” Smith says in his unassuming monotone. “I just like to show up for her birthdays.” “Did you come last year?” “Every year,” Smith says, dragging his gaze away from Bric and Lucinda and refocusing on me. “I like to keep my mistakes fresh. So I don’t repeat them.” “OK,” I say, glancing at my watch. I’ve been here one minute and I’ve had enough conversation with Smith. “It’s only eleven thirty-seven,” Smith says, not missing my subtle rejection. “Yeah,” I say, letting it come out as frustration. “What do you have going on this week? Bric has an event on Wednesday and a dinner on Thursday.” “Not much,” I say, looking away and turning in my chair to study the lobby down below. “Just looking forward to my time, I guess.” “You seem to do that a lot these days.” I shrug and turn back around. Nothing at all interesting down there. “Why not?” I look him dead in the eyes as I take a drink. “We have a lot of fun together. Why shouldn’t I look forward to it?” Smith turns away and resumes his stalking of Bric and Lucinda. Eventually he says, “They dated a long time ago too.” Smith nods his head down to the Black Room. “We kinda did her together.” “No shit?” I actually have to shake that image out of my mind because Lucinda… she is just a great big no for me. Who needs a fucking psychiatrist picking your brain when you’re having dirty sex? Not me. “Did you get weird with her?” It’s a joke. But Smith misses it. “If we did, you’d already know about it.” Right. “Changing the subject. What about you?” I ask. “You have plans this week?” “None,” he says without emotion. “Why do you even bother?” I ask. “I mean, she’s fucking expensive, right? If you’re not having a good time, just buy yourself out.” Smith glares at me for exactly two seconds. Takes a sip of his drink. Says, “The game only works if there’s four people, Quin. You know this.” “So you’re doing it for me?” I ask him. “Do you think I’m doing it for you?” I glance at my watch again, wishing for midnight to be here already. “I have yet to figure you out, friend. Your world is so foreign to me, I feel like we come from two different planets.” “Eleven forty-one,” Smith says, not even checking his own watch. “I told ya you were early.” I roll my eyes, but Smith is too busy crowd-watching. “How come you guys never mentioned Lucinda before?” “Why should we?” Smith deadpans. And then he shifts his body away from the party and towards me. “It makes no difference.” “If you were doing her together…” I shrug. “I think it matters.” “Take it up with Bric.” “Right.” I sigh. “So… have you seen her?” “Rochelle?” Smith asks. And then he smiles. It sends a chill up my back. All the way to my neck. “Who the fuck else would I be talking about?”

“Nope,” Smith says. But still there is that smile. “What?” I ask. “Why the fuck are you smiling at me?” “I’m just surprised that we’ve lasted this long,” he says. “Aren’t you? You’re not tired of her yet?” “Of Rochelle?” It’s my turn to laugh. “Not even a little bit.” “She was interesting at first, you know? Her quaint Bohemian ways. The apartment, the clothes, the hobbies. Whatever.” He waves his hand in the air. “But I’m not really into her anymore. Not my type.” “Kinda like Lucinda for me, I guess.” I take another sip of Scotch. “Why haven’t you mentioned this?” I ask. “Is Bric tired?” “I don’t think so,” he says. “You know how Bric is. He’s a man of habit. He’ll stick it out until one of us makes him change.” “So it’s just you and your weird shit talking tonight?” He’s making me fucking nervous. But when doesn’t Smith make me nervous? “I’m not done. So if you’re gonna call a meeting about Rochelle, call it knowing that in advance.” I check my watch, decide it’s close enough to midnight for me, and stand up. “See ya around,” I say, nodding to the butler and dropping a twenty on the table. The security guard outside Smith’s room unhooks the black velvet rope as I approach. “Good night, Mr. Foster.” “Later,” I say, heading straight for the elevator and punching the call button, making it light up. The doors open and I step in, adjusting my suit in the mirrors as they close behind me. When I’m satisfied with my appearance, I turn and insert my keycard into the slot next to the button that has no floor number or name next to it. The doors close. Rochelle Bastille is a twenty-seven-year-old musician Bric met at a party three years ago. Some corporate event put on to celebrate… whatever. God only knows what he really does for Smith. But it involves a lot of networking. Translation—parties. He took Rochelle home that night and fucked her. Like, his real home. Not here. Not the Club. But she was between apartments—homeless was probably more likely, we never talk about the old days—and since we were short a player at the time, he asked if she wanted in on the game. Three fucking years. I have no idea where the time went. But Jesus Christ, it’s been a really good time. I don’t know exactly when I fell in love with her, but I know it’s been a while. Years, at least. Maybe even that first year. Maybe even that night. Rochelle is my type. One hundred percent my type. And two nights and two days a week she’s mine. All mine. Starting at midnight Sunday and all the way through midnight Tuesday. I own her. Unlike Bric and Smith, I make the most of it. By the time the doors open into the top floor hallway, I’m smiling. I forget about Bric and Lucinda. I forget about Smith and his weird shit. I forget about the stupid, boring weekend I just made myself get through. I walk down the short hallway to her door. There is only one apartment up here and it belongs to her. It’s really the attic of the building that Bric remodeled back when we first started sharing girls more than a decade ago. We keep them here. Like good little princesses locked up in their towers. We don’t really lock them in, but I like the analogy. I get hard just thinking about it. Rochelle is the ninth girl who has lived in this apartment over the Club and the ones before her felt like practice. She feels like the real thing. Game day. When I get to the door I insert my cardkey, letting that feeling wash over me. Relief and happiness. Something I’ve become accustomed to. It’s late, the place is dark, so I close the door quietly, trying not to wake her up. Just head down the familiar hallway, making my steps soft in the stillness.

The bedroom door is open, like it always is. And I can just make out her bare legs on top of the white sheets. She must be freezing. I walk past her and go into the closet. I’ll take care of that in just a minute. I take my tie off and hang it up. Then the jacket, doing my best not to make the wooden hangers clang together. I untuck my shirt from my trousers. Unbutton it, starting from the top. I hang that up too. Then I open the velvet-lined drawer and place my watch and cufflinks in there, closing it when I’ve arranged them properly. The pants fall down and I grab my cock, so ready to fuck her. I slip out of my boxer briefs and walk out in to the dark bedroom. “Hey,” I say softly. “You awake?” She doesn’t even move. Her body is sprawled out on top of the sheets, one leg up higher than the other. Her face buried. Her long, wild hair flowing over the side of the pillow like a waterfall. There is light filtering in from outside, but not enough to really see anything. Just a little bit of glow from the lamps lighting up the gargoyles that decorate the top of the building. Details that make Turning Point Club one of the most photographed icons in the city. Through the floor-to-ceiling window there is a direct view of the gold-domed capitol building, one block south, and that’s lit up too. I place a hand on her outer thigh as one knee comes down on the mattress, making it sink. Making her body shift, ever so slightly. She is naked, her ass towards me like an invitation. I swing my leg over, place the other knee on the other side of her hip, and straddle her. My hands all over her ass. Rubbing. Eager to slip my fingers between her legs and see what’s waiting for me. “Rochelle,” I say, bending over her body to place my lips on her neck. “Did you miss me? God, I missed you. Two weeks is too long. We need to renegotiate.” I let out a long breath, and she trembles for a moment. “I don’t like the sabbaticals anymore,” I say. She says nothing. Fuck. Don’t ruin it, I tell myself. Don’t ruin the time you have. We’ve had this conversation too many times to count and it always ends the same way. She likes the time off. It’s something new she started last summer. Two weeks off, one week on. I don’t like it. Not one bit. But I take my own advice and let it go. I lower my whole body over the top of hers, enjoying the heat we create. My hands slip under her breasts to squeeze and my cock hardens, brushing against her ass. The space between her legs. One small moan is all I get. But it’s enough. I bite her shoulder and lift my hips, letting my dick slip into her wet folds. It finds its way inside her with so little effort, I want to fucking die from the pleasure. One knee comes up, dragging across the sheet to give me more access, and I let one hand leave her breasts and press its way under her belly, until I find her clit and begin to strum. “You like that?” I whisper. She doesn’t answer. At least not with words. Her ass bucks up a little, urging me to give her more. One hard thrust and I’m fully inside her. Her pussy clamping on to me, muscles tightening around my shaft. “Oh, yeah,” I say, pushing my upper body up off her back and sitting up so I can fuck her better. I grab both her ass cheeks and then I give one a hard smack. Rochelle draws in a sharp breath, but still her hips are bucking up against my inner thighs. Asking for more. “You want it hard tonight?” I ask. “You want me to fuck you hard?” I grab her hair and pull, making her

upper body lift up off the mattress. My other hand is digging into the flesh just below her hip. I scoot back and reach under her thighs, drawing them up so she’s on her knees, and press her face into the pillow as I pound her from behind. “Yeah,” I say, half speaking, half moaning. “You like it like this, don’t you? You let Bric fuck you like this all the time, don’t you?” I reach around and smack her tit, which makes her yelp. A high-pitched yelp I’m not familiar with. For a second I think I’ve hurt her, and I slow down. But she backs up into me, covering my dick again. Burying it deep inside her. Everything is already so wet. She feels so goddamned good tonight. “You fucking whore,” I say, letting go of her hair so she falls face-first back into the pillow. “You let Bric fuck you like this, Rochelle? You like the way he slaps you around? Hmm?” Hell, I like the way Bric slaps her around. And as soon as that thought enters my head I laugh. “Maybe we’ll do it rough next weekend. You want that? You want us to fuck you hard? Stick our dicks inside you at the same time?” Another unfamiliar moan. “I’ll take that as a yes,” I say, still kinda laughing. But then I let it go and just… fuck her. I grab onto her ass and do it hard. Pounding her with so much force, her head is inching closer and closer to the headboard of the bed. I don’t stop when it finally makes it there. I just keep thrusting until the pounding is compounded by the headboard crashing into the wall. She’s moaning. Close. So fucking close to coming. I reach underneath her body and strum her clit to the rhythm we’re making. She goes wild. Wild like I’ve never seen her before. Writhing, and moaning, and gasping for air. I draw back, grab her hips, and flip her over, one hand pushing her head aside so her cheek is pressing into the pillow, the other one still playing with her pussy. I watch my dick as it slips in and out, just barely able to make it out in the dim, filtered light from outside. I grab her hair, so fucking ready to come, and yank her head so she has to look at me. Her eyes are closed, but I don’t care. I press my hand over her mouth and close my eyes too. And then I spill inside her. Throwing my head back to let out a groan of relief. Her legs are trembling from the exertion. Little spasms as she gasps for breath. I laugh a little as I roll off to the side and wrap my arms around her. “What’s wrong, baby? Too much for you tonight?” No answer. I bury my head into her neck and smell her hair. “Did you get a new shampoo?” I ask. “You smell so different.” No answer. “You want a date with Bric on Sunday? Hmm? We can skip Smith if you want.” I kiss her neck and then pull back and open my eyes. Trying to get an idea if she’s up for this kind of fun. It’s been a while so I— I blink my eyes. Three times, fast. “Rochelle—” “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sorry—” But I’m up and out of the bed, fisting her hair and pulling her with me. She drops to the floor, whimpering. “I’m sorry,” she says again. “Who the fuck are you?” I ask. “Where the fuck is Rochelle?” “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” “You’re gonna be sorry all right,” I say, letting go of her hair so I can open the drawer in the bedside table. I take out the ball gag and strap it on. She doesn’t even try to get away. Just lets me do it.

I pull her to her feet and reach for the rope, yanking her hands behind her back and wrapping the rope around her wrists. Tight. And then I shove her into my closet and close the door. I pace up and down the hallway, trying my best to figure what the fuck just happened. And then I’m on the phone, calling Bric. It goes to voicemail. “Fuck!” I yell. “Fuck!” I find Bric’s message stream in my phone and text, Come upstairs. Now. Emergency!!!!! I do the same for Smith. Five minutes later they both come bursting through the door of Rochelle’s apartment. I’m sitting on the couch, half naked. I had to open the closet door to get pants and I just grabbed at the first hanger. I think they’re actually Bric’s pants. I place my elbows on my knees and hold my head, rubbing my eyes, still trying to figure out what’s happening. “What the fuck is going on up here?” Bric says. He looks panicked, his eyes wild as they search the room for the emergency. “Where’s Rochelle?” I look up, find Bric’s face. Then Smith’s. “She’s gone.” “Gone?” they both say together. “Did you kill her?” Smith asks. “Choke her to death while you were fucking her?” I narrow my eyes at him. “No, I didn’t fucking kill her, you asshole. She’s fucking gone! Like, left!” “Then why are you half naked?” Bric asks, calming down. I take a deep, deep breath. Hold it for the count of three. And then let it out. “I fucked—” But I have to stop and shake my head because it makes no sense. “She left someone in her place,” I finally say. “I fucked her. I fucked her before I knew it wasn’t Rochelle.”

Chapter Two - Smith

Well, this is an interesting twist. I have to say, of all the things I imagined happening tonight, a missing Rochelle was never on that list. And yet— “Where did she go?” Quin is right up in my face. We are the same height—to the half centimeter—so we are eye to eye. “How should I know?” I reply, running a hand through my hair. “I haven’t fucking seen her in months.” “Months?” Bric asks. I shrug. “You don’t think she was getting boring?” “Where. The fuck. Did she go?” Quin spits. “I just told you. I have no clue. Whatever she’s doing, it has absolutely nothing to do with me.” “I don’t believe him,” Quin snaps, turning to Bric. Elias Bricman, or Bric for short, doesn’t seem to care as much as Quin. He is, at least, calm. “Not thirty fucking minutes ago he was downstairs bitching about how tired he was of her. He sent her away, Bric. He sent her away.” “Calm down, Quin,” Bric says. “If she left, she left. I’m more worried about the new girl. Where is she?” Quin is pacing now. Back and forth in front of the large window. He’s got no shirt on, no shoes, and his pants are hanging off his hips. In fact… I don’t think those are his pants. No belt, not even buttoned up. But the capitol building outside the window is pretty tonight. It’s snowing, so the gold dome is muted with dropping flakes. “She’s in the closet.” Bric and I exchange a glance. “I gagged her. I didn’t fucking know what to do. I just—Goddammit. I just grabbed the ball gag from the drawer, hooked it on her, tied her hands behind her back, and threw her in our closet.” “OK,” I say, walking down to the hallway to stare at the open bedroom door. “I think we have a problem.” “You didn’t get her name?” Bric asks, ever the practical one. “Her name?” Quin yells. “No, I didn’t get her fucking name! No one cares what her goddamned name is!” Bric looks at me. Takes a deep breath. “You wanna take care of this?” “Me?” I laugh. It’s a real laugh. “I don’t think you want me to take care of this.” “Rochelle.” Quin is on his phone. “Rochelle, call me back. Where the fuck are you? What the hell is going on? You’re breaking the deal. You’re not getting—” Bric grabs the phone from Quin and ends the call. “That’s enough of that,” he says. “You know the rules, Quin. If she left, then she left. You’re not allowed to contact her again.” “Fuck you!” Quin is losing it. “The fuck I’m not! I was in a three-year fucking relationship with her. I’m not letting her walk out. Not without… without… an… explanation.” He starts out loud and strong. But he knows what he’s saying is all wrong and his resolve falters at the end. “You’re not,” Bric says in that low monotone he has, “going to contact her, Quin. You’re not going to look for her. You’re not going to ask people about her. You’re not going to do anything but leave her. The

fuck. Alone. Do you understand me?” Bric stops to see if Quin will reply, but he doesn’t. “Because if you do contact her,” Bric continues, “I will drag your ass to court so fast. And I will rip your goddamned balls off when we get there. I’m not kidding, brother. I like you. And I don’t want to fuck up your life. But losing is part of the game, you understand? Our secrets are law, Quin. And you won’t fuck up Smith’s business by getting us caught.” It sinks in. Quin strides over to the front door in four long paces, and walks out. “He’ll be back,” I say. “He forgot his clothes.” Bric looks at me and says, “I’ll handle him. You handle her.” And then he walks out too. I sigh and go into the kitchen, looking for a drink. Rochelle drinks wine. And there are plenty of bottles to choose from. But I haven’t been up here to see her in so long, there is no trace of my brand of whiskey. I grab a bottle of brandy—Bric’s go-to, high-and-mighty motherfucker that he is—and pour three fingers into a snifter I get from the top shelf of a cupboard. The chair I like is still in front of the window. Facing it, so I can look out. I take a seat and think this through. Do I have feelings about it? Maybe. I think a little longer. Take a few sips of the brandy. Admire the view and the snow. Then decide… not many. Rochelle was never my type. She’s flighty. A musician. That was her dream. She is long straight dirtyblonde hair and loose gauzy blouses. She wears knee-high boots—and not the sexy kind, either. Not the fuck-me kind I like. They are all distressed from being bought in the second-hand shops. And she likes fringe. On jackets and purses. Which isn’t that uncommon for Denver, but so not my type. The only time I attempted to take her somewhere nice she wore a long, strapless dress that had no shape at all. And sandals. I have to take a sip of brandy just to get through the memory of sitting in a five-star restaurant, cringing the entire time because she was sitting across from me and I had to look at her. She was stale. Old. Not her age. She was only—hell, I have no idea how old she was. Not yet thirty, for sure. Maybe twenty-seven. But everything about her had grown old. It was OK in the beginning, I guess. I like things the way I like them and she was fine with that. So it was fun. But if it wasn’t for Bric and Quin, no way would I have ever looked at that girl twice. Ever. I actually shudder just thinking about it. Take another sip. And then I get up. Set my glass down on a nearby table and walk to the hallway. Stare down it for a few seconds, trying to decide what to do. Whoever is in that closet isn’t making a peep of noise. I have to agree with Quin on one aspect of this whole mystery. Where did Rochelle go? Not that I care, because I don’t. But clearly she set this up. She brought us a replacement. And Quin—that dumbass—already fucked her. I’m intrigued at how that happened. What was this girl thinking? Why did she come here? Did Rochelle lie to her? If so, why didn’t she scream? Or fight when Quin got in bed with her? I’m guessing it was dark, so I can’t blame Quin too much. He looked like he had a few drinks tonight. He was expecting Rochelle to be in bed, as she probably is every Sunday night when he comes by for his time with her. He came to fuck her. So he did. But why didn’t this new girl stop him? I admit I don’t get curious often… but… I walk down the hallway to the bedroom. The lights are off and when I glance at the closet I share with

Bric and Quin, there’s no light peeking from under the louvered double doors. The bed sheets are rumpled and there’s an unfamiliar smell in the room. Not the earthy perfume Rochelle used to wear, but something sweeter like citrus and flowers. Orange blossoms or gardenias. I flick the light on and take it in. She’s moved some of the furniture since the last time I was in here— which was a triple date about a year ago. My chair near the window is gone. Where the fuck did that go? Did she sell it? It bugs me and I make a mental note to ask Quin the next time I see him. There’s a settee in front of the window now. A long light-gray bench with chesterfield tufting on the seat back. It looks old. Like Rochelle got it from an antique store. There is no way I’d ever sit on that thing. Maybe that’s why she put it there? That makes me laugh, because her passive-aggressive gesture went unnoticed by me and now she’s gone and doesn’t even get to appreciate my reaction. Gone. I smile at the thought. I like that she’s gone. In fact, I’m far more interested in the girl tied up in the closet than I am Rochelle. I hear a faint whimper and whirl around. She must’ve heard me laugh. It must’ve spooked her. Had to have. Will she scream? I wait for it. I wait for some muffled attempts at yelling through her ball gag. Or a well-placed kick at the door. Quin didn’t say he tied her legs up, right? So why is she still in there? The door doesn’t even lock. It’s a closet, for fuck’s sake. Nothing but silence. “OK, then,” I say out loud. “Might as well get this over with.” I walk over to the closet and pull the doors wide open. I have to squint for a second to make out her shape, but yeah, there’s definitely a girl on the floor. I flick the light on and she closes her eyes, hiding her face to shield herself from the sudden brightness. She’s… pretty. Dark hair, long and straight, kind of like Rochelle’s, but nothing at all like Rochelle’s at the same time. Her skin is fair, which isn’t surprising since it’s winter and the sun seems to have gone missing in Denver for the past month. Her hands are tied behind her back, so I can’t see them. And she’s sitting up, knees to chest, completely naked, and I can see her pussy. I stare for a moment longer than I should and then I finally look at her face—a sweet face. Wide blue eyes looking up at me, the remnants of her make-up streaked down her cheeks like she’s been crying. But she isn’t crying now. Her nose is small and her plump lips are wrapped around the ball of the gag. Drool is dripping out of her mouth. One long strand hangs just above her left breast, ready to fall. “Well,” I say, far beyond curious at this point, “I can’t wait to hear what you’ve got to say about this.” I crouch down in front of her legs and catch her scent. The flowers. Or citrus, whichever it is. I inhale deeply and can’t help but take in the smell of sex. I look her in the eyes as I reach behind her head and unstrap the gag. It falls forward, dropping into her lap as I watch her adjust, swallow down the drool, and then take a deep breath. She says nothing. Hmmm. Just stares at me. My hand is between her legs. My finger slipping inside her pussy. She is wet. So fucking wet. She doesn’t close her eyes or moan. In fact, her eyes never leave mine. Not once.

She likes it. I remove my slick fingers from her pussy and bring them to her mouth. She opens, sucks them. My God. Still, she stares into my eyes. I envision her mouth on my cock and grow hard at the thought. And then I close my eyes. But only for a moment. Barely a blink. I’m back in control. I reach for her upper arm and pull her to her feet. She complies willingly. And then I spin her around and begin untying her wrists. The rope is tight. Tighter than it should be. Quin knows how to tie a girl up, I’ve seen him do it enough times to be sure of that. But he was probably panicking, so I don’t judge. When I get the rope off there is a deep red burn ringing her wrists. She brings her hands in front of her to get a look at her wrists. I take them, looking closely at her wounds. “I have something for that. But first, let’s make progress on your clothes.” “I have clothes,” she says, her voice not weak, not small, but firm and strong. “On the chair.” I walk over to the chair and pick them up. Jeans. Nondescript sweater. Winter shearling boots. Some semi-nice lingerie and thick cotton socks. “Well, that won’t do,” I say, walking back to the closets. I open the one across the short hallway from the one I share with Bric and Quin. Rochelle’s closet. I don’t know what I expected, but I’m kinda taken aback that everything Rochelle owns is still in there. Her many, many, many pairs of thrift-store shoes, and skirts, and those horrible long dresses. Even her purses are still here. She never shopped for purses at the thrift stores. They are all designer. Even the fringy ones. They live in soft cloth bags that come inside the purse when you purchase it, and they are lined up on the top shelf like little surprises wrapped in velvet. I only know this because I bought her a few purses myself that first year. A Prada, a Gucci, and some other brand she asked for that I had never heard of, but which set me back almost three thousand dollars. If Rochelle ever tells someone the story of us, she better not call me cheap. I sigh and divert my attention to the limited number of classy, five-star-restaurant-worthy dresses hanging on the far end of a rack. I look back at the new girl for a moment, then choose a red one. To set off her hair. “Here,” I say, holding the hanger out to her. “Put this on, please.” “What?” the girl asks, taking the hanger from me. “I didn’t stutter. Put on the dress. I have to walk you out, obviously. You can’t walk out in jeans, for fuck’s sake. This is Turning Point Club. We have a dress code.” “Why can’t I go out the back?” I stop looking for shoes to match the dress and turn to stare at her. “Is that how you got in?” She nods. “The freight elevator.” “Figures. Fucking Rochelle hated the dress code. Well, the freight elevator isn’t going to work for me, I’m afraid. I don’t leave by way of the freight elevator. I walk in. Everybody sees me. I walk out. Everybody sees me. And since I have to walk you out, you’re going to look the part. Now put on the fucking dress.” I turn back to the shoes. “I need my bra and underwear,” she says. “Not for that dress, you don’t.” I find a pair of shoes. They have four-inch stiletto heels, and that’s gonna suck in the snow. But they are black and I like them. I drop them on the floor at her feet and then go looking for jewelry. When I open up the jewelry case I see the gift I got Rochelle for Christmas two years ago. It all came

in a special box. An opal case. I open it and look at the eighteen-karat gold collar. A matching cuff, ring, and long, drop earrings are situated around it. I let out a grunt of anger when I realize she never wore it. There’s not even a fingerprint on any of the thick bands. Not the necklace, not the cuff, not the ring. What a waste of forty thousand dollars. “The shoes are a little tight,” the girl says. I shoot her a look over my shoulder as I reach for the Prada bag. It’s black, like the shoes. It looks brand new too. Why didn’t I ever notice that Rochelle never wore the gifts I gave her? “You won’t be walking far,” I reply to her comment. “If you brought a purse you’re leaving it here. Along with your clothes. If you need them back—” I stop and stare at her. The dress looks nice. My eyes wander down her legs, take in how shapely her calves are in those heels. “You’re not getting them back. I’m going to throw your clothes out. So if you brought a purse, change it over to this one because it’s staying behind as well.” I grab some antibacterial ointment from Rochelle’s bathroom for the burns on the new girl’s wrists, drop it on the bed, and then watch her as she exits the closet and crosses the room and gets to work, meticulously lifting out each and every object in her purse and placing it in the Prada. When she’s done, she stands and reaches for a coat I hadn’t noticed. “Not that.” I snicker. It’s nice but… it’s pink. “You can’t wear pink with red and black. Even I know that much.” “It’s cold out,” she says. I go back into the closet and come back with a black coat, draping it across the bed. “You need makeup too. Rochelle’s vanity has that stuff in it. It’s in there.” I point to the bathroom. “Do the best you can in five minutes, please. It’s getting late.” I take the opal case, go out in to the living room and wait, looking out the window at the capitol building dome. “I’m ready.” I turn and admire my work as I walk towards her. “It’ll do. Turn around and lift your hair.” She does that without comment and I place the choker on her neck, then the cuff on her wrist, and the ring on her finger. “You can do the earrings.” “Why…” She pauses, her hand on the gold at her throat, her eyes on the gold around her wrist. “Why do I need to wear all this? No one will even notice.” “Everyone will notice,” I say in a low voice. “Everyone notices me. Now put the earrings on.” “I know who you are,” she says, bringing an earring to her lobe and fastening it. “Good for you,” I say, watching her carefully as she repeats the motion on the other lobe. “You’re not the only one.” “I guess I’m ready.” I hold out my arm and she places her hand on it. We walk out together.

Chapter Three - Bric

Quin is already getting inside the elevator when I follow him out the door. “Hey. Wait up,” I say. I walk in behind him, he stabs at the buttons, and the doors close. “Just calm down, OK?” “Where is she?” “I don’t know, Quin. I haven’t seen her in two weeks. Same as you.” “She planned this,” he says. And even though I want to say something like, Don’t be ridiculous, or, Don’t get paranoid on me, I can’t. Because there is no other explanation for it. “Yeah.” I sigh. “I think she did. Have you ever seen that other girl before?” “I didn’t even really see her. I fucked her in the dark and then tied her up and put her in the closet. I have no clue who she is.” He looks at me, defeated and sad. And Jesus Christ, I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. He’s in love with Rochelle. Has been for a while, I think. “She’ll call,” I say. “Or…” But I trail off. She won’t call. We have rules. We all signed a contract three years ago when Rochelle joined the game. And the rules state she can leave whenever she wants, but once that happens, she will never come back. She will never enter Turning Point Club again. If she ever sees us on the street, she will not engage. And we will not look for her. “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? Thirtytwo? 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 easygoing. 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. She was singing. A church song I sang when I was a little girl. She strummed a guitar and even though Buskerfest is nothing if not wild, it was like she had a little sphere of silence surrounding her performance area. That was the first time I noticed her. The first time I met her was in a second-hand book and vinyl store half a block down from the art gallery I manage on the 16th Street Mall. It was about two weeks later, maybe. I was looking for a gift for my father’s sixtieth birthday. He’s a man who has everything and needs nothing. People like him require very thoughtful gifts or no gift at all. I have tried the no-gift approach and didn’t find it quite got me where I wanted to be with him. So this year I made a commitment to find him something meaningful. Something he’d notice. Something that would show him that I cared. Remind him that I was still interested in his opinion. Henry Walcott really is a man who has everything and needs nothing. But he’s sentimental about Sixties pop music, especially if it’s on vinyl. So I was in the bookstore that day to pick up a 45 that I had asked the owner to try to find for me. Rochelle was in there at the same time. When I walked in she was chatting with the owner, so I decided to wait my turn over in the used book section. That’s when things started to unravel, I think. That innocent trip to the used book section. That prominently displayed first edition copy of Nicole Baret’s The Longing propped up, front and center, inside the rare books case. The Longing. It was an urban legend up until nineteen seventy-nine when a whole cache of books was found in an attic. It had been rumored that only two hundred copies were printed and that attic had all two hundred of them. It makes me wonder… did Ms. Baret self-publish them? No publisher came forward to claim them. Ms. Baret died two decades before from an overdose while she was at a sex club. And if she did selfpublish them, was there more than one printing? How could all two hundred copies of The Longing still be boxed up in someone’s attic when the book was legendary? Everybody knew about it. So how could they know about it, if no one ever read it? It was such an intriguing mystery in so many ways. “Do you think it’s real?” I remember whirling around in the store, startled by her soft voice. She was wearing a long dress made of pale yellow velvet that day, even though it was hot outside. It was low-cut, so her cleavage was ample and there was no way—I don’t care who you are, man or woman—to avoid looking at it, it was that beautiful.

When I got over her tits, I looked up into her blue, blue eyes and recognized her from the carnival. “I don’t know. I heard they were all auctioned off at Christie’s thirty years ago.” I stopped and shook my head. “I just don’t know who would sell it. And here?” I crinkled my nose. “I love this store, it’s great and all, but how did The Longing get here?” That’s how it all started. With me trying to be a good daughter, and then Rochelle, asking me, a girl who had everything and needed absolutely nothing at all, about that book. A book I really did need. I bought it. There was no way I wasn’t going to buy it. I paid eleven thousand, two hundred, and seventy-seven dollars for it. The owner thought I was nuts. He talked about it every time I went in the store for the next three months. But by the time three months passed, Rochelle and I had already started making plans. When Smith Baldwin came into the closet to release me, my head was pounding. I was scared and nervous. Mostly nervous. But he was nice. I think. I don’t know him, but I think that was him being nice. The way he dressed me, chose my clothing—my shoes, my coat, even, and then that jewelry. When he fastened the clasp on that gold collar around my neck I got a chill through my whole body and knew… that all the decisions I had made to get to this moment in time were justified. The walk downstairs was exhilarating. I was so sure he knew I was up to something. But maybe he thought my shuddering body was just fear? Or nerves? Or a combination of both? Because he was silent until we stepped out of the elevator and Elias Bricman asked Smith if he wanted him to take over. “No,” was all he said. A very firm no. Then it was a whirlwind of activity and I tried not to notice people I really wanted to notice. All eyes were on Smith as we left. He’s the kind of man you can’t help but notice. He’s also the kind of man you don’t demand attention from. When he promised the guest of honor that he’d be back, a little stab of jealousy pained my heart. Would he go back for her? But no, I decided as we walked to the waiting car and he opened the door for me. No, he told her to start without him. I have an idea of what they do down there in the basement. Rochelle was very upfront about what this deal was. Smith Baldwin, Quin Foster, and Elias Bricman were her partners in a very dirty game called Taking Turns. And since she was already in a game with them, she wasn’t allowed down in the basement levels of Turning Point Club to play a different game. She had never been down there. Three years she’d been dating them and she had no idea what it looked like. Of course, we spent long nights imagining. It’s not hard to imagine naked bodies slick with sweat. Various bondage apparatuses. Groans, and moans, and orgasms. I slip a finger between my legs, the soft silk of the red dress I’m still wearing fluttering along the skin of my hand, then my arm. I’m so wet. That one touch from Smith had me so wet. And the way Quin fumed at me. So softly and so hard at the same time. Did you miss me? God, I missed you. Why the fuck would Rochelle walk away from that? She would never tell me. Just said she was done and left it at that. But she didn’t want them to think too hard about her disappearance and that’s where I came in. The replacement.

My alarm goes off on my phone and I realize I’ve been sitting here in the dark since I walked in the house after Smith dropped me off. When I got in the car he asked me where I lived and told the driver when I answered. But other than that, he never said another word until we pulled up in front of my townhouse down on Little Raven Street near Coor’s Field. When the car stopped, I said, “Do you want to know my name?” “No,” he said. In the same firm tone he had told Bric no. I got out and came inside. Sat here on my bed. Alone in this massive four-thousand-square-foot townhome feeling cold, and alone, and empty, and discarded. Staring out at my view of Coor’s Field, lit up, but empty. Kind of like me. It didn’t work. Rochelle’s plan didn’t work. And I wonder where she is now? I wonder, after hearing how upset Quin was, if he’s looking for her? I wonder if she got away? I can’t, for the life of me, understand why she’d give them up. The whole scene was… surreal. I could hear them on the other side of the closet. Quin was loud. I had no problem making out his words. Bric was soft. I didn’t hear much of his conversation at all. But Smith… Smith was neither loud, nor soft. And I had to strain. Try very hard. But I did hear what he said. He was done with Rochelle. The alarm is still wailing at me to get up, get ready for work, get on with my day. If things had gone differently I’d be calling in sick this morning. I sigh and stand up. I stretch my legs, which are cramped and stiff from sitting here in the same position all night. And then I walk into the closet and start taking off the clothes that Smith chose for me. I hang the dress on a wooden hanger and hook it on the back of the door so I can have it dry-cleaned and returned. One by one, I remove the jewelry, placing it all very carefully into the velvet-lined drawer in my closet. I look at that gold collar with longing, feeling the soft brush of Smith’s fingertips as he fastened it around my neck. It gave me a moment of hope. That it might be a symbol. Or a claim. “No,” I say out loud, repeating the single word Smith uttered to me in the car. No. It is not to be. I get in the shower and clean up. Wash Rochelle’s make-up off. Wash my hair, and then condition it. And let the hot water run down my body and ease my mind and my aches. My many, many aches. When I get out, I dry off and put on a soft, white robe. I settle in on the vanity bench in front of the mirror, and try not to look at myself as I dry my hair and apply new make-up. I dress like an automaton. The outfit is still wrapped in the plastic the dry cleaners in residence placed it in. Everything I need is there. The soft pink scarf, the cream-colored silk blouse, the tan trousers, crisply creased. The only thing missing is the cropped pink jacket with tan piping, because it’s been given its own plastic bag and hanger. I slip my feet into a pair of nude-colored Louboutins, don’t bother to check anything in the mirror, and then walk down the two flights of stairs, past a whole other floor of empty, but professionally decorated and furnished bedrooms and bathrooms, until I get to the kitchen. I feel numb but I am used to this feeling. So I make the single-serving cup of coffee, put in the two packets of artificial sweetener, add one teaspoon of half-and-half, and clamp the lid on my travel mug. I am happy to be going to work. It’s a mantra I say often. But it works, because it’s true. Work is the gallery. Work is people whom I have to direct and interact with in order to check off the

tasks on my daily list. Work is art installations and maybe, if I’m lucky—and today, I am—meeting with the new artists who will be on display for the next show. I have a lot to do today and calling in sick would’ve been a bad idea. But Rochelle showed up yesterday afternoon and said it was time. This was my chance. Did I want it? Yes. Yes, very badly. I will never see her again, I know this. So she will never know that her plan failed. I am happy to be going to work. But I don’t work tomorrow. Or the day after. We are only open Thursday through Saturday. It’s Monday today, but Mondays are not open to the public. It’s just a meeting day. How will I get through the rest of my empty days knowing that I have nothing to look forward to? I call my father on my way into my three-car garage. I have a reserved parking space in the parking garage near the gallery, so I’m driving today. It’s damn cold outside and it’s going to snow this afternoon. “Chella,” he says, neither happy, nor sad. “What are your plans today?” “Oh, you know,” I say in my fake-cheerful voice. “Just gonna meet Matisse today.” I even smile into the phone as I start my C-class Mercedes. That is kind of a big deal. “The artist,” he deadpans. “That’s nice. Are you seeing the doctor today as well?” “No,” I say, starting my car. It’s so cold in here, a puff of thick steam exits my mouth when I talk. “I was just there yesterday.” “On Sunday?” I can practically hear his eyebrow lifting up. “Don’t bother lying to me, Marcella. I’m not your keeper. I’m just asking.” “I’m checking in to say hi, that’s all.” “Well, I’m very busy today. I have meetings all morning. And I’m sure you’re busy too, so we’ll talk another time.” “OK, Dad.” I fake a laugh. Like his dismissal is so typical and doesn’t bother me at all. “I will. We’re still on for Christmas?” My heart thumps several times before he answers. “No,” he says. “I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to make it home.” “OK,” I say. “I understand. But soon, though, right?” “Sure, Chella. Soon.” The call ends and I drop my phone into my purse, telling myself that call doesn’t matter. Not one bit. That nothing he says can hurt me. That I make my days good—or bad—not anyone else. The drive to work is so short it makes me feel guilty for not walking. But it is cold today. My bones are chilled. And I had to leave my shearling boots at the Turning Point Club last night. I did leave there with thousands—probably tens of thousands—of dollars in jewelry though. So I can’t really complain about the exchange rate. The Charles Benton Gallery takes up an entire corner on the 16th Street Mall, which is a pedestrian street, so buses run up and down the length of it, and horse carriages at night, but that’s it as far as vehicles go. The people, however, are a whole other matter. Hundreds of people are on the mall, even at nine AM when most of the shops are not open. This is the central business district and everyone comes for coffee and food. Matisse’s artwork is being delivered at ten today, so I have an hour to get things ready. I make my way through the crowds, searching through my purse for the keys to the front door, when I see him. Smith Baldwin is standing in front of the Charles Benton Gallery, and he’s staring right at me. I stop walking for a moment and some lady curses at me for almost making her spill her coffee. I hold my breath and count to three. Then I start walking again. “Hello,” I say, putting my key in the lock. “We’re not open today.”

“I know when you’re open, Marcella Walcott.” He uses my full name. And he even pronounces it right. With a hard ch, and not an s sound for the c. Mar-chella. Emphasis on the chella. “I thought you didn’t want my name?” I ask, unlocking the door as I shift the coffee in my hand. Smith takes the coffee for me. “Thank you,” I say. He says nothing. When I wrangle the door open, propping it with my hip so I don’t inadvertently invite him in—Charles might be here already and I do not need him seeing me with Smith Baldwin—I say, “Can I help you with something?” “I’m going to need to know where she went,” Smith says. “Who?” I ask, trying to buy myself a moment to collect my thoughts. Rochelle and I talked about the lie for months. Building it up, making it perfect, making it believable. “You know who,” Smith says. “I don’t really fucking care, Marcella. I have no feelings for Rochelle either way. But if she’s in trouble, I’d need to know that. If she’s hurt,” he says. “Or there is something going on.” He stops talking and sighs. Like this is hard for him. “I don’t care, OK? I really don’t care. But Quin does. And he’s upset. So if you know where she is, if you have a number, or an address, you can give it to me and I’ll keep him away. I’ll contact her myself and get the details. And then we’ll be gone. Out of her life forever. But leaving like that, Marcella. You’d have to know—she had to know—it would hurt him.” “Maybe she wanted to hurt him?” I say. I don’t know why I say it, it just comes out. I have pictured them all together. The way she described Smith was dead-on accurate. And I think she was right about Quin too. I didn’t see enough of Bric to come to a conclusion. Smith is silent. Just stares at me. “And for the record,” I say. “You sure don’t sound like someone who doesn’t care.” I step inside, close the door behind me, and lock it. Looking Smith Baldwin straight in the eyes as I do it. I turn away and walk to the back of the gallery where the stairs are that lead up to my second-story loft office. And when I get to the top and look over my shoulder, he’s gone.

Chapter Five - Quin

“I want her name, I want her address, and I want to go upstairs.” I’m looking at Bric, but it’s really Smith I’m talking to. Bric will give in on the request to go upstairs, but Smith… Smith is another matter. Why did I let him take that girl home last night? Why didn’t I do it myself? I was in shock, I think. That Rochelle would do this to me. To them, sure. Yeah, I can see it. But to me? I just don’t buy it. I will never buy into the fact that Rochelle just walked out because… what? She was bored? I have to suck down the incredulous laugh that threatens to escape. Because she and I were not bored. She loved me. I know she loved me. She told me just a few months ago. It was hot that night even though it was already September. We were at one of Bric’s rooftop garden parties here at Turning Point Club. She was wearing this long, strapless white dress. Tight at the top, but fluttery and flowing from her waist down. Rochelle is tall and she was wearing heels, so we were almost the same height. She looked me straight in the eyes as we slow-danced under the many strings of white lights that Bric has strung up every summer. Her face was tanned from months in the sun. We went boating a lot last summer. Up in Granby and Grand Lake. Spent our two days a week up there just hanging out like normal people. So the lights—God, she looked so fucking beautiful as we danced under those lights. “I love you,” she said. Almost absently. Like the words just came out. She got embarrassed then. Hid her face by laying a cheek on my chest. I didn’t know what to say. I liked her then. Hell, I’ve liked her this whole damn time. But love… love wasn’t part of the game. We can’t play the game if we fall in love, and I like the game. I was picturing Bric and Smith hearing about her confession. Picturing what they’d say. Picturing them throwing her out. Dissolving the contract. And maybe that’s what she wanted? Why she said it. But it wasn’t what I wanted. I love her, I do. I realize it now. But I love her with them, too. It’s a weird arrangement but it works for us. It was working for us. Wasn’t it? I had no idea Smith wasn’t even coming to see her on his nights. If he wasn’t with her, then what the fuck did she do every weekend? “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Bric says. “I don’t fucking care,” I say back. We’re sitting in the White Room having breakfast. There are a ton of people here, like always. All the Club members who work downtown make it a habit to have breakfast here. But we have a table in the far corner, up on a riser so we have a good view of everyone. “I want to know how they made that arrangement. I think, at the very least, we can all agree that there was an arrangement.” “Yeah.” Smith sighs. He’s looking out at all the people in the restaurant, absently holding his cup of coffee in both hands, like he’s trying to warm them up. “It was definitely arranged.” “Did she say anything?” I ask him, leaning forward over the table. I need information. I am desperate for more information. “No,” Smith says. “But…”

Both Bric and I wait him out for several seconds, but I can’t control myself. “But what?” I snap. Smith looks at me and smiles. It’s a small smile. A sad smile. Like he feels sorry for me. “What?” I demand again. “I went to her work this morning.” “You what?” Bric growls. “Why the fuck did you do that?” “I just wanted to help.” Smith is looking at me now. “I was trying to get you answers.” “Did you?” I prod. He shakes his head. “It didn’t go well. Was Rochelle angry with you, Quin? Did you guys… fight?” “Fight?” I ask, almost bewildered. “No. We don’t fucking fight. Do you fight with her?” “No,” Smith says. “You know how I am.” Yeah, I know exactly how he is. Doesn’t give enough fucks about anyone to bother fighting with them. “Did you?” I ask Bric. “No,” Bric says. “We went out a few weeks ago. To a party. She was fine, I guess. Didn’t talk much, that was about the only thing I noticed. Didn’t eat much either. Just picked at her food. Which is a little strange.” We all smile at that. Rochelle is willowy thin, but she will out-eat any of us when it comes to food. Sometimes she’s vegan. She’s gone through a few of those phases. But she can scarf a cheeseburger like a champ when she’s not shunning meat. She doesn’t take anything too seriously. She goes with the flow. That’s why we all liked her so much. Or we did. Like her so much. At one time. “Why weren’t you going to see her?” I ask Smith. He shrugs and takes a sip of his coffee. “I was done, I guess.” “Why didn’t you say anything?” Bric asks. Smith looks at me now. “Because Quin likes her a lot.” He switches to Bric. “And you like her well enough. So why rock the boat?” “But what was she doing every weekend?” Bric pushes. “Did you ever ask her?” “I told you,” he says. “I hadn’t seen her for months. I have no idea what she was doing.” “Well, that’s irresponsible,” Bric says, anger coming through in his tone. “We trusted you to take care of her on the weekends.” “Yeah, so you two could go downstairs and have your fun. If you gave a fuck what she was doing, then why didn’t you ask her?” “Because we thought you were with her, Smith,” Bric says. “She could be in trouble. She could’ve gotten herself in trouble.” “Don’t start with me,” Smith says. “She’s had a lot of time to herself this past year. And you know what? Maybe the two of you should’ve asked her what was up when she asked for those two-week sabbaticals last summer. One week with us, then two weeks without? What the fuck kind of arrangement is that? That was never part of the game before.” “She wanted space,” Bric says. “Yeah,” Smith answers. “Space. Like stay-the-fuck-away-from-me space.” “No,” I say. “No, she didn’t want me to stay away. We had a lot of fun last summer.” “You can tell yourself that all you want, Quin. But the fact is, she left you.” “Smith,” Bric warns. “She didn’t leave him. She left us.” But Smith is undeterred. He stands up, gets his wallet out, throws some money down on the table and looks me dead in the eyes. “She left you, brother. I left her a long time ago. And Bric was just using her as a convenient date to corporate functions. She left you. And the sooner you come to terms with that, the easier it will be to move on.” And then he flicks something at Bric. A business card he must’ve gotten out of his wallet with the

money. “That’s her. I wouldn’t let him go over there,” he says, nodding his head at me. “But you can do whatever you want. I got shit to do today. I’ve done my part. I’ll be around this weekend if you guys want to start looking for someone new. If not, whatever. I’m cool with that too.” Both Bric and I stare at Smith’s back as he walks out. And then I take a deep breath and reach for the card. Bric snatches it up from the table before I can get a hold of it. “Not a good idea, Quin. I’m just telling you, we need to let Rochelle go and leave it at that. She walked out, fine. We’re fine with it.” I’m not fine with it. Not one bit. “Go upstairs if you want,” Bric continues. “Take what’s yours. Keep what you want to keep. And then let it go. I’ve already got my assistant calling around for packers. I’m gonna clear the whole place out and we’ll start again.” He stops. Stares at me for a few seconds. “Do you want to start again?” I let out a long sigh. “Because I think Smith just said he did.” “And you do too?” I ask. “Yeah,” Bric says. “I’m still in. We’ve been at this longer than Rochelle has been around. I’m not ready to settle down yet. Are you?” I shrug. “I don’t know what the fuck is happening.” Bric reaches for my shoulder, squeezes it like a brother to a brother. Someone who understands. “Rochelle was just that kind of girl, you know? These girls… they’re not all there, Quin. No girl with her shit together says yes to this kind of offer. You know this. We’ve had plenty of games end. But we still have many more to play. Just take this week to do what you gotta do and then be here on Friday night. OK?” I don’t say anything. I can still see Smith through the window. He’s standing out front talking on his phone. “What do you think he’s doing? He’s got shit to do? He never has shit to do. He doesn’t do anything except spend money and brood like an asshole.” “Never mind Smith,” Bric says. “Did you hear what I just said?” “I heard.” “So you’re gonna come this weekend?” “I can’t even think about this weekend. It’s Monday. I’m supposed to be with Rochelle tonight.” “Quin,” Bric says, his voice stern. “Go fuck a whore if you—” “Fuck you,” I say. “You know what I mean. Get this out of your system. Then come back here on Friday and we’ll figure out a way to fill your two nights. OK?” I don’t answer. “Go upstairs. Take what you want. And then I’ll make it all go away. It will be fine. Do you need something to do tonight? For real. Because I have an event and I’ll bring you along.” “No,” I say, smiling. “I’m not tagging along to one of your stupid events.” He’s quiet for a few seconds and when I look up at him, he’s staring at me. “What?” “Don’t let her fuck with your head, OK? And don't take anything Smith says seriously. She didn’t leave you. She left us.” “I know,” I say. But it doesn’t feel that way at all. Maybe if I didn’t know that Smith left her a long time ago, and that Bric was indifferent, then maybe I could talk myself into that. He’s right. We’ve had other girls leave. Girls I wasn’t too attached to, but Bric was. Smith doesn’t get attached to anyone. And I never thought the others left because of Bric. They left us. Just like Rochelle. God. I wish I could believe that. I just know it’s not true. She left because of me. She left because she said she loved me and I shrugged

it off. Ignored it. Pretended it never happened. And I know if I explained that to Bric, he’d get it. He’d understand. But what’s the point? Why bother? Rochelle is gone. “OK,” I say, standing up. “I am gonna go upstairs. Check it out. See if she left anything behind.” “Quin—” “But then,” I say, interrupting him. “But then, either way, I’ll let her go. By Friday I’ll have let her go.” I’m looking at the card as I say all this. “It would help if I could just talk to her though.” I’m nodding at the woman’s business card. “No,” Bric says. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. But if you want, I’ll go talk to her. I’m sure Smith was just his usual asshole self. No one wants to talk to him, right?” “OK,” I say, giving in. “Fine. See what you can find out and then call me later.” “Will do, brother.” I walk out of the restaurant and head toward the stairs at the back of the lobby. There’s no black rope today. Club members have private rooms upstairs and they are free to use them during the week. But there are guards, all dressed up in thousand-dollar suits, standing sentry. They nod at me as I pass. “Mr. Foster,” they both say. I nod back, but keep silent as I make my way up to the elevator. When the doors open, I step in, insert my cardkey and unlock the floor to our forbidden world. When I get up there it doesn’t feel any different. I sit in Smith’s chair, the one in front of the window, and then get up and turn it around so I can take in the only view I’m interested in. The couches. The art on the walls. The rugs, and throw pillows, and the heavy drapes. When Rochelle moved in, it was empty. Just like it will be again when the new girl moves in. All these things, all these memories, all these feelings will be put away with the rest of her stuff. Into storage, or taken to the Goodwill store. Wherever Bric puts their stuff when they leave. I’ve had a lot of fun here. But Bric is right. I had a lot of fun with many girls here. Most of them don’t last very long. Six months. A year. And then they have what they came for and they leave. But I cannot recall a single time that I felt this… sad about it. “Rochelle,” I say. “God, I miss you. Two weeks was way too long. What were you doing? Were you planning your escape? Why did I ever agree to the sabbaticals?” Even though I hate to admit it, Smith was right. That time off, it was a symptom of something else. A disease eating away at her, or me, or us. Whichever. Does it matter? No, I don’t think it does. I get up and walk around the apartment. Picking things up. Touching them. The whole place smells like her. That earthy scent that reminded me of the river or the lake. The time we spent together last summer. Outside the day is gray and dim. The snow is still coming down, but just a light dusting of flakes. A threat, I realize. Or something else. Something bigger coming over the mountains. “Where would you hide a clue?” I ask the empty apartment. I check all the drawers. Nothing. I check the coat closet. Nothing. I walk into the bedroom and repeat the process. The bedside tables. Under the bed. Our closet. And then her closet. Her closet is huge, almost twice the size of ours, and ours is big enough to hold suits, and ties, and shoes, and everything else three men need two days a week. She took nothing, from what I can tell. I check every purse. I take them out of those soft bags she keeps them in and check each one. And each one is empty. I check every pocket. Every shirt, every jacket, every coat. Nothing. I check all her books, taking each one off the shelf, flipping through the pages, hoping for a note. Or a clue. Nothing. I check the jewelry cabinet last. I think a little part of me was hoping she’d take all those gifts with her.

Even if it was just to sell. But she didn’t. The ring I gave her last year at Christmas is in there, even though she wore it—never took it off—since the moment I put it on. All the earrings, all the necklaces, all the bracelets… still here. There has to be a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry in this cabinet. And she took nothing. What kind of a mindset was she in? When she made the decision to leave it all behind? Does she hate me so much that even a small piece of precious metal is too much to keep close? I let out a long, sad sigh as I walk over to the bedroom window. Stare out at the snow. The capitol building. The busy streets downtown. The cars, and cabs, and pedestrians. Everyone going about their day like usual. My phone buzzes in my front pocket. I reach for it out of habit, check the caller ID—work—and tab accept. “Hello,” I say. “Mr. Foster.” It’s Jayne, my assistant at the office. “Yes,” I say, still looking out at the snow. The deadness of everything, even though it’s so alive. “You have four meetings this afternoon and it’s almost lunchtime. I just wanted to see if you’d like me to cancel them?” “No,” I say. “I’ll be in soon.” I end the call and put my phone back in my pocket. Turn around and take it all in. Say goodbye to it. No more fun in that bed. The last fuck I had under that amazing canopy draped with velvet curtains was with a stranger. “Thanks for that, you bitch,” I say. For a second I’m not sure if I’m talking to the interloper, or to Rochelle. But when I walk out of the apartment, take the elevator downstairs, exit Turning Point Club, and get into my waiting car—I know who I’m talking to. I know exactly who I’m talking to. Because I walked out of that apartment with nothing. I left it all behind. And now it’s time to leave her behind too. I’m talking to you, Rochelle. I’m talking to you.

Chapter Six - Chella

Matisse is late. Two. Hours. Late. Oh, all his packages arrive at ten AM, right on time. The whole truck full of art valued at more than fifty million dollars is in the back docking bay. Idle. Because we are not allowed to unload until he gets here. I try to remain calm, but I’m picturing just how late we’ll have to stay to get it all out and into the basement where we pre-stage it before transporting it upstairs on the freight elevator. Usually we do this in one day. But I can’t see it happening. I sigh. Unless we all stay here until midnight, pushing through. Maybe it’s a good thing. Tomorrow is my day off. I will get home, drop from exhaustion, and then if I’m lucky, I can sleep away half the day. The building rumbles and I get to my feet, straighten my jacket and jump down the stairs that lead to the showroom down below, heels in hand. The rumbling is the freight elevator being called downstairs. When I’m at the bottom of the stairs I stop, hopping as I try to slip each foot in each shoe, and then take a deep breath and collect myself. I whoosh through the door that leads to the back office and smack right into the hard body of a man. He catches me before I fall, holding on to my upper arms with a steadying grip, and laughs. “What the f—” It’s Smith Baldwin. I look around nervously, but my staff is too busy with the delivery —and Matisse, who has finally showed up—to be paying any attention to me. I take my attention back to Smith and whisper through clenched teeth. “What the hell are you doing here? You need to leave. This is my job.” Smith smiles a smile that says he has all the answers, trust him. He’s wearing a charcoal-gray suit with a crisp white shirt and a light gray tie. His broad shoulders make the line of the suit taper down to his hips. I don’t know very much about Smith Baldwin, but I do know he’s weird. I think everyone can agree on that. The man never went to school, and yet he has honorary degrees from seven institutions. Not just colleges, either. Elementary schools gave him a diploma. Do elementary schools have diplomas? I guess in the world of elite boarding schools, this might be the case. His high-school diploma is the same way. Never earned, only honorary. And just from the casual research I did on him at Rochelle’s insistence, I know he has three graduate degrees. One of them is from the Wharton School of Business. Does he even have a job? Smith was not the reason I agreed to Rochelle’s plan. I barely looked into his past at all. So, I don’t know. But I think he ticks the box with the word unemployed on his census surveys. He is rich. But he is also beyond rich. I’m rich. My father is rich. Elias Bricman and Quin Foster are also loaded with more money than they can probably ever spend. But Smith Baldwin is disgustingly, excessively wealthy. “I’m here with Matisse,” Smith says. He waves a hand over his shoulder to indicate the internationally famous recluse of an artist. “We’re practically best friends.” I can only blink. Three times in quick succession. Is he fucking with me?

No, apparently not. Because Matisse is calling his name from across the office. He’s at the gallery’s professional version of a coffee machine, trying to make it work. “Help me with this, Smith,” Matisse calls. I realize Smith is still gripping my upper arms, so I break away and walk over to the artist, who is concentrating very hard on trying to make the machine spit him out some coffee. “Hi,” I say, startling him. He whirls around and backs up. Except he can’t back up, there’s a granite countertop there. So instead he is forced to lean back at the waist, like I’m some kind of disease he needs to be as far away from as possible. “Sorry,” I say in a calm voice. “I’m Marcella Walcott. I’m the Benton Gallery manager. I’m here to make sure everything goes off without a hitch.” He says nothing, so I keep going. “We’re going to unload in the basement, map everything out while it’s still in crates, and then we’ll unpack and deliver each piece up here, in the gallery, using the freight elevator. We’ll do that last part tomorrow.” He says nothing. “If that’s OK?” I add. “If you’re prefer it done another way, I’m happy—” “No, no,” Matisse says, finally leaning forward again, relaxing. “Do it your way. I don’t want to interfere. Just don’t scratch anything.” “Right,” I say, letting out a long breath with my word. “We won’t. I promise. We’ll take very good care of your sculptures, Mr. Matisse.” “Just Matisse,” he says, taking my hand and squeezing lightly. “Just call me Matisse, tell me how to work this stupid machine so I can get a cup of coffee in me, and we’ll be just fine.” I do that and when I’m done, Smith has disappeared. But I have a job to do, and so I take the stairs down to the loading dock and get to it. The rest of the day is nothing but standing over my crew, worrying like a schoolmarm about the bronze sculptures we’re unloading. I try not to hover because the dock manager, Kathryn, has it all under control —she’s been working here longer than I have—but I don’t entirely succeed. Matisse is in and out over the course of the day. I have a feeling he’s doing his best not to hover as well. Smith hangs out, leaves, comes back, leaves. I try to ignore him but I have to wonder what exactly I got myself into last night. He took me home, so he knows where I live. And then he shows up here, pretending he’s only interested in Rochelle because of Quin. Please. But this second appearance has me rattled. I guess he really is a long-time friend of Matisse. And I can see it, now that I’ve had a chance to meet the artist. They are a lot alike. Both of them are weird. At some point in the late afternoon they disappear for lunch, but my assistant, Michell, has sandwiches brought in from a restaurant across the mall and we all stop to eat and talk about what a great show this will be. It’s called Backstage. And when we are done with the installation, the entire gallery will look like the backstage of a ballet theatre. There are seventeen life-size bronze sculptures of ballerinas. Eight women, four men, and five children. Plus life-size sculptures of the stage hands and everything else that goes on behind the scenes. This Thursday night will be one of the biggest nights this gallery has ever seen. And it’s going to run for three months, so actually, the Charles Benton gallery might never be the same after Matisse leaves his mark on Denver. We are going to sell every single piece. I know it. I’ve had my eye on two of the children for months. They are laughing, their expressions frozen in happy excitement. I’m going to put them out on my back courtyard. Matisse leaves around ten PM, convinced that we know what we are doing, and then says he’ll be back

in the morning to help with installation. He has seven crews coming in tomorrow morning to get things set up. Charles always handles the actual installations, which is why I have these two days off each week. But maybe I could just pop by? It would be better than sitting around at home, at least. It’s well after midnight when we get the final crate down into the pre-stage area. My shoes disappeared hours ago. I don’t even know where they are at the moment. My assistant, Michell, left around seven, but Kathryn is still here. We both slump onto a couch in the employee lounge, beat. “I want to sleep right here,” Kathryn says, pulling her feet up and leaning into the tufted sidearm of the couch. She pulls her hands under her cheek and closes her eyes. “Me too. You can come in late tomorrow,” I say. “Fuck that.” She laughs softly, eyes still closed. “I’m not missing a moment of this.” I smile. “Yeah, I was thinking of coming in tomorrow too. It’s kind of a big deal, right?” “So big,” she mumbles. “Hey,” I say, slapping her leg. “You have a ride home? I don’t think you should drive when you’re so tired.” Her phone buzzes just as the words come out. “That’s my chariot now. Jason is picking me up.” She reluctantly pulls herself into a sitting position and then stands, her hands on her lower back as she stretches, then beams a smile down at me. “It was a great day, Chella. We’re gonna rock this shit on Friday.” “Yeah.” I laugh, watching her gather up her things and head towards the back door. “We just might do that.” When she’s gone, I sit there for a few more minutes, thinking about how life has changed in the past two days. I got fucked by Quin Foster. Smith Baldwin drove me home last night. And I had more than a dozen work-related conversations with Matisse today. I go looking for my shoes, which are on the stairs leading up to my loft office in the gallery, and I’m just putting them on when I startle from a knock at the front door. There are two men out there. My heart skips a beat, wondering if they will try to break in, but when I look closer, I realize it’s Matisse and Smith. “What the hell?” I find my keys in my jacket pocket as I walk over to the door, then unlock it and open it up. “What are you guys doing?” “Would you like to have dinner with us?” Matisse asks. “I don’t think you ate, did you?” “No,” I say, hesitantly. “I was just about to go home. I don’t think anything is open right now.” “I know a place,” Smith says. I stare at him, knowing what he means, but not quite understanding what he’s after. “Come on,” Matisse says. “We’ve got a car right over there.” He points across the mall to the dead-end street corner where vehicular traffic is allowed. “And we’ve got a table. They’re expecting three.” “I’ve got my car,” I say, stunned at the midnight offer. “We’ll bring you back to your car,” Smith says. “When we’re done.” “I’ve got to lock up,” I say. “We’ll wait out here,” Matisse says, motioning to the steps leading up to the front door. I think about it for a second. It’s not exactly what Rochelle planned. Or what I agreed to. But it’s damn close. “OK,” I say. “Give me five minutes to shut things down and I’ll be right back.” They both smile. They smile like wolves.

I’m silent as I sit between them during the five-minute ride over to Turning Point Club, but Matisse and Smith chat about old times. Parties, and women, and drinking, and money. Very, very typical. When we pull up in front, Smith gets out first, then holds out his hand, helping me step out. Matisse gets out on the other side and meets us at the door. There is a flurry of activity when Smith approaches the maitre d', and then he leans into his ear and says, “In the bar, near the window.” The maitre d' nods and says, “Right this way, Mr. Baldwin.” Smith follows the man, I follow Smith, and Matisse is right behind me. But when we get to the booth, Smith doesn’t sit. Instead he waves me into the side facing the bar and Matisse into the bench across from me. “I’ll be right back,” Smith says. And he leaves me there with Matisse. “It went very well today,” he says. “I’m impressed.” “Thank you,” I say, wanting very badly to turn my head to I can see where Smith went. “I’m off tomorrow—” “I know. But you won’t be needed.” “Oh,” I say, a little disappointed. “I have it all under control. Your crew might be in the way as we install. And I’m not very friendly when I’m stressed. So it’s better you called them all off.” “Oh,” I say again. “I think some of them might be disappointed.” “It can’t be helped. I like things the way I like them.” “Of course,” I say, just as a waiter comes up and says, “Hello.” He gives us his name, recites the menu, and then waits for us to decide. I’m way too tired to remember anything that waiter just said, so I just stare at Matisse with a blank look on my face. “We’ll have the filet mignon,” Matisse says. “Medium rare. And a Caesar salad. Do you like Caesar?” Matisse asks me. I nod, suddenly feeling very weary. The waiter disappears and then I’m alone with him. I force a smile, but my mind is whirling. “Are you a member here?” I ask. “Yes,” he says. “For many years. I met Bric in school a long time ago. We’ve been friends since childhood.” “And Smith?” I want to kick myself for asking about him. “Smith is…” Matisse laughs. “Smith.” “Right.” I chuckle. “I get it. Kind of. I don’t know him. I just met him…” Shit. Do I really want to talk about last night? “I don’t know him at all,” I say. And then I look around. “Where did he go?” Matisse shrugs. “Where does he ever go?” Right. There’s an uncomfortable silence after that, so I try to make conversation. “I love that piece in the show. The children,” I say. “Which one?” He smiles and I figure talking about his art is a safe way to navigate my way through this dinner. “The two dancing. Glee, it’s called.” “Oh,” he says, thoughtfully. “Yes, I can see why you’d like it. Will you be sad when someone purchases it on Friday?” “No.” I laugh. “I’m going to purchase it.” “Are you?” He has one eyebrow cocked. “It’s forty-seven thousand dollars.” “I know,” I say. “I have money saved. I’ve been waiting for this show all year. You have no idea how exciting it is. I was thinking of coming in tomorrow, just to watch.” He’s about to protest, but I keep going

before he can. “But if I’ll be in the way, I’ll wait my turn.” “It’s better to let Mr. Benton handle it. Trust me.” I do trust him. I’ve not only heard about the temper tantrums of artists, I’ve seen them first hand. And if this is Matisse’s way of warning me that no matter how well things go tomorrow, he’s going to be a raging asshole, I’ll take his word on that. We chat a little more about his show. What we have planned as far as food and drinks. We’re going allout. Exquisite canapés and the best champagne. It’s going to be quite the party. But then he switches the conversation back to the club, just as our food arrives. “Do you get invited here often?” he asks. The salad and steak are served at the same time. And the filet mignon in front of me has my mouth watering. It smells delicious. My stomach is rumbling so loud, I’m sure the entire restaurant can hear it. But that question… “Invited?” I ask, not sure how to answer. “You’re not married?” he asks, like he thinks he knows the answer, but maybe he’s wrong. “No.” I laugh. “Then you have to be a guest. It’s a gentlemen’s club, after all.” “I… I never thought about it, I guess. I don’t come here,” I say, in way of explanation. “It’s a place I’ve become acquainted with very recently.” I look around. Take it all in. Everything is in black and white. I know this bar is called the Black Room and the restaurant on the other side of the lobby is called the White Room. They are each named for the color of the marble on the floors. The brownstone facade is typical of building constructed in the late eighteen hundreds, but the inside is more art deco. The edges and curves that people love about that period are all over in the design of the bar and the inlay on the floors. In the furniture, even, I realize. The black leather booths have rounded tops and the tables in the middle of the room, which do not have white linen tablecloths like the ones along the window, have a pattern on the top that reminds me of Gatsby. It’s opulent and excessive. Just like the men who run it. “But I love the decor.” And I do. It might be excessive and opulent, but I like it. I realize I never unwrapped my silverware. The white napkin is starched and creased into an envelope shape. It has a monogram on what would be the outside flap which reads TPC. Turning Point Club, I realize. “You should see the rooms upstairs,” Matisse says, cutting his steak as I cut mine. I take a bite before I even process how to respond to that comment. “Mmmm,” I say, enjoying that first bite of meat so much, I have to close my eyes. “That’s so good.” I laugh. When I open my eyes and look at Matisse, he’s staring at me. “Would you like to see my room upstairs, Chella?” Chella. Would you like to see my room? Would you like to go upstairs? Would you like me to fuck you tonight? I swallow the steak and go stiff. Is that what this is? Did Smith set me up to fuck him? I look around, and something, I’m not sure what, makes me look up. There is Smith Baldwin. On that second-story balcony that Bric and Quin were sitting in last night when Smith escorted me out. He’s leaning on the railing with a drink in his hand. Smiling. I put my silverware down and scoot out of the bench. “I’m sorry,” I say to Matisse. “I’m really sorry. But I have to go. I just remembered that…” But I have no excuse but the truth. So I say nothing. Just walk out of the Black Room and make my way through the crowd of people in the lobby. Why are there so many people here? It’s after one in the morning. Why, Chella? You know why.

It’s a gentlemen’s club. This is a sex club and Smith Baldwin brought me here to fuck his friend. “Chella,” Matisse says, gently grabbing my arm as I wait my turn at the coat check. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything. I’ll take you home.” “My car—” “I’ll take you to your car.” “No,” I say, pulling away so he has to let go of my arm. “I’ll get a cab.” The girl comes with my coat, even though I never asked for it, and I slip it on and escape outside before Matisse can say anything else. I stop on the wet sidewalk, the cool air washing over me. Small snowflakes stick to my face. Melt from the heat of my embarrassment. The door opens behind me and I’m sure it’s going to be Matisse, but it’s not. “My driver will take you to your car, Marcella.” It’s Smith. The driver is suddenly there, opening the door of the long, black car. “Get in,” Smith says. “If you walk, I’ll follow you, and I’m pretty sure you don’t want that to happen.” I get in, expecting him to get in with me. But he doesn’t. He closes the door, speaks to the driver, and then walks back inside Turning Point Club, hands in his trouser pockets, like this is just another task he needed to check off his list for the day. The driver takes me to my car. I don’t even have to tell him where I’m parked. But I guess it’s easy enough to find out, if someone was stalking me. Someone was definitely stalking me. I get out of the car before the driver can open my door, and I’m inside my Mercedes breathing hard and confused before he can say anything. I turn the car on, check my mirror, and back out. The limo is still here. The driver backed up far enough to let me maneuver. But when I make my way to the garage exit, he follows me. He follows me out onto the street. All the way to my townhouse on Little Raven Street. When I close up my garage, he’s still waiting. But when I get inside the house, go up one flight of steps in the dark, and look out the guest room window that faces the alley, he’s gone. I check the front of the house too. No one. And then I do something I almost never do. I set my house alarm.

Chapter Seven - Smith

Her house is huge. I’m surprised she needs so much space. It’s got five bedrooms, plus an office and what might be a library. That room is lined with custom shelves, but no books. In fact, there’s almost nothing personal about this place at all. It looks… staged. Is she selling it? Does this furniture belong to someone else? I do a quick search of her address on a real estate site, but no. Not listed for sale. “Huh,” I say out loud as I take a seat in a low chair placed in front of the window that faces the brickwalled courtyard in the back. I don’t know what to make of Marcella Walcott. Why did she agree to whatever plan Rochelle had? Why did she let Quin fuck her? Why did she come to dinner tonight if she was just going to walk out? It doesn’t add up. If she wants to be Rochelle’s replacement—if, in fact, that was what Rochelle’s plan was—then why walk out on Matisse? I could think of a lot of worse-looking men than Matisse. I think he’s good-looking. If I was into men that way, I’d fuck him. And he’s a goddamned celebrity in her world. She was gushing all over his work today. The smile on her face… I sigh as the garage door rumbles open in another part of the house. I could just ask her. But not tonight. I smile and get up out of the chair just as she comes bursting through a door in some other room. A few seconds later she runs past me, taking the stairs two at a time. Footsteps over my head as she goes into one of the guest bedrooms. One that faces the alley. A few seconds later she crosses the hallway—I can see her through a cable railing above—and goes into another guest room. What the fuck is she doing? I wait, listening. She’s breathing heavy when she comes out of that room and jogs up the stairs to the top floor where her bedroom is. And that bedroom, wow. Talk about boring. There’s a series of beeps as she arms the house alarm. I smile again. Because she just locked me in here with her. I sit back down in my chair and wait her out, staring at an ugly-as-fuck orange accent wall that needs to find its way back to the Seventies where it came from. I wait and see if she comes downstairs to get something to eat. But she doesn’t. She gets in the shower. It’s a long one. So long I get bored and go upstairs to watch her through the clear glass. She’s got her eyes closed as the water flows down her face, her breasts, her legs. If she opened them right now, she’d see me. But she doesn’t. Just stays like that, like she’s washing something away. I shrug and step back into the bedroom, casually looking through her drawers. When she turns the water off, I take a pair of panties out of her underwear drawer and push it closed. They are black lace. Boy shorts, I think they call them. The ones that ride up the ass cheeks. I like those, so I put them in my suit pocket.

I step out of her room just as she steps out of the bathroom. She misses seeing me by seconds. And then I go downstairs to wait. I sit in my chair and watch for her shadow on the stairs. But the dim light filtering through from the third floor clicks out a few minutes later. She went to bed. I ponder this for a few minutes. Wonder if I should wake her. Let her know I’m here. But what would be the fun in that? I watch the clock for thirty minutes and when I’m sure she’s asleep, I go back upstairs and into her bedroom. I take a seat in another chair with my back to the window. And I watch her. She has curtains on the window. But they are sheer, and white, and not closed. So there’s a little bit of light coming in from the moon, or some streetlamp. It’s enough to get a good look at her face. She’s pretty. I noted it last night but watching her at work let me see her. She likes her job, she likes her co-workers, and she appears to be happy. So why was she going along with Rochelle’s plan? Because I think it’s pretty clear at this point that Rochelle did have a plan. What it was, what it’s about… I have no idea. I slip my coat jacket off and drape it over the back of the chair I’m sitting in. Then my tie. And once that’s situated neatly on top of the jacket, I start unbuttoning my shirt. It’s cold out tonight, and even though the heat is on in the house, it’s set low. So I leave it on, just open it up to expose my chest. I unbuckle my belt next. It jingles a little and I watch her face closely to see if she’s a light sleeper. No, I decide, once I’m unzipping my pants. She’s not. My cock is hard when I grip it. And when I close my eyes and let my imagination take over, it grows even harder. Rochelle, I hear myself saying in my head. Just the way Quin described it to me earlier today. I needed a good visual so I hunted him down at work after lunch and got the whole story. Did you miss me? Because I missed you. We need to renegotiate. Two weeks is too long. What would I have done if it was my night instead of Quin’s? I don’t think I would’ve mistaken her for Rochelle, that’s for sure. Marcella’s breasts are bigger, for one. And Quin said he grabbed them. He said he was kinda rough. For him, anyway. He pulled her hair. God, I wish I had seen it. I wish I was there. I open my eyes, my hand still pumping my cock as I play that scene over and over in my head. Trying to make it perfect. And when it is, I come on my stomach in the still silence. I let myself breathe hard for several minutes, hoping she wakes up so she can see me here. Understand what I did. What I want from her. But she is dead to the world. I want to touch her very badly. But instead I get up from the chair and walk out, silently descending the stars until I get to the bottom floor. I go into the bathroom and clean the come off my stomach and stare at my face in the mirror. I look tired. I need sleep and a shave. But neither of those things are mine tonight, because I’m stuck here in her house. I’m not going to wake her up. And miss her reaction when she realizes I just spent the night in her house and she didn’t know it? I laugh. Out loud. Fuck that. Marcella agreed to Rochelle’s plan for one reason and one reason only. She’s a dirty slut. She wants to be with us. She wants what Rochelle left behind. And the longer I think about it, the more I think about it. When I’m walking back to my chair I note the thermostat. I kick the heat up a little higher so I don’t get cold, and go back to my chair in front of the family room window and consider calling Bric so we can discuss. But then I look at my watch and realize it’s nearly three in the morning. He’ll be up in a few hours. I sit there in my chair, listening for her sounds. Snoring, or sighing. Or… shit, I hope for a little

moaning. What if she plays with herself as she sleeps? That thought is enough to get my ass back upstairs. She’s kicked the covers off. In fact, it almost looks like she was thrashing around from a bad dream. Her fair legs are long. One is hiked over a pillow, which she hugs to her chest. I get my phone out and open the night vision app. Take some pictures. I never have a shutter sound on my camera, so all this is done in silence. I have a lot of questions for Marcella Walcott, starting with her father, a US senator for thirty years. In fact, it turns out baby Marcella was born the first year he was elected. She spent her entire childhood being the daughter of Senator Walcott. I found internet pictures of her up until age ten and then… she disappeared. I can only assume it was boarding school. But ten. Jesus. That’s young, isn’t it? There are no more pictures of her until she’s well into her twenties. Maybe just a few years ago, now that I think about it. She’s thirty. Her birthday is in February, so almost thirty-one. Those pictures online are all of her at the Charles Benton Gallery. There are none with her father. It strikes me as weird. Why no pictures of him with his daughter? Maybe they just like privacy? Maybe her mother insisted on it. She died three years ago. The same year Marcella started her job at the gallery. There’s a lot of gaps. Where did she go to school? She has a short biography on the gallery website. It says, Marcella Walcott is the daughter of US Senator Henry Walcott. She studied art history and curation and graduated with a PhD. Usually after a biography rattles off credentials, they list a university. From Harvard. Or Princeton. Or wherever she was. But not this biography. “You have secrets, Marcella.” I say it out loud but she never even stirs. “And I’m gonna figure them out.” I unzip my pants again, ready for another round as I stare at her half-naked body, so helpless and sweet, lying there in bed. I imagine Bric this time. How he might fuck her. I’d pay money to see that. Watch him with his toys. His whips, his gags, how he can turn an ass cheek bright red with one, hard smack. “Fuck,” I whisper, my hand sliding up and down my cock in long, slow strokes. He got rough last night when we went downstairs. Not with Lucinda, she was busy and she’s not even close to his type. Some other wife or some other club member. They wear masks and no one talks about who they are. All I care about is the pussy. And the cocks. And the sweat. The slick sweat covering their bodies, dripping off their faces, red with exertion and lust. I like the way Bric grunts when he’s turned on. I like the way his huge cock fills them up and makes then cry out. I like the way he whips them until they have welts on their backs. He’s sick. But so am I. So is Quin. And so was Rochelle. I’m betting Marcella Walcott is just as sick as us. I’m betting she walked out on Matisse this evening because she can’t admit it. She likes the dark, I decide, coming on my stomach for a second time. She likes the forbidden world we live in. And she wants to be a part of it, whether she realizes it or not. I don’t bother going back downstairs to clean up when I’m done. Too fucking wiped out. I just leave my eyes closed and drift off.

“What the fuck are you doing in my house?” I open my eyes—or try to. The sunlight is bright today. The storm must be over. “I said—” “I heard you,” I grumble, sitting up a little straighter. My neck is sore as fuck from sleeping in this chair. “Then answer me. I called the cops. They’re on their way!” When I finally get my eyes to open and can properly see her, she’s holding a gun on me. I laugh. “What’s so funny? You’re a fucking pervert. And you’re gonna get slapped with a sex offender charge for this. Do you have any idea who my father is?” I laugh again. “Stop it!” She yells it. Loud. “And get out of my fucking house. Right now!” “I can’t,” I say, looking down at the dried-up mess on my bare stomach. “You locked me in last night.” “Locked you—” She stops to laugh. But it’s one of those how-dare-you laughs. Incredulous. My dick is hard from morning wood and she does not miss this once I start playing with it. “You’re sick,” she says, backing away. The gun is still generally pointing at me, but only halfheartedly. “I have a question for you, Marcella.” I look her in the eyes as I say this, but my hands are busy tucking my still-erect cock back into my pants. “Get out!” “I will, just calm down. But I can’t get out until I’m put back together. And you need to let me out. I don’t know your alarm code. I didn’t expect you to arm it when you got home.” “Oh, my God. You were waiting in here for me. That’s why you put me in that car alone, wasn’t it?” I think about this for a second. “Did you want me to get in the car with you?” I laugh again. Jesus Christ. “I’m calling the police if you’re not out of my house in thirty seconds. I’ll let you out from the bedroom control panel, just get up and get the fuck out of my house.” “You said you already called them. Let me give you some pointers about lying, Marcella—” “Get. The fuck! Out!” “My question is,” I say, ignoring her theatrics. I stand up so I can tuck in my shirt and put on my tie. “Why did you refuse Matisse?” “What?” She blinks a few times, like I’m an idiot and she can’t believe I even know how to dress myself. “He’s my fucking client, Smith. Why the hell did you assume I’d be up for something like that?” “You let Quin fuck you. Why wouldn’t I assume you’re a whore?” She slaps me. I don’t even know how she got that close, that fast. But my left cheek is stinging like fuck. I touch it with the palm of my hand and smile. “Bric is gonna really dig you, honey. I can’t wait.” “What the fuck are you talking about?” I grab my suit coat and walk towards her. She backs away, holding the gun up. It presses into my chest as I grab her arm. Her face is one of total shock. Her mouth is open, eyes wide, face flushed red. I lean into her neck and whisper in her ear. “It was just a test, sweetheart. Congratulations, you passed.” And then I skip down the stairs, two at a time, as I adjust my collar and my suit coat. By the time I get to the front door, the alarm has been turned off. So I just unlock it and leave.

Chapter Eight - Bric

“God, I hate Mondays,” Quin says. We’re sitting in the White Room having breakfast and he looks like shit. “It’s Tuesday, you asshole.” “Whatever.” “Maybe you should stop drinking so much. Then you wouldn’t have a hangover on a Tuesday.” Quin doesn’t even acknowledge me, just sips his coffee and stares out the window. It’s not snowing today, at least. It’s sunny. Very bright, in fact. The whole room is flooded with sunlight reflecting off the snow we got yesterday. “You didn’t call me last night,” Quin says. “Did you hear anything?” For a second I don’t even know what he’s talking about. Then I remember that I told him I’d ask that girl if she knew anything about Rochelle. “I didn’t get a chance yesterday, Quin. Sorry. I was kinda swamped with end-of-year shit, you know?” “What kind of end-of-year shit? Christmas parties?” He scoffs at me. “I’ll see if I can get a hold of her today. I still have the card.” Quin looks up from staring into his coffee. “Why don’t you just give it to me and I can ask her myself?” “Because I don’t trust you,” I say. “She’s someone… important.” “Important how?” Quin asks. I’m not sure how much to tell him. If he even needs to know. But I don’t have to answer because the White Room manager, Margaret, comes up to our table and says, “Excuse me, Mr. Bricman? You have a phone call.” She’s holding out a handset. Who the hell would be calling me on the Club’s public phone? Margaret reads my confusion and begins to explain. “Someone named Marcella Walcott? She’s called about a dozen times demanding to speak to you.” And then Margaret lowers her voice. “She’s angry about something. I tried to find out what, but she refused to talk to anyone but you.” I look over at Quin, who is looking back at me with a pretty hard glare. “Is that her?” he asks. I take the phone from Margaret and say, “Thank you. I’ll handle it,” as I stand up from the table. “Don’t you fucking leave, you bastard,” Quin says, cutting off my escape. “I want to hear this if that’s her.” I sit back down. Sigh. “Look, Quin, you just need to let Rochelle—” “I have,” Quin snaps. “I don’t care anymore, but I’d like to know if she’s OK. Is that so bad? I’m over it, all right? But if she’s in trouble, Bric, then she has earned our help. We should help her even if we never see her again. Do you understand what I’m saying?” I do understand. Quin has a huge heart. He’s a good guy in many ways. And I know he’s doing his best to let this Rochelle thing go, but I also know he’ll handle it a lot better if he gets this one answer. I exhale loudly and then press the hold button on the handset. “Yes, Miss Walcott? This is Elias Bricman. What can I do for you today?” “You had better tell that freak of a friend of yours that if he comes near me again, I will get a fucking restraining order. I will have the goddamned FBI on his doorstep. I will drag his name—” She’s yelling. Like… loud. So I pull the phone away from my ear and look at Quin. He’s smiling so

big, getting shit on by Marcella Walcott is almost worth it. “Are you listening to me?” Marcella screams. “I can definitely hear you, Miss Walcott. Why don’t you calm down and start from the beginning?” Just as those words come out of my mouth, Smith walks into the restaurant. He ignores everyone as he makes his way back to our table, and when he gets here, he stops, looking at the phone with a puzzled look. It quickly turns into amusement and he sits down. “I got locked in her house last night by mistake.” “Is that him?” Marcella screams. “Marcella, please. Stop—” “Don’t tell me to stop screaming. Your weirdo stalker friend broke into my house last night. He was jerking off in my bedroom while he watched me sleep!” “Fuck, Smith,” I say. “What the fuck?” “What the fuck is right,” Marcella says. She’s silent then. Breathing hard, like she’s trying to regain control. “Keep him away from me!” I get a dial tone after that, so I end the call and place the handset on the table. “Would you like to explain yourself?” “I brought her here last night,” Smith says. “What?” That’s Quin. “Why the fuck would you do that?” “She’s dark, man. So listen… she works at the Benton Gallery where Matisse is having his show this weekend, you know?” I nod. I didn’t really make that connection when he gave me her business card yesterday, but all right. “It was a long day of unloading pieces for the show. She didn’t eat dinner. So Matisse and I invited her here to eat.” Quin knows where this is going, because he’s shaking his head and mumbling, “You fucking pervert. Why do you do this shit?” But Smith is still looking at me. “She turned him down. So I went to her house to say she passed my test and I got inadvertently locked inside. I didn’t expect her to set the alarm when she got home. It wasn’t on when I broke in.” “Do you even hear yourself?” Quin asks. Smith redirects his attention to Quin now. “Did you ever hear of the expression ‘two birds, one stone?’” Quin looks at me. “What the fuck is he talking about?” But we both know what he’s talking about. Smith wants Marcella. He thinks he can get Quin the information he needs and we can all have a replacement at the same time. I’m silent as Quin stands up. “Fuck that girl. Fuck. That girl. I’m not in, OK? So if you assholes want to pair up and leave me out, feel free.” Smith and I both watch Quin walk out. And then Smith looks back to me. “He’ll get over it. He’s just pissed off that she tricked him. But you know what? I kinda like that about her.” And then he nods to the headset on the table. “And I like that fucking screaming too.” The rest of my day is not filled with enough distractions to keep Smith’s idea from percolating in my mind. The screaming was hot. When Smith brought her down the elevator the other night she didn’t look wild. She looked scared, actually. But the screaming tells me another story. It says she’s a fighter.

My mind is whirring with possibilities and ideas. I did say I’d talk to Marcella about Rochelle for Quin. If only to get some semblance of closure about Rochelle’s state of mind and being. So after I conclude my last phone call about the upcoming holiday events, I find the card on my desk at TPC and stare at it as I look out the window. I call the gallery. It’s closed. Smith has an address written down on the back of the card, but no phone number. So I call down to reception and tell them to bring my car up from the garage. I clean my desk off, putting everything in its place before I leave, and then make my way down to the waiting car. It’s cold tonight, but no snow. So the traffic is light as I weave through the downtown streets and make my way over to Little Raven Street near Union Station. It’s one of those high-end areas just north of downtown. Every townhouse and condo on this street goes for over a million dollars. Well over a million, actually. I scan the house numbers for her address and when I find it, I breathe a sigh of relief that the lights are on. I park the car, get out, and walk up to her front gate. It’s short, but stately, made of wrought iron, and it doesn’t squeak when I open it and walk through. Her townhouse is three stories tall, plus a basement from the looks of the stairs I have to walk up to get to the front door. It’s modern, has lots of large windows and sharp lines, and when I peek inside, I can see a fire going in the large front room. Nina Simone is singing about a new dawn and a new day and then I get a flash of the woman I came to see as she walks across the room on the far end of the first floor. I press the button for the doorbell. Marcella stops in the middle of the hallway and stares at me, staring at her. She doesn’t move. Not one muscle. She’s absolutely still as she considers her options. Will she call the police? Will she go about her business and ignore me? Or will she answer the door? Just as I get to that last option, she decides. “What?” she says, peeking through a crack in the door. “I’d just like to apologize for Smith’s actions last night.” “Did he tell you everything he did?” She’s still very angry about it. “Because I’d like to know just how deeply disturbed he really is so I know how to react.” “He told me he’s sorry.” “Did he?” Marcella asks, unbelieving. “Then why are you here apologizing instead of him?” “May I come in, Miss Walcott? It’s like ten degrees out here.” She looks me up and down real fast, then opens the door and says, “Briefly.” “Yes,” I say, stepping past her and into the warm house. “I’ll keep it short.” She’s cooking dinner, I realize. Something smells good. I turn to her, but she pushes past me and says, “Excuse me. I have to check my food before it burns.” Even though she didn’t invite me to follow her back into the kitchen, I do. I take off my leather gloves and set them down on the granite island with my car keys. “Smells good. What are you making?” Marcella reaches for a remote and turns the music down so we can have a conversation. “Chicken pot pie,” she says, opening the oven. She peers in, grabs a pot holder, and then pulls out a single chicken pot pie. “It’s frozen?” She laughs. “No.” But her answer is terse. Like I offended her. “You make them yourself?”

Marcella sets the cooking sheet on a trivet and turns around. “What do you want?” “Why are you so angry with me?” “He broke into my—” “I’m sorry Smith did that. He’s impulsive. But he had a reason.” “I’m sure he did,” she says. “Technically, Miss Walcott, you kinda broke into our house too. Right?” Her spine stiffens and her chin lifts up. “Rochelle invited me up.” “Right,” I say, drawing in a deep breath and then letting it out. “That’s the other reason I’m here. You see, Quin—” “I don’t know where she is. And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. If she wanted you guys to know where she went and what she was doing, she’d have left a note.” “OK. That’s fine. I accept that. All we need to know is if she’s all right. That’s it. Was she stressed out?” Marcella thinks about this for a moment and then says, “Yes. I’d call her stressed out.” “Do you think she was afraid?” More thoughtful consideration from Marcella. “I don’t know if I’d call it afraid. But she was crying when we talked that afternoon.” “Do you know why?” Marcella shakes her head no. “No idea at all? I mean, come on, Marcella. We love her, OK? Not equally and not all in the same way. But we love her. We need to know if she needs our help.” “She did not confide in me, Mr. Bricman—” “Bric,” I say. “Just call me Bric.” Marcella sighs. “I don’t have the answer you need. I promise, I’d tell you if I thought she was in trouble and needed help. I think she has something going on. For sure. But I got the feeling she was handling it.” I nod my head and take a seat on one of the bar stools. “And you? You came upstairs…” “I don’t want to talk about it. It was obviously a mistake.” “Maybe,” I say. “Maybe not.” “Your friend is weird, Bric. I’m not getting involved with him.” “Then why did you let Quin fuck you?” She blows out a long breath of air. “I’m not trying to be mean, Marcella. I’m trying to understand. And I’m trying to figure out if you’re interested.” “Interested?” She laughs. “In that sex game you were playing with Rochelle?” “If you knew about it—and you clearly did—and you didn’t want to partake—again, you clearly did— then why let Quin fuck you?” Marcella leans her hip into the granite counter next to the stove and folds her arms across her chest. “What do you want me to say? I was horny? It sounded dirty and I wanted to get in on it?” “That would be a good start.” She grunts in denial. “We’re interested, Marcella. That’s why I’m here. We are interested.” “You need a replacement before the weekend?” “I have never seen Rochelle on the weekends. I have Wednesdays and Thursdays.” “Oh.” She laughs. “My mistake. You need a fuck buddy before tomorrow?” “Can you just be serious for a minute?” “Sure,” she says. “Sure. Let’s be serious about what you’re offering me. You and your friends want to

own me. Share me. Fuck me senseless, any way you want. Let’s get serious about this.” “You don’t have to be condescending.” I shrug. “Some people like the dark side of sex. And let’s get real as long as we’re getting serious. You like the dark side, Marcella.” I get up and walk around the island so I’m standing in front of her. “You like the forbidden world we live in. Because if you didn’t, you’d never have agreed to whatever plan Rochelle sold you. So why don’t you just shut the fuck up with your holy self-righteous attitude and listen to my offer.” “You have some nerve coming here—” I grab her face with one hand, my thumb pressing into her jaw and my forefinger wrapping under her chin. “Shut. The fuck. Up.” She breathes hard and heavy, but she doesn’t do anything but obey. “That’s better,” I say, letting go of her face. “I’m going to pick you up on Friday and we’re going on a date.” “I’m working Friday,” she says. Her voice is smaller now. Slightly—not all the way, but slightly— submissive. “I know.” I’m trying my best to be patient with her. “The gallery. We know Matisse. We’re all going to that opening. So I’m going to pick you up at five-thirty and you and I are going to go together.” “You and I?” she asks. “Quin and Smith will be there, but you are my date. Understand?” She says nothing, so I wait her out. When the seconds continue to tick off with no answer from her, I explain it another way. “It’s a job interview, Marcella.” “A job?” She pulls away from me, her upper body leaning back against the granite countertop. “A job with lots of benefits.” “Like the sex?” she asks. I can’t tell if that’s a snide comment or one filled with longing. It comes off as something in between and I decide Smith was right. She wants in. She wants this. She likes the dark. She just needs to tell herself she doesn’t. That’s why she’s fighting. “We can have a proper discussion after the show. We’ll have drinks at the club and discuss the details.” I wait for her answer. And after a few moments of thinking, she says, “And then you’ll all fuck me together?” That was not the answer I expected. “No,” I say. But I think I catch a little disappointment in her expression. So I add, “Not unless we all agree. And I’m not sure Quin will agree to that.” I reach under her short skirt and slip my hand between her legs, pulling her panties aside. She closes her eyes when I do this. A soft moan. One finger presses inside her. She is so fucking wet, just like Smith said. My other hand uncrosses her arms and she lets them fall helplessly to her side. I lean into her, kiss her mouth. She kisses me back as I finger her pussy. “Don’t fight it,” I say. “We can give you what you need, Marcella.” I play with her clit, flicking my finger back and forth. “I’d fuck you right now if I could.” Her eyes open and stare at me. “Why can’t you?” Her voice is deep and throaty. Oh, yeah, this girl is a dirty slut. She’d let me do anything I want right now. “Because if I fuck you first without the other guys involved, then you’d be mine and not ours. And I’m more interested in ours than mine.” I pull my fingers out of her pussy. They are slick with her juices. And when I bring them up to her lips, she opens her mouth and sucks them like she’ll eventually be sucking my cock. “Five-thirty, Marcella. Wear something spectacular. And no panties. I want to finger you again at that gallery. In front of your boss.”

I pull my wet fingers out of her mouth and wipe them on her cheek. Kiss her softly on the lips. I leave her like that. All hot and wet. All ready for more. She will come to understand what this offer is. And even if it’s not her brand of forbidden, she will stay. At least for a while. I know addiction to the dark when see it. And she’s a junkie.

Chapter Nine - Chella

Even with the distraction of the last-minute preparation of the Matisse installation on Thursday, I’ve spent the last three days sick to my stomach about what might happen tonight. Bric was blunt and it was unexpected. Maybe I’ve come to expect that from Smith—if you can form expectations based on just a handful of encounters. But I always saw Bric as the sensible one. The practical one. The one she went to talk to when she had problems. That was Rochelle’s description of him. He was everything but those two things at my house on Tuesday. The way he checked me for my arousal, just like Smith. The way he caught me off guard. His cold commands and heated stares. His kiss. God, his kiss. I know this is the wrong choice, even as I dress for him. Wear something spectacular. I hold the collar in my hand. The gold one that Smith clamped on to my neck on Sunday night. And I know this too is wrong. Put it away, I want to scream to myself. Don’t do this, Marcella. Don’t give in to their promises. Don’t wait for him to pick you up. Just get in your car and drive yourself to the opening. Then ignore them. Forget about Rochelle. Forget about Quin and the way he fucked you. Forget about Smith and the way he claimed you. Forget about Bric and the way he dominated you. Just… don’t do it. There is no chance in hell I’ll do any of those things. And I prove it to my doubting inner self by bringing the collar up to my neck and fastening the clasp. It’s tight and when I swallow hard and make my throat expand just ever so slightly it reminds me what it is. A choker. I do not have underwear on, just like Bric requested. And I can already feel the slickness pooling between my legs. When the doorbell rings I shut off the bedroom light and walk slowly down the stairs. My black dress is long, but there is a slit up the side of each of my thighs. A thin, black satin wrap drapes casually around my bare shoulders, but I stop before opening the front door and put on my winter coat. Bric is scowling at me through the window for making him wait. I smile as I open the door. “You look nice,” I say. And he does. His tuxedo is perfect. Obviously tailored to his exact body specifications. “As do you, Miss Walcott. You should’ve let me in so I could help you with your coat.” “Hmm,” I say. “I’ll consider that. If there’s a next time.” That makes him cock an eyebrow at me. “No games tonight, Chella.” Chella. He says it so casually. Like he’s been calling me that name my whole life. Like he gave it to me. Like he owns that name. “We’re past it.” “I’m not sure we are,” I say, grabbing my evening bag and letting him guide me out the front door. Once on the porch, I stop to lock up, and then I place my hand on his arm and let him take me down the dozen or so steps to the waiting car. He opens the back door, I slide across the soft leather seat, and then he gets in next to me. Once we’re settled, the driver proceeds.

“Matisse is excited.” “Oh, good,” I say. And I mean it. “I really hope the show does well.” “How could it not?” Bric asks. I let out a small laugh. “Well, it’s art. Not everyone is in the market for such things.” “Will you be expected to stay late and help with closing?” Bric asks, ignoring my remark. “No. We have staff for that. Show openings are a night out for me.” “Good. Then we’ll stay an acceptable amount of time and reconvene at Turning Point.” He hesitates, then adds, “Quin isn’t coming.” “To the meeting?” I ask. “To the show. I think he’ll show for the meeting.” I hold my breath for a few moments. Thinking about this meeting. Marveling at how easily I have accepted it as normal. It’s not normal, Chella. Shut up, I tell the inner monologue. I don’t care. And I don’t. I have thought of nothing else but what will happen tonight. At the show, sure. Since Bric promised to stick his fingers inside my pussy while we’re there. But mostly afterward. When I have all three of them sitting around a table so we can discuss… sex. With me. With them. Rochelle didn’t go into detail about her relationships. She just said that they were each unique and I’d have to get used to them. I’d have to get used to letting them be themselves while I pretend to be what they want. “Are you cold?” Bric asks. “I can turn up the heat.” He’s asking because my whole body is shaking with the anticipation. “Yes,” I say, as cover for my fear, and anxiety, and excitement. I don’t live very far from the gallery, so it only takes a few minutes to get to the corner where we must be dropped off. We wait for the driver to do his job this time. And when the door opens, Bric steps out, grabs my hands, and gently pulls me up and out of the car. There’s a crowd of people milling around outside. We sold tickets for this exhibition, so there is also a line. I’m about to walk us forward and present myself to the staff manning the door, but Bric takes over. He smiles at them as we approach. I don’t know them. We contract out for shows like this. But they know Bric. They must. Because they open the velvet rope and let us pass. Inside the exhibition is spectacular. I have seen the pieces, of course. But tonight we have dramatic lighting to highlight each piece. And Matisse has it set up like a journey through a backstage. You meet the ushers standing sentry right at the door, walk down a makeshift aisle, lit up by lights on the floor to mimic a theatre, and then pass through a curtain where the rest of the exhibition awaits. Matisse is there with Smith and they both stop to look at Bric and me as we approach. Smith is wearing a tuxedo that matches Bric’s. Matisse is wearing white. Typical artist. “It’s fantastic,” I tell Matisse, leaning in to give him pretentious air kisses. “Congratulations. This is wonderful.” “You look lovely, Chella.” Chella. Again. All week he’s been calling me Marcella. But tonight everything changes, doesn’t it? My position has switched from gallery manager to Bric’s date. And it makes a difference. Matisse and I had a few awkward moments on Thursday when I came back to work, but generally we both pretended nothing happened at the Turning Point Club on Monday night. Or maybe Bric told him about the arrangement and so he didn’t feel awkwardness was necessary? Either way, it did the trick for me. I feel nothing but admiration for the artist right now. “Chella,” Smith says. “Would you like to take me through the exhibit?” I look at Bric.

Why? Why did I just do that? And it makes him smile that I asked for permission, even if it was just a look. “Go ahead,” he says. “Have fun. I’ll be right here when you’re done.” And if I wasn’t going to enter into a shared relationship with these two men, it might be normal. But I am. So it’s not. Have fun. What does that mean? “Are you afraid of me?” Smith asks as he leads me away. “No.” I laugh. “Good. I’m not the one you should be afraid of. You’ll come to realize that soon enough.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” Is he trying to scare me away? “You’ll see,” Smith says, taking my hand and leading me toward the next sculpture. “I’m sure Bric promised you something fun here tonight. He likes it like that. He likes parties and big groups.” “And you?” I ask, concentrating on the ballerina on the floor, tying up her toe shoes. “I like it a different way. You’ll realize that soon enough as well.” “Is that what the basement of the Club is for?” I ask, chancing a look up at him. Smith smiles. “You’ll never know.” “Why not?” “Did Rochelle tell you what we do down there?” “No.” “Because if she did, she lied. She has no idea what we do down there.” “I don’t think it’s that hard to imagine. I’ve—” But I stop talking. Jesus Christ. Get a hold of yourself, Chella. “You’ve what?” Smith asks. “Been there?” “No.” I laugh again. “I’ve heard things.” “From who?” “Just rumors. People talk.” Smith’s arm is around me. He pulls me close to his chest, leans into my mouth and kisses me on the lips. “Not our people, Chella,” he whispers. “No one talks who knows. Just keep that in mind.” Did he just threaten me? But his kiss is back. A soft flutter on my lips. “You’re mine too, if Quin agrees. And I’d just like to warn you… I’m not good at sharing.” “What?” I pull away, smiling. “You’re joking, right?” He shakes his head. Very slowly. “Not even a little bit, Marcella Walcott. Not even close.” People come up behind us and so Smith backs away and we continue on to the next sculpture. It’s darker here. And we are totally concealed in shadow. Only a single spotlight illuminates the next dancer. A woman at the barre, her leg stretched up high, arm in a graceful arc over her head as she warms up. “Why does Quin get to make all the decisions?” “He doesn’t make all of them. We make them together. But he’s holding out. So he needs to agree or it won’t happen. No matter how much Bric wants you.” “You don’t want me?” I ask. I look up at him, but I can’t see his face. It’s too dark where we’re standing. “I don’t care either way,” he says. “But Bric wants it now. Something you did or said on Tuesday affected him. Made him desire you. I’m sure Quin will give in, if only to make Bric happy. But you’d better make things right with Quin or it won’t last long.” That last part really does come out like a threat. “How do I go about doing that?” I feel Smith shrug. And then we walk forward again, until we’re in more light and I can see him. “He’s

not a hard guy to understand, so I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” “Are your ambivalent feelings for me the same ones you harbor for Rochelle?” “Maybe,” Smith says, his hand finding the little dent of my waist. He places his palm flat and it sends a tingle through my body. “But don’t worry, Chella. It took me two and a half years to grow tired of Rochelle. I don’t think you’ll last that long, so you’ll never know.” I laugh. Not loud, but enough to let him know what’s coming. “You’re an asshole.” “You haven’t seen anything yet, whore.” I am stunned silent. But only for a moment. “Is that what gets you off? Degradation?” “Sometimes. But no, not really.” “You just like to call me a whore?” He smiles at me in the dim light. “Once you sign that contract, Marcella, that is what you’ll be.” He lets me take that all in. And the he pivots the conversation and says, “I’ve seen enough.” “And said enough,” I say. He chuckles. “God, it’s so cute the way you underestimate me.” I let him lead me through the rest of the exhibit. We don’t bother to stop, but it’s a circular path that takes us back to Matisse and Bric, who are surrounded by people holding long-fluted champagne glasses and eating tiny finger food as they chat. “You better think it over, Chella,” Smith says in a hushed whisper as we approach them. “Because once you’re in, you never get out.” I stop walking and look up at him. “Rochelle got out.” “Did she?” Smith asks, wry grin on his handsome face. Why are all the assholes so handsome? “Do you really think she can just flip her upside-down life right-side up again and there won’t be consequences?” He’s totally serious and my heart begins to pound with the implications of his words. “She can walk away. They all walk away eventually, Chella. But they can’t escape. You’ll see,” he says. “You’ll see what I mean.” We cross the final few steps and become one of the crowd. “I’ve decided to return your date, Bric,” Smith says, taking my hand, which he’s been holding the entire time, and placing it on Bric’s arm. “I’m leaving. Nice to see you again, Matisse,” Smith says over his shoulder as he makes for the front door. When Smith Baldwin commands attention, he gets it. I’ll give him that. Because everyone in the substantial crowd of people surrounding Matisse stops what they are doing to hear him speak. Smith never looks back. There is only a second or two of silent awe. The chatter begins again. I have to control myself so I don’t roll my eyes. “Now you get to walk through with me,” Bric says, smiling down at me. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, my date is anxious to show me what’s in the dark.” When we’re safely inside the exhibit again, hidden in the shadows, Bric says, “Don’t take him seriously.” I don’t have to ask who he’s talking about. “Why is he like that?” “He’s an unhappy person, Chella. Very few things bring out the human in him these days. But don’t worry, you’ll be one of those things.” “I don’t think so,” I say. “I think he’s playing with me. Like I’m just another piece on the game board.” “His whole life is a game. And this,” Bric says, indicating us. “We’re a game too. But it’s a fun game. It’s fun if you play with the right people. And both Smith and I think you’re right for it.” “And Quin?” I ask. “He needs some time to adjust.” “He liked Rochelle a lot?” I ask.

“More than he should, probably. I liked her too. What they had was not special. What I had with her was not special.” “And what you’ll have with me won’t be special, either?” “You’re missing the point, Chella.” He pushes me into a corner. Away from the people and the exhibits. It’s a small hallway that leads to a utility room door. His hands are on my legs. Fingers pulling on the slits of my dress, exposing the skin of my thighs. He palms my ass cheek and whispers, “Good girl,” when he realizes I’m not wearing underwear. I place both hands on his chest to push him back, but he doesn’t yield. “It’s not special, Marcella. Not with me, or Smith, or Quin. Not alone. Alone it’s nothing but fucking and filthy, sick desires. But what we have together is totally different. Shared ownership of anything implies partnership. Working together, finding common ground, and making decisions that are best for the group, not the individual. What you want doesn’t matter. What I want doesn’t matter. What Smith and Quin want doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is us. And once you figure out what us is, you’ll know what it’s really like to live. I promise you. You’ll know, and you’ll never go back to singular relationships. They’ll feel hollow and simple. You will be addicted to us and we’ll be addicted to you. It’s a disease, Chella. And you’re sick as fuck, just like us.” I look up at him, then over his shoulder where my boss, and Matisse, are standing in front of a sculpture, talking. Their voices are loud and boisterous and they carry into the small hallway. And that’s when Bric slips his fingers between my legs and finds what he needs. My permission. “I’d like to fuck you right now. But all I can do right now is tease, Chella. Don’t let the details scare you away. You’re here because you understand the big picture.” I’m not so sure about that, but I don’t say anything. Because the way he’s stroking my pussy feels too good to care. “Come on my fingers, Chella. We’re not leaving this hallway until you do. And if anyone sees us, comes near us, I won’t stop. So you better do it fast, you fucking whore. You better clench down and show me it’s real, too. If you fake it, I’ll know. I’ll take you outside, bend you over a bench on the 16th Street Mall, lift your dress up so everyone can see your bare ass, and spank the shit out of you until you cry. Until you beg me to stop or until you come. So don’t fight it, just—” I come. I moan. A little too loudly, but it makes Bric happy, so I don’t care. He laughs in my ear as I pant through my orgasm. “Please,” he says, fisting my hair and pulling my head back so I have to look him in the eyes. “Sign that contract tonight so we can fuck you hard next week.”

Chapter Ten - Quin

Only a few people know about the view from this top-floor apartment located inside the Turning Point Club and I count myself lucky to be among them. Before me is most of downtown. The capitol building is the main focus. The gold dome is lit up at night, and even on nights like this—when it’s semi-obstructed by a steady stream of falling snow—it’s breathtaking. The patio doors open behind me. “Hey,” Smith says. His dress shoes make a soft padding sound through the snow covering the wet concrete. “You ready for this?” “Are they on their way up now?” “No,” Smith says. “I left them at the party. Maybe an hour.” He’s silent for as long as he can manage while I think. “You up for it or not, Quin? There’s no point going through the whole fucking song and dance if we’re just gonna get to the end and have you say no.” “You want her,” I say, tired of this conversation. “I wouldn’t call that news. Obviously, I’ve never been into the whole selection process. But this one’s different. She’s better than Rochelle, Quin. I’m telling you right now, whatever Rochelle was to you, this girl will be all that. And more.” I’m still thinking. I’ve done my best to put aside the why. I’m dealing with that. I can let it go. But I’m still missing something. I’m missing her. “What did Bric do with all her stuff?” I ask, looking over at Smith. “Throw it out?” “Does it matter?” “I guess not.” I turn back to the view of the capitol. “He donated the furniture. All the rest is in storage.” I nod. My hands are freezing. I should’ve worn gloves. But it was nice of Bric to keep her things. It constitutes a collection. Memories and trinkets gathered up over a period of three years. “Are you coming inside or what?” Smith asks. “I’m getting wet. Your hair is soaked.” “I’ll be in soon,” I say back. But I don’t follow him. I have no idea how much time passes out there on the snow-covered terrace, I just know the night gets markedly darker for me. There’s no moon, it’s covered by the snow clouds. And even though all the tall buildings of Denver are lit up at night, it’s not enough to take away the feeling of despair. “Where the fuck did you go?” I ask the city. “If I had an answer for you, I swear, I would tell you.” So she’s here. I don’t turn, just keep my vigil. But I can’t help but notice her bare hands as she places them on the railing. They sink down into the snow at least two inches. She doesn’t have gloves on either, so I only imagine how badly she needs that railing to steady her right now. “I’m sorry,” she says. “What I did was wrong and I’m sorry.” “Did Bric tell you to say that?” I ask, turning my head just enough to look at her out of the corner of my eye.

“No. But Smith said you’re the one who’s going to make this decision.” “They want you and I don’t.” I sum it up simply. And then I shrug. “I’m over her.” To my surprise, Marcella slips her hands around my arm. An attempt to warm them up and give me comfort at the same time? “You’re not over her. And I don’t care. I mean,” she corrects, “I don’t mind. I do care. But it’s not reasonable to expect you to just move on.” She leans into me then. A nice touch to the speech Bric probably hand-fed her on the way over here. “I know they want you. So I’m not going to say no.” I turn to walk back inside and put an end to the drama, but Marcella has hold of my arm, so I stop and look at her. She is covered in snowflakes. “I do want you happy though.” She sighs, knowing she can’t win tonight. “So I’m going to do my best. We can be friends at least.” “Friends?” I say, my mouth turning down into an expression of confusion. “Oh, I’m still gonna fuck the shit out of you, Marcella Walcott. Don’t mistake my sadness for celibacy. You’re mine from midnight Sunday to midnight Tuesday.” I turn towards her, lean in and whisper, “And don’t ever fucking forget what you are to me.” Her eyes widen with a touch of fear. “A whore I pay a lot of fucking money to keep.” I pull back and point to the door. “Now get the fuck inside. You’re getting wet.” She doesn’t comment back. Just walks carefully through the snow in her stupid high heels and does as she told. When I get inside Smith is leaning against the kitchen island and Bric is standing in front of the door, hands in his pockets, legs spread in a stance that tells me he’s uneasy. The whole place is different now. All of Rochelle’s things have been removed, just like Bric promised. And in place of all the things Rochelle meticulously hunted down and collected over the past three years is cold, modern, simple furniture that no one gives a fuck about unless they actually had to pay for it. “Everything OK?” Bric asks Marcella. I chance a look at her and find her pale. “Quin?” Smith asks. “Are we going to continue or not?” “Why does it have to be my decision?” I ask, suddenly pissed off they’ve put me in this position. “Why not just take her yourself and leave me out of it?” “Come on, Quin,” Bric says with a hesitant smile. “Where’s the fun in that?” I let out a long exhale. “I don’t give a shit. OK? If she makes you happy, she makes me happy. How’s that for an answer?” “At least it’s one I can relate to,” Smith says. And he’s right. I don’t think he ever liked Rochelle. And the fact that he stopped coming by on his days with her months ago was just the first clue. Something I didn’t pay attention to until he told me about it. Marcella is standing between us. Surrounded. She says nothing. “Yes,” I say, walking towards the front door. “Fine. I’m in. Let’s go downstairs. I can’t stand this place.” “Hold on,” Bric says, grabbing my arm as I try to get past him. “We need to show her around.” I turn back to Marcella. “This is the kitchen,” I say, waving my hands at the newly repainted cabinets. They are stark white now, a blank slate, just like always. The countertop is black marble and the island cabinets are dark gray. I think Smith was in charge of the contractors this time around. “This is the living room.” Gone are Rochelle’s eclectic couches made of crushed velvet. Gone are the drapes. Gone is Smith’s old chair in front of the window and in its place is Smith’s new chair in front of the window. The couch is white, like the cabinets, made of leather, and there are two black and white striped

pillows propped up against each arm. Smith’s new chair is nothing but a curved chrome frame with a black leather seat and back. It looks like it’s suspended in mid-air. “The guest bathroom is there,” I say, pointing to a door in the short hallway. “But you’re not allowed to have guests. And the bedroom is in there with the master bath and closets.” I don’t bother going in there. I saw it earlier. “We have a closet,” I call out after Bric, who escorts Marcella into the bedroom to check it out. “And you have a closet.” Smith has stayed behind with me. “Don’t be a dick to her.” “Why not?” I ask. “She fucked my whole world over.” “She didn’t do anything. Rochelle fucked your world over.” “Same thing,” I say. “Look,” Smith says. “If you’re going to be an asshole, then you need to say no. Bric and I will find someone else.” I know he’s serious. They will. And they will never say a word about it to me ever again. “But it’s not her, Quin. It’s not really Marcella who's pissing you off tonight. It’s Rochelle. And if you say no tonight, chances are you’ll say no to the next one. And that’s fine. But then what we have will be over. And do you really want to throw us all away just because one girl fucked with your head?” I don’t say anything, just listen to the soft voices of Bric and Marcella in the bedroom. I think he’s giving her a pep talk. Just like the one I’m getting from Smith. “You know what you are,” Smith says. “What you like. What you get out of this. And we’ve got something good here. If you walk out, you’ll just have to find it again with someone else.” He’s right again, of course. “I already said yes,” I say. “My answer is yes.” I head to the door again—no Bric to stop me this time—and go out into the hallway where the elevator is waiting to take me down to Smith’s little room off the lobby. I don’t wait, just enter, push the button, and let the doors close behind me. When I get off, the lobby down below is busy, but not crowded. The restaurant is always booked. You have to make a reservation two months in advance to get a public table at Turning Point Club. But it’s Friday night, so we have no public tables. Only members are allowed in the building on the weekends. A few people catch my gaze, but I ignore their nods of greeting and head right into Smith’s bar. The bartender comes over with a bottle of Scotch and pours. By the time he’s done, Bric and Smith are getting off the elevator with Marcella. Bric is glaring at me as they approach the table. I’m going to hear an earful later, but he won’t pick a fight in front of the new girl. Bric holds out her chair and she sits directly across from me. Bric sits next to her and Smith is on my right. “OK,” Smith says, producing an envelope from his suit coat pocket. “Here are the details, Chella.” He takes the contract out of the envelope and flattens the pages down on the table, then pushes it towards her with one finger. “We each get you two nights a week,” Bric starts. “Quin gets Monday and Tuesday. I get Wednesday and Thursdays. And Smith gets Friday and Saturday. Your free day is Sunday. You will stay here in your new apartment—” “Wait,” Marcella says. “I have a house. I can’t live at my house?” “What part of ‘we own you’ don’t you get?” Smith asks. I’m surprised he’s so rough with her after all that bullshit he was talking upstairs. Marcella, however, does not seem taken aback. “I’m just trying to clarify things, Smith.” The way she snarls his name almost makes me smile.

“We like you here, Chella,” Bric explains, tapping on the table. “So you will stay here. On Sunday you can do anything you want. But on our days, we call the shots.” “What do I get out of this?” Marcella asks. Smith laughs. “Besides sex.” She glares at him. “I get that part, thanks. Because although I’m sure you all have golden cocks that can bring virgins to orgasm without foreplay, I’m not sure it’s enough compensation for being bossed around and treated like shit.” This time I’m the one who laughs. Pretty loud, too. “Burn,” I say, unable to hide my delight. “You get,” Bric continues, shooting me a look that says ‘shut the fuck up,’ “your dream. Fulfilled.” “My dream?” Marcella asks, confused. “What does that mean? I think you guys are all hot, and I’m really OK with the sex part. But my dream? You’re not my dream.” “Of course we’re not your dream, Chella,” Bric explains. “You hardly know us. But you do have a dream, right?” She’s still got a confused look on her face. “Oh, my God,” Smith says, his patience wearing thin. “A dream. Money, new house, new job, or opportunities. Or stupid shit you just don’t want to spend your own money on, like a puppy and a trip to the Arctic to see the Northern Lights. Your dream,” Smith says. “I don’t understand how this is confusing. Everyone has a dream.” “I see you’ve given this a lot of thought, Smith. Is that your dream? A puppy and a trip to the Arctic?” “Or,” Bric says, trying his best to control things—but I have to give Marcella props for turning what is supposed to be a tightly controlled meeting run by Bric into a circus—“something more meaningful. A gallery of your own, for instance.” “Hmm,” Marcella says. “What?” Smith asks. His arms are stretched out on the table in front of him, palms open, as he leans forward. Like he’s about at the end of his line. “I already have all those things. Not the gallery. But I don’t want a gallery of my own.” Smith sits back in his chair, snapping to attention. He looks at Bric. I look at Bric. Bric looks back at both of us. “Then why are you doing this?” I ask. It’s Marcella’s turn to straighten her back. She bristles at the question and does not answer it. “You don’t have to decide what you want right now, Chella,” Bric says. “Whatever it is, between the three of us, we can manage. Think about it. I’m sure there’s something you want. Something you’ve always wanted but never had. Sometimes you need more than money to buy happiness.” “The next rule,” Smith says, taking over—he points to the contract on the table—“is the most important. Because it spells out your purpose in one very simple sentence. You exist to play the game of Taking Turns with us. And you agree to try your best to make us happy in all ways, at all times.” Marcella looks up and swallows. “It’s not as ominous as it sounds,” Bric says. “We’ve been in this arrangement for over a decade, Chella. We’re not looking to hurt you or make you miserable.” She clears her throat. “Understood.” Her gaze lands on me. “But what if I don’t make you happy? What if I fail?” Bric puts an arm around her shoulder and smiles. He leans in and kisses her while his other hand reaches for her breast, pinches her nipple. Her mouth opens for his. Their tongues intertwine. I don’t see it, but I know her hand is on his cock already. No encouragement necessary. When I look over at Smith, he’s transfixed. Unable to stop staring. His hand on his cock too. God, they really want her. I don’t recall ever seeing them so… interested. The meeting we had with Rochelle didn’t go anything like this. Bric pulls out of the kiss and smiles at Marcella. “You’re already making us happy. It’s going to be easy.”

But again, her wary gaze lands on me. “I don’t think I’ll make Quin happy.” I get a sharp look from Bric. And even though I don’t turn to see if Smith is giving me that same snarl, I know he is. “She’s overreacting,” I say with a sigh. “I’m fine. It will be fine.” “You said yes,” Bric replies. “So it better be fine, Quin. The rest of it is just messy details, Chella. Are you on birth control? I, for one, do not like children. So I’m not interested in that. At all.” “I am,” she says softly. “And I’ve just had a check-up last week and I’m clean.” She’s clean? I have so much to say about that little remark. Like… she got herself tested last week? Smith shifts the papers on the table, revealing our own health records. “This is all you need to know about us.” He ignores her remark, as does Bric. How badly they must want her to just gloss over all these warning bells. “Are we done now?” I ask. “Is that it?” Marcella asks, leaning in to get a better look at the contract. “Except for the payout,” Bric says. “But that’s all about the dream. When you get an idea of what you’d like, you come tell me, Marcella. We’ll make it happen.” And then he holds her chin as he kisses her on the lips one more time, whispering, “Sign the contract,” into her mouth. Smith pushes a pen in her direction, but she ignores him until Bric is done owning her lips. Her hands are shaking when she picks up the pen. And I don’t know what her signature normally looks like, but when she signs and pushes the contract across the table at me so I can sign next, it’s almost illegible from her unsteady hand. I sign and pass it to Smith. He signs and pushes it across the table to Bric. Bric looks at us both like he just hit the bullseye and won the biggest prize at the carnival. He signs his name as a big, dramatic swoosh and then folds the contract up, tucks it back into the envelope, and slides it into his suit coat pocket. “Great,” Smith says, pushing back from the table, his chair making a loud scraping sound. “Then let’s get started, Marcella. It’s Friday, so looks like I get to break you in first.” Marcella Walcott goes completely pale. The reality of what’s happening hits her and she puts both hands up, like she needs to ward off Smith. “Tonight?” She’s breathing hard. “Not tonight. I’m not staying here tonight. I don’t have any of my things. There’s nothing of mine in that apartment. I need time to adjust. Next weekend. Can we start—” “No,” Bric says. He’s not loud, but he’s got a way of commanding people into shutting up. Marcella shuts up. “You’re going with Smith, Chella. He’s right. It’s Friday and your part in this game is to make him happy.” “I don’t—” “Hey,” Smith says, his word coming out light and easy, interrupting her. “I’ll take you home tonight if you want. I’m OK with that. No big deal, right? Relax, Chella. Like Bric said, we’re not out to hurt you or make you miserable.” He walks around behind Bric and then pulls Marcella’s chair out. She gets up on instinct. Like she knows just what to do when a man pulls out a chair. Smith latches on to her arm and leads her away, leaning into her ear to say, “I’ll take you home. Just calm down.” Marcella looks over her shoulder as she stumbles towards the stairs. The look is really a plea for help from Bric. But Bric knows he’s got no power tonight. His power comes later next week. So he shuns her. Lets her go. Tonight, she belongs to Smith. I hold my glass up to her as she’s led down the stairs. “Cheers, Marcella Walcott. Welcome to Turning Point Club.” Let’s just see how long you last.



Chapter Eleven - Smith



Marcella’s reluctant, but I don’t care. I have one goal, one focus, one way to end this night. And all of that revolves around her. She gets in the car when I open the door and then I say, “Scoot over,” before sliding in and placing my hand on her leg. She draws in a deep breath that I almost miss due to the soft clunk of the driver closing the door. “Are you afraid yet?” “No,” she says, not looking at me. Looking at everything else but me. The backseat, which she already knows, because this is the same car I sent her home in last weekend. Out the window, where the capitol building dominates the skyline. Her feet. Her hands. My face. I smile. She swallows. “One of these days, Marcella Walcott, I’m gonna get your story.” “I wouldn’t hold my breath for that,” she mumbles, turning away just as the driver gets back in. “Why not? It’s a secret?” A long, deep inhalation of air. The car moves forward and I settle in. The drive over to her place is short, practically over by the time her shoulders relax. But maybe it’s the thought of home that relaxes her? We pull up right in front of her townhouse and I’m out of the car, extending my hand. She takes it and I help her step out of that world and into this one. More silence as we walk up her front steps, She starts digging into the decorative clutch she’s using as a purse for her keys, but I’m already unlocking the door. “You have a key to my house?” she snaps. “What did you think I was doing on Monday?” I practically laugh the words out. “You left the gallery to break into my house?” She is angry now. But I don’t care. Better to get things out in the open as soon as possible. “Why are you surprised?” “I shouldn’t be,” she says. Her jaw is clenching and her lips are pressed tightly together. “Get inside, Chella. I’m fucking cold.” She looks at the car as it pulls away and she understands. She knows what’s happening. What she’s got herself into. Or at least, she’s telling herself that. She’s busy rationalizing this as some sex experiment. Something she’ll walk away from in a few weeks, probably? Something dirty, yes. But very, very temporary. She will have her fun, we will have our fun, and then she will get out. So she thinks. I grab her arm when she refuses to move and push her across the threshold, dropping my new set of keys into a tray on the side table and locking the door behind us. I turn to the alarm panel on the wall and arm it. “You have the code to my alarm? How?” I just smile as I take off my coat and hang it in the coat closet. “Did you really think I wouldn’t?” Small chuckle from me. “Fool me once, Marcella. You locked me in that first night. I wasn’t expecting it. My research shows you almost never use the alarm. Which is stupid,” I add. “This neighborhood looks nice.

It’s got streets lined with multimillion-dollar houses. But it’s fucking downtown Denver, Chella. I thought you were smart.” I leave her standing there in the foyer as I make my way through the front room, past the coffer-paneled fireplace that separates the front room from the dining room, and then into the large kitchen that shares a space with a nicely appointed family room. The small, slow clicking of high heels follows me as I reach into the fridge and take out a bottle of 1995 Clos d’Ambonnay. “We should celebrate,” I say, taking the champagne to the island where I have two tall-fluted glasses ready. “Why are you still wearing your coat?” “What’s happening?” she asks. “What do you mean?” I ask, popping the cork on the champagne. “You just signed a contract.” “Yeah,” she says, her voice a little louder as she recovers from her shock. “But you didn’t know that. You got my key five days ago. So why the fuck—” “Don’t,” I say in a loud, firm voice as I put up a hand. “You do not talk to me that way. Understand?” She exhales, like she was holding her breath for a few seconds. “You didn’t know I was going to sign.” “I knew. And I was right, wasn’t I?” “And if I didn’t sign? Then what? You’d still have my key? My alarm code? What if I wanted to—” “Oh, for fuck’s sake, shut up, Marcella. You’re ruining my night.” She blinks at me. Twice. “OK, look,” I say. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll help you tonight. It’s an adjustment. I get it.” I step around the island and start unbuttoning her coat. But when I try to slip it off, it gets stuck because she’s still holding her little clutch purse. I take it from her hand, place it on the counter, and take the coat to the front closet by the door. When I come back to the kitchen, she’s sitting in a stool at the island, head in her hands. “Why are you so moody?” I ask. I’m starting to get annoyed with her. She lifts her head up and stares at me while I pour our drinks. “What?” I ask. “Answer my questions. If I didn’t sign, then what? You’d keep that key, wouldn’t you?” “It doesn’t matter, Chella. You did sign. Do you want out already? Because you can tell me to fuck off and I’ll be happy to fuck off.” We stare at each other for a few seconds. Maybe ten or more. She is silent. I hand her a glass and she takes it. “See,” I say. “It’s not so hard. What should we drink to?” She looks at her champagne, just staring at the bubbles in the light amber liquid. She takes a deep breath and says, “I’m going to give it a week.” “Why?” I ask. “So I can see if this is something—” “No.” I laugh. “Why not get out now? And be honest, for once, Chella. You’re such a bad liar.” I come around the island to her again. Place my hand flat on her knee. Slip it under her dress and press my fingers against her pussy. Her gaze slowly lifts up to mine. “Just say it,” I whisper. “Because I get it. You’re turned on, Chella.” I slide my fingers into her, making the wetness pool around my skin. “It’s erotic, right? The thought of the three of us sharing you?” She swallows hard, but she nods her head. My eyes search her eyes. I watch her breasts lift and fall as her heart rate picks up. “It’s OK. If we didn’t think you’d be into it, we’d never have asked you in the first place.” “Whose idea was it?” she asks. “Yours? Or Bric’s?” “Why not Quin’s?” “Ha.” She laughs. “He hates me.”

“He doesn’t have to like you to want to fuck you.” “Was it you? Or Bric?” she repeats. “Does it matter?” “It matters,” she says, “because I’d like to know who’s on my side and who’s just here for the game.” I press my fingers deeper into her pussy and she closes her eyes for a moment, unable to stop herself. I move close, erase the space between us until her knee bumps up against my hard cock. “We’re all here for the game. It’s just a peek, Marcella. A little glimpse into the forbidden. Just some filthy, taboo sex, and nothing more. Don’t read too much into it. But don’t take it for granted, either. We can vote you out if we get tired.” She gives in. Her shoulders slump and the tight line of her mouth drops into a frown. “Don’t worry so much,” I say, taking her hand and placing it on my cock. She squeezes without any more urging from me. A few seconds later, she’s stroking me through my pants. “It’s just fun. It’s not a life commitment. We’re not holding you hostage. And if it makes you feel better, if you had said no, I’d have given you your key and new alarm code back at Turning Point Club. I’m not about to fuck up my life over a woman.” She looks up at that, still frowning. “Do you want out?” I ask. “Do you want my key back?” She shakes her head no. But she is still frowning. “Good,” I say, leaning in to kiss her lips. “Then let the games begin.” I hold up my glass and say, “Make a toast.” She looks away, maybe thinking of something to say. And then she raises her glass and looks me in the eyes. “To the peek,” she says. A long inhale of breath to steady herself. “Because that’s all it is. Just a peek.” “To the peek,” I say. We drink. But I catch a small whisper just as she brings the champagne to her lips. “I just hope I don’t get lost in this peek.” “You’re gonna,” I say setting my glass down and taking my attention back to her pussy. “That’s how we keep them, Chella. We feed the craving, turn it into an addiction, and then we own you. We will own you. There’s no telling how long it will take for you to kick the habit of us. But after this week, you’ll be in too deep to walk away. You’ll need your fix. You’ll see what I bring to this little arrangement. You’ll want Bric to do things to you that will make you feel shame. You’ll fall for Quin and his contagious personality.” She laughs and breaks a smile. “I don’t think so.” “You don’t know him yet. I know him very well and I know he’ll be the first one you fall in love with.” “Come on,” she says. “That’s never going to happen. I know what this looks like, but it’s not what it looks like.” “Liar,” I say. “You’re hanging in mid-air right now and what happens next is just… gravity.” I kiss her again. She responds with her tongue. We linger in the kiss as I insert another finger into her pussy and my thumb finds her clit. She’s moaning when the angel on my shoulder surfaces. Just for a moment. So I do my good deed for the day. I warn her with a whisper into her mouth. “Just don’t fall too hard, Marcella Walcott. Because that’s exactly when we’ll cut you off.”

Chapter Twelve - Chella

I don’t know what to feel. I am angry because he made a copy of my key. He changed my alarm code. I’m angry at myself too. For being weak. For giving in to them. For putting my weakness in writing for anyone to see. Because they know me. They understand why girls like me will agree to do the things they want. And I hate it. I am filled with shame for what I am. A sick, sick woman with a sick, sick fetish. I am obsessed with sex and everyone will know. I sigh. Everyone will know. How long did it take Bric and Smith to see through me? Minutes? In that closet the first night? The next night when Bric came to see me? Is this why my family life fell apart so badly? Why I have no one? I know it is. But I don’t care. They’re right. I’m addicted to the dark. I want what they’re offering and I don’t care. I kiss Smith back. I want more of him, even as I feel the repulsion inside me. “Chella,” Smith says, trying to get my attention. Like he knows what I’m thinking. And even that pisses me off. Why does he get to see through me? After all this time, after all the walls I’ve put up, after all the years of denial and self-deprivation, why now, when I have it well under control? Why now? I know why. Rochelle came to me. She slipped inside my life. Became my friend. She saw through me immediately, didn’t she? Just like Smith. That book… “Chella,” Smith repeats. He pulls out of the kiss and backs away one step. Two. “What’s wrong?” I ask, my words coming out in ragged gasps. Smith smiles down at me. Places both hands flat against both my cheeks. “The toast is over, love.” I look at the two glasses of champagne. Still full and sitting on the counter. “What?” “I’m glad you’re here,” Smith says, stroking my cheek. He’s got the other hand on his cock, a thick outline beneath his trousers. I place my hand over his and then we switch places, his strong hand on mine, urging me once again to stroke him. “But I have a lot of rules.” I’m watching our hands. The way he guides me to move the way he likes it. I memorize that movement so I can do it again later without his help. “Look at me,” he says. I do. I look up. “Unzip my pants and take out my cock and my balls.” I nod at him. Say, “Yes, OK.” And do just as he asks. “Make me come.” I keep eye contact as I cup his balls with one hand and stroke him with the other. Long strokes. Slow, then faster. I want to get down on my knees and put him in my mouth. But he’s got a hold on my hair. A hold so tight, it’s pulling on my scalp. So I just open my mouth and lock my eyes with his as I keep going. The smile he gives me might be worth all his bullshit. He has a dimple in one cheek that I’ve never

seen before. Maybe because I’ve never seen a real smile from him. “Do you want to know my rules, Chella?” “Yes,” I say in a throaty whisper. “Tell me the rules. I can follow them, I promise.” He lets go of my hair and pets my head. “I’m happy to hear that. Now open your legs wide and give me full access.” I comply. Willingly. Immediately. And then his hand slides back up under my dress and his fingers begin to play. I close my eyes and drop my head back a little. Allowing myself to enjoy it. “Does it feel good?” “Mmmmm,” I manage. He flattens his hand and begins to rub his fingertips across my clit in short, quick bursts. I’m on edge. I’m so close. I stroke him harder, wanting him to come with me when I can’t stand it any longer. He’s moaning. I’m moaning. And then… He steps away. His fingers pull out of my throbbing, wet pussy. My hand slips off his huge, fat cock. “What are you doing?” I ask. “We’re so close.” He pets my head again while his other hand tucks his cock away and zips up his pants. “I know, Chella. But the rules, love. I’m sorry, but the rules of Taking Turns say I’m… not allowed to fuck you. I’m not allowed to make you come. You’re not allowed to make me come.” “What?” I ask. “What the fuck are you talking about?” He laughs. “I’ll excuse that slip in language because I kinda set you up here.” “Smith.” I breathe in short, quick pants. “What the hell?” “I’m sorry,” he says. “I can’t talk about the other rules. I can only tell you mine. And rule number one of our relationship is no fucking and that also includes no touching.” “That makes no sense,” I blurt. “It does, love.” He pets my hair again, like I am a lost, sad dog. A very sick, lost and sad dog. “You’ll see that it does. Now be a good girl and go get ready for bed. It’s late now. We’re having an early breakfast with Quin and Bric so I can give them a report on how tonight went. And you have work after that. So go on. Go upstairs and take a shower.” I. Am. Speechless. “Chella,” Smith says, raising his voice. “I just told you to do something. When I give an order you will acknowledge me and then carry it out.” I just stare at him. “Where are these rules?” I demand. “Were they in the contract?” “The contract stated your role was to make us happy. And these rules make us happy. End of discussion. Go upstairs and get in the shower.” I let out a long, disgusted sigh. Stand up. And walk away before I slap his fucking face. It’s a game. It’s a game. It’s a game. I run his words back in my head as I climb the stairs. The rules of Taking Turns say I’m not allowed to fuck you. Or touch me. He said that too. What’s that mean? He can’t make me come? I can’t make him come? Which means… we masturbate a lot and then we leave each other hanging? “That rule is fucking stupid,” I yell. “Last time, Chella,” he yells back from below. “Last time I’ll let you get away with talking back. So be ready if you choose to do it again.” “Fuck you,” I say. But I say it quietly. When I get to the bedroom there’s lingerie laid out on my bed. Just a soft pink chemise. The bust is made of lace and it has a flirty skirt that drapes down to just above my hips. There’s also matching

panties, same color. I hold it up and look at it. Kinda sweet. Not what I expected from this freak, that’s for sure. “Why aren’t you in the shower?” Smith asks. He’s standing in the doorway and I take a moment to appreciate him. He’s fucking handsome. Tall with those broad shoulders. I can’t see the muscles in his upper arms or back, but I know they’re there. He has a shadow of stubble across his perfectly square jaw that wasn’t there earlier in the day. I watch him watch me. “I asked you a question.” he says. I look back at the lingerie in my hands. “I was looking at it.” “You don’t get an opinion,” he says. “So you don’t need to look so hard.” “Can we talk about these rules?” I ask. “No.” “Then how will I know what to expect?” “We’ll let you know.” “Don’t you think that sets me up for failure?” “The failure is half the fun, Chella. Now get your ass in the goddamned shower.” “What will you do if I don’t obey you?” Smith smiles. A crooked, devious, devilish smile. “I’ll have Bric handle it. You can’t get your way with me by ignoring my rules.” “And what will Bric do?” I’m genuinely curious. I’m not even trying to piss him off. “You’ll have that discussion with him, should you ever find yourself in that position.” I put the lingerie back on the bed and go into the closet to undress. Smith follows me, cocks a hip against the doorjamb and watches my every move. I slip the dress down and his eyes follow it to the floor. That’s pretty much all I’m wearing, so I place both hands on his chest as I try to maneuver past, through the door, but he slaps them away. “Don’t fucking touch me again, Chella. I’m very serious about this.” I let it go. I am tired, I realize. Tired of this game, tired of this day, and I need that hot shower more than he knows. I start the water and when I look over my shoulder, he’s there again. Watching. Silent. Arms crossed over his chest. Frown on his face. “Am I not making you happy?” “Not even a little bit,” he growls. I let that go too. Maybe when we have breakfast tomorrow he will tell Bric and Quin I’m not worth it. I can’t make them happy. And maybe they will cut me loose. If that happens… will I fight it? Or will I let it go? Walk out and never look back? I wish I didn’t know the answer. I wish the answer was walk out. Be strong. Leave this darkness behind before it’s too late. But I won’t. If they decide I’m not their type or not good enough for whatever reason, I will fight it. I will prove it to them. “Chella,” Smith snaps. “Stop daydreaming and get in the shower.” I step into the shower and get my hair wet. The heat feels so good. But when I open my eyes, Smith is dropping his pants just outside the glass door. “What are you doing now?” He takes off his shirt, throws it on the floor, then opens the door and I step aside to let him pass. “What the fuck does it look like?” “I thought we can’t touch.” “I won’t be touching you. You’ve got a big shower.” Whatever. I give up. We trade places. I rinse my hair and apply conditioner as he soaps up his body.

And even though I tell myself I’m not interested in those shoulders, or those arms, or that fat fucking cock of his—which is so hard, it’s climbing up his stomach—I am. I can’t stop watching him. I think he feels the same way about me. His eyes linger on the thick, frothy bubbles as they fall over my breasts. He stares at my shaved pussy like he wants me. If he wants me, why does he allow Bric and Quin to dictate his behavior with me? “Are you done with the water?” he asks. “I have two shower heads,” I say, pointing to the one that’s not in use. “I can see that.” “Go ahead.” I sigh, stepping aside as I go looking for my razor. I put my foot up on the stone bench in the corner and apply shaving gel to my leg. But before I can start shaving, Smith takes the razor. “What are you doing?” “I’ll do it.” “But you can’t—” “I’m not touching you, Chella. The razor is.” Clarity ensues and I smile. “Don’t get excited,” he says, smiling back. A big enough smile to make that dimple appear. “I take the rules pretty seriously.” I press my lips together to stop the grin. “Mmmm-hmm.” He shaves my leg so carefully, I want to die. He crouches down so his cock is hanging between his legs. Those shoulders are right in front of me. Begging for my attention. I want to touch him so bad, but I stop myself. I’m enjoying his attention too much to fuck it up. And he is paying very close attention to my leg. It’s not even like there’s much stubble because I just shaved two days ago. But he is careful and deliberate as he drags the razor down every curve of my calf. When he’s done, he looks up at me and says, “Next.” I repeat the process with the gel and I have to bite my lip to stop imagining how good it would feel if he’d do this part too. “It’s supposed to be fun, Chella,” he says, still working. “This is fun.” He looks up and smiles. “We have these rules for a reason. They heighten the pleasure. Everyone’s pleasure. You’ll have a better time if you give in. I promise.” I believe him. Because it’s already working. But I still have questions. “So you’re never going to fuck me?” “What did I say about that word?” “What? It wasn’t an adjective. It’s a verb. To fuck.” He scowls. “You’re never going to have sex with me?” I amend. “I didn’t say never. I just said for now.” “But when Quin comes on Sunday night—or Monday, if he’s not that into me and can’t stand the thought of that extra time—then he can fu—have sex with me? What’s his rule?” “You’ll talk it out with him.” Smith looks up at me and then stands up, his task complete far too soon. “Don’t confuse us, Chella. We’re very different people. We want very different things out of this game. But we all like to win. Even you, I’m sure.” “What is winning?” I ask. The look on his face takes me by surprise. “Happiness, of course.” “And not touching me makes you happy?” “Did you like what I just did?” He sets the razor down on the bench. “Yes,” I say. “But I’d like it more if your hands were touching me.”

“Maybe one day I will touch you, Marcella Walcott. But that’s a long way down the road. So it’s better to get used to the way things are done now. Are you finished?” I shake my head. “No, I have to rinse my hair.” “Hurry up then. I’m tired and I need you to fall asleep before I do.” He opens the glass shower door, grabs a towel off the rack, wraps it around his waist, and then walks out of the bathroom. What do I think of this new development? He can’t touch me, but he can use other things to touch me. Yes, this could get interesting very quickly. Smith, I think as I rinse my hair. He’s not really what I expected. I expected the asshole he’s shown me he can be. The one who creeps around, breaks into my house, makes himself a key, and changes my alarm code. But this no touching stuff. Why? And then to demonstrate how nice it can be by shaving my legs? Again, why? “Chella,” he calls from the bedroom. “I’m fucking tired. Hurry up.” What will he do now? Will he sleep next to me? How can he? If he can’t touch me, surely he won’t get in the same bed with me? I turn the water off and step out, dry myself off with a towel, then wrap it around my hair and walk out into the bedroom, naked. He’s sitting in a chair, his back to the window. His usually slicked-back dark hair is all tousled and wet. A few pieces of it fall over his eyes in long, soft curls. He’s not wearing a shirt, but he does have on a pair of sweats, the waistband tugged below his huge balls. And his hand is on his cock, stroking himself slowly as he watches me watch him masturbate. “If you think I’m not gonna jerk off to you every chance I get, you’re insane.” “And me?” I ask, unable to stop looking at his hand on his cock. “I sincerely hope you do the same. I’ll be very disappointed if I watch you tonight and you don’t put on a show.” So this is how it is. My time with Smith will be nothing but self-pleasure. No, that’s not all it is. It will be self-pleasure while he watches me. “Put on the lingerie, take that towel off your head, and get in bed, Chella. Lights are going out in two minutes.” He’s serious about the two minutes thing. I’m still messing with the alarm on my phone when he reaches over to the lamp next to his chair and flicks it off. There’s a little bit of light from the street lamps outside, but he’s all shadow. “I can’t see you,” I whisper. “You don’t need to,” he replies. “I can see you and that’s all that matters.” “Will you get in bed later? Or will you leave?” “I won’t leave,” he says. “But I won’t sleep with you either. It’s too much.” “Too much trouble?” “Too much temptation. Now tell me what you think of the game so far.” I smile up at the patterns of light on the ceiling. “I think it might be fun.” “Come for me, Chella. Come for me and I’ll come for you.” We do that. I have my hand between my legs. My breathing is rapid as I try to create enough friction to orgasm. But in the end, it’s not my hand that gets me off. It’s him. From across the room. It’s Smith’s heavy breathing. His moans. His groans. And when we come together, I get it. I understand what they’re trying to tell me with this rule.

We are all responsible for our own happiness. I don’t need him to make me happy. He doesn’t need me to make him happy. We make each other happy. And we do that by making ourselves happy. I fall asleep. A deep, deep sleep. One second I’m awake… and then I’m out. “Chella.” Smith is talking to me, I know this. But I can’t seem to make my eyes open. “Chella, come on. We’re having an early breakfast, remember? I already picked out your clothes. They’re hanging in the closet.” I turn over to see him standing in front of the window, looping his tie into a knot at his throat. He’s wearing a dark blue suit. “You’re dressed?” I asked, still groggy. “Where did you get that suit?” “I brought some things over yesterday. Figured it would save me time.” It’s like… he moved in. “Get up. I’d slap your ass really hard for keeping me waiting if I had a different rule, but then I’d just fuck you afterward and we’d be late anyway.” I have to stop and picture that for a moment. “Wait,” I say. “What do you mean if you had a different rule?” “First one to spend the night doesn’t get to touch you,” he says, slipping on his suit coat. “It’s too easy to get attached the first night. And we’ve done this enough to know it never works out if we don’t each get an even chance. You have ten minutes to get ready, so get the fuck up.” “What was your rule last time? With Rochelle?” I ask, my mind spinning with this new revelation. “None of your business. Nine minutes, fifty seconds, Chella. Quin and Bric have both already called. They want a report. So let’s go.” I swing my legs out and sit on the side of the bed for a moment. Smith is already hopping down the stairs, calling, “No time for coffee. We’ll get it at the White Room. And don’t bother putting makeup on. Bric only likes makeup at night.” I sit there for a few more seconds, trying to get a grip on this new development. Taking Turns isn’t really a game, is it? It’s a lifestyle. The outfit Smith chose for me is mine, but not something I normally wear—a white sleeveless shift dress that has a low scoop back so I can’t wear a bra. I have no underwear on at all. Somehow he managed to find an old pair of white Calvin Klein knee-high leather boots and a black swing coat I bought when I was twenty and thought they were cute. Smith hands me a hair tie when I come downstairs and says, “Put it up in a ponytail. High on your head.” I gather my thick dark hair in my hands and then pull the tie through, hiking the ponytail high up on my head like he asked, until my face feels tight. “I feel like a majorette right now.” “You look like a go-go dancer.” “Well.” I laugh. “That makes everything better.” “Here, put on the sunglasses.” I take the round, white, Jackie O sunglasses from his hand and shake my head. “What’s with this costume?”

“Quin’s dramatic. He likes this shit. Trust me. Just watch his eyes during breakfast.” “Am I the butt of a joke?” “No,” he says quickly. “I’m just trying to help him out. Move on, you know? He needs to. I don’t want to talk about… that last girl. Not at all. But he will want to, Chella. And you should not encourage it. He has to let it go.” “What’s his rule? Is that it? He’s not allowed to dwell in the past?” “No,” Smith says, pointing at the front door. “Come on. Let’s go. We’re so fucking late.” The car is waiting outside and the driver doesn’t get out to open the door. Smith opens it instead, and we slide in. His phone rings, he takes the call, and then proceeds to have a conversation about things that have nothing to do with me or this arrangement. Business, I suppose. But as soon as we get to Turning Point Club, he ends the call and takes my hand. “No touching,” I say, pulling it away. “Rules don’t apply during meetings. Just wait. I’ve got something fun planned.” Oh. I feel a little heat between my legs. The lobby is crowded and everyone turns to look at us as we enter. Smith doesn’t talk to anyone. Not the valets, not the coat-check girl, not the maitre d’. He keeps hold of my hand and leads me into the White Room, past all the gawking people already eating, and towards the back of the restaurant where Quin and Bric are sitting at a private elevated table, surrounded by so many gigantic flower arrangements, I can barely make them out. Bric sees us first and stands up, smiling. It takes Quin a few seconds to stand up, but he does, halfheartedly, and doesn’t send me a smile. He does notice the outfit when Bric offers to help me with my coat, just like Smith predicted. Smith pulls out a chair for me, I sit, and then they do too. “You’re late,” Quin says. “Cereal?” Smith says, looking across the table at Quin’s choice of breakfast food. “What are you, fourteen?” Quin doesn’t look up, just starts shoveling cornflakes in his mouth. “Did you have a nice night, Chella?” Bric asks, ignoring everything going on between Smith and Quin. I open my mouth to reply, but Smith beats me to it. “Chella has nightmares.” “What?” I ask, looking at him. “I don’t have nightmares.” “She walks in her sleep.” “I do not. Why are you saying that?” “And she plays with herself all night long. Her hand never stopped.” “You’re lying.” “No, I’m not,” Smith says, hint of annoyance in his voice. “How would you know anyway? Were you awake? Because I was.” I let out a long sigh as I turn away and look at Bric. “Do you have nightmares?” he asks. “No,” I say. “She’s lying. But anyway, it was a good night. I fingered her and kissed her before we discussed the rules. Afterward, it was strictly hands off.” “We’re having a play-by-play?” I ask, completely embarrassed. “It’s OK, Chella,” Bric says in his calm, authoritative voice. “We don’t normally, no. But we have to make sure everything is proceeding well the first week. It’s a critical time.” “She comes so fucking fast, you guys,” Smith says, a new playfulness in his voice I haven’t heard yet. “Demonstration?” And then Smith’s hand is between my legs, his fingertips playing with my clit. I’m watching Quin concentrate on his cereal as this happens, but he looks up from the cornflakes and

his eyes meet mine. He smiles. Sits back. Drops his spoon, picks up his napkin, and reaches under the tablecloth to… I look around nervously. “Don’t worry,” Bric says. “No one can see. Just relax.” And then he grabs his napkin and hides his hand under the tablecloth too. His eyes go half-mast as Smith continues to stimulate me. Smith’s warm breath caresses the back of my bare neck. “Close your eyes, Chella. Enjoy it. I won’t be touching you again for a long time.” I do. I close my eyes. But I want to participate as well. So I reach down between my legs and place my hand over Smith’s. Helping him get me off. He’s kissing my neck, biting my ear, and I want to feel his cock inside me so bad, I reach over and grab him. Stroke him. He chuckles softly. When I look at Quin he mouths the words, You’re a dirty, fucking whore. I feel like a dirty fucking whore, so I don’t even care. I just lick my lips and smile. Smith pulls his fingers out of my pussy and brings them to my lips. “Suck them, Chella,” he says. “Suck them like you want to suck my cock. And get yourself off at the same time.” I let him put his fingers in my mouth and I suck. I imagine what his cock would feel like. I imagine swallowing his come as I play with myself under the perfectly crisp, white-linen tablecloth until I can’t stand it anymore. Until my body wants to writhe. Until I want to rub my pussy on something—anything— and I come. Both Bric and Quin come into their napkins. Quin clenches his jaw and closes his eyes as it happens. Bric stares at me and I stare back. We are all breathing hard at the table, even Smith, who didn’t come. But I realize I’m still gripping his cock in my hand. I look at him, slightly embarrassed, and let go. But he just gives me a lopsided grin. “I can’t see you tonight,” he says. “I’m sorry.” “Oh,” I say, pulling myself back together. I look around nervously. This experience was so intense, I forgot I was in a restaurant. But Bric was right. No one can see us. We have a little private oasis in a very public place. “But I’ll send a car to take you home after work. And Quin will see you on Monday. Make sure you’re back here by midnight Sunday, just in case he wants to visit early. You’ll be OK, right?” “Of course,” I say. “Of course. I’m a big girl. I know how to live alone.” But it’s the worst weekend of my life. It is long, and boring, and I rub myself raw because I spend almost the whole time masturbating to the thought of Smith fucking me.

Chapter Thirteen - Quin

It’s déjà vu all over again as I enter the apartment on the sixth floor of Turning Point. Until it’s not. Until the fact that this is not Rochelle’s apartment anymore hits me in the chest like a fucking brick. Gone are all her quirky pieces of furniture. Gone are the long, heavy drapes. Gone are the pictures of the four of us on the fridge. Gone is her exotic scent. Gone are her vases filled with fresh flowers and the never-ending throw pillows. Everything about her is gone. Except the memories. Chella is sitting on the new couch. Some modern piece-of-shit thing that Smith probably picked out. It’s leather, and white. In fact, everything is black and white up here. Just like it is downstairs. She stares at me as I toss the keys onto a new foyer table and they go sliding off and onto the dark, hardwood floor, because gone is the little green glass dish that used to catch them. “I didn’t think you were coming tonight,” she says. She’s wearing a white nightie that ends at her hip bones and a matching pair of panties. She makes no move to get up and greet me like Rochelle would’ve. She keeps her long legs tucked under her slim body and stares at the bags of food in my hand. “I wasn’t coming. But Smith called me forty-five minutes ago and said he didn’t have the apartment stocked with food and never told you about the room service. So…” I hold up the bags. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I figured this is as good a place to start as any.” She continues to stare at me, or maybe it’s the food, as I walk past her and place it all on the dining table. It’s just a small four-seater table. Just enough room for all the players to eat together. As if that would ever happen up here. “I got McDonald’s, Wendy’s, Taco Bell, and Chick-Fil-A.” She smiles, but then tries to hide it as she gets to her feet and walks over to me. “I’m impressed, Quin. For a while there I thought you’d be mean to me. But fast food at one AM? You really know how to treat a girl. You must love me already.” She’s joking. She’s insulting me. And she’s doing a good job at all of it because every word comes out sweet and innocent. I actually feel bad about the fast food. “If you want to go somewhere nice tomorrow, we can.” “I want what you want, Quin.” She peeks into the McDonald’s bag and smiles. “And even though you probably chose the Filet-O-Fish because no one likes them, I love the fish sandwich, so you lose and I win.” I did pick the Filet-O-Fish because no one likes them. Bitch. She sits on the table next to the bags of cheap food and starts eating a French fry. Her long legs cross and scissor together, like she’s stimulating herself. “So,” I say. “So,” she says, unwrapping her fish sandwich and taking a bite. “What’s your rule?” she asks, her mouth full as she chews. “I hope it’s to fuck me sideways, because I’m horny.” I smile at her. Then laugh. “That’s not my rule.” “Goddammit.”

“My rule is to learn something about you. And tell you something about me.” “Who makes these rules?” she asks. “Who enters a plural relationship with stupid rules like no fucking and more talking?” I laugh again. Maybe she’s not half bad after all. At the very least, I might enjoy her company. “Which one do you like?” Chella asks, pointing to the bags of food. “If you tell me that, we can knock your stupid rule off our to-do list and spend the rest of our time having sex.” Yeah. I could like her. I point to the Wendy’s bag. “I got me a triple hamburger.” “Oh, I’m going to like you a lot, Quin. We’re gonna get along just fine. I know it.” I sigh, sit at the table so she’s across from me, and take out my burger. “Sorry,” I say. “I’ve been a dick to you and you don’t deserve it.” “I do deserve it,” she says, eyes downcast. But she looks up at me for the next part. “I tricked you and I’m sorry too. I know I already told you that, but I mean it. It wasn’t nice and you got hurt. I’m not here to hurt you. I swear.” I know I shouldn’t ask. I can hear Smith’s words in my head, warning me to leave it alone. But I have to. I have to hear it from her. I need closure. “Why are you here, Marcella?” She finishes chewing her food, gets up to get us two glasses of water from the kitchen, and then takes a long drink before answering. “Smith said not to encourage you, but I don’t care. I’m going to tell you how it happened. OK?” “Do you know where she is?” I ask. Praying, praying, praying. “No.” I hate my life. “Do you know why she left?” “No,” she says again. “I promise. I don’t know either of those things. And if I did, I’d tell you. But I’ve been thinking about this for a week now and I have some idea of why she chose me.” I nod and frown. I shouldn’t let her tell me. I should drop it, wish Rochelle good luck in my head, and then leave her behind like the baggage she is. But I can’t. I just can’t. “I think she set me up.” I stop my pity party and look at her. “What do you mean? How?” She tells me a story about a book in a used bookstore down on the 16th Street Mall and I start to feel sick. She tells me about how she bought it, how much she paid for it, and what it means to her. I slump in my chair feeling defeated and alone. She tells me about how they became friends. And how Chella used to go watch her play in small venues every Sunday night. And then she tells me about the offer. About what Rochelle told her about me. “She said she loved you and that it was never going to work out.” “She said that?” I ask. “She said love?” Chella nods. “Love, Quin. But she told me that you couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say it back. That you guys had no future and she needed to leave or Bric would find out and he’d make her leave. She wanted to end it on her own terms.” I knew it. I knew it was because of that time she broke the cardinal rule. “Did you tell this story to Smith?” I ask. “No,” Chella says. “Smith doesn’t want to talk about her at all. He won’t say her name anymore. But before we go on… that’s what she told me, Quin. Not what I think really happened.” “What do you mean?” I ask. “I think that was her lie to me. You know? To get me to think… I don’t know.” She stops talking and resumes eating. “No,” I say. “Keep going. Finish that thought.” She chews her food. Swallows. “I think something else was happening that she didn’t want to tell me. I

have always thought that, since we first started talking about it. But I didn’t want to ruin my chances at… the game, right? So I just pretended I believed her.” “What do you think was happening?” I ask. “Even if you don’t know for sure, just tell me what you think.” “Something… big,” she says. “Something very stressful and life-altering. Maybe someone died?” she offers. “Big like that.” “Who would’ve died?” I mumble, talking to myself. “I don’t know. But she was sad. I will say that. She was very sad. On the inside. She never said anything and she always had a smile. But I recognized it.” Chella stops for a moment, looking out the window for a few seconds. “I know sadness. So I recognized it.” I don’t know what to say to that. Any of it. Both Rochelle’s sadness and Chella’s. So I change the subject. “Do you still have the book?” I ask. “I wrote something in there for her. I’d like it back, if you have it. I’ll pay you for it.” Chella gets up and goes into her new bedroom. Comes back with a box and places it on the table in front of me. She opens the box and unwraps the book from vintage linens that remind me so strongly of Rochelle, my throat begins to ache. “It’s yours,” she says. “It’s a gift. I don’t need the money.” I want to touch that book so bad. I want to pick it up and hold it to my heart and hug it the way I wish I could hug Rochelle right now. But I close the box back up and push it away with one finger. Like it’s poison. Because it is poison. If I take this book—if I allow myself to keep it—then I will write the end of this new story before we even get past the beginning. I will doom the new game of Taking Turns to failure. And maybe I don’t care all that much for Chella, but Bric likes her. Smith likes her. And they both gave me what I wanted by continuing the game with Rochelle. They gave me three years of happiness with her. I owe them a fair chance, at least. I owe them this much. “No,” I say, trying to hide the deep sadness coursing through my body. “I don’t want it.” I expect Chella to ask more questions. I expect some persuasion from her. Urging me to keep it. Hide it away if I don’t want to look at it. I hope for this conversation because I hope she will talk me into staying in the past. Give me the excuse I’m looking for. But she doesn’t. Chella nods, picks up the box, and takes it back to her new room. I close my eyes and breathe through the pain, and the loss, and the regrets. I fucked up. All of this is my fault because I fucked up.

Chapter Fourteen - Chella

When I come back out of the bedroom Quin is sitting on the new leather couch looking… sad. He’s slouched down, legs open in kind of a sexy way. But his face. One look at his face and I know the last thing on his mind is having sex with me. I sit down next to him. “Is there anything I can do?” It takes a few seconds for him to look at me. And then it’s just a quick glance before he looks straight ahead again. “I don’t think so, Chella. I think I loved her.” I want to keep saying sorry, over and over and over again. But it’s stupid. It’s probably annoying and it won’t help. So I stay quiet. I wrap my hands around his upper arm, lean my head on his shoulder, and stay quiet. Right now, we are just two friends being sad together. “Say something,” Quin finally says. “I don’t know how to help you. I don’t know you well enough to make you feel better. And there’s really nothing I can say except… I hope you find her again.” “I was really counting on you having answers.” Shit. “I really thought it was some fucked-up joke or you’d tell me it was just temporary. Or she’d call me. But that’s not what’s happening, is it?” “No,” I say softly. “I don’t think so.” He shrinks in that moment. Folding into himself. Trying to escape reality. “We can be friends though, Quin. I’m not trying to take her place.” He reaches over for me. His large hand comes down on my ass cheek and he pulls me on top of him until I’m straddling his legs, my hands on his shoulders. “If I don’t fuck you… who will?” I laugh a little, thinking… Bric? But I don’t say it. It seems impolite to say it. “You know what I just figured out?” Quin asks. “What?” I say, looking down at him. He stares straight past my shoulder. Looking at some apparition of the girl he loves and lost. “We’re gonna be spending the most time together. Your days off work belong to me.” “Hmm.” “I’m sure Smith planned it that way to make me stop thinking about Rochelle.” I try to fit this new information into my current world-view of what’s happening in this… relationship. But there’s missing information, or I’m not quite understanding, or whatever. Because I have to ask, “What do you mean?” “You know. Smith can’t touch you unless…” But he stops. “You didn’t get that far yet, so I can’t say. But I can fuck you. Any way I want, any time I want, because I’m Number Two this time. I get all of you, you get all of me. We have to talk, and build a real relationship by getting to know each other. He did it on purpose. Because I was Number One last time and things…” He stops. But I’m dying to know more. “Things… what, Quin?” “It’s just so easy to get attached to Number One, you know?” “Sorta,” I say. “I can see it a little bit. It was so confusing on Friday night and then Smith took me home

and took over. Took control, I guess.” Quin laughs. I even get a small smile at that assessment. So I keep going. “He made a house key. And he changed my alarm code. It’s like, he moved himself in.” “We’re not supposed to talk about what you do with them,” Quin says. “But tell me what happened next. I really need this distraction and I’ve always wondered how the other guys handled being Number One. Because obviously, I fucked it all up.” “What do you mean?” I’m so confused. “What did he do then?” “He had champagne ready. He kissed me. Fingered me.” “He got you all wound up and then he told you the rule, didn’t he?” “Yeah. But we took a shower together and he shaved my legs. That was… interesting. And then we… masturbated in front of each other.” “Classic Smith.” Quin lets out a small laugh that has nothing to do with happiness. “The reason he’s not allowed to touch you is because if he did, he’d have this claim on you as Number One. And we try to avoid things like that. It makes it hard to have a real plural relationship.” “So that’s what you’re all after? The four of us as one… unit, I guess.” “Yeah.” Quin looks at me. Finally. His hands start rubbing my thighs and I’m so fucking horny after being neglected by Smith this weekend. “We don’t find that very often. And obviously we never had a real one with Rochelle. I liked her a lot. Bric liked her OK. But Smith never liked her. That’s why he was Number Two last time.” Ah-ha! I got that answer anyway, so fuck you, Smith Baldwin. “Next week I’ll tell you more if you’re still confused after Bric explains the rest of it.” I’m dying to know what Bric’s rule is. In fact, everything about this new life I’ve started with the three of them is fascinating. “How old are you?” I ask. “Thirty-four. You?” He’s still looking at me. His hands are still rubbing my thighs. Every now and then, one will creep up my ass cheek. “Thirty,” I say. “But I’ll be thirty-one in February.” “Can I ask you something?” “Sure,” I say. “That’s our rule, right? Get to know each other.” “Why the fuck would you agree to something like this? I mean, you’re very pretty, Chella. You’re smart, and you have a good job, and you come from serious money and power. You don’t need anything from us. You don’t need Bric’s promise of a dream come true. So why the fuck are you doing this?” I shrug. I’m not ready to talk about all the things in my head. Or my past, or where my life is going. “When Rochelle told me about you guys I was… enthralled.” “The book?” Quin asks. “You obviously know what that book is. And she picked you because you bought it, didn’t she?” “Well,” I say. “So much for hiding my true motive.” “Why do you want to hide it?” “Come on, Quin.” I laugh. “I realize you guys have been doing this for a long time. But it’s still not… normal.” “Oh,” he says. But his hands have been getting more and more active over the past few minutes. He’s got my thong pulled aside and his fingers are probing at the wetness between my legs, dragging it up and over the entrance to my asshole. I have to close my eyes when he inserts his finger just a tiny fraction. “Do you like it in the ass?” he whispers. I bite my lip, don’t open my eyes, and nod my head. “Yes. I do.” “Do you want to see my cock?” he asks, pulling a long strand of hair away from my face and tucking it

behind my ear. “Do you want to suck it? And sit on it, and fuck me until you come all over my dick?” I am panting with want. I am swimming in want. I will die of the longing. “Yes,” I say. “Take off my jacket.” I open my eyes, draw in a deep breath, and start undressing him. Underneath my pussy I can feel his cock growing through his pants. Once I get the suit coat off, he says, “Loosen my tie. Take it off me. Put it around your head, and make it into a blindfold.” His finger slips deeper into my asshole as he says this, making me squirm and gasp. “Do it,” he gently urges. I loosen the tie, slip it over his neck, and place it over my head, pulling it tight again when it’s over my eyes. “That’s better,” Quin says. “Now take off my shirt.” My fingers reach for his chest, feel for the buttons. They slid up to the top one and begin to unbutton. When I get to the waistband of his trousers, I pull the shirt out. I caress the soft hair that leads down to his hard cock. “Don’t touch it yet, Marcella Walcott. Not until I say so. Understand?” I nod. “Yes.” I unbutton the last two buttons and then take a deep breath as I slip the shirt down his shoulders. I can’t stop myself from feeling his muscles. I have a thing for shoulders and even though I’m blind, I can see them perfectly in my mind’s eye, just from the light flicker of contact I have through my fingertips. “Sit up,” Quin says. “Unzip my pants, take out my cock and my balls, and then put me inside you.” His fingers are there the instant I rise up on his lap. I have to press my lips together to stifle the moan, but it still escapes. “Do you like that?” Quin whispers as he puts his fingers inside me. “Yes,” I say. “You know what I like, Chella?” “What?” I ask, busy completing the task he gave me. His cock is thick, like Smith’s. And long, and hard, and his tip is swollen when I drag my fingers arose the slit, releasing the liquid I can’t wait to suck. “I like all your answers tonight.” And then he chuckles. Like he’s happy. I reach up with one, the other one still busy cupping his balls, and feel his smile. “I just want to make you happy, Quin.” “You are, Chella. You’re making so many things better tonight. Now fuck me, baby. Slide down on top of my cock and fuck me until you come all over it.” I ease up, my hand sliding his tip to my entrance. And I am so fucking wet, I turn myself on when I play with my clit. “Sit. Down.” He wants this as much as I do. This turns me on even more. So I do what he says. I sit on his cock and then sink down, letting him fill me up. As soon as he’s inside me his palms cup my face and he kisses my mouth. So softly, so tenderly that instead of the desperate writhing I imagined, I move slowly, and deliberately, and carefully. “I like that,” he says, his words deep and throaty. “Keep going. Just like that, Chella. Make me forget. Make me happy. Make me want this new future more than I want my old past.” I kiss him back, our tongues slowly getting to know each other. My hands on his chest, then his shoulders. Feeling the curves. The hills and valleys of his biceps. I dig my nails into his back. He’s still holding my face, but his hands wander down to my arms as well. And then they push me back, just a little, just enough so he can squeeze my breasts. We move together like lovers. Like long-time lovers. And I can’t help but wonder… if it feels so good this time, then how much better will it be next week? Next month? Next year? “Come,” he commands. “Come first and then I’d like to fuck you hard.”

I start moving faster. More urgently. Trying to stimulate my clit and obey his command. But I don’t have to try too hard or for too long, because his fingers are right there, right where I need the friction most. The moans coming from my mouth are so sensual, so erotic, and filthy, I wish I was recording them so I could play them for Smith and we could masturbate to the sound of my orgasm with Quin. When I’m done, and I’m feeling spent, and I need to just rest my head on his chest for a moment… he stands up, walks me over to the window, and fucks me just the way he promised. Hard. We get in that new bed together. We break it in and we have sex three more times. I don’t even have time for nightmares and sleepwalking. By the time we fall asleep, a new day is starting. Our bodies are tangled together like we’re a couple, even though we’re not meant to be a couple. He holds me tight, one hand on my breasts as his chest spoons my back, the other between my legs, like he’s making a statement of ownership. We sleep until early afternoon and I wake to him tracing a circle around my bunched-up nipple. “Do you like this apartment?” he asks as soon as I open my eyes. His hair is messy and perfect at the same time. I see his shoulders in the filtered light coming in from outside. “You’re fucking handsome, you know that?” Quin smiles big at that. “Thank you,” he says. Like he knows how to take a compliment. “But do you like this place, Chella? Because it’s kinda cold and impersonal if you ask me. And I want you to like it.” I shrug and smile. “I don’t care about the apartment. But no, it’s not really… homey, right?” “Good,” Quin says, leaning down to kiss my mouth. “Good. We should go shopping and change that.”

Chapter Fifteen - Bric

Wednesday morning at 12:05 AM I call her. She picks up on the third ring. “Hello?” “Chella,” I say. “How are you?” “Bric?” She gives me a small laugh into the phone. “I’m good. Where are you? Are you coming tonight?” “No,” I say. “I like to come in the mornings. But I wanted to call and make sure everything is going… how you imagined it.” “I’m not complaining.” “Good.” I hesitate. “I don’t know what else to say but I don’t feel like hanging up.” “We could talk about your rule.” I smile at that. “Not yet. Tomorrow. When I see you in person. I have a lot of parties coming up for Christmas and New Year’s, so I’m having some dresses delivered tomorrow. Wear the black one tomorrow night and the red one on Thursday night. They’re my favorites.” “We’re going out?” I can’t tell if she’s excited about that or not. “Yes. I like to go out a lot when I’m Number Three. I’ll explain that later.” “OK.” She laughs. “But everything is all right? You’re fine with Smith? And your time with Quin was… fun?” “Yes,” she says. “Are we supposed to talk about that stuff?” “As Number One, Smith was in charge of the first report. As Number Three, I’m in charge of the last one. We won’t talk about it again after this week, but if anything goes wrong you can come to me and I’ll take care of it. That’s part of my role.” “OK,” she says. “So what time will you be here tomorrow?” “I’ll pick you up at seven.” “AM?” “No.” I laugh. “PM. Just before the party. We’ll have dinner downstairs with Smith and Quin. The wrap-up meeting. And then we’ll go to the party and have a good time. How’s that sound?” “Sounds like I’ll have a lot of time to wonder about you before you get here.” She tries to stifle a yawn, but doesn’t succeed. “You’re tired,” I say into the phone. “Get some sleep and we’ll talk more tomorrow.” “OK,” she says. “Good night.” “Good night, Chella.” Smith is grinning at me when I end the call. “What?” I ask, annoyed about him being here. “Nothing,” he says. But he changes his mind about that answer quick enough. “She’s gonna do it. I know she will.” “You hope she will,” I say. “I’ll give her two more weeks but honestly, I think she’ll be up for it sooner.” “Hmm,” I say. “Are we up for it?” “Fuck.” Smith laughs. “After three years of that stupid Rochelle? Hell, yes we’re up for it. Don’t you miss it? Because Jesus fuck, I do. I miss it. I want it again.”

“You’re the only one who didn’t like Rochelle,” I say. “You’re the one who fucked it up. It was your fault it never worked the way we planned.” He hesitates for a moment and I wait to see if he’ll tell me something more. Explain himself. Why he did what he did. But he doesn’t. He just says, “Well, this one will work the way we planned. So I’ll see you tomorrow night. And I cannot fucking wait to see the look on her face when you explain your rule.” Smith gets up and walks out of the private bar overlooking the Black Room. It’s busy downstairs tonight, but he doesn’t go down there. Just waits for the elevator and when it comes, he disappears inside. A waiter come up the stairs and talks to the sentry. They both look at me and I nod when I see the slip of paper in his hand. The sentry places it on the table in front of me and I open it. Lucinda wants to meet with me. I look over the railing and find her downstairs with her husband. She’s smiling up at me, hoping… but I shake my head no. Sorry, love. I’m not in the mood, that answer says. She frowns, then leans into her husband’s ear to whisper. Ten minutes later they are gone. Good. I saw enough of her last weekend to last me a lifetime. She’s not that interesting. Boring is the word I’d use for Lucinda. But Marcella Walcott. Now that woman has potential. And if Smith is right, things will get very interesting, very soon. Wednesday goes very, very slowly at the club. Christmas is all anyone is thinking about now. December has traditionally been a slow month for Turning Point Club, and this year it’s no different. The breakfast crowd is always busy. People work. Even on Christmas Eve, the people who come here work. They are A-types. Addicted to the thrill of success. Like me. Like Smith. Like Quin. And they like to start their day with some friendly networking. Yes, Turning Point is a sex club. We have an exclusive membership. If you have to ask how to become a member, you will never become a member. It’s by invitation only and we only accept a new member when another member quits. That doesn’t happen often. Fathers pass this little perk onto sons. In fact, Turning Point Club membership is a very popular wedding gift in my world. The real Club is down on the lower levels, but the White Room is open to the public and filled to capacity for dinner Monday through Thursday. If you’re lucky enough to get a reservation. And since we have forty-two active Club members who eat here regularly with their families, mistresses, business associates, etc., it’s not easy to get one of those. The Black Room is not open to the public, even though it’s right across the main lobby. Members only in the bar. A little peek into the forbidden for the masses. Not much happens in there. Just bar stuff. Drinking, food, laughing, informal parties… shit like that. But it intrigues people. No one knows what we do. Only the members know. Hell, Rochelle never even knew. She never made it downstairs. Smith was done with her long before she ever thought to ask about it. But Chella… Chella is a maybe. I know Smith thinks he’s got her pinned. He understands why she went along with Rochelle’s set-up. But I’m not convinced she’ll go that far. I need tonight to feel her out a little more. Give her my rule. And then the final rule. Her reaction to that is what drives me. Drives all three of us. Smith is right, I guess. Rochelle should’ve been let go a long time ago. I miss what we never had with her. Everyone in the Club has a monthly health screen—even though we do insist on condoms. Everyone

has a biannual appointment with the Club psychiatrist—just to make sure we nip any crazy in the bud. And everyone follows the rules. So Turning Point is a place for members to be among friends. And breakfast is a time when friends get together. But lunch is another matter. Lunch today was dead. I was bored out of my mind, counting down the hours until dinner. Quin shows up after work and joins me upstairs in Smith’s bar. “Hey,” he says, sliding into the chair across from me and pointing at the bartender to bring him a drink. “What time will you bring her here?” “Seven fifteen or so,” I say, sipping my drink. I want to ask him about his time with Chella, but I can’t. Not until we’re all together. Rules. Smith and his fucking rules. “What do you think she’s gonna say?” The bartender comes with Quin’s drink and he picks it up to sip while I consider his question. She only has two options. Yes or no. I hate being Number Three. And this is the second fucking time I’ve gotten stuck with it. Maybe this arrangement isn’t for me anymore? The question kinda surprises me. It was my idea in the first place. I’m the one who found the first six girls. I’m the one who helped perfect the rules. I’m the one who seemed to get the most out of it. But it doesn’t feel that way anymore. It doesn’t feel necessary anymore. “Well?” Quin asks. “What?” “Dude, what the hell is wrong with you? I asked you what you think she’ll say.” “Smith says she’ll say yes within two weeks.” “I think so too.” It pisses me off that they know her well enough already that they can even form an opinion. I don’t know her at all. I had one night out with her and it doesn’t count. Tonight won’t count either, we have to have the conversation about the rules. And then the party and then… It’s depressing. I lose either way. Number Three is such a fucked-up arrangement. Quin talks about other shit until it’s time for me to leave, but I just tune him out, finish my drink, and then walk down to the elevator and take it up to the top floor. I don’t knock—I don’t have to. I just walk in. The place looks completely different. “Hey!” Marcella calls from the bedroom. “I’m ready, I swear.” She giggles like she’s having fun. Is she having fun? Already? What part of this is fun so far? “Uh… I see you got some new furniture.” Gone are the sleek couches I chose to replace the earthy thrift-store look Rochelle had going on. It’s been replaced with more classic, traditional pieces. It looks very… homey. Nuclear family, two point two kids kind of homey. “Yes,” Chella says, peeking around the door of the bedroom as she fastens her earrings. “Quin took me shopping. We picked out new stuff. You don’t mind, do you?” “No,” I say, looking around. Kinda. “I didn’t know what your style was. I guess I missed the mark.” “No,” she says, coming out of the bedroom. “It was fine. But given the choice…” She laughs again. “I guess I prefer this. Normal stuff, you know? And Quin is a shopper.” I smile. Sort of. Normal stuff. I have so many questions about that seemingly innocent remark. “I’m excited,” Chella says, grabbing her coat from the front closet. “I don’t usually go to Christmas parties.” I take her coat and drape it over my arm. She won’t need it until after dinner. “No? Why not?” “My dad. He’s not a Christmas party guy.”

“What about your mom?” “She died three years ago.” “Yeah, that’s right,” I say. Fuck. “Sorry, I knew that. I should’ve know better than to ask.” I’m so off my fucking game. “It’s OK,” she says, smiling as she drags a piece of hair off her face and tucks it behind her ear. “I’m over it.” Over it. Normal. Yeah, I have a lot of questions for Chella Walcott. “Well, you look very pretty.” And she does. The black dress fits her perfectly. The lace bodice is tight, her tits look fantastic all pushed up and perky, and her waist is tiny. I envision dancing with her tonight. Placing my thumbs on her hips, my fingers splayed across her ass. The dress is long, touches the floor. I asked for this specific dress on this specific night for a reason and that, at least, is going as planned. And then I notice the necklace. The choker. The collar. “What?” Chella asks. Her hand goes to her throat. To the collar I can’t stop staring at. “Where did you get that?” “Smith gave it to me. That first night when he took me home? When he dressed me up? He put this jewelry on me.” She raises her hand to show off the gold cuff bracelet and then I notice the earrings that match. “I figured it needed a night out as much as I do.” I don’t like it. Rochelle was supposed to be eradicated before Chella got here. Gone. Thrown out. Given back to the world. And yet there is still something left of her. But if it makes Chella happy… “It looks beautiful, Marcella. And so do you.” “Thank you,” she says, blushing pale pink. “I hope you’re hungry.” “I am. Quin told me I have access to the kitchen any time I want. But it’s no fun eating alone. And I already did it twice today.” I force a smile. And then I lie. “Sorry about that. The Club was so busy today I just couldn’t get away.” “I understand. I always get lonely on my days off work. And now that Matisse will be on display until March, well, I have four full days off a week. I feel lucky that you guys came along. My whole week is planned, it seems.” “You like that?” I ask. “Yes,” she says. “I like it.” I give her a real smile for that answer. And as we take the elevator down to the second floor, I start to think that maybe… just maybe, Smith is right. Maybe this one will pull me back into the life? When we get off the elevator Smith is in his usual chair, so I place Chella’s hand on my arm, hand her coat off to a server to check downstairs with mine, and lead her up the short flight of stairs and towards to the table overlooking the Black Room and the lobby. Smith and Quin both stand up as we approach, and then Smith backs out and waves his hand at the chair to his left. I shoot Quin a look but he’s too busy kissing Chella on the lips. They linger for a moment, and then he backs off, leaving Chella embarrassed as she looks at me. “It’s OK,” I say, motioning for her to take a seat next to Smith. He boxes her in with that seat because it’s next to the railing that gives her a view down into the Black Room. Quin takes the seat across from Chella and I take the seat across from Smith. “Nice dress,” Smith says, looking at me instead of my date. “Full length. Smart.” “What?” Chella asks. “Bric always tries to stop Smith’s wandering hands.” Quin chuckles. “The dress is Bric’s way of

keeping Smith’s fingers dry while we dine.” Chella laughs. I don’t. “Do we want to eat first? Or talk first?” “Let’s talk,” Smith says. “OK,” Chella agrees. “I’m dying to know what this is all about.” “This is about the rules, love,” Smith says. “Bric’s rule and the final rule.” Chella bites her lip as she looks at me in anticipation. “My rule,” I say, “is…” God. I hate being Number Three. “I can’t have sex with you unless Smith is watching.” Chella’s smile drops. Like immediately. And I get more satisfaction out of her disappointment than anything I can recall in recent memory. “What?” And then Smith makes his move, long dress be damned. His hand is in her lap. Rubbing her thigh, fingers pressing down between her legs. She’s looking down at it like it’s a spider, or a bug, or a mouse. Something disgusting. “What are you doing? I thought your rule was no touching me?” “And that’s the final rule we need to discuss, Chella,” Smith says. His smile’s as dirty as his mind. Filled with filthy fucking and hot sweaty bodies all twisted together in one bed. Arms and legs tangled together. Our hands all over her body as we fill up her pussy, and her ass, and her mouth all at the same time. “When the four of us are all together, we have no rules.”

Chapter Sixteen - Chella

I am quiet for so long Quin reaches across the table and takes my hand. But Smith’s fingers are trying to stimulate me under the table. He doesn’t care about the fabric of my dress holding him back from what he wants. He simply lifts it up—yards of expensive fabric pool into my lap as he finds what he’s looking for. My pussy is wet and in this moment, I hate myself. I hate that everything they are offering me is something I want. “Chella,” Quin says, squeezing my hand. But Smith has found what he’s looking for and I have to draw in a deep, deep breath so I don’t close my eyes and moan. I concentrate on Bric instead. He gives me a weak smile. “Are you OK?” he asks. I push Smith’s hand away, expecting a fight, but he retreats and pulls my dress back down again. “What do you think?” Quin asks. “Do you want to walk out?” “You can,” Bric says. “You won’t,” Smith adds. I look down at the place setting in front of me. The china is classic white with a black stripe around the edge. The white linen napkin is folded like an envelope, just like the last time when Smith brought me here with Matisse. As a test, he said. But this time there’s writing underneath the envelope flap. Right on the napkin in bold black marker are the words, Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you. I look at Smith, still lifting the cloth flap. “Don’t give me that look of doubt, Chella,” Smith says. He claims the message in his response. I was wrong the other night when I thought Taking Turns was a lifestyle. I was one hundred percent wrong. Because this is nothing but a game of one-upmanship between these three men using me as a pawn on the chess board. Which of them can get the upper hand? Which rule will be their downfall? And which rule will make them winners? “For fuck’s sake, Chella,” Quin blurts. “Say something.” I clear my throat and when I speak, my voice is small and weak. “You’re playing with me. Like a toy.” “Like a toy,” Smith repeats. “Yes. You’re our toy.” “You can say no,” Bric says. “Just get up and walk out and we’ll never bother you again.” “You like this?” I ask him. “You like the thought of Smith watching you? Watching us?” “We’ve been doing it so long, Marcella, I barely know he’s there.” “Liar.” Smith laughs. “He’s lying. He gets off to it, Chella. He gets off to some pretty sick shit. I should know. I’ve seen him do it all downstairs.” I ignore Smith and concentrate on Bric. “So you do like it?” He shrugs. “I wouldn’t let him watch if I didn’t.” “And I wouldn’t want to watch if I didn’t like it.” I look at Smith. “You, I understand. You’re weird. You’re a deviant. You’re on the verge of being a predator. I just need to know where the rest of you fall in this. Are you like him?” I ask Quin, but motion to Smith. “Yeah,” he says. “I like it. I like being Number Two this time, I’m not gonna lie. I get to fuck you any

way I want and no one gets to be there but me. But I like being Number One as well. And Number Three. And if you give it a chance, Chella, you’ll like it too. I know you will because you’re a dirty fucking whore.” “Just like us,” Bric says. Smith laughs. I’m quiet again as I think things through. This time they stay quiet with me. All the noise from downstairs in the lobby and the Black Room disappears as I run the consequences of this game through my mind. “Explain everything,” I finally say. “Tell me why you do this. Why you do it this way. And if you lie to me”—I look at Smith for this—“I will walk out. I want to know the truth and if you give me that, I’ll think about it some more. But if you don’t, if I get an inkling that you’re manipulating me, I’ll leave. I will, Smith Baldwin. I’ll walk away from you and never look back.” “Of course we’re manipulating you,” Bric says. I’m confused for a moment, unsure if Bric is telling me to walk away, or just stating the obvious. “We’re manipulating each other too,” he continues. “Smith can’t touch you. At all. Quin gets anything he wants, as long as you become friends at the same time. And I only get you with Smith’s permission. It’s a fucked-up game, Chella, but it works.” “How?” I ask. “How the fuck does any of this make sense to you?” “We’re building trust, Chella,” Quin says. “We trust each other to follow the rules and if we all do that, if we all keep to the plan, we end up happy.” “Together,” Smith says. “You’re forgetting the final rule. There are no rules when we’re all together.” “You want to gang-bang me?” I laugh. I laugh because it’s sick and dirty and the fact that I’m thinking about it makes me… “The other night, Chella,” Quin continues, “you said something like, ‘Who enters a plural relationship with rules like no fucking and more talking?’” Smith laughs. “God, Chella, I kinda love you already.” Even Bric laughs. “She’s fucking funny as hell, you guys,” Quin says. “I can’t wait for you to see it. But Chella, it’s not a plural relationship. It’s a ménage.” “That’s not what Rochelle told me. She said—” “We never got this far with Rochelle,” Bric explains. “She never liked Smith. They never became friends. She liked Quin and me, and we were One and Three, so we didn’t need Smith. It was always offbalance.” “But I like you, Chella,” Quin says. “I’m not gonna walk away from you like Smith walked away from Rochelle. I’m gonna show up every Sunday at midnight and I’m gonna fuck you senseless until I have to leave. And then Bric will come and you will let Smith watch.” “And then one day, Chella”—Smith picks up the conversation—“you’ll want all of us. At the same time. We can go right to that tonight, if you want. We can jump right in and get started. Forget about all this bullshit getting to know each other. But even if you take your time, we will end up together. We will all fuck you,” he says, leaning over to kiss my mouth. I want to collapse from that kiss. His hand is on my neck, his thumb feeling my pulse. And then he whispers in my mouth, “You put my collar back on. You want this. You know you want this.” He holds on to the gold choker even as he backs away. His fingers threaded underneath it, pressing against my neck. He holds on to me like I’m already his. We are all silent for a moment because the server comes asking about food. One of them orders for me. But I am stuck in my thoughts, my head a jumbled mess from their offer. How did I get here? Champagne is poured and Smith is placing my hand on a fluted glass, lifting it to my lips. I drink, a

long gulp as I work through what this means. “Have you ever had a threesome?” Bric asks. It takes me a second to realize he’s speaking to me. I want to say no. I want to say it emphatically. Loudly. Loaded with self-righteous indignation. But I can’t. Because it’s a lie. And they’d know it was a lie. They obviously see something in me that gives them permission to make me this offer. Maybe it’s the fact that you agreed to Rochelle’s plan? And maybe it’s because you let Quin fuck you, even though he thought you were Rochelle? Maybe it’s because you’ve been down this road before? Yeah. It might be that. So I say, “Yes.” Because Quin is right. Bric is right. “I’m a dirty fucking whore.” “Just like us,” Bric says. “We’re all dirty here.” “Be dirty with us, Chella,” Quin says. “I’m gonna be dirty with you no matter what. I’m counting the fucking minutes until Sunday night. But it gets so much better when you give in completely.” I take a deep, deep breath and then let it out in a long, controlled exhale. “I need to think about it. It’s a big decision for me. It’s one thing,” I say, gathering my courage. “It’s one thing to date three guys at the same time.” “You do that often?” Smith laughs. “Jesus Christ, Chella. I really do love you now.” “No,” I say. “Not anymore. But it’s another thing altogether to let you…” “Fuck all your holes at the same time?” Smith finishes. “For fuck’s sake, Smith,” Bric says, pounding a fist on the table. “Would you shut up and let her finish.” “Sorry.” He laughs. “I’m sorry.” But he doesn’t look sorry. “I need to think about it,” I say, looking at Bric. He’s the sensible one, I can tell. The boss of this place. He’s running the show. Keeping Quin’s big personality in check. Keeping Smith’s deviant side under wraps. “I just want to go to the party and forget about it for a while. I don’t even want dinner. I just want to have fun and come home, and then sleep on it. Can I do that? Please? With no more comments?” They all look at each other, silent for once. And then Smith says, “It’s just a peek, Chella. If you stay. It’s just a peek into the forbidden. You can leave any time you want. It can last one night, or one week, or one month, or… forever.” He says the word forever softly. Almost hesitantly. It makes me look at him differently for a moment. Like he’s a person and not an asshole. “It’s carnal, and sensual, and erotic, Chella,” he continues in that same voice. “That’s all it is. A small trip into the dark.” “A peek,” I say, remembering our toast. “Just a peek,” Quin echoes. “You don’t even have to like us. You can just do it once and leave. Or you can keep the plural relationship going for a while, try it out. Get to know us better. We’re not bad guys. We just like to have some really sick sex.” I smile at his words. Smith was right the other night when he said I’d fall for Quin first. I like him already. So what does it mean for the other two? I can see why Rochelle fell in love with Quin. He’s sweet. He’s not overpowering like Bric. But he’s still in control. And he’s not demeaning like Smith, even though he says some of the same things. It’s different coming from Quin. It’s fun, not dark. “Come on,” Bric says, pushing back in his chair so it makes a scraping sound on the floor. “Let’s go to the party. Have some fun tonight. You can think about it later.” Smith and Quin both stand as I do. All our chairs scraping across the floor together. I let Bric lead me downstairs and wait as he gets our coats. He helps me put mine on and then takes my hand and leads me out to the car. When I get in, he slips in next to me, leaning forward to tell the driver the address of the party before making the blacked-out partition go up to give us privacy.

He scoots close to me, puts his arm around me. His kiss is soft and slow. And my tongue responds. When he pulls back I look him in the eyes. We smile together. “Did you ever just want love, Chella?” “Huh?” I ask. “Did you ever just want a guy to love you for you, Chella? And not your body? Did you ever want him to just hold you, and kiss you, give you all the attention you crave, with zero expectations?” I let out a small laugh. “Those guys don’t exist.” “I’m that guy,” he says. “As Number Three, I’m that guy.” His hand finds its way under my dress and he softly caresses my leg. His other hand is on my breast, squeezing lightly. “I will kiss you, and touch you, and talk to you. And at the end of the night I have no expectations for sex. Didn’t you ever want a guy to give you all those things and not want something in return?” God. That’s the dream right there. Unconditional love. “If you stay and say no to the ménage, that’s what you’ll have with me. I will shower you with gifts, and affection, and attention. I will buy you anything you want. I will take you places and give you new friends. A new life. I’ll make your dream come true, Chella. Whatever that dream might be. And I’ll still be able to lick your pussy,” he says, kissing my mouth again. “And you can still suck my cock if you want. You don’t have to go to bed filled with longing. There are so many ways to make our time fun without fucking.” “But I can’t ever have more, can I?” “You can with Quin,” he says. “He can give you what I can’t. And more. He can be your boyfriend, if you want. Two days out of the week you can have the closest thing to perfect. He’s got no real rules other than to know you. Intimately. And Smith, just forget about him. Almost everyone does. He doesn’t have to be a part of this if you don’t want. Just cut him out. Tell me no and it’s done. He’ll never be anything more than somebody in the shadows. You can have everything you need in a relationship, Chella. And you can have it right now, for as long as you want.” “But I only get it one piece at a time, is that it?” Bric gives me a sad smile. “You don’t have to think of it that way. Did it ever occur to you that there’s no such thing as the perfect man? Woman? Relationship? That it’s an illusion? People go looking for it like it’s a thing. It’s not, Chella. Love is not a thing, it’s a state of being. And it’s so unrealistic to expect one person to be love.” “Is this why you guys do this? Because you know you’ll never find the perfect woman?” My question makes him chuckle softly. “We do it because we’re men. And we want things we can’t have. Doesn’t everyone want things they can’t have?” “Yes,” I agree reluctantly. “I want so many things I can’t have.” “Just think it over. And take your time. We’re not in a rush.” He holds my hand after that. He talks about the snow. Why we’re getting much of it. He talks about tonight’s party with people he knows from work. I want to ask about work because I have no idea what any of them do. But he’s busy talking about tomorrow’s party too. Then other things. His day tomorrow. The dress he wants me to wear. And when we get to the party down in the Tech Center, I feel… normal again. The dark is back where it belongs. Tucked neatly away in that place I put it years ago.

Chapter Seventeen - Bric

“I could care less about the parties, or the people, or the holidays, for that matter,” I say as I dance with Chella. “Then why do you come?” She laughs. It’s a slow song and we are facing each other. Close, so her words and her breath heat up my chest because she’s resting her head there. Our feet move in slow circles around the dance floor, just one couple among dozens. I don’t know what she’s thinking right now. I certainly gave her a lot to think about. Not to mention all the things that were said—and left unsaid—at the Club meeting. But she seems to be taking it well. She’s smiling, and being friendly with the many, many, many people who feel the need to come up to me tonight and thank me for Club contributions over the years. “To dance. Slowly,” I say. “Just like this.” “It’s nice,” Chella says. “What’s this party for again?” “Cancer research fundraiser. The Club gives a lot of money to this organization.” “Oh,” she says, pulling back a little. “Is the Club your job?” “Kind of. I run it, and we use the dues to donate. Plus Smith’s money. Most of what I hand out is Smith’s money.” “Where does he get his money? Does he have a job? I’ve looked him up on the internet and there’s really nothing there aside from—well, things like this. Charities and foundations.” “He doesn’t get money. Or make money. He just has money.” “It has to come from somewhere.” “It comes from his trust. If you had to give his job a label, then I guess you’d call him a philanthropist.” “Hmm,” Chella says. “I don’t think that word fits him at all.” “Why not?” I’m actually fascinated to hear what she thinks of Smith. I know he’s playing some kind of game with her that doesn’t involve Quin and me. But what it is, I’m not sure yet. “Well, philanthropy implies a love for humanity that involves caring about people and nurturing them as a group. And maybe I don’t know him well, but he comes across as crass and egomaniacal. Not someone concerned with the welfare of the human race as a whole.” “He actually does a lot of good with his money. This organization isn’t even one of his top ten beneficiaries and he gave them twenty million dollars last year. He gives mostly to humanist endeavors, and mostly to organizations overseas. So you’ll never go to one of those parties. Unless of course, you marry him or something.” I laugh. “And he gets you all to himself for weeks at a time. But I wouldn’t hold your breath.” She smiles weakly, but gets my meaning. Smith is off limits to everyone, even her. “We shouldn’t waste our time talking about Smith. He’s a lost cause. Besides, I’m curious to know what you’re thinking.” “About?” Chella counters. She knows what about, but I’m happy to spell it out. “About the last rule.” “The gang bang?” I laugh so hard people start staring at us. “Quiet,” Chella says, looking around nervously.

“I’m sorry. I just… didn’t expect you to characterize it that way.” “That’s what it is though, right? The three of you taking turns with me. At the same time. I’m a realist, Bric. I like to call things like they are. I don’t need pretty words or false promises to understand the darkness.” I stop dancing and look down at her. She’s not short, but I’m tall, so her eyes only come up to my neck. “It’s not a gang bang, Marcella. It’s a ménage, just like Quin said. It’s a relationship. Not a one-time group fuck.” My words are a proper chastising and they make her shrink a little. “Sorry,” she says. “I’m just having a hard time understanding what the three of you have going. What do you get out of it?” “Aside from you?” I ask, one eyebrow raised. “But that’s the thing. You don’t really get me. You get to share me. Why would you want to share me when you can each have whomever you want all to yourselves?” “Maybe we want that with each other?” “So you’re all gay?” “No.” I laugh. “No, we’re not gay.” “Do you fuck them?” “Chella—” “I’m serious. I need to know. I just need to understand and I need to put a label on this.” “No, I don’t fuck them.” “Have you ever kissed Quin or Smith? Or touched them erotically during one of these… ménage episodes?” “Ménage episodes,” I say. “Well, I’ve heard it all now.” “I’m serious, Bric. It’s an honest question.” And just looking at her, I realize it is an honest question. She is calm, and serious, and curious. “I’m sure I have. But it’s not a memory I hold on to and think about later.” “So let’s say you’re having sex with one of your… toys in the game of Taking Turns.” “OK,” I say. “And everyone is turned on. Things are hot and carnal.” I smile just thinking about the images in her head right now. “Where do you draw the line? With them, I mean. Do you suck their cocks?” “Fuck, Chella—” “Just answer me. Why won’t you answer me?” “I have no issue talking about this at all. Or telling you anything you want to know. But just so we’re clear, you’re turning me on.” I take her hand off my shoulder and drag it down my chest until I can feel the warmth of her palm pressing against the thick, hard outline of my cock through my pants. “We go as far as we want.” “So, if Smith was fucking me and your cock was right there, like you wanted to put it in my mouth, he could suck it instead? And you wouldn’t mind? Because it’s all in the moment and the moment is all about peeking into the forbidden?” “Are you trying to drive me crazy?” “Would you let him?” “If he wanted to.” I shrug. “If I was in the mood to let him. Why not? Does that bother you? Would that be a line you wouldn’t cross?” “I would probably suck it with him,” she says. Dead. Serious. We just stare at each other. So many silent seconds tick off and I have so many questions for her right now, I don’t even know where to start. “Excuse me,” a deep voice says off to my left. “Do you mind if I cut in and dance with your date, Elias?”

Chella smiles. Maybe at the conversation we were just saved from. Maybe because this guy called me Elias instead of Bric, and that implies a different world than the one we inhabit together. Or maybe because she’s the one playing with me, and not the other way around. I step back and greet Bernard Millington with a handshake, a clap on the back, and hand Chella over to the old geezer who probably just wants to piss his wife off by dancing with a younger woman. Bernard dances with her only briefly and then whisks her off to make introductions to other members of the board we sit on together. She finds me with her eyes when she can. And I never stop staring at her at all. Not even when I pull out my phone, dial Smith’s number. He answers with, “Yes, Mr. Bricman? How can I help you?” in that smug I-told-you-so voice. “Set it up,” I say. “I think we’re a go for tonight.” The party goes late. And Chella is busy avoiding me the entire time as I suck down several drinks and try to assure board members that there will be similar, and possibly more generous, donations next year. It’s after two in the morning when we finally make our way back inside the car and head North towards downtown. “Did you have a nice time?” I ask. “Did it look like I was?” she asks. It’s easy to forget who she really is when we have her in a vulnerable state. But right now—all night, in fact—she’s been reminding me. Marcella Walcott is the only child of a US senator who spent most of his adult life in DC. She grew up in it. She grew up with people like the ones we were with tonight. She knows how to dance to the music of a string quartet. She knows how to make polite conversation. She knows how to talk to people about politics, and societal concerns, and money. “I think you did,” I say. “I did.” She laughs, wrapping her hands around my upper arm and leaning into me just enough to let me know she’s receptive to whatever I have planned when we get home. “Good,” I say. “Because we have two more weeks of parties.” “And then what, Elias Bricman?” I look out my window and smile, sure she is watching my reflection in the dark glass very closely. “What will you do with me when we run out of parties to keep us busy?” I look back at her. I admit, I was not convinced of Smith’s characterization of her all week long. He’s got theories upon theories about why she’s here. Why she’s playing along. I didn’t see it, I guess. Couldn’t imagine it, maybe. But when she said she’d suck my cock with Smith, I have to admit, he might be right. I see it too. A little, I suppose. When I first asked her to be part of this I saw the cravings she was trying to hide. I felt the darkness underneath, trying to get out. But I think this way about all of them. There has to be a deviant side to the women we play with, or we’d never get very far. Rochelle had a dark deviant side too, but it didn’t run deep. Not deep enough at least. Not for Smith. I figured Marcella Walcott was the same way. She likes a little edge to her sex. A little gagging, a tight blindfold, a spanking or two. But even if I could imagine what she’s hinting at tonight, I never imagined she’d offer it up so soon. “That’s up to you, Marcella. You’re the one in control, regardless of how this looks. Do you want me to call Smith?” I offer. “Tonight? Are you entertaining the thought of giving in?” My heart races with the thought of getting her to comply so quickly. So easily. “No.” She laughs. “No, I don’t think so.” “Hmmm,” I mumble. “Does that make you mad?” she asks. “After I teased you tonight?” “No.” I shake my head. “I wasn’t after that tonight anyway.”

“What were you after?” “Another option, maybe.” She smiles and raises an eyebrow. “Cheating? Do you cheat, Elias?” “No,” I say. “We don’t cheat. Ever. But as I’m sure you’re aware from Smith’s little offer to shave your legs that first night, we have ways around the rules.” She’s silent after that. I let her keep her thoughts to herself as we make our way through the streets of downtown and back to the front curb outside Turning Point Club. I walk her into the lobby and up the second-floor stairs that take us to the elevator. We are silent as we ascend. I fully intend to go inside the apartment with her, but when we get to the door, she turns and rests her back against it, barring my way forward. “I had a nice time,” she says. Just like a woman on a first date. “I’m glad. We have so many more nice times ahead of us, Chella.” “So I’ll see you tomorrow? What time?” “We can have a dinner alone if you’d like. No other players to distract us this time.” “That would be nice.” “Are you trying to get rid of me right now?” “I don’t want Smith here. I might say yes to that another time, but not tonight, Bric.” “We’re back to Bric, huh? No more Elias?” “I think Elias is reserved for honest moments. And this one doesn’t feel honest.” “To who?” I ask. “To you? Or me? Because I’m OK with being one hundred percent honest about what I want right now.” “You want me, but in order to have me, I have to let Smith be a part of it.” “Like I said, Chella. We have ways around the rules.” “How then?” she asks, her fingers playing with the lapels of my suit coat. She looks up at me and I know she wants this so bad. She just can’t admit it. Something inside her is telling her it’s wrong, and it’s dirty, and it’s forbidden. But that’s what this is about, isn’t it? The forbidden. I lean down and kiss her mouth. She is so ready for me, my dick grows hard beneath my pants. “We have cameras,” I whisper into our kiss. “Set up all over the apartment. I had Smith turn them on earlier. So I can fuck you tonight. Alone, just the way you want it. And he can watch like some pathetic piece of shit who can’t manage to get his own girl. We won’t break the rules and he never has to come near you, Chella. I’ll make sure he never touches you again.” She says nothing. Not yes, not no. So I take over. I open the door, push her inside, and then I walk her backwards, making her bump against the wall, and slip my hand up her dress. “Are you gonna say no?” I ask, finding her pussy with my fingers and massaging the wetness out of her. “No,” she says. I withdraw my hand and slide her coat down her arms. Then grab the front of her dress and rip it down the middle. She gasps in surprise, but I just take that as an opportunity. An opportunity to push her to her knees, unzip my pants, pull my cock out, and shove it down her throat. She gags, her hands pressing on my muscled thighs, pushing me away. But I hold her in place. “When no means yes and yes means no, Chella, and you say no, then it’s on.” I pull her to her feet, drag her over to the couch, bend her over and smack her ass so hard, she yelps. I rub her red cheek for a few moments as I calm myself. I can feel the urges inside me taking over and it’s way too soon to let them out. I stand her up again and twirl her around. Her eyes are glistening, like she might cry. But when I kiss her mouth, she melts into me. Her hands on my cock, pumping me. Squeezing so hard I have to close my eyes and enjoy it for a second.

“Do you like it rough?” I ask, when I pull myself together. “I like it,” she says. One simple sentence that says so much more than she intended. “Good,” I say, petting her messed-up hair. “Good.” I take her hand. Gently. And lead her down the hallway. She’s wearing nothing but her shoes. When we get in the bedroom I lead her to the bed and push down on her head until she’s kneeling again. Her mouth is open. Ready and willing. “Oh, no, Chella. It’s not gonna be that easy. You kept me guessing all week. You hid your dark side and had me worried we’d made a mistake.” She doesn’t move a muscle. She sits still, looking up at me like I am her whole world. God, it’s like she knows my soul. I reach into the new bedside table, already stocked with the things I like. The ball gag. The rope. The whip. The blindfold. I place them on the bed and point. “Choose.” “All of it,” she says. But I shake my head. “No. You’re going to hear no from me a lot now that you’re ready to say yes. Choose one.” I expect the blindfold. Or the gag. But she chooses the rope. I pick her up and throw her down on the bed, opening her legs. I take one length of rope and wrap it around her ankle, tying it to one corner of the bedframe. Then do that again with her other ankle. She is moaning softly each time I touch her. Her fingers, still free to do as they please, seek out her own pleasure as she watches me work. “Chella Walcott,” I say as I finish tying her legs open. “You are a freak after my heart.” She says… nothing. I take my coat off, then my suit coat, throwing them both down on the floor. I unknot my tie and use it to bind her hands together in front of her stomach. Still, she says nothing. “You like this, don’t you?” “Yes,” she says, her eyes on my cock, still peeking through the zipper of my pants. “I like it all, Elias. Give me what I like.” I leave my pants on. I like the way the zipper bites at my balls when I bend down to lick between her legs, my tongue sweeping up and down her pussy, flicking against her clit until she is writhing and begging me to whip her, and slap her face, and come all over her tits. “Getting ahead of yourself, Marcella,” I say in a low growl as I straddle her hips and walk my knees up her body until my cock is hovering right in front of her mouth. “We’ve got a long way to go before we get to that little corner of your dark mind.” I straddle her shoulders and slip my dick into her wet mouth, grabbing her hair as I push myself so far inside her, she gags hard. But it only turns me on more. It only makes me go deeper, thrust harder. Her face is covered in her own spit, her eye make-up running down the sides of her cheeks. Still, her eyes never leave mine. I can do anything I want with this woman. Anything I want. She will never again tell me no. I fuck her after that. I put my dick in her so deep, she wails, her bound hands grabbing for my shoulder as I thrust, over and over. Her nails bite into my skin and she’s whispering in my ear. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t—” I fuck her like I’ve wanted to fuck her all week. I fuck her the way I imagined it. I look at the cameras —because I know where each and every one of them are—and I flip Smith off as I do it. Fuck you, Smith, I think. Fuck you for being right. Fuck you for bringing her here. Fuck you for

watching. Fuck you for ruining her, just like you ruined all the others. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. But he’s the one who wins tonight. And we both know it.

Chapter Eighteen - Chella

When I wake up Bric is gone. On the pillow next to mine is a note. Don’t be late for work. Don’t be late coming home. Wear the red dress without panties or bra. I’ll pick you up here at seven. Elias His commands feel both familiar and foreign. Familiar because I’ve been down this path before. I’ve taken that shortcut through the woods more than once. But it’s been a long time. The only significant thing that happens at work is learning that Matisse’s entire collection sold on Saturday night—Saturday seems like years ago—and that Bric bought it, and then promptly donated it to the Mountain Ballet. It’s going to be displayed in its entirety in the courtyard outside the building. Construction on an all-weather version of the curtain has begun and installation will begin on April first. My boss, Charles Benton, is in the gallery all day talking on the phone to special patrons—a code word for contributors—about the year ahead. He takes over my office since he really doesn’t have one here himself. I manage visitors and do the appropriate amount of small talk. But my mind is not here at the gallery. My mind is stuck back in the place Bric left it last night. Under his complete control. Silently begging for more. Asking myself over and over and over why I need more. I’ve had complete control over all my shameful desires for three years. So why now? Why did I let Rochelle dangle this arrangement in front of my face? And more importantly, why did I accept her offer? The problem is… there’s only one answer for it. One answer that I don’t want to think about. I really am sick. The car comes promptly at six to pick me up, just like it came promptly at eight forty-five this morning to take me to work. It was strange walking out of the top-floor apartment without one of my players, and it feels strange to walk in without them as well. But I see them. I see all three of them when I get home from work. Bric is in the bar talking to a good-looking man and a woman I recognize from the first night I was here. Quin is chatting with four men in the main lobby and even though I catch his eye for a second, he doesn’t acknowledge me. Smith is sitting up in that private bar they have on the second floor. He never stops looking at me while I climb the stairs. “Come here, Chella,” he says from his balcony seat as I wait for the elevator. “No,” I say, just loud enough for my voice to carry up to his ears. “This isn’t your night.” When the doors open, I step in and make sure I don’t turn around until the they close me up tight.

When I get to the apartment I find the dress already laid out for me on the bed. I look around for the cameras I know are here, but can’t seem to find. And then I put them out of my mind. That’s a lie. I undress for them. For him. For Smith. I undress and sit at the makeup vanity in the large master bathroom, naked. And when I’m happy with my dark eyes and red lips, I lie back on the bed and finger myself until I come so hard, there’s a wet spot on the comforter. The dress slips over my flushed body in seconds, and at exactly seven o’clock, Bric walks through my apartment door. “Wow,” he says. “I like you in the black, but red is your color.” He kisses me, a long, lingering kiss with one hand around my throat and one hand between my legs. “You’re wet,” he whispers into my mouth. “I just came,” I whisper back. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t wait.” “You filthy whore,” he says, smiling. I want to undress him right now. Tell him to forget this party and fuck me instead. But I’m being good. I’m being very, very good. “Are you hungry?” Bric asks. “For something besides my cock?” I laugh with him. “Not really,” I say, my answer more truthful than he suspects. “But I’m happy to wait for that later.” “Like a reward,” Bric says, grabbing a black coat from the front closet I’ve never seen before. He drapes that over one arm, places his hand on the small of my back, and then leads me out into the hall. We get on the elevator and look at each other the entire way down to the second floor. “I saw you come in but I didn’t want people to know I was looking.” “I saw you as well.” “We’re having dinner in the Black Room tonight.” “I thought that was a bar?” “It is, but the booths by the window are nice.” They are nice. I know this because I already sat in one when Smith first brought me here. “I saw Quin and Smith too. Are they joining us?” “No,” Bric says as the elevator doors open. “They’re both busy tonight. And we can’t stay at the party long.” “Good.” I laugh. “We might want time to ourselves before I have to drop you off at your house.” “My house?” I ask, as we step out on to the landing. Smith is staring at me from his perch in the balcony bar. “You belong to Smith at midnight. And he wants you at home tonight.” “Oh,” I say, letting Bric guide me down the stairs. Quin isn’t in the lobby when we get there. He’s in the Black Room sitting near the bar with a blonde woman who I swear to God I think is Rochelle before she turns her head to laugh and I realize she’s not. “Are you OK?” Bric asks. “Fine,” I say, letting him take my hand. He drops the coat off with the coat-check girl and then leads me into the bar and over to the very same table I sat at when Smith brought me here for my test. I sit down on one side and Bric sits on the other. He smiles at me. “This party is going to be boring. Not that last night’s wasn’t, but worse. No one under the age of sixty tonight. So we’ll get there at eight thirty, stay ninety minutes, and then come back here for a little bit. Sound good?”

“All the parts except for the party sound perfect.” He laughs. “Did I get your imagination working last night, Chella? You seem to be warming up to this arrangement.” “I just… had a lot of fun. And I like fun, don’t you?” “I do,” he says. “What do you feel like eating tonight?” “Just something light, like a salad. With chicken, maybe?” “I can get that for you,” Bric says. And then someone comes over to talk to him and he’s distracted for a moment. The man eyes me, but Bric makes no move to introduce us. I look down at my place setting and grab the napkin, which is folded into a crisp envelope shape. But it’s what’s peeking out from under the flap that catches my eyes. Writing. I look at Bric to see if he’s watching me. Maybe he left me a little note. But he’s not. He’s still busy with the interloper. So I lift the flap and find the same thick, bold handwriting last’s night message was written in. I look up at the bar balcony and find Smith smirking down at me. He lifts his drink as if in a toast but I turn my head, shake the napkin out, and place it in my lap. I spend the next hour repeating Smith’s words in my head as I have mindless conversation with Bric and the many, many people who come up to the table to try—and fail—to get an introduction. If you want to go dark, go dark. Don’t take a light. You’re mine every night, Chella. You just don’t realize it yet. When we’re done eating, Bric takes me outside where a car is waiting, but not the long, black kind we usually take. His own personal car. He opens the door and there’s a present on the seat. “What’s this?” I ask, smiling up at him as I pick up the bag. “Open it and see.” It’s a video camera. A little handheld one that almost no one uses anymore because everyone just uses a phone. “He was pretty happy with last night, Chella.” “This is from… Smith?” “Yes.” Bric nods. And then he leans in to kiss me. “We’re going to do dirty, dirty things for that camera tonight. Starting the moment you get in the car.” And even though I do not want to feel that creeping hot wetness between my legs, it’s there. It’s ready. When Bric gets in the driver’s side, after closing my door and telling me to fasten my seatbelt, he says, “Turn it on,” as he unbuttons and unzips his pants and pulls out his cock. “He’s not gonna want to miss this.” My head is in his lap, the camera mounted on the dash, and I suck his cock the entire twenty-minute drive over to an estate in Cherry Creek. I swallow his come and lick my lips as he holds the camera, while we’re parked on the street. And then I reapply my lipstick and we go inside. The party is boring. The people are old. And those ninety minutes can’t go by fast enough. I film Bric fingering me on the way back to Turning Point Club. And when we get upstairs and I don’t have to worry about documenting our depravity anymore, I choose the whip when he lays out his four toys on the bed. My thighs are red and raw by the time eleven thirty rolls around. My pussy is sore, but still wants more when he takes me to my house and walks me up to the door.

We kiss. Passionately. His fingers inside me again, his dick harder than ever. And then he turns away without a word and leaves me in the hands of his friend. I open the door, close it behind me, and then lean back with a sigh. If you want to go dark, go dark. Don’t take a light. And then a phone rings in the kitchen. I walk through the dark house, wondering if I smell paint, but put that out of my mind as I reach for the lit-up cell phone on the kitchen island. “Hello?” I ask the phone. “I have something you might like to see upstairs,” Smith says on the other end of the call. “Walk up to your room and don’t hang up.” I flick on the lights and see the reason my house smells like paint. “You painted my orange wall?” “You hated it. You need to be walking, Chella. I need you upstairs right now.” Not only did he paint my orange wall—which I did hate, but… it’s my wall. My house—but there’s new furniture as well. New art on the walls. New rugs. A small bedside lamp is glowing in the guest room on the second floor and I stop to look at what’s going on in there. “Keep walking, Chella,” Smith says. I look up at the ceiling, wondering where the cameras are. Because he obviously has cameras in here now too. “You’re sleeping in there?” I ask, bewildered. He’s been at my house all week from the looks of it. He really has moved in. “Bedroom, Chella. Now,” Smith growls. I climb the final flight of stairs up to the third floor. There’s a light on up here too. Not one I had before Smith came into my life. The whole room has been redecorated. “You refurnished my bedroom?” I ask. “I can’t fuck you on a bed I didn’t buy new. But that’s not what I wanted you to see. Turn on the TV.” The remote has been placed at the end of the bed, along with the two napkins he used to send me messages. I click the remote on, ignoring the napkins, and the moaning starts up immediately. It’s Bric fucking me tonight. Then scenes from last night flick through in a tightly edited sequence of my moaning and sucking his cock. “Do not turn that TV off, Chella. Do you understand me? Only I’m allowed to turn it off.” “Are you here?” My eyes dart around as my heart begins to race at the thought of him being inside the house, watching me like a sick freak. “No.” Smith laughs. “No. I can’t trust myself to be there with you this weekend. So let’s get this out of the way right the fuck now. Next week when Bric calls you at midnight to have his little how-are-youdoing conversation, you’re going to tell him you want me in the room from now on. Do you understand?” “What?” “You heard me. In the room, Chella. Fuck these cameras. I want front-row seats with an all-access pass from this day forward.” “No,” I say. “That’s not your decision. I’m the one in charge—” “Is that so?” Smith laughs. “You wanted to suck Bric’s cock in the car and film it for me to watch later? That was your idea? Or was it his idea and you just went along?” I let out a long breath of air. “It wasn’t your idea, Chella. You just went along like a good… little… slut. You sucked his cock and swallowed his come and then you painted your red lipstick back on like it’s just another night out. And do

you know why it was so damn easy to just go along?” “Why?” I ask in a soft, soft whisper. “Because when you go dark, you don’t take a light.” “Just what the fuck—” But the call has been ended. God, he’s sick. But as soon as I think that thought, I think it about myself as well. I’m sick too. We’re all sick here.

Chapter Nineteen - Chella

“You look tired today,” my assistant Michell says as I make a cup of coffee in the employee break room at the gallery. “I was out late for a Christmas party last night.” And getting fucked sideways. Not to mention the mind games, courtesy of Smith, which kept me up all night long with the video. “Oh?” she says, sipping her coffee and peering over the rim of her mug, eyebrows waggling. “You were on a date? Why, Marcella Walcott, I do believe you’re keeping secrets from me.” And then she lowers her mug and gives me a stern look. “Tell. Me. Everything. Right now. I can’t believe—” “It’s not that big of a deal,” I say. And I can’t talk about it, especially not to Michell. Our fathers are friends. I’ve known her for twenty years, ever since she was four years old. And good God, now isn’t the time to bring that complication into the mix. No, I cannot say too much. I need to downplay everything. “Just a date,” I say. “That’s all. Nothing happened. Nothing will. Let’s talk about work. You know, because we’re working right now?” “Hmmph,” Michell says. “No second date on the calendar?” I need to be very careful about my lies. How long will this all last? It could be over tomorrow. It could last for weeks. Or months. Or what if—what if it lasts for years, like it did with Rochelle? I wonder what she told people. Did she have friends? I don’t really have friends, I have acquaintances. Like Michell. And Kathryn, the dock manager. But we don’t go out together like girlfriends. Kathryn is mostly just a coworker. And I only see Michell socially when she invites me to her family cabin every now and then. Still, if Bric comes around—or God fucking forbid, Smith—I will have to tell her something. They are important men. Men with power and money. Men who make you want to gossip. I don’t really have to worry about Quin much. We’re together on my days off. “I’m actually dating a couple of people,” I say, trying to make this believable and yet wholly untrue at the same time. “What? Girlfriend, how dare you keep this from me?” “It’s no big deal. Just… looking around, you know? Exploring my options. I’m thirty. My chances of finding true love are dwindling day by day.” “Don’t be stupid.” Michell snorts. “You’re Marcella Walcott. You’re a catch and every guy who comes in here wants to ask you out. But you have this air about you, ya know?” She makes a wide arc with her arms and says, “Keep away. No touching. Unavailable. I’ve watched you turn down dozens of men over the past few years.” She stops talking to catch her breath. “So,” she continues in a low, sultry voice. “These guys you’re dating must be something pretty special.” “It’s just dating, Michell. In fact, one guy is only about Christmas parties.” She raises her eyebrow at me again. “Men take women to Christmas parties because they want to show them off, Chella. They take them to meet the important people in their lives because they like them. So who is this mystery man? Hmm? Is it Matisse?” “What?” I almost choke on my coffee. “My friend said she saw you with him last week. After delivery day.” She’s looking very smug. “Which friend?” I ask, trying to be innocent about it. “Just some girl I went to school with back east. Vanessa Sterling. She was asking about you, in fact.”

I try not to react, but I’m pretty sure I fail. “Why? When?” “Last week. That’s how I know you were with Matisse. She said she saw you at the Turning Point Club having a midnight dinner. You know what that place is, right?” She makes air quotes with her fingers as she says, “A gentleman’s club. But I’ve heard what happens there. It doesn’t surprise me that her husband is a member. I’ve heard rumors that they’re into the whole swingers thing.” I do choke on my coffee now. “What?” “Yeah. Turning Point is a swingers’ club, Chella. Wife-swapping? You ever heard of it?” “No,” I lie. But holy fuck. I had no idea this was a well-known fact. If I had, I’d never have gotten involved. “Sometimes I wonder where your mother hid you all growing up. You’re so clueless. Everyone knows about that place. And my friend said you had dinner on the private side. What was it like? Were people groping each other and shit?” “Michell! No. It wasn’t even dinner. I went over there with him and we were going to eat, but I got sick and left. I was there for like twenty minutes, that’s all.” “Damn,” she says. “I’ve always wondered about that place. And that guy who came with Matisse? Smith Baldwin—” Oh, good Lord. I’m screwed. It’s like Michell has the pieces to my secret puzzle laid out in front of her and all she has to do is start putting it together. “—I hear he’s one of the owners.” Is Smith an owner? “I thought Elias Bricman owned that place?” “See?” She cackles. “You did know what it was. You filthy liar.” “Anyway, I’m done talking about this stuff. We have work to do.” “What work? We’re practically on vacation, sister. This Matisse installation will be here for three months. Our job is to smile at visitors. We don’t even have to sell the pieces because—” Shit. “Oh. My. God. That’s right,” Michell says. “Elias Bricman bought it for the Mountain Ballet courtyard. Did you meet him?” “Um, well, of course. I had to talk to him about the sale.” I’m going to hell for lying. But whatever. I’m already going to hell for so many other things, it hardly matters. “He’s so fucking hot. What is he like? Is he a dick like Smith Baldwin?” “No.” I laugh. “He’s nice, actually. A lot nicer than Smith.” Michell just stares at me for a few seconds. “You know Smith too, don’t you?” Fuck. “You know all about Turning Point Club. Chella!” she exclaims. “I need for you to spill, honey. Are you dating…” But she puts it together before she can finish her sentence. “You are, aren’t you? You’re dating both of them.” “Michell—” “Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. I wondered why they were both talking to you last week for the opening.” “Michell,” I say, setting my coffee down and walking over to grab both her shoulders. “Listen to me, OK? I don’t want to talk about it.” “Why?” she asks. “This is the most exciting thing to happen to me since Jordan Wells fucked me at a concert last summer.” “I have no idea who Jordan Wells is, but—” “My friend knows him. Holy shit. I think he’s a member of that Club too and I bet my friend is swapping with him—” “Michell,” I say, squeezing her shoulders harder, giving them a shake for good measure. “Listen to me.

I don’t want people to know about it, OK? I’m uncomfortable dating two guys at once.” But it’s like she’s in a trance. She just stands there, gazing off into space as she imagines all the sordid things I’ve been doing on my days off. No. Stop, Chella, I chastise myself. She doesn’t know any of that. “Will you introduce me?” “Absolutely not,” I say. “Smith Baldwin really is an asshole. I don’t think I’ll be seeing him again.” “Then just Bricman? Can you introduce me to—” “Did I just hear my name?” Yes. Hell has come to claim me early. Because Bric is standing in the open door of the employee break room looking—looking like a goddamned God in that five-thousand-dollar suit, that subtle stubble all over his perfectly square jaw, and wearing a smile that might knock Michell over dead. He’s staring into my eyes like he wants to fuck me right this second. And Michell does not miss this. Her mouth is open and she is finally speechless. “Mr. Bricman,” she says, snapping out of it before I can even be thankful she stopped talking. She walks towards him with her hand out. “So nice to properly meet you. I’m Michell Stadington, Chella’s assistant.” Bric, being the hot motherfucker with all the moves that he is, takes her hand and brings it to his lips. “So very, very nice to meet one of Chella’s friends, Miss Stadington. Tell me, you’re not related to Victor Stadington, are you?” “Yes! He’s my father.” Michell beams. “Well, this is all very special,” I say, moving towards Bric. “But Mr. Bricman is here to talk about his purchase.” I shoot Michell a stern, back-away glance. “You remember, his fifty-million-dollar purchase?” And then I look at Bric. “Why don’t we take this conversation up to my office, Mr. Bricman? And we can sort out the details.” I press my hands on his chest as I scoot past him through the door and do not look back to see if he follows. But he does, excusing himself politely from Michell, whom I imagine is standing there looking at him like he’s meat. I finally look over my shoulder when I get to the bottom of the stairs that lead up to my loft office, and yes, Bric is right behind me. I ascend and let him follow. “Your ass looks fuckable in that skirt today, Chella,” he whispers softly, so the gallery visitors can’t hear him. “Shh,” I hush him as we climb. My office is not nearly private enough for any conversation I might have with Elias Bricman, but it seems exceptionally open right now as I take a seat at my desk. Bric settles into one of the two chairs in front of my desk and crosses his legs, like he’s gonna be here for a while and he might as well get comfortable. “What are you doing here?” I ask. “My purchase.” He laughs. “I need to sort out the details.” “No, really, Bric,” I say, looking down the stairs to see if any visitors—or God forbid, Michell—are listening. “Why are you here? It’s not your day.” “Is that a rule?” he asks. “We’re not allowed to see you? On our days off?” “I don’t know, but it seems logical to me.” “Because it keeps things… simple?” Bric asks. “Yes,” I say. “Exactly. Simple is far better than trying to explain my plural relationship with three men to my co-workers.” Three very hot, well-known men, I don’t add. Bric just smiles. “My assistant said one of her friends saw me at Turning Point Club with Matisse and Smith that night

he took me there for dinner. Vanessa Sterling. ” “Is this a problem?” “It is when everyone knows that Turning Point Club is for well-to-do swingers, Bric!” “She won’t say anything else, take my word on that. I will make a personal phone call after I leave here and make sure of it. She would never risk her husband’s membership. She’s having too much fun with her new toy, Jordan Wells.” “Oh, great! Well, Jordan Wells is an old fuck buddy of Michell’s, Bric. This is all getting very… very…” I can’t find the right word. “Uncomfortable for you,” Bric finishes. “Yes!” I say. “Exactly. Uncomfortable. I don’t want people talking about me again.” “Again?” he asks. “Ever,” I say, trying to hide my slip-up. “I don’t like it, Bric.” My hands start shaking and he leans across the desk to hold one. “It’s OK, Chella. I promise. I’ll handle it. Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you. We won’t let anyone hurt you.” Bric has a thoughtful look on his face and I count my blessings that it was him and not Smith who just showed up during that conversation with Michell. But that reminds me. “Why are you here? Does Smith know?” “Do you want him to know?” “I don’t know. I guess not.” “Why not?” “I don’t want him coming over and starting a scene. He comes across as the type who likes to make scenes.” “He would never embarrass you that way, Chella. But I am here because of him.” I wait for it. But Bric continues to smile as he keeps silent. “Well? What does he want?” “Did everything go OK last night?” “I thought we weren’t supposed to talk about that stuff?” “And I told you, I’m in charge of your wellbeing. As Number Three, it’s part of my job description to make sure you’re OK at all times.” He stops to wait for me to say something, but I don’t know what to say. “Are you OK, Chella? You’re looking a little tired this morning. Did you have a rough night?” I smile at his smirk. “Well, I did go on a date that had a lot of dirty sex involved.” “True. But it’s what happened after I dropped you off that concerns me. I’m fairly certain the dirty sex we had isn’t the problem.” “He didn’t come over.” “OK,” Bric says. “Anything else you’d like to tell me?” Like… Smith practically demanding that I let him watch us fuck next week? No, I decide to leave that out. Who knows what will happen between now and then, right? The whole arrangement could fall apart and I’d never have to have that conversation at all. “He made me watch us fuck. On the TV. All night long.” “Ah.” Bric laughs. “So that explains it. You spent the night masturbating to the little sex tape we made?” The words ‘sex tape’ strike fear through my whole body. “He would never—” “No, Chella. He would never show those to anyone. Ever. You don’t need to worry about that.” “Whew,” I say, making an exaggerated gesture of wiping my brow with my hand. “Did you masturbate to the sex tape all night long?” “Yes,” I say, blushing a little. But I leave out the best part. That it was my fantasy of Smith watching us fuck that got me off.

“Well, he called me this morning and told me to let you know he won’t be around this weekend.” “No?” I ask, wondering why that is. “Did he give a reason?” “He said you’d know why. Which had my mind working overtime.” Bric leans forward, both my hands in his now. “I’m just here to make sure he’s not fucking things up, that’s all. I like you. I want this to work. And Smith can be… challenging to manage at times. Don’t let him ruin what we could have. Like I said last night—you can cut him out completely. Keep him on the other end of the cameras. He’ll stay away from the apartment if you don’t let him watch in person.” “How do you know that?” I ask. “Because we’ve done this before. We’ve been One and Three before. It’s not an ideal situation. In fact, Smith is always a challenge. But we can manage him, Chella. If you refuse to let him watch, he will leave you alone. Just like he left Rochelle alone.” I think about this for a moment. Do I want to cut him out completely? Do I want Smith Baldwin to leave me alone? “Think of Friday through Sunday as your days off. Can you do that? Just stay at your own house and come back to the Club Sunday midnight for Quin. Quin is easy to manage. He’s fun, right? He can fuck you all he wants without the games. Be a good friend.” “And you?” I ask, wondering where he’s going with this idea. “I can fuck you all I want too. As long we have a camera for Smith to watch us later. We can pretend he’s not there. We can pretend it’s just us. I’ve done it before, Chella. It will work if you allow it to work.” He lets go of my hands, stands up, and walks around the desk until he’s towering over me. He’s hard just from the talk. His huge cock is outlined in his pants and he grabs it for a second, like he’s trying his best to make it shrink. I look up at his face, doing my best not to beg him to fuck me right now. “Is this what you want?” I ask. “For me to cut him out?” Bric just shrugs. “You only have three choices. Cut him out. Let him join us. Or walk away. I just want to make sure you don’t walk away.” He reaches for my hand, pulls me up so I’m standing, and then kisses it lightly. Gently. His soft, full lips lingering for a second before he pulls away and looking me in the eyes. “I’m enjoying you very much, Marcella Walcott. And I’d like to keep enjoying you for as long as possible. So make your choice. Whichever one is best for you. And I hope that it’s the one I suggested.” “Why?” I ask, my voice small and timid. “Do you want me all to yourself?” “I’ll never have that,” he says. “I’ll always be sharing you with Quin, no matter what. But I certainly wouldn’t mind having you without Smith. It’s just not my decision to make. So we work with what we have.”

Chapter Twenty - Smith

“So you went to talk to her?” I ask. “Why, exactly?” If Bric gives a fuck that I’m pissed off, he doesn’t show it. “You know why.” “No, I actually don’t. So give me more, Bric. Because I’m starting to get mad.” We’re sitting up in my private bar overlooking the Black Room. It’s Saturday night, I’m here alone, I can’t go see Chella because I don’t trust myself to adhere to the rules… and then this asshole comes in and tells me he checked up on her today. At least she’s at home and not here. One less thing to worry about. Bric is smoking a cigar, which he hardly ever does and he knows I hate, so I know he’s doing it on purpose. Why is he fucking with me? “I’m just curious, Smith.” “About?” But Quin walks in just as Bric is about to explain and takes his seat across from me and next to Bric. “What’s up?” he asks me. Then, “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be upstairs?” “I’m holding back,” I say, trying not to growl out the word. “Why?” Quin laughs. But then I look at Bric and he presses his lips together and nods. “OK. So we’re gonna go through this again? Why can’t you assholes just enjoy yourselves and not make things complicated?” “Says the guy who fell in love with Rochelle and drove her away.” I don’t know why I just said that. And I don’t even know where it came from, because it’s not true. “Nice,” Bric says, puffing on the cigar. “Nice going, Smith.” “All right,” Quin says, standing back up. “Fuck both of you. I don’t need this shit. I don’t need either of you to enjoy this arrangement. I get her all to myself. No games. And I only came to go downstairs tonight, so catch you down there whenever the fuck I see you.” Bric and I both watch him walk out. “Just stay away from her, OK?” I say. “If it’s not Wednesday or Thursday, stay away and keep your fucking mouth shut. I don’t like to be talked about, you know that. Don’t talk about me to her.” Bric is silent for almost a minute before he too gets up from my table and heads towards the stairs. I watch him go down into the lobby. Lucinda is here again. I cannot remember, for the life of me, seeing her so goddamned much in such a short time span. But then I see why she’s here when the newest member, Jordan Wells, brings her a drink and he cops a feel between her legs as her husband watches with eager eyes. Saturday nights at Turning Point Club can get wild. It’s all private. All the shades are closed on the windows facing the street and the restaurant is closed to the public, so you have to be a member to get past the front door. Bric stops to chat with her, also copping a feel, which makes her whole face light up with delight. She’s been after us both for years. But he can have her. I’m not interested. He goes downstairs every weekend. Without fail. And most of the time I have no idea what he’s doing down there. Don’t care, either.

I went for Lucinda’s birthday party two weeks ago because it’s something I do to make her happy, but I only came back because I was horny as fuck. Marcella Walcott’s pussy was wet when I checked her in Rochelle’s closet. Has it only been two weeks? A few minutes later Lucinda heads towards the back of the lobby with Bric, Jordan, and her husband. Bric’s eyes meet mine as he moves out of sight. “Good for you, motherfucker,” I say, raising my glass of Scotch to no one. He can have that fucking club. He’s always been more interested in what goes on down there than I have. Quin as well. Hell, maybe Quin will join in. Lucinda can get the gang-bang of her dreams. I stew in my thoughts like this for hours. Until it’s after eleven o’clock and I’m about ready to call it a night. And then Chella walks in the front door, wearing a white dress that shows more cleavage than I need right now. For a second I’m enraged, thinking she’s going to join Quin and Bric downstairs. But she leans in to talk to the hostess, who smiles and nods at the sentry standing guard in front of the black velvet rope in front of the main staircase, and she is given permission to go upstairs. What the fuck is she doing? I watch her with interest as she ascends, and then our eyes meet. I repeat my thought out loud. “What the fuck are you doing?” She turns her head and keeps climbing until she gets to the landing and presses the button for the elevator. “Chella,” I say again, a little louder this time as I get up and walk to the opening of my private bar and look down at her. “What are you doing?” The elevator doors open and she steps inside without answering me. I jump down the six steps that lead to the second-story landing and follow her, just in time before the elevator doors close. “Did you hear me?” “Do I appear deaf? Of course I heard you.” “Why are you here?” “I live here. Top-floor apartment. Brand new furniture. Ringing any bells?” “No,” I say. “You do not live here. You live down on Little Raven Street and that’s where you need to go. Right now.” “No,” Chella says, her back straight, her chin tipped up. Defiant. “No. I’m not going back there. I’m bored. And you already told me you wouldn’t be around this evening. So why should I stay there? I’d rather be here.” “It’s Saturday night, Chella. You don’t need to be here, trust me.” “Rochelle stayed here on Saturday nights.” “That’s not the same thing.” “Why not?” “Because I was Number Two with Rochelle.” “And?” And I wasn’t playing games with her like I am with you. But I don’t say that. I say, “It was a lot simpler.” The elevator doors open and she steps out, the keycard to her apartment already in her hand. She unlocks the door and swings it open, then blocks my entrance so I can’t come in. “I’m tired, so you don’t need to babysit me.” “Move,” I say. “I want in.” “I thought you don’t want to spend time with me?” she says. “I thought you wanted to stay at your own home as much as possible,” I counter.

“I changed my mind.” “Well, so did I.” She steps aside and I walk past her, go into the kitchen, and immediately take down a bottle of Scotch I stashed in the cupboard while she was at work this week. Chella closes the door and walks down the hall to her bedroom. I pour myself a drink, take a long gulp, refill, and then follow her. She’s undressing. I can see her through the open door of the massive closet. I see Quin has been busy, because she’s got a lot more clothes in there than she did the last time I was in here. “You know,” she says, “if you want me to go home, you might consider lifting the order on that sex tape you’ve had running on my bedroom TV for three days.” I almost laugh. “You didn’t turn it off?” And then I do laugh. She glares at me as the dress slips down her body and pools into a puddle at her feet. “You told me not to. Am I the only one following the rules anymore? I mean I figured things would go off the rails, but I didn’t think it would only take a week.” “Hmm,” I say. “Is this about Bric coming to see you yesterday? Because I never told him to.” “Of course you didn’t. He was there asking me to deny you access to our bedroom and cut you out of the relationship completely by making you watch remotely.” I just blink at her. “Are you fucking serious right now?” “Why would I lie about that?” I can think of about two dozen reasons why one of our toys might lie about that. But none of them ring true about Marcella Walcott. She stands there naked, waiting to see if I’ll answer. But I suddenly have the urge to shut the fuck up. Bric is getting bold. Chella shrugs at my silence and then turns to her underwear drawer and takes out a cream-colored lace nightie that has Quin’s handiwork all over it. I mostly like them to sleep naked. Quin likes to dress them up like dolls every chance he gets. I lean against the closet door, trying my best to look nonchalant as I watch her pull the lace over her tits and then jiggle them around to get them situated. Chella ignores me, pushing past with a hand on my chest to give herself room to get by. And then she walks out of the bedroom and down the hall, back to the living room. I did not miss the fact that she has no panties on. Or that she touched me. Is she trying to fuck with me tonight? Is she baiting me to break the rules? Is she really considering Bric’s advice? He doesn’t want me out. That defeats the whole purpose of what we’re doing. So he’s added this little interesting element to push thing along quicker. Is that what he’s doing? Or is he serious? Does he want her to cut me out? I don’t know why it hits me so hard, but it does. I have never thought of these girls we play with as something to own. But suddenly things feel… different. Does he want her? For himself? I shake my head at that. It makes no sense. I mean, I want her for myself, but I’m me. I’m a selfish asshole. I want everything for myself. It’s in my blood. It’s part of my charm. Even I have to chuckle at that last one. I’m pretty sure no one calls me charming. That’s Quin, if it’s any of us. But fuck Bric for telling her to cut me out even if it was part of his game. Has he done this before? He didn’t have to do it with Rochelle. I was Number Two. I had her whenever I wanted her. Which was often in the beginning. But she got old fast. We had nothing in common. But Chella is the exact opposite of Rochelle. I can’t think of a single commonality about them. Except us, of course.

Did Bric play this game with Quin, when he was Number One with Rochelle? I suddenly have the need to ask him. I head down the hallway, leaving to go downstairs and have this out with Bric and Quin, when Chella says, “What do they do down there?” “Huh?” I ask, my hand reaching for the doorknob. I turn and look over my shoulder. She’s sitting in a chair in front of the window. My chair in front of the window. The one I should be sitting in as I watch her. And she’s got her legs open, flashing that wet, pink pussy at me. “What the fuck are you doing?” She smiles. Shrugs. “What?” she asks innocently. “I thought you liked to watch.” I do. “Downstairs. When they go downstairs in the basement. Rochelle said she’d never been down there.” An evil idea is percolating in my head. “And you never will either. It’s not a place for you. You’re not even a member.” “So what’s the big secret?” “The secret?” I laugh. “It’s not a secret. We fuck people down there. In groups. A husband-wife team chooses others to join them, and we all fuck until we’re spent. Does that satisfy your curiosity?” “Is Bric down there now? And Quin?” Yes, evil little idea, come to Daddy. I’ll take care of you. Nurture you. Keep you alive and healthy. “What do you think?” I ask her. She lets out a long exhale. “I want to think no. Because I should be enough.” “Oh.” I laugh the word out. “Enough, you say? That’s so fucking interesting coming from a woman who needs three men to satisfy her.” “Who said I do?” she snaps, anger all over her red-flushed face. “I never said that. You guys offered this to me.” “You invited yourself in knowing full well what it was. So hey”—I laugh—“If you’re gonna get jealous about Bric and Quin fucking other women, then you better keep that to yourself. We don’t put up with it.” “But you put up with Bric telling me to cut you out?” Yes, evil idea, I will take you home and keep you forever. “Would you like to go downstairs, Chella? Would you like to see what Bric and Quin are doing right now?” “Is that a joke? Or a real offer?” I shrug. “Take it any way you want. But if you say yes, and you don’t like what you see, don’t come crying to me when your filthy deviant heart gets broken. Because I’ll tell you something right now, Chella, you can’t ever compare to the sluts we have down there when it comes to sex. Bric will never give that up. Quin, maybe. But Bric is in for the duration.” “And you?” I laugh again. “I don’t go down there. That night Quin found you in Rochelle’s bed was the first time all year for me.” “Then why go that night?” “Because you made me.” “I made you?” She laughs. “You and your wet pussy in that closet. You with your innocent eyes and dirty mouth. You with your big idea to come rock our world and join our game. I went down because of you, Chella. And when Bric fucked his four—yes, four—sluts that night, I painted your face on each one of them as I jerked off and watched.” We stare at each other. It seems like years go by in silence. “Take me down,” she finally says. “I want to see.” “See?” I shake my head. “Everyone who goes down participates, Chella. It’s not a spectator sport.” “But you just said you only watched. That you jerked off. So why can’t I watch with you?” Because I won’t be able to control myself. Because I’ll end up pushing you into a corner and

fucking you from behind. Because I’ll beat the shit out of anyone who comes near you, looks at you wrong— “Smith?” she says, drawing me out of my thoughts. “Please take me down. I’ll do whatever you say. If you want to go dark, then don’t take a light, right?” I smile. “Marcella Walcott wants to leave her light behind?” “I’m yours tonight, Smith Baldwin,” she says back. My evil idea is bigger now. Blossoming into something beautiful. “Take off your nightie. All the women have to enter naked.”

Chapter Twenty-One - Chella

“I’m not walking through the lobby naked.” Smith gives me a look that says, Don’t be stupid. “We’re not going to the lobby, Chella. We’ll take the freight elevator.” “What happened to ‘I’m Smith Baldwin and I’m too good for the freight elevator?’” “Do you want to see it or not?” he asks. “Because you’re not supposed to be down there and if Bric and Quin see you…” “Then what?” I ask. “What will they do?” “They’ll just be pissed off. The reason we have you is to keep you separate from all that.” “So why are you going to ruin it?” “OK,” he says. “We won’t go.” “I’m not saying that. I want to go—” “Then shut the fuck up and take off your clothes,” Smith growls. “I’ll take you down in the freight elevator. It’ll bring us to the back end of the space and then I’ll give you a peek.” “Just a peek?” I ask. “You guys seem to throw that word around a lot. ‘It’s just a peek, Chella. A little glimpse into the forbidden.’” He’s about to say fuck the whole thing, I can tell. But I have a point, so I get to it. “Why don’t you guys just admit it?” “Admit what?” he asks. “That it’s not a peek at all, it’s full immersion. It’s not dipping a toe in the water, Smith. It’s drowning in the dark depths.” He lets out a small laugh and then that surly frown turns into a grin. “You want to live in it, Chella? Do you want me to invite you deeper?” “Obviously that answer is yes, Smith.” I stare at him as he reassesses me. “If you think I don’t know what I’m getting into, you’re wrong.” He rubs the stubble on his jaw. “Really? You’re an old pro at the fine art of sex club navigation, are you?” “I’ve been to them before,” I say. He cocks an eyebrow at me, as if intrigued. “When? Where? With who?” Do I detect some jealousy in those questions? “It’s not important,” I say. But I’ve hit a nerve with Mr. Baldwin. “How cute that you think I’m so innocent, Smith.” “I have never thought you innocent, Chella,” he says. “But a little inexperienced… yes,” he admits. “So you’re playing a game with us, as well?” “I’m just along for the fun,” I say, slipping the chemise nightie up and over my head and dropping it to the floor. “So why don’t we stop talking and just do what we both know we want to do?” “You want to get fucked down there tonight?” He laughs. Kinda loud. Like this is the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. “I can’t fuck you down there, Chella. And no one else will be allowed to get near you. You can walk into the ocean and drown yourself in the dark depths on someone else’s time. But when you’re with me, it’s just a peek.” He’s dead serious about this and I have to admit, I didn’t expect him to remain so loyal to Bric and Quin. Especially after I goaded him with what Bric said to me about cutting him out of the game.

“Fine,” I say, shrugging my shoulders like I hardly care. “Just a peek then.” He stares at me for a moment, opens his mouth like he might say something, then thinks better of it. “Come on,” he says, taking my hand. Already breaking the rules. We leave the apartment and go down the hall to a door. We go through it, then down another dark hallway, until we reach the back of the building where the freight elevator is located. This is how Rochelle got me upstairs to her apartment that first night. Smith punches in a code to open the doors as I watch, fascinated by the world they’ve created here in the middle of downtown Denver. A secret world. A forbidden world. A world I haven’t thought about in a very long time. A world I left behind. A world I’d very much like to be part of again. “What’s on the other floors?” I ask as the doors close us in. “Rooms,” Smith says, utterly uninterested. “I guessed that, Smith. I meant, what happens on the other floors?” He looks at me, annoyed for some reason. “Sex, Chella. We’re a hotel so rich men who are bored with their wives can come here during the work week and fuck someone new.” “So you have prostitutes here?” “No.” He laughs. “They have to bring the pussy with them.” “Do you bring people to those rooms?” He looks away, up at the illuminated numbers ticking down the floors until the elevator gets to the one lit up as B. When the doors open, he waves me forward and says, “If you think I’m a sick sex freak, you’re wrong. I’m the most normal person down here, Marcella Walcott. And you should really keep that in mind going forward. Stay here for a minute. I need to get you a mask.” Before I can ask any more questions, he walks down the hallway, towards the flashing lights, and the music, and the sound of people caught up in a primal state of lust. I wait. My hearts beats fast, but I take a few deep breaths as I ask it to be calm. I want to be here, I remind myself. I was lying to myself when I accepted Rochelle’s offer, thinking it was just a peek. A peek is not what I’m after. Not at all. If I’m going to risk everything again, if I’m going to play this game with them and throw away years of building my life back up after all the failures and falls, then I want the full experience. Smith returns with a black mask that covers my whole face. Just slits for eyes so I can see, and a small slit for my mouth, so I can breathe. “Put it on,” he says. “All the women wear masks.” “Why?” “Because I said so,” he snaps. “No.” I laugh. “I’ll put it on. But why do the women wear masks?” “To protect them.” He says those three words like it should be obvious. “Why else?” “To protect them from what?” “Chella,” he says. “Come on. From themselves, of course.” “I’m not following.” He’s very annoyed at this point, so I slip the mask up to my face and let him tie the black satin ribbon around my head. “Just explain it to me. So I understand.” “It gets out of hand sometimes. Lots of husbands bring their wives down here. Lots of these wives are up for anything, or so they think when the lust overtakes them. Lots of them have regrets afterward, once the orgasm has subsided and the reality of what they did sinks in. So we make them all as anonymous as possible. We also like to avoid targeting. Most of them are very beautiful and have drawn the attention of other men in the Club over time.” He hands me a hair tie. “Put your hair up in a ponytail. That’s another rule. And it’s not so you can suck cock better, so don’t even start asking me about that.”

I smile as I tie my hair back. “You’re not as big of an asshole as I first thought,” I say. “Well, thanks,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I guess that’s a compliment. When we go in there,” he says, switching back to business mode, “don’t talk to anyone. Don’t even look at anyone. Just let me get us to where we’re going and then we can relax a little. Enjoy the show, if you’d like.” I would like. I would very much like to enjoy this show. “Ready?” he asks, drawing in a deep breath like this makes him very nervous. “I’m ready,” I say. He takes my hand and leads me towards the lights and music. We turn the corner and there’s a few people. A couple fucking in a white vinyl chair while another man watches and a third stands behind her, rubbing his cock—peeking through his zipper—along her back. The black light makes the chair glow. And the woman has white paint—or makeup, maybe—on her body, making it glow as well. Everything else is black. The men she’s engaged with are all wearing formal black suits, just like the one Smith is wearing. In fact, once we move past them and see more people, I realize all the men are wearing suits and all the women are naked with black masks. Not all of them have the glowing paint. Only the ones with more than two partners, I realize. It must be a signal. It must mean that she’s up for more than just a threesome. There is an overwhelming abundance of men compared to the number of women. Which I find—not unusual, exactly, because more men are interested in the sex club scene than women, but it’s worth noting. It’s also worth noting that Smith brought me the mask and the hair tie, but not the paint. Because everything they’ve told me so far indicates that they want the foursome from this arrangement we have. Smith guides me through a more crowded room. People are standing in front of an open area, like there’s a scene going on beyond them. A woman is moaning, and a man is talking dirty. There’s the familiar slap of skin smacking skin as a woman gets fucked from behind. I stop walking, trying to see through a gap in the sea of bodies. Men stand in my way, as eager as me. Women are kneeling on the floor, sucking their dicks through their open zippers. Or standing, pushed up against a wall, or another man’s body, as she is fucked. “Don’t stop,” Smith says, leaning down into my ear so I can hear him over the moans and music. He pulls me along until we reach a stairwell, and then we go up. At the top is a little room with a glass floor, so we can see the scene down below. There are six people in the little observation studio. Four men and two women. Both of them have paint on their bodies and all of them are busy in erotic activities. Smith snaps his fingers and says, “Get out.” All six of them look up, surprised. But they don’t argue. They stop, mid-act, and leave. Smith walks me over the top of the glass floor. I step onto it carefully, wondering how much weight this thing will hold. And then he pushes on my head and says, “Kneel, Chella.” I kneel down even though it hurts my knees, and Smith stands behind me, one hand on my shoulder, one hand pushing my head down, until I look at the people down below. It’s Bric, and Quin, and some other guy. They have a girl lying flat on her back on top of a white vinyl cage bed. She’s not tied down, but she’s not getting away either. Bric’s knees are straddling her shoulders as he shoves his cock down her throat. Quin is straddling her hips, his cock buried deep inside her pussy. And the third guy is lying underneath her, fucking her ass. “Who’s the other guy?” I ask Smith, pointing down to the one beneath her. “No one you need to know about,” he replies. Smith begins to massage my shoulders, every now and then reaching down to cup my breasts to twist my nipples. I open my legs a little and let my hand slip between them. Smith fists my ponytail, pulling my head back until I’m looking up at him. “Did I tell you to play with your pussy?” “No.”

“Then put your fucking hands on your thighs and sit the fuck still until I tell you otherwise.” I swallow hard as I pull my hand away from my now-throbbing pussy and do as I’m told. Smith smiles and then crouches down to kiss my mouth. I kiss him back as he wraps a palm around my neck and squeezes just enough to make me moan. “You’re not allowed to kiss me,” I say. “I am if we’re all four together, Chella. The fourth rule is no rules, remember? And I think this counts.” I smile. Knowing he will fuck me here in this room before we leave tonight. “But you already knew that, didn’t you? You already knew that if we came down here and found Quin and Bric, we could do whatever we wanted.” “You know it too,” I say. He walks around to stand in front of me, then crouches back down, grabs my face with both hands, and kisses me hard. He bites my lip hard enough to make me struggle, and then pulls back just enough to whisper, “I think we can be beautifully evil and dirty together tonight, Chella.” I agree. “Unzip my pants and take out my cock.” My hands are busy before he even stops talking. His cock is long and thick, and so hard. So beautifully hard. The tip of his head is gorgeous. Swollen and round and perfect. When I have it in my hands I look up and wait. He smiles and caresses my head, petting my hair gently. “Begin.” I take him in my mouth, so consumed with lust, I don’t want to stop. Ever. Not ever. After that it’s nothing but a blur. The kissing, the touching, the come on my face. Then I’m flat on my back, looking up at so many faces. So many men and women who have wandered into our night of darkness. Men masturbating as Smith fucks me. Women sucking dicks and sitting on laps, pushed up against walls and being taken from behind. Smith, thrusting into me. My fingers grabbing his hair as he fucks me, watching the show Bric and Quin are putting on down below. I pull his attention back to me, kiss his mouth. “Me,” I say. “Look at me.” He does for a moment, but then he pulls out, flips me over, pushes my face into the glass, and fucks me from behind. He likes the show, I realize. He likes to watch them. I like to watch them too. I lock eyes with the man on his back down below, the one I don’t know. And I come. He and I come at the same time. Smith knows this. His hand reaches under my body to stimulate my clit, prolonging my orgasm with fast strumming until I wriggle away, unable to take any more. His dick slips out and then he’s on his knees, pumping his cock hard, until his milky white come spurts all over my tits. He collapses off to the side. All around us people are moaning and coming. Grunting and fucking. After a few seconds, Smith stands up and extends his hand. I let him pull me to my feet and lead me downstairs, my body sticky with sweat and semen. We make our way back to the dark hallway, back to the quiet of the freight elevator, and then we ascend back up to my little apartment on the top floor. He’s looking at his feet and my legs are trembling as I struggle not to collapse. “Are you sorry you took me down there?” I ask. He keeps his head bowed but lifts his eyes to find mine. “Yes.” “Why? It was within the parameters of the rules.” He says nothing, just drops his gaze back down to his feet. The elevator doors open and he waves me forward, then into the apartment, where he removes my mask and pulls my hair out of the ponytail. “Go take a shower, get dressed, and I’ll meet you downstairs in thirty minutes to take you home.”

The connection is over. Was over the second we got off the freight elevator. But I got my turn with him and I’m satisfied. Score one point for Chella. These three men have no idea how well I can play this game. But they’re about to figure it out real quick. I do as he asks. Shower, dress, go downstairs. He’s waiting for me in his little private bar, sipping a glass of whiskey. “Ready?” he asks from above, as I step out of the elevator. He doesn’t wait for a reply, just gets up, walks to the stairs that lead down to the landing, and then we walk down to the lobby, no touching, no contact, no talking. The ride to my townhome, though short, feels like it takes forever because the silence continues. When we get there, I get out, expecting to go in alone, but Smith slides out after me, tells the driver to go home for the night, and then closes the door and starts walking up the stairs to my house. He doesn’t even wait for me, just unlocks it and steps inside, holding the door open for me, letting me pass, and then closing it back up and arming the alarm from the inside. “What are you doing?” He’s already walking up the stairs. “Smith?” I ask, skipping up the stairs after him. I expect him to climb up to the third floor, where my bedroom is, but he veers off the stairs at the second floor and heads to one of the guest bedrooms, flicking on the light as he enters. “What the fuck are you doing?” I watch him as he begins to undress. He lays his coat over a chair near the window, takes off his suit coat and walks into the closet, flicking on the light. It’s filled with his stuff. “It’s officially Sunday, Smith. Your time is over.” “I’m staying anyway,” he says, unknotting his tie and pulling it through his shirt collar. He hangs it on a tie rack I never even knew this closet had. “You can’t just stay here.” I laugh. “It’s my house. And Quin and Bric will be mad.” “Do you care?” he asks, unbuttoning his shirt. I stop caring for a second as I watch him slip the shirt down his arms. They are nice arms. And when he turns his back to me, I stare at the muscle of his shoulders. “I do care, actually. I like this so far. I’m interested in playing along. So I don’t want to be the reason we fail.” “We’re already failing,” he says, unbuttoning his pants and letting them drop to the floor. He stands there in his black boxer briefs. Hard. His cock is still hard and even though I shouldn’t be turned on again so soon after what we just did, I am. “Bric is telling you to cut me out. You’re trying to break the rules without breaking the rules. I’m going along—” “You’re going along?” I ask, my voice a lot louder than his. “This whole night was practically your idea and you know it.” “Yup,” he says. “It was my evil little plan to get you downstairs so we could fuck under the pretense we were all together.” “Then why are you being such an asshole right now?” “Because, Marcella,” he says, pulling on a pair of plaid pajama pants that—God help me, because it’s really not the time or place—make me chuckle a little. Smith Baldwin in pajama pants. It’s like we’ve morphed into this married couple, only someone forgot to tell me about it. “You’re playing with us, aren’t

you?” “You’re playing with me,” I say. “What’s the difference?” “The difference is that you found us, didn’t you? I only thought I found you that night. I didn’t. You came to us. So what’s going on, Chella?” I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. “Rochelle—” “Fuck Rochelle,” he snaps. “No one cares about Rochelle. And don’t use her as your excuse.” My stomach aches. A dark, cold, hard feeling sits down in the pit. Like it’s always been there, but I got used to it. And then it went away, unnoticed, but now it’s back. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” I swallow down the sickness inside me. “I swear, I haven’t.” “I don’t believe you.” “Then leave,” I say, standing up taller. Why should I let him know so much about me? I know nothing about him, other than he’s involved in some pretty sick shit. “I live here now.” “What?” I laugh, but it’s not funny. “You don’t.” He walks out of the closet, flicking the light off as he passes me, walks over to the switch on the wall, flicks the other lights off as well, and then gets into bed. “What the fuck are you doing?” “Go to bed, Marcella. We had a nice time tonight and it was clever, right?” He stares at me in the darkness, his face just barely visible in the dim moonlight filtering in from outside. “We got what we wanted and we didn’t cheat.” “Didn’t we? If we were being honest we would’ve told Quin and Bric we were there.” He says nothing, He just smiles. “Why are you staying here?” I ask. “Why are you staying at the Club?” “You guys want me there.” “I want you here, Chella. Not there.” “They want me there. Quin and Bric.” “Do you know what you want? Out of this arrangement?” I draw in a long breath of air and then let it out slowly. “No. But I’m doing my best to figure it out.” “Are we helping you? Or hurting you?” “I’m not sure yet,” I admit. “You know what I want?” I shake my head. “No. I have no idea what you want.” “Don’t you think you should know that?” he asks. “Before you go much further.” “What do you want?” I ask in a small whisper. “You. Obviously.” “Then why didn’t you just ask me out yourself? Why are you in this relationship with two other guys?” “Because they help me process things. They give me perspective and clarity. And I like rules. Rules make sense. I like things that make sense. And love… love makes no sense at all.” None of what he’s saying makes any sense to me, either. Not one bit of it. “Will you come upstairs Wednesday night? When I’m with Bric?” “If you invite me, yes.” “I’m inviting you.” “Then I’ll see you then.” He turns over and faces the window. “Goodnight, Chella.” I stand in the doorway for a few more seconds, unsure of what to do or say. But he’s dismissed me. So I guess it’s not even my decision to make. I leave, whispering, “Goodnight, Smith,” as I walk upstairs to

bed. I know what I want. I have so many ideas about what I want. But I’m too afraid to say them. Too ashamed to tell him. Any of them, not just Smith. I’m even ashamed to tell myself. Because I like it in the dark. I don’t need a light to guide me through it. And I didn’t need a peek. Because I’ve been living in the dark for a very long time, I just didn’t want to admit it.

Chapter Twenty-Two - Quin

“I don’t get it,” Chella says. I got here last night. It was a little weird to be OK with Chella and not think too much about Rochelle. Weird, in that I feel a lot of guilt for replacing a girl I truly loved with this new one, who I’m truly starting to like. But I didn’t try to fuck her, and she didn’t mind me sleeping next to her and being all chaste, so… I don’t know. Maybe we’re becoming friends. “What’s not to get?” I ask back. When I got up this morning she was already awake. The coffee was made, the TV was on—some morning news show—and she was sitting on the new couch staring out the window at the gray sky that’s threatening more snow. Then she started with the questions. Why do we do this? What do we get out of it? Is she doing a good job? I feel bad that it’s so confusing for her, I really do. But it’s not confusing for me. “You said you get me. But Smith said the same thing. So I don’t understand. If you really wanted me, then why share with each other?” “No,” I say, rubbing the stubble on my chin. “No, that’s not what he meant.” I don’t think, anyway. It’s not what I meant, I do know that for sure. “I’m not in love with you, Marcella. I didn’t fall in love with Rochelle right away either. So it’s nothing personal.” “So why am I the prize?” I stare at her face and just now notice how blue her eyes are. It’s a striking contrast to her dark mahogany hair. “You’re not a prize. You’re just… I don’t really know how to explain it. You’re just… ours.” “So it’s the sharing that you like? You say you’re in love with Rochelle, but you didn’t mind sharing her with Bric and Smith?” “That’s why we have the numbers and the rules.” “Explain,” she says. “Bric already explained—” “I know, but I need to hear it again. It all went too fast and I just want to make sure I understand.” I sigh. I really don’t like talking about the arrangement. But she deserves to have her questions answered. “Number One is there to deny you. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Number Two is there to satisfy you after the abstinence. Number Three is there to give you what you really want—Number One, with conditions.” “How do you decide who is who? Like how did you get to be One and then be Two? Do you just go in order? Taking turns?” “No. Number One goes to the guy who likes her most. Usually, but not always, the guy who makes the offer.” I think she stops breathing. “So Smith—” “Yeah,” I say. “He’s the one who wanted you. I was the one who wanted Rochelle even though Bric found her first. I just… liked her.” “Has Bric ever been Number One?” she asks. She’s gripping her coffee mug so tightly, her knuckles are white.

“I’m sure he has, but I don’t remember which girl it was. One of the meaningless early ones. Before we really got a handle on things. He lets us choose most of the time.” “And yet you and Smith both say I’m what you get out of this.” She shakes her head. It makes no sense to her. “What will Bric say? If I ask him that question on Wednesday?” “He’ll say the same thing. He gets you. With us.” “With us—meaning the three of you? So you’re in love with them?” “Who?” I laugh. “Bric and Smith? Fuck no.” “Then why, Quin? Why do you share together? It’s so intimate. It’s very fucking taboo. And it’s got a lot of potential for misplaced emotions and hurt feelings. So why?” “All those reasons, I guess. It’s challenging. Stimulating in a way that you can’t get through other means. I like them, don’t get me wrong. I’m comfortable with them. I’m comfortable with what we do. It’s erotic. And just plain fucking hot, you know? I wouldn’t want to watch Bric and Smith fuck the same girl if I didn’t like them. And I like the thrill of participating in the domination of one woman at the same time. I like the way we make her feel helpless and submissive. I like telling her to suck Bric’s cock or sit on Smith’s face. I like the way we fuck together. Is that so hard to understand?” She exhales a long breath of air. “Yeah. It’s hot. I admit that. It turns me on pretty hard. But as a woman, I just don’t get why you want to do it over and over again, with the same girl, knowing the complications.” “So why are you here? And don’t say Rochelle. That can’t be it. No one just walks into an arrangement like this because a friend wants out and needs a replacement.” “If I tell you, will you keep it a secret? Or are you under some obligation to tell the others?” “I’ll probably tell them. Eventually. If they ask. They have a right to know.” She hesitates. Her secret is on the tip of her tongue, but she bites it back when she hears my answer. “Let me ask you this,” I say. “Do you want to lose this game?” “I can’t even answer that. What does winning mean?” “Well, I’ll tell you what losing means. It means we kick you out of this apartment, you go back home, and we never talk to you again.” “But if that’s losing, then everyone who came before me… lost.” “We all lose when we have to start over.” “So you want this to be permanent?” She scrunches up her face. “No,” she says, answering her own question. “You don’t. You know everyone loses eventually. You just want to play the game while you can. You’re addicted to the game.” I walk into the kitchen and refill my cup of coffee. “If we lose, Chella, do you think you’d find another trio of men to share?” She says nothing while I add some sugar to my coffee, stir it, and then walk back out into the living room. “Do you think Rochelle has found three new men?” I ask. I dread the answer, but I need to know. “That she just got tired of us and decided to start over?” Chella shakes her head. “No, I don’t think that, Quin. I think she loved you. And when we lose, because that’s the only way for this to end, I won’t either. I’ll pretend it never happened.” I sit down on the couch next to her. She leans into me, resting her head on my shoulder. “It’s sad, huh? That we all know how it ends and yet we’ll pretend it’s working for as long as possible.” “Yeah,” she agrees. “You can get out now, you know. You can just walk out and stop playing. But you’ll wonder for the rest of your life if maybe, just maybe, this was the one time that beats the odds. You’ll wonder if Smith loved you, just like I wonder if Rochelle loved me.” She thinks about that for a little while, concentrating on the snow outside. Then she says, “I invited him

to join Bric and me.” “Good,” I say. “That’s a good start.” “What happens after that? After I get used to Smith being with me and Bric?” “What do you think happens?” “Then I invite you in too.” I lean over and kiss her head. “I hope we get that far, I really do. Because it’s pretty fantastic, if you ask me. And this time I get to experience it as one of the uninvolved parties. It’s a lot simpler that way.” “Were you jealous when you had to watch Bric with Rochelle?” “Always. But once we got past that part, and it was the four of us together, that jealousy went away.” “So how the hell did you end up in such a great relationship with Rochelle if you always had to have Bric around? I don’t know much about what was going on with you four before I came, but I do know you slept with me that first night thinking it was her. And if you were Number One, then that was against the rules. How did you work around the rules? The cameras?” “No. I never had cameras in Rochelle’s apartment. That’s something unique to Smith. So we didn’t work around it. I just decided to break the fucking rules.” “Bric didn’t mind? Why not? If the rules are so important?” “We just stopped caring, I guess. It was three years, Chella. No one gave a fuck about the rules after a while.” “See,” she whispers, “that’s the part that terrifies me most. That you’ll stop caring. I kinda like the rules. Smith says they protect me and I believe him.” “They do protect you. They protect all of us. That’s why we have them. We need this very structured time with very clear boundaries to get to know you better. And for you to get to know us. If we have a chance to be friends first—to learn to trust each other, confide in each other—then the relationship might last for a long time.” “But not forever.” “No,” I say. “Nothing lasts forever. Not even the thrill of taboo lust.” “Will you really never go looking for her?” “I hope not.” “Why?” I’m the one who stares out the window this time. I’m the one pondering life as she waits for my answer. “Because if I do, then what we have here—in this apartment, in this Club, in this arrangement— will definitely be over for me. If I ever find her again, Chella, I’m leaving for good. She’s the love of my life and maybe she doesn’t feel the same way, but I won’t know unless I try.” “So go look for her now.” I shake my head no. “She left for a reason and I won’t go searching until I figure that out.” “Maybe she’s just playing hard to get? Maybe she wants you to chase her to prove your love?” Chella is grabbing on to my upper arm now, holding me tight. When she looks up at me, she smiles. “Girls have been known to do stupid shit like that.” I grin back, because she’s right. Fucking girls. But that’s not what I think. “I think Smith said something to her.” Chella sits up straight, still holding my arm. “Like what?” “I don’t know.” I shrug. “But that same night I found you in her bed, he admitted he was tired of her. Called her boring. Was ready for it to end.” “So you think… he, like, paid her off, or something?” “Let’s just say, when it comes to Smith Baldwin, it wouldn’t surprise me. And,” I add, “it wouldn’t be the first time, either.” We think about that for a while. Just sitting in silence as the snow starts coming down in large flakes

that want to stick to everything. And when I speak again, there’s a full-on storm going on outside. “What are you doing for Christmas? It falls on a Sunday this year so you’ll be alone.” “My dad was supposed to come but…” “Let me guess, he’s working?” “How’d you know?” she asks in a sad whisper. “I grew up with one of those fathers too. He’s dead now, so I don’t let myself think about all the fucked-up holidays in my past. But I get it.” She nods, leaning back into my chest for comfort. “He’s made me a promise to come home from DC every Christmas since my mom died three years ago. But he never does. He never comes home.” “Fuck him,” I say. “Yeah,” Chella whispers. “Fuck him, I guess.” “Hey,” I say. “You wanna go get a Christmas tree today?” “For here?” Chella asks, sitting up straight again. “No, for your other house. Yes, of course, here.” She starts laughing and we let the depressing mood lift. “I haven’t had a Christmas tree in… Hell, I don’t even remember. I was very little.” “You don’t celebrate Christmas?” I ask, a little stunned. “But your dad is—” “Yeah. One of those fundamentalist Christians in Congress. I know. It’s a weird, long, complicated story.” “Well, we’ve had enough of that bullshit for one day. Fuck him twice. We’re getting a tree. We’re gonna get a huge one, too. These ceilings are twelve feet high, that means we can get one that’s at least fifteen.” She laughs again. And I realize… I like her laugh. “I think there’s a lot selling them a few blocks down.” “Lot? Jesus Christ, woman. You don’t get a Christmas tree from a lot. You go into the goddamned mountains and cut that fucker down with your bare hands. Or an axe,” I amend. “That’s not legal!” she squeals. “The fuck it’s not,” I say. “I get a permit every year. Rochelle and I did it three times. It was always so much fun. So it’s settled. You’re getting the biggest Christmas tree I can strap to my Suburban. Ceiling height be damned.”

Chapter Twenty-Three - Chella

It’s the most perfect day ever. And since we spend five hours fighting snow to get to the forest where Quin has a valid permit, then another forty-five minutes hiking to find the perfect Christmas tree, and then we hike back to the Suburban—which takes twice as long because we’re hauling the tree behind us using ropes and we are not sled dogs—and tie it to the roof, we’re exhausted. “I’m too tired to drive,” Quin says, the truck idling, heat blaring on our flushed faces. His head is tipped back against the headrest, his breathing low and slow as he closes his eyes and we’re just still, out here in the forest. I’m tired too. My arms ache and my legs are numb. But it’s a tired I haven’t felt in a long time. It’s a good kind of tired. I take off my coat and he opens one eye to peek at me. “What are you doing?” I blush, but don’t answer. Just scoot over and place my hand over his zipper, gently rubbing. “If you don’t want to—” “Shit.” He laughs. “I want to.” His hand reaches down to find the controls for the seat and he moves it all the way back. “Come here,” he says, patting his thighs. Quin is handsome in a very different way than Bric or Smith. They are both polished and serious. But he’s the fun version. The wild version. The happy version. I know he loves Rochelle and I know I should probably not be so forward. He might want out. But I don’t think he wants out before the four of us get our chance to see what happens. So he’s still mine. For now. And I want him. I climb into his lap, straddle his legs, and drag his coat down his shoulders. He sits forward until I get it off, and I throw it in the back seat. “You’re very pretty, Chella.” “Thank you,” I say, smiling down at his blue eyes. “Even prettier than Rochelle, but in a different way.” “I think Rochelle is beautiful,” I say. “I like her hair. I wish I had her long, straight, dirty-blonde hair. And her eyes. The hazel is so unique. And she’s so… fragile. I always felt like a giant next to her, even though I’m only a few inches taller. She’s tiny everywhere I’m not.” He places both of his hands on my breasts. I’m wearing a loose cream-colored silk blouse with a flared ruffle at the wrists. I close my eyes when he begins to unbutton my shirt and I can’t stop biting my lip when he opens it up and pulls my bra down, exposing my nipples. I lean into his mouth as he sucks them, his hands squeezing, his cock growing bigger underneath me as I hold his head. He stops, looks up at me and says, “Do you like me, Chella?” I give him a slow nod. “I do. You’re so easy to like, Quin.” “I think you’re pretty easy to like as well. I didn’t expect it. I really thought I’d hate you forever. But you surprised me that second time we were together. With your easygoing humor. Your willingness to play along. And for letting me feel my loss however I wanted. Smith and Bric just wanted me to move on. I get it, she’s gone. And like I said, I’m not going after her until I know why she left. I don’t want to be that guy, you know?” “I don’t know why she left, but she’s crazy for leaving you behind. I think she’s gonna figure that out

pretty fast, if she hasn’t already.” “But I like this,” he says, playing with the long strands of dark hair hanging over my face. “I like what this is turning into. I was having a lot of fun already today. Even before you got horny.” I smile and a laugh escapes. “We don’t have to do anything, if you don’t want.” “Fuck that.” He leans up and kisses me. It starts gentle and soft, but then his hands are grabbing my hair, pulling me towards him so he can kiss me harder. “Fuck that. As long as you’re in, I’m in too.” His hands drop to my shoulders and he slips my blouse down until I help him take it off. The heat is blasting into my back, keeping that side of me warm while Quin heats up my front. A moment later he’s unclasping my bra and tossing it in the back with his coat. I lean over into the passenger seat and unbutton my jeans as he takes off my snow boots and they join the bra. He pulls on my pant legs as I wiggle them over my hips, dragging my underwear down at the same time. And then, when I’m naked, he opens my legs and fingers me. “You’re always ready,” he says. “Always so fucking wet.” My foot finds the hardness over his zipper. “I like that about you too.” We smile, then laugh together as he opens his jeans and pulls out his cock. Fully erect. Thick and perfect. I get up from the seat and maneuver on to my knees, then lean down to take him in my mouth, but he stops me. “Just climb on top,” he says. “I don’t want to wait.” I lift my leg over his lap and settle on top of his thighs. We kiss for a little bit, his fingertips gently dragging up and down my spine, sending chills through my entire body as we get to know each other better through our tongues. But eventually we can’t wait any longer. I sit up, wrap my hand around his cock, and play with my clit until he takes over and the pressure of his hands on my shoulders makes me sit down. We both moan. I bury my face into his neck, rub my cheek on his to feel the perfect scratch of stubble on his jaw. We fuck like that. Slow. Our hips moving just enough but not too much. Like we don’t want to rush it. Like we want to stay in this moment and savor it. Keep our release bottled up for as long as possible. Hold on to our longings, whatever they may be. He comes inside me. I come all over him. And we sit there in the truck—in the middle of the snowcovered Arapahoe National Forest, windows steamed up with our heavy breathing, only the sounds of our hearts beating against each other to break the silence—and hug the loneliness out of each other. By the time we get home it’s evening, we’re starved, so Quin orders room service from the kitchen and we don’t even have the strength to do anything to the tree except stand it up in front of the living room window. We don’t have sex again, but we don’t need it. Quin pulls me on top of his chest and we pass out on the couch, still thinking about the forest, and the snow, and how we aren’t so lonely anymore. It was the perfect day. We wake the next morning to his cell phone ringing in his pants. He shifts me around so he can reach it, tabs the accept button, and then croaks out, “Yeah,” into the phone. I move aside so he can sit up. I get a smile over his shoulder for my thoughtfulness. “It’s fucking Tuesday,” he says to the person on the other side of the phone. “I told you I’m out of the office today.” His hand finds its way under my shirt and begins to rub my stomach. My bra is still in the back of the Suburban, so he finds my nipple almost immediately as he tries to concentrate on the conversation. “Why can’t Robert handle that?” Quin says. His voice is rough and angry, but he’s smiling

at me as he talks. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll be there in an hour.” He ends the call with a long, heavy sigh. Then tosses the phone onto the coffee table. “I gotta go into the office today. I hate being the goddamned boss.” “What do you do?” I ask, kind of embarrassed that we’ve gotten this far into the relationship and I have no clue. “Online marketing company. Private consultant, actually. I have a big account starting tomorrow and Robert is supposed to handle it, but he’s out with the flu. I’m sorry,” he says, leaning down to kiss me. “For what? If you have to work, you have to work.” “Yeah, but we should be decorating the tree today. And you don’t have any ornaments. I’m pretty sure Bric threw away, gave away—whatever the fuck he did with Rochelle’s things—all the ornaments and lights.” “I can go down to Walgreens and get new ones. No big deal.” “Yeah, fuck. I was gonna say you could go get some from your house. But you don’t do Christmas, do you?” “I have nothing.” I laugh. “Not one twinkling light to my name.” “That sucks. We should buy them together, but I have a conference call in an hour and I have to go to the office to get Robert’s computer because he’s got the presentation.” “I’ll be fine, Quin. Just do your thing.” “Sorry,” he says again as he leans down to kiss me. “If I can get out of this early, I’ll come back.” A few minutes later he’s gone and I’m alone again. I’ve lived alone since I was eighteen. Not always at that Little Raven house. That was a gift from my father when I completed my PhD. I had another, much smaller—and more homey—place just a few blocks from here before that. It wasn’t trendy or new. In fact, the heat barely worked in the winter and I was always wearing two pairs of socks to bed to fight the chill. But it was my place. The Little Raven town home has never felt like mine. For one, my father purchased it as a surprise. A three-million-dollar surprise. Buying me things has always been the only way he’s showed me love. He was proud that day I graduated. Or maybe… he was just feeling obligated? Does it matter? But this place came with all the same furniture they used to stage it for the sale. So. None of that stuff belongs to me. I have zero attachment to any of it. All of it. Whatever. In fact, the only things in that house that weren’t part of the sale contract, aside from the clothes and jewelry in the closet, are the things Smith brought along when he decided he lived there last week. Fucking Smith. I shake my head. I don’t want to think about Smith right now. It’s way too early in the week to think about Smith. I reluctantly get up off the couch so I can take a shower and head down to Walgreens for leftover Christmas decorations. “What should new Chella wear today?” I ask my closet. Almost all these clothes are new. I brought a few of my own things over so I can go to work in something that won’t start a new conversation about Elias Bricman with Michell on Thursday. I opt for a pair of jeans and a festive red cable-knit sweater and then sit down on the floor to look over the boxes of shoes one of the guys must have purchased for me, looking to see if any have snow boots in them. I pull out the larger boxes first. The first three are fancy boots. Not what I’m looking for. But the next ones are brand-new shearlings, like the ones I left here that very first night.

I lie back on the floor and smile at how fucking clueless I was. That’s when I notice the attic door in the ceiling and a short pull cord, wrapped around a metal hook. “What the fuck?” I get up and go looking for a step stool that I saw in the foyer closet last week, and then stand on the top step and pull the cord. I have to get down off the stool as I pull, because it’s one of those ladder things that extends to the floor. I move the stool out of the way, extend it to its full length, and then stare up into the black hole of an attic. I’ve never been afraid of the dark, so I climb up. There’s a small circular window up there and sunlight is streaming in, making a long stripe of yellow in the blackness. I crawl over to it and realize there’s a soft furry rug on the floor beneath my knees. Outside I can see the Capitol building, the gold dome reflecting the sun like a beacon of hope in the snow. I turn around and sit on my butt to take it all in. It’s a… hideaway? Fort? I laugh as I try to find the right word. It’s a secret room. And it’s filled with things. On the far wall is a small Christmas tree. I crawl around until I find a small lamp and flick the switch. Then I realize what this place really is. Rochelle’s secret life. She’s got a million pillows lining the walls. About a dozen small vintage carry-on suitcases stacked up in one corner. Blankets, and books, and trinkets that she so obviously loved and didn’t want to share with the men who controlled her life downstairs. Wow. I scramble over to the Christmas tree - it’s only about three feet tall. I find the switch for the lights and click it on. God, it’s so pretty. The whole thing is decorated with vintage cardboard images, hanging on to branches with small loops of twine, and gold garland that has definitely seen better days. There are oldfashioned glass bulbs that are too big and handmade felt ornaments that look older than I am. Every wall is decorated with dandelions. Not the flowers. The seed heads. I lie back on the fluffy pink rug and notice the ceiling has been decorated too. Only this time, along with the dandelion pictures, there are words written in what I can only assume is Rochelle’s hand. I’ll fly away. The entire gospel song—one I sang so many times growing up it makes my heart ache to think about it. The same one Rochelle was singing that day I met her down at Buskerfest. The lyrics have been scrawled in a pretty feminine handwriting over my head. More seed heads have been painted, pictures of them tacked and taped all over, so that the entire ceiling is a work of genius haphazard folk art. It’s so… her. So perfect with all its imperfections. I sit up before that song gets stuck in my head and redirect my attention to the carry-on suitcases near the tree. They have the word ‘Christmas’ written on their lids in thick black marker. I find everything I need for my tree downstairs in them. She must’ve really liked Christmas if she has this much stuff. But then I remember—Quin took her to buy a big tree every year too. So she must've kept all this stuff —all her personal things—up here. Out of the way. Or maybe she just wanted to keep it private. Keep Bric and Smith separate from what she had with Quin in some small way. For a second I figure I’ll just use her stuff and forget about Walgreens. But then I shake my head. No. Not her stuff. If she was hiding it, she was doing it for a reason. It’s not mine. It’s not part of my world.

So I turn the lights off, make my way back down the ladder, and go with my original plan. Once I’m showered and dressed, I grab my coat and head downstairs. It’s snowing again—which is highly unusual for Denver in December. But when I step off the elevator and look down the stairs, through the large revolving door, it’s so beautiful, I don’t even mind. “Chella?” I look to my left, up at Smith and Bric, where they are sitting at his table having a drink. “Hey,” I say, walking over to the stairs that lead up there. They both stand as I approach the table. Am I allowed to talk to them if it’s Quin’s day? I’m not sure. But Bric called my name, so it must be OK. “Where are you going?” Smith asks as I walk over. “Out to buy ornaments. Quin took me up to the mountains yesterday to cut down a tree but I don’t have any ornaments.” “Do you need a ride home to get them?” Bric asks. “We can get you a car?” “I was just going to buy them new,” I say. I really don’t need another conversation about my lack of Christmas decorations at home. “At Walgreens.” “Walgreens,” they both say at the same time. “Chella,” Smith says. “No. That’s just not right. We have a ton of ornaments in the basement.” “Oh, yeah,” I say, looking around. “This place is really decked out.” No fewer than three Christmas trees are in my line of sight right now. A huge one that appeared last week in the lobby. A small one on the bar, over in the dark corner of Smith’s room. And another largish one down in the Black Room. “I’ll take some Club decorations. If that’s OK.” “I’ll have to go get them for you,” Bric says. “Have someone get them for you. You can’t go in the basement.” “Right.” I say, resisting the urge to look at Smith. “I’ll send them up later. Do you need anything else?” Bric asks. “No,” I say, hesitating. “But I think I’ll go shopping just the same.” “OK,” Bric says. “I’ll call for the car.” “I’m gonna walk. There’s no place to park down here. It’s just a big hassle.” I can tell they do not want me to walk, but they have no say in my day. Because it belongs to Quin.

Chapter Twenty-Four - Bric

“Hello,” Chella mumbles into the phone when I make my midnight call. “You were sleeping.” “I’m awake. Are you coming up?” “No.” But I smile at her interest. “Just checking in. Did you get the ornaments for the tree?” “Yes,” she says, waking up a little. “They’re so pretty. Why didn’t you use them?” “We have so many. And I only allow three trees. I like to make the Christmas season at the Club as short as possible. Can’t wait to see your tree though.” “You could come see it now if you want. You live in the building, don’t you?” “Yes,” I say. “We’re neighbors.” She chuckles a little. “So no? Not interested?” “I am,” I say. “But… you made the invitation, right? To Smith?” “Yes.” She pauses. “Why? Does that change things?” “It’s just courteous to include him from now on.” “So wait,” she says. I think she sits up in bed for this little revelation. “Once I invite him in, then he has more power? And I lose my time with you?” “Does that upset you, Miss Walcott?” “Kinda. I mean… I like you, Bric. I don’t want this to change what we have.” I smile into the phone. “That’s very sweet, Chella. But the whole reason we’re doing all this is to get you ready for all three of us at once. So it doesn’t matter what kind of relationship we have as a couple because we’re not going to be a couple. We’re going to be a quad.” She’s silent. “Chella?” “I get that,” she says. “And it sounds super fun. But shouldn’t we be allowed to have a personal relationship without the other two?” “How does that help us as a quad? Give me one example where a stronger relationship with Quin would help the four of us together.” “Well, I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.” “We have. We know the pitfalls, Chella. That’s why we have rules. It takes a lot of time to trust each other. Develop friendships. Not couple bonds, but just friendships. So now we’re invested in you. And we need to take every precaution to ensure this lasts for as long as it was meant to.” “I get it. I’m just looking forward to more time with you.” “We still get to go out. We have two parties this week. That’s why I called tonight. No time for dinner tomorrow, so you can order room service or take the car somewhere. I have a few things to take care of during the day. But I’ll pick you up at seven.” “Is Smith coming on our date?” “Nope,” I say, feeling kinda smug that I hear the dread in her voice. “Just us. So that’s our alone time. Will it be enough for you?” “No sex with Smith unless I’m with you—” “No,” I say. “No sex with Smith at all until you’re with all four of us. And I’ll warn you now, it takes

him a while.” “It… does?” “Smith likes to watch, Chella. He’ll participate in the quad, but he’s slow to join in. So be prepared for that.” “Hmmmmm,” she says, dragging the sound out as she thinks this over. “OK… No sex with Smith at all. No sex with you, unless Smith is watching. But all the sex I want with Quin. I guess we know who’s getting lucky on his two days.” I laugh. “It’s really not funny,” she says. “It’s fair,” I say. “You’ll see that soon. So… tomorrow at seven. Be ready. A dress and some accessories will be delivered sometime in the afternoon. I hope you like it.” She sighs into the phone. “See you tomorrow night.” We hang up and I sit in the Black Room, Smith staring at me from across the table. “She took it well?” “I think so,” I say, lifting my glass of Scotch to my lips and taking a swallow. “She seemed a little disappointed that you won’t be fucking her tomorrow night.” He raises an eyebrow at me. “Maybe we should give her what she wants?” “I was thinking the same thing.” We laugh after that. Marcella Walcott might never be the same after tomorrow night. She has no idea how well we play this game. But she’s about to figure it out. The next day is filled with planning for the parties coming up, a mundane meeting with the Club staff, and of course, going over my plans with Chella tonight in my head. By the time seven o’clock comes, I’m ready to ditch the party and get down to the real point of the evening. That is… until I see her in that silver dress. “Jesus Christ,” I say, mouth open, eyes on the low-cut slit down the front of her floor-length sheer silver gown, because almost half of each breast is exposed. It looks better on her than I could’ve ever imagined. “It came with tape,” she says, looking down with a frown. “Two-sided tape so that I don’t have a wardrobe malfunction tonight at your stuffy party.” I smile at her characterization of tonight’s party. “Don’t worry, Miss Walcott. This party is not as stuffy as the last one.” “I really hope not, Bric. Because this dress is… movie-premiere-red-carpet party. Not we-want-yourmoney-for-medical-research party.” She bends over to stare between her legs. “Is my pussy showing through this lace?” I chuckle again. I cannot remember having so much fun giving a girl a dress before. “Quin is right about you.” “What’s he say?” She crinkles her nose, but it doesn’t last. Her eyes are smiling as she envisions that conversation in her head. “He says you’re funny.” “Funny?” Her nose crinkle is back. “Is that all? Not fuckable? I mean, good God, I’ve given him the best three weeks of my life and all he has to say about me is that I’m funny?” I lean down and kiss her mouth, my hand sliding behind her neck to keep her close. “And fuckable,” I whisper into our kiss. “One day soon, maybe by the time next Monday comes along, we’ll both fuck you together at the same time.”

She draws in a deep breath. “I can’t wait.” Me either. “Are you ready?” I ask. “Do you have your purse?” She grabs the evening bag off the side table in the foyer. “Oh, this old thing?” She laughs. “I do have to give you guys credit. When you decide to give a girl a purse, you give a girl a purse. I know how much this Jimmy Choo clutch costs, Mr. Bricman. I shop at Saks as well.” “Then you know it’s not good enough for you, Miss Walcott.” I open the foyer closet and take out a black wool shawl coat and drape it around her shoulders. “Not nearly good enough. And I will do better next time.” “Oh, man.” She laughs. “I could get used to this.” “That’s the idea,” I say. “Ready?” I place my hand into the small of her back. She smiles up at me. “Mmmm-hmm,” she says softly. “I think so.” But underneath all her jokes is real apprehension. I’d be worried about her if she wasn’t apprehensive. Especially when I know what Smith and I have planned for later. When we get downstairs she places her hand over her heart as we walk to my car. “No driver tonight?” She laughs. “I know what we’ll be doing in the car then.” “It’s a special night,” I say, opening the door to my silver Mercedes AMG GT S. “You’ll never forget anything about this night, Miss Walcott.” She looks up at me and says, “I’m getting nervous.” But the only hint I give her is, “You should be. Now get in, Chella. We’re way past fashionably late already. The party started an hour ago and the performance is going to start in twenty minutes.” I close her up in the car and walk around to get in on my side. “What performance? I thought this was a party?” “It is,” I say, revving the engine and pulling away from the curb. The Mountain Ballet Center is only about a mile away, so I go slow and enjoy this time with her. “But I’m a platinum-level supporter of the ballet, as are all Turning Point members. So every Christmas they put on a special show for us. Which is why I have to drive. It’s very hush-hush.” “Oh. My God. What is happening right now?” “Just relax.” I laugh. “Smith and I aren’t going to fuck you at the ballet.” “Smith is going to be there?” I don’t want to hear the excitement in her voice when she asks that question, but it’s there. “No, I told you, he’s not part of our date.” “So… Club members are going to be there?” “Yes, it’s all for Club members. But don’t worry. Same rules apply. No one will ever find out what happens tonight.” “There’s no public sex, is there?” “Chella.” I shoot her a look. “We share you between us, not the public. And not the Club, either. You won’t be naked, I promise.” “OK,” she says, breathing out some relief. “Will I be embarrassed? I mean, will there will cocks flying?” “You kill me, woman. I can’t promise there won’t be. I haven’t seen the show yet.” “OK,” she says again. “I’m just preparing myself. And it’s only fair. If there’s tits, there should be plenty of penises to balance it out.” I can only shake my head at her. A few minutes later we pull into the valet of the Mountain Ballet, hand off the car, and walk up to the entrance. The doorman checks our names off his list and then opens it for us. Inside there’s about a hundred people—all club members and theatre staff. After we check our coats, Chella’s eyes are all over the place. Mostly on the dozen or so naked men walking around greeting guests.

“See why I brought you at the last minute?” I lean down to whisper in her ear. “You’re no fun, Bric. We should’ve been fashionably early for this.” There are an equal number of naked women, and I watch Chella appreciate them as well, wondering if she’s ever been with one sexually. The lights dim on the lobby, signaling that it’s time to take our seats, so I lead Chella up a flight of stairs and let her into my box in the front balconies. The show is notable for its erotic theme, which was choreographed specifically for Turning Point Club members, and not for its classical beauty. But it is provocative. And it is the perfect way to get her ready for what’s coming. It’s a short show, only about an hour with no intermission. And once it’s over, I lead her out to the lobby for a few minutes of polite chatting about donations and upcoming schedules, as we wait on the valet to get my car. Several couples come up to be introduced, but I glare at them until they back away, leaving us alone. I don’t want to introduce Chella to Club members. She’s not a member. She’s ours. And I only take my eyes off her for a second to glance down at my buzzing phone—a text from Smith, asking for an update—when Jordan Wells suddenly appears in front of Chella, holding his hand out and introducing himself. I sigh loud enough to get Jordan’s attention, but he ignores me as he takes Chella’s hand and brings it to his lips for a kiss. “What are you doing?” I growl. “Miss Walcott and I are old acquaintances,” Jordan says. “No.” Chella laughs, looking at me uncomfortably. “Yes, you don’t remember me? Our parents were friends when we were little. Back before you went away. You came to my eighth birthday party and then—” “Oh, shit,” Chella says. She looks at me—deer in the headlights. “Sorry, Jordan,” I say, pushing him away with a palm to the chest. He is forced to take one step back because my push means business. But he’s a big guy too. Just as tall as I am. Just as cut too. So it’s only a single step back. “We’ve got to be going.” I don’t wait for his answer, just grab Chella’s hand as I lead her over to the coat check. “I cannot believe a family friend was here with me at this show. My father—” “It’s OK, Chella,” I say, trying to calm her down. “Jordan knows better than to say anything.” I hope. Jordan Wells is new to the Club. He’s only been there a few months. “He signed the NDA like everyone else. And he’s a lawyer,” I add. “A damn good lawyer. He’ll keep his mouth shut. Almost all of our members have something to lose if word of this Club and their membership get out.” “I think it’s already out, Bric. My friend from work knew it was a sex club.” “She thinks she knows. She doesn’t know. And besides, the top exec at every local news station in town is a member. They don’t report it, Chella. So don’t worry. Just relax and have fun tonight. We’re just getting started.” It takes a few more minutes of convincing, but by the time the car arrives, she’s more relaxed. Or maybe just more nervous about Smith and me than she is about that Jordan guy. As she should be. We drive back to the Club and drop the car off. “Are you hungry?” I ask when I lead her inside. “We can eat first if you’d like?” She looks at the White Room, which is filled with diners. Wednesdays are open to the public, but I see a flash of fear on her face. “We can get room service later, if you’d like.” “Yes,” she says, allowing me to lead her through the lobby to the stairs. We walk up to the elevator— Chella’s nervous glance over at Smith’s bar tells me she’s looking for him. “Room service later is perfect.”

“Good,” I say, punching the call button. When the doors open, I urge her forward. And when they close I press the button for five, not six. “Aren’t we going to my apartment?” I just smile. “Now why would we do that, Miss Walcott? That’s not where I keep my secrets.”

Chapter Twenty-Five - Chella

I know there’s nothing to be afraid of. This is Bric. But my stomach is doing all kinds of twists and turns as I watch the elevator count the floors as we ascend. The doors open with a beep and Bric places his hand on the small of my back, pressing me forward. I’m surprised to find that the elevator leads directly into the apartment. The ceilings are high. Much higher than mine, one floor above. And the windows on the far side of the expansive living room stretch from floor to ceiling, framing the golden dome of the Capitol building right in the middle pane. The floors are a checkered pattern of black and white marble and the furniture is sleek, modern, and minimalist. I take a deep breath when I notice Smith off to the left, standing at the bar. He’s wearing a tuxedo, like Bric’s, and he’s holding a glass of champagne out for me. “You made it,” Smith says, striding over as Bric takes off my coat and drapes it over a chair in the foyer. “I made it,” I say, exhaling out the nervousness once I hear Smith’s voice. I know him. I know Bric. I know these men. The rules really do have a purpose. If we had tried this even last week, I don’t think I could’ve gone through it. Not because I didn’t want to. No. I really want to. But because I’d feel very ashamed letting myself be watched by one man as another one fucked me. I take the glass and sip, then sip again to make sure my newfound courage doesn’t have a chance to fly away. “You,” Smith says, “look stunning in that dress. Did you have a good time tonight?” “Naked men dancing?” I laugh, looking at Bric. “How could I not?” Smith and I don’t have the witty banter thing down yet, but I feel more comfortable with him now. And even though I did sleep with him last weekend down in the club, that’s not why I’m feeling more at ease. I think I just… like him. “Are you nervous?” Smith asks, putting his hands in his trouser pockets. Clearly he is not. “I’m not sure.” I look at Bric, who is just as handsome as Smith in that tux. “I’m not sure what to expect.” “Well,” Smith says, walking me as he looks me up and down. I turn my head to watch him gaze at the low dip of the dress. My bare back. My ass. And then I have to turn my whole body to keep up with his circle. “Bric and I have come up with something.” “Something?” I ask, looking at Bric, who has been silent. Just watching Smith and I work this out on our own. Smith waves a hand to the dining room table off to the right. The main rooms, so far, are open concept. So even though the spaces are large, they are open. And the dining room isn’t close enough for me to see what he’s motioning to. I walk over, both men follow, and peer down at what’s waiting for me. “You get to choose,” Bric says. There’s a whip, a ball gag, a blindfold, and some rope. Just the way Bric likes it. And I begin to breathe a sigh of relief—that this will be somewhat familiar. “Normally,” Smith amends Bric’s statement. “Normally he lets you choose, right, Chella?” I nod slowly.

“But not tonight.” My eyes shift up to his. “I get to choose,” Smith says, reaching for… the blindfold. “And I choose this.” He steps around me and hands the blindfold to Bric. “You can do the honors.” Bric is directly behind me. He places both hands on my shoulders as Smith backs off, his eyes never leaving mine, until he’s next to the kitchen counter, where he picks up a pair of wireless headphones. Bric strokes my bare arms, rubbing them as he leans in to kiss my neck. I take another sip of champagne, but Smith is suddenly there, taking the fluted glass away. “No, no, no,” he says. “A sip or two is fine. But we don’t want you drunk, Chella.” Bric’s hands slip inside the obscenely low-cut front of my gown and then he rips it open, my skin stinging from the tape as it comes off my skin. Before I can react, he’s squeezing and twisting my nipples. “We just needed to get that taken care of.” He laughs into my ear. “Quickly.” His chest presses into my back and I let the painful sting fade as I relax against him. His hands feel good and Smith’s eyes, as he watches us so… so very carefully, so closely, feel even better. Bric’s mouth is on the back of my neck, then he’s expertly releasing the two buttons holding the top of my dress up. He lets it fall to my hips, exposing me to Smith’s never-wandering gaze. Bric smiles. A very nice, appreciative smile. “Are you ready?” he asks me. I bite my lip as Bric releases the zipper near my waist, and then the whole dress falls to the ground in a pool of fabric at my feet. The blindfold is over my eyes before I can answer. I reach for it, but Bric’s right there in my ear. “Shhh,” he says. “Don’t touch, Chella. Keep your hands down at your side until I tell you otherwise.” I obey. I’m excited. Very excited. I have never had a sexual experience with two men like this before. And even though I know Smith won’t be touching, only watching, it’s exhilarating. What will he think of me? What will he think of Bric with me? “Chella,” Smith says. And he’s closer to me now. Very close. So close I can feel the heat coming off his body. “Listen carefully, OK?” I bite my lip again, unable to think. “I’m going to put these noise-canceling headphones over your ears so you can’t hear anything. The only thing you’ll hear is music and the sound of my voice when I feel like talking you through something.” My heart flutters when I realize I will be blind and essentially deaf, because I won’t be able to hear anything but what he wants me to hear. “Think of it as an erotic soundtrack to what’s going to happen tonight.” “What is going to happen?” I ask. The fluttering in my chest turns to pounding. “You know what’s going to happen,” Bric says. “Tell us, so we’re sure you understand.” “You’re… you’re going fuck me in front of Smith,” I say. “Yes,” Bric says. “That’s what’s going to happen.” “Maybe,” Smith says, placing the headphones over my ears. There’s a small click as he flips a switch next to my ear and then my world goes silent. I reach up for the headphones, but my hands are slapped away. Then the music starts. A slow, hypnotic bass. “Chella,” Smith says into the headphones. He must be talking into a mic. “Bric and I have decided not to follow the rules tonight.” He pauses and lets the music disorient me as a hand reaches for mine and begins to carefully help me walk. I have never been in this apartment, so I have no spatial awareness of where I am, where I’m going, or even who I’m with. “We have decided you don’t get to know who will fuck you tonight. You only get to experience it.” “What?” I ask out loud. But the headphones make my voice sound like an echo inside my head. Just like

Smith’s. A hand slips over my ass, right between my legs. “You’re wet, Chella,” Smith says through the mic. Is he the one touching me? I stumble, but many hands are there to stop me from falling. Four hands, in fact. One slips between my legs again, one is squeezing my left breast. A mouth is on my lips, another on my neck. A knee pushes between my legs, forcing them open as I’m pressed up against a wall. I am breathing so hard, Smith’s voice says, “Shhh, Chella. Just relax. You’re fine.” I nod my head, but I’m still being kissed. My tongue is twisting with someone’s. Bric’s? Since Smith was talking to me? Is Smith’s hand between my legs? A finger pushes into my pussy and I groan. The kissing stops and the hand on my breast comes up to my cheek to stroke it gently. “Do you like that?” Smith asks in my head. “Yes,” I say. I reach up for him. Find my hand placed against a jaw, slightly stubbled. But both Bric and Smith had a light dusting of stubble on their faces this evening. One of them kisses me as the hand in my pussy goes away. One on my hip follows, and then there are only two hands. One man walks away, leaving my skin too cool where there was just heat. “Are you ready?” Smith asks into the mic. “Yes,” I say. I am led once again. I count the steps and when I get to twenty-one, I am guided to the left, then forward ten more steps, until my knees bump into the soft edge of a mattress. “Crawl onto the bed, Chella,” Smith says. I lean forward, placing my hands on the soft comforter, and then my knees, as I begin to crawl. “Stop,” Smith commands. “Lie on your back, Chella. And then be very still for me, please.” Holy fuck. But I do as he asks. My legs straight, my arms at my sides. My blind eyes staring up. One of them removes my shoe, taking time to caress my calf. I moan and the heat between my legs builds. The other shoe comes off with just as much careful attention. This time he caresses my inner thigh. All the way up to my pussy. The mattress dips as he straddles me, one knee on each side of my thighs. “I’m going to kiss you now,” Smith says. “Kiss me back.” His body leans over me. His jacket is gone. Only the soft cotton of his white dress shirt touches my breasts as his mouth softly caresses mine. I kiss him back. We start slow at first. His hands on my breasts again. His tongue searching for a way inside me. I open my mouth and there’s a moment when we stop to just… taste each other. And then there is no more hesitation. My hands are in his hair. My mouth can’t keep close enough, even though his lips are crushing mine. Our tongues are twisting together and he begins to rock his cock against my stomach. He pulls away, and my head tries to follow, desperate for more. Not wanting to break contact, not even for a moment. “Do you feel my cock?” Smith asks, dipping his hips down so he’s rubbing me. He sits up and takes my hand, placing it over his thick, hard dick. “Take me out, Chella. Take me out and stroke me.” I release his button, then pull his zipper down. His dick, holy shit. I picture it the way it was the other night. So hard, peeking through his open zipper in the Club. “I want to suck it,” I say. “We’ll get there,” Smith says with a small chuckle. “But first, Bric wants you to suffer. He’s sitting in the chair, beating off already. You make him hot, do you know that? Do you know how badly he wants to fuck you right now, but he can’t? Not until I’m done, anyway.” “You’re the one on top of me?” I ask.

“What do you think?” he asks. His hand wraps around mine, making me squeeze him harder. He helps me jerk him off. “Is this my hard cock? Or someone else’s?” I stop for a moment. “Is there someone else here?” “You wouldn’t know, would you?” “What?” He laughs. “Maybe that’s Quin’s cock in your hand. Maybe it’s a total stranger’s cock in your hand. What do you think, Chella? How many men are in this room right now? Watching? Wanting to take a turn with you?” “What?” “Does that make you uncomfortable?” Smith asks. “Do you want us to stop? Because we will.” “No,” I say. “So you’re OK with these men in here watching? You’re OK if they want to fuck you?” “Are you OK with it?” I ask. A small hesitation. “I wouldn’t have them in here if I wasn’t. I like to watch, Chella. But I want to fuck you very badly as well. And this is my chance to have it both ways. So make up your mind. Do you want to surrender yourself to us tonight? Or do you want to walk out?” “Who is on top of me now?” “Wouldn’t you like to know?” And then he laughs louder. “Does it matter?” he asks. “If you don’t see them, then it’s just one man, Chella. Think of it that way. Just one man. One cock. No one else is here but me and you. How about that? Can you make yourself believe that?” His hand is between my legs again and I know exactly what he’s looking for. Permission. He gets it by way of my sopping wet pussy. “But of course, that’s just the fantasy you need in order to let us gang-bang you tonight. We both know the reality. So it all depends, Chella. On whether or not you can live the fantasy and deal with the reality later. Or know for sure what’s happening. Who is on top of you, and who will be fucking you right now.” He slips a finger inside me. Kisses me again, but just quickly. Just enough to make me want more. When he pulls back this time, he withdraws his fingers and places them on my lips. “Suck them, Chella. Suck them while you think.” I do. I taste myself. I taste my longing on his fingers. “Should I keep going?” Smith asks in my head. “I’m more than happy to slip my cock in your mouth and fulfill your wish. All I need is a yes.” Is he on top of me? I try my best to think clearly. Does he wear cologne? I don’t think so. And I don’t smell any. But I can’t remember if Bric wears cologne. Or Quin. And if this is some random stranger from the Club on top of me right now, I’d never know. I have no idea who I’m going to have sex with if I say yes. “Chella,” Smith says again. “Tell me no and we’ll stop. It’s very simple. One word and we stop. We’ll leave you and Bric alone and you can do whatever you want. Aside from fucking, of course. Because if I leave, you won’t be getting fucked tonight, will you?” “I don’t want you to stop,” I decide. “In fact, stopping isn’t even an option for me right now.” My hands come up and find the face of the man in front of me. Bric or Smith, it doesn’t matter anymore. I hold his face. Their faces. “I’m in. Whatever happens next, I’m in.” I can feel Smith’s smile in my ears. “Good,” he whispers in a low, low voice. “Good.” Then… he’s gone. Just the hypnotic music remains in my ears. Whoever is on top of me shifts off to the side, and then the mattress sinks and I know he’s getting up. “Where are you going?” It feels like I’m talking to no one. Like my words are a dream inside my head. I get no answer.

I lie still for several minutes at least. I can feel that there are people in the room. More than one, I think. But how many, I can’t know for sure unless I pull the blindfold down. I don’t do that. I begin to count in my head and I wait. When I get to four hundred twenty-nine Smith’s voice is back. “Did you miss me?” he asks. “Where did you go?” “Just having a little conversation with Bric. To see what we’d like to do with you now that you’ve accepted our offer.” I draw in a deep breath. “And what did you decide?” “No more talking, Chella.” Hands pull my legs apart, spreading them wide. “Your pussy is so pretty,” Smith says. “Should we lick it?” Fuck. Both of them? “Yes,” I say, a little out of breath already. The mattress dips on both sides of me. One hand on my left thigh, one hand on my right. I cannot move. I cannot breathe. Two mouths are kissing my stomach. Two hands on my breasts. Two fingers slipping inside me at the same time. I picture what it must look like. As if I were just an observer, looking down from the ceiling. They are both naked now, like me. Their hard bodies pressing against mine. My hands are aching for both of them and my palms wrap around two long, hard cocks. I pump them. The mic is gone. My head is filled with nothing but the hypnotic music and the sound of my own heavy breathing. One of them moves up, his mouth kissing between my breasts, my neck, my mouth. I’m hungry for him, whoever he is. Bric or Smith. It doesn’t matter. He sits up, straddles my chest, and then the tip of his dick is pressing against my lips. I open my mouth and take him in, just as the other one lifts my legs and opens me up. His lips are caressing the folds of my pussy, finding my clit, and then his tongue flattens out and he licks me. Long laps of his tongue start to drive me wild. I am lost in the sensations. I’ve been blindfolded before. Many times. But never with two men. Never have there been so many sensations coursing through my body. Never have I felt this sexy, turned on, ready to accept anything they want. Ready to surrender to the erotic, carnal nature of sex. The man at my face pulls his cock from my mouth and kisses my lips. And then he is on the move. Lifting my body up, sliding underneath me. His hands hug my stomach, his arms encircling my waist. Surrounding me with his claim on my body. But at the same time, the other one eases himself between our legs. His hand is slick with lube and he presses a wet finger into my asshole to get me ready. Seconds later a cock is there. I squeal at the pressure and the pain, but whoever is in charge right now slows down, lets me gets used to his thick girth, and his cock slips deep inside my ass the moment I relax. Fuck. I’m still being held by those arms when another body is on top of me, pressing against my breasts as his mouth finds mine and we kiss. We kiss hard, and soft, and fast, and slow. We kiss every way we can. Like we are so damn hungry, we can’t control our urges. The blindfold is ripped away. The headphones removed from my head. Smith is on top. I lean my head back and Bric is whispering in my ear. “Yes,” he says. “Yes.” “Yes,” I echo, looking at Smith again. His hand is between my legs playing with my clit. The other one is pumping his hard cock. The look on his face is starvation. He scoots up, his muscular thighs pressing against Bric and me, and when his cock slips inside my pussy, I don’t moan… I scream. With pleasure.

I am gone. I am done. I am right where I want to be. I am in heaven. They fuck me. I fuck them. Bric’s strong arms never stop hugging my waist. Smith’s punishing mouth never stops kissing mine. I come so fast, they both start to laugh while I writhe between them. Before I’m even done, Smith drags me off of Bric and says, “On your knees.” I already miss them both as they jerk off. I open my mouth and this makes both of them smile as they come on my face. I don’t know if it’s luck, or skill, or simply fate. But I am… in heaven. Smith reaches over to the bedside table, grabs a washcloth and cleans off my face This is what I’ve always wanted. “More,” I moan, so sad that it’s already over. “I want more.” Bric pulls me back into his arms and we fall onto the soft bed, laughing. He pulls my back into his chest as Smith settles next to me. He places a hand on my cheek as Bric whispers sweet things in my ear. “This is just the first time, Chella,” Bric is saying. “It will only get better.” Smith kisses me and smiles, then closes his eyes and hikes a leg over mine, claiming me, even though another man is hugging me tight. And we just breathe. This is why I’m here. I wanted them both. And now that I have them, I will never them let get away.

Chapter Twenty-Six - Chella

The next morning Bric wakes early, and I wake with him. Smith is still here, which surprises me a little. I figured he’d be gone. But he’s not. He’s got his face buried in a pillow, legs spread out across the bed. “Where are you going?” I ask in a whisper. “I gotta go take care of some things downstairs,” Bric says, walking into the bathroom and turning on the shower. “Are you going into work today?” “Yes,” I say. “I have to be there early, actually. We have a delivery today and it’s scheduled for eight AM.” “I thought Matisse was the only exhibition until March?” “He is,” I say. “But I’m in charge of the Denver Undiscovered Artist Show in February and our gallery is where the jurors choose participants.” Bric comes back out of the bathroom as he lets the water get hot. “Sounds fun,” he says, kissing me on the mouth. It’s a nice kiss. He holds my face as he leans and when he pulls away, I reach for him. “I’m late, Chella. But I’ll see you tonight, OK? One last Christmas party, then we’re done.” He winks at me. “Until New Year’s. But we’ll talk about that later.” One more quick kiss and then he’s gone, closing the bathroom door behind him as he gets ready for work. “Work?” Smith mumbles beside me. “Really? Why the fuck do you work, Chella?” “I like work,” I say, turning my body towards his. “We could stay here in bed all damn day.” “I’m pretty sure the rules are back the minute Bric leaves.” “Mmm-hmmm,” Smith says into his pillow. “Doesn’t mean we can’t just sleep next to each other for a while.” I don’t say anything as I picture what kind of hell that would be. I feel the need to get the fuck out of this bed right now before I start touching him. Groping him. Wanting him. “Unless,” he says, lifting his head just enough so he can open one eye to peek at me, “you can’t control yourself around me? I have that effect on women, so I get it. It’s OK.” I shake my head and smile. “For real, Smith, you’re right. I think your rule sucks. I’m not even ashamed to admit it.” He takes an interest in this revelation because he cocks that one visible eyebrow at me. “But I don’t think you’d last long either,” I add. He turns all the way over on his back. His dick is so hard, it’s practically sticking straight up in the air. I roll my eyes. “Why are you doing this to me?” “I’m so good at self-deprivation, Marcella Walcott, I could stay right here. You could play with yourself until you come on your fingers and I’d still be… right here.” “Really?” I ask, turning on my side and propping my head on my hand. “Then why did you take me downstairs last weekend?” He presses his lips together in a small frown. “It was a conscious choice. To piss you off.” “Piss me off?” I laugh. “I think you failed.” “Yeah,” he says. “I can see that now. But I really thought you’d have a little jealous streak in you. And

if you saw Bric and Quin fucking that girl, you’d walk out.” I just stare at him. “But you didn’t. So either you have no jealous streak or you’re here for some reason we don’t know about yet. Which one is it?” “I’m not the jealous type,” I say without missing a beat. Smith smiles. “Good. Because I’m bringing another woman to your house to live with me.” “What?” I ask. But Smith is already getting out of bed. “I got shit to do today,” he says, already reaching down for his pants on the floor. “So I’m gonna head out. Tell Bric I’m looking forward to tonight.” “You are not moving another woman into my house, Smith Baldwin. I’m fucking serious.” “Not jealous, huh?” he asks, looking at me sideways. “It’s got nothing to do with jealousy,” I say, sitting up on the bed, kneeling. “It’s my house, not yours. You can have all the extra whores you want, but not at my house.” Smith just smiles as he slips his shirt on, looking down at his fingers as they button it up. “I’m serious. I better not get home tomorrow and find another woman in my house, Smith.” He knots his tie, still smiling, staring straight at me as he tucks his shirt into his pants and zips them up. “You’re fucking with me, aren’t you?” “Not jealous?” he says. “No, you are. So why didn’t you get mad when you saw Bric and Quin with another woman?” I huff out some air. “I don’t even know them.” “How about I don’t move her into your house? How about I just bring her along during our time together? So I can fuck her. You know, since I can’t fuck you. Would that work for you?” “You’re not going to do that.” “I’m not?” Smith asks, sitting down on the chair to slip his shoes on. “Why wouldn’t I? You’re getting fucked by Quin when I’m not around.” “It’s not the same. If you want her as part of our arrangement, then we should all agree. I’m not the one who made the rules for Quin.” “OK,” Smith says, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair and slipping it on. “I’m up for a renegotiation. I’ll call the meeting for Friday. We can all discuss.” I just stare at him. “Unless you’d rather not, Chella.” “I’d rather not. If you’re serious, and I’m not sure you are. I think you’re playing with me because it makes you mad that I’m not the jealous type.” He walks around the bed, fully dressed now, and stops in front of me, then leans down, takes my face in his hands, and kisses me. Not a long one or a passionate one. Just a kiss goodbye. “You’re the jealous type, Chella. And if you don’t admit it right now, I will be bringing that girl to your house tonight. She might even be there tomorrow when you get home. I might be fucking her when you get there.” He’s such a liar. “And,” Smith continues, “you can think I’m joking, or just playing with you all you want. But everything I just said will turn out to be true.” “Why are you being an asshole?” “Why won’t you just admit you’re the jealous type, but you’re here for the kink, Chella? You like it dirty. You like it dark. And you are willing to overlook the fact that Bric and Quin were both fucking another woman in front of you, because you got to watch and get fucked by me at the same time.” Silence. “Admit it, Chella. Or things are gonna get real complicated.” “Why would you do that? We had fun last night, right? Why fuck it up with this new game?”

“Why won’t you admit you’re a dirty little slut who likes the dark side?” “Fine,” I say, looking up at him. “Fine. I like it. And you’re right. I’m the jealous type under certain circumstances, but that girl last weekend wasn’t even in the top million things on my mind at that moment.” “Who was on your mind, Chella?” Smith asks, still smirking down at me. I let out a long breath. “You,” I say. “You were. That’s it. Just you.” His smirk falls into a smile and then he leans down and kisses me again. Short, sweet, and filled with promises. “That’s all I wanted to hear, Miss Walcott. I’m all for the self-delusional lies, Chella. But it’s nice to get the truth every now and then.” He turns away and calls out, “See you tonight,” as he leaves. 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 eightyhour 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.” We’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.” I look over at Chella. Her mouth is hanging open. I think I just really fucked that up. I’m about to apologize to her when she says, “I had no idea, Smith.” Oh. Well, maybe she’s impressed. Maybe I’m not the dick she thought I was. “No,” I say, “I don’t like to talk about it much. But since you asked, Senator, let me just be a little more thorough with my explanation. You see, when my parents died and left me with all this money, I had some idea what it might do to me.” “Do to you?” the senator asks, frowning. “Corrupt me, sir. Turn me into someone people don’t like.” Like you, I think. But then I take it back, even though I didn’t say it. Because he did something right. He helped create Chella. And she’s as sweet as they come, even with that dirty, dark side she’s trying to hide. I know there’s more to her life, her past, and her motives for being with me and my friends, but I don’t care. It’s just not a factor in how I feel about her as a person. She likes the dark stuff, just like me. Just like Bric. Just like Quin. But we’re not bad people. None of us. And neither is she. “So I decided back when I was eighteen that I would not own anything.” “Own…” The senator is really struggling now. “What does that mean? Surely you own things, Baldwin.” “No,” I say calmly. “I don’t, actually. I live with friends, which is why I’m living with Chella right now. I don’t own a house, or a car, or even these clothes on my back. I haven’t purchased something for myself in over a decade. It took me a while to get the hang of it, I’ll admit that. Some nights I had no friends who’d let me sleep over or feed me. Or let me have one of their hoodies or coats on a cold night. So I’d give in and get a hotel room, order room service and buy some new clothes. But each time I failed, Senator, I’d spend the next week or two feeling guilty. And I’d try harder the next round. I’ve made it my mission in life not to spend a single dime of money on myself. My money wasn’t meant to better me, sir. It was meant to help others. So that’s what I do with it. I give it away.” “Bric,” Chella says in a soft voice. “And Quin. They’re the ones who stuck by you, weren’t they?” I nod my head. “And that’s why you guys share everything, isn’t it?” “Everything, Chella,” I say, looking down at her. Even you, I don’t add. “Wow,” she sighs. “Just, really, Smith. Wow. I don’t even know what to say to that.” It seems the senator is speechless. But I’m not really talking to him anyway, so I turn to Chella and speak to her. “I live a great life, you know? I’m not lacking for anything right now. I live an extremely luxurious life through the generosity of friends.” I look at Walcott and smile. “I’m very much enjoying your daughter’s house right now. It’s exquisite.”

Chella bursts out laughing. She covers her mouth with her hand, like she can’t believe I just said that. “Really, I owe you, I guess. She said you purchased it for her. And even though she hates the furniture, I sorta dig it. Though I’ve gotten a friend to donate us some new pieces. And I got free paint for that disgusting orange wall.” “You’re killing me, Smith.” Chella laughs. But her smile is so big right now, I’m flying. I’m so fucking high off this moment. Sitting here just being… real with her. No games, no players, no sex. “And yeah, I guess I could piss people off and they might stop caring about me. Stop wanting to help make my dream come true. And I might be out on the street again. Nowhere to go, nothing to eat, no coat on a winter night. But I’d find a place, Chella. I’d be OK if that happened.” She beams at me. And then, before I even realize what’s happening, she leans over and kisses me right on the mouth. “I’ll be your friend forever, Mr. Baldwin. Ever and ever.” “Yeah,” I say, eyeing her father from the corner of my eye. “About that. You see, Senator, I might have lied about one small thing.” “Somehow, Mr. Baldwin, I think there’s a lot of lies inside you.” “I lied about Chella. Because I would like to own something in this lifetime. And that something is your daughter.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight - Chella

I have no clue what’s happening right now, but my mouth is hanging open in shock. What did he just say? I blink my eyes hard three times and then look over at my father. He’s scowling. And shaking his head at me. “Well, Chella, if you were trying to challenge me tonight, you certainly succeeded.” “Don’t look at her,” Smith says. “Look at me. I’m the one talking to you.” Oh, my God. The gaze my father drags over to Smith is nothing short of pure disgust. “You’re no longer a part of this conversation, Mr. Baldwin. This is a family matter between my daughter and me. So you can either sit here and keep quiet or you can leave. Those are your options.” Smith opens his mouth but I grab his arm. “Smith,” I say softly. “Just let him talk. Please.” Smith doesn’t stop staring at my father but he does stay quiet. “Daddy, why are you here? You told me two weeks ago you weren’t coming for Christmas so I made other plans. I don’t mind rescheduling for you. You know that. But it’s rude to ask for this last minute.” My father inhales deeply though his nose. He’s still a very handsome man. But it’s a very curated kind of handsome. Daily sessions with a private trainer, his fingernails are perfectly manicured, his hair gets attention from the best DC barbers. His hair is almost pure silver—at least he doesn’t dye it. And his skin has been smoothed by a plastic surgeon. Smith is polished. Very much so. But he’s not perfect in any way. He’s always got a flaw on display. Like tonight. His hair is kind of wild. Not the neat slicked-back look he usually wears. I like it. I like the mess. “You may not be aware of this, Marcella, but I haven’t dated since your mother passed three years ago.” Jesus Christ. That’s what this is about? Two conversations about my mother in one day? Just what the fuck? “But I’ve met someone.” My father stops to clear his throat. “She’s… twenty-three.” Smith’s laugh is loud, but short. Kind of a classic Ha! “I see.” That’s about all I have to say about that. “I just wanted to let you know I’m moving on in life.” “OK,” I say. “But I don’t know why you felt this deserved an unannounced face-to-face meeting. Is there more to this? Like, is she pregnant?” Another incredulous burst from Smith. My father glares at him. “She is,” my father says. “Well, that explains the accusation you just lobbed at Chella,” Smith interjects, unable to stay quiet any longer. “Feeling guilty much, Senator?” My father ignores him. “We’re getting married next week. You’re not invited and I didn’t want you to hear about it on the news.” I wait for the stab of pain. The kind that comes from betrayal, but there’s nothing there in my heart. Just a few weeks ago I’d be devastated by this announcement. But now? I shake my head at my father. No. He has no power over me anymore.

“I came here to say goodbye, Chella. To the life you were part of. To your mother. I loved her once and I hope she’s found her peace in death. But I can’t—won’t—be trapped in that life any longer. I’m moving on.” The three of us sit there in silence for several seconds. Is there anything left to say? “Are you finished?” Smith asks, his voice low and calm. My father just looks at me, frowning. “I hope he’s the one, I really do, Chella. He’s pretty much what you deserve.” He drags his eyes over to Smith who stands up and extends his hand to me. “I know who you are, Mr. Baldwin.” “Good,” Smith says. “Let’s go, Chella. I don’t think there’s anything left to say.” I take his hand and draw in a deep breath as I stand up, looking down at my father. “I’m sorry I was never the daughter you felt you deserved. And I hope this new family gives you what you need.” I don’t say goodbye. It’s not even necessary. I just let Smith lead me through the restaurant. We collect our coats and wait for the valet to bring my car in silence. I let him drive us home. And when we’re sealed up tight inside the dark garage, with nothing but the sound of silence between us, he sighs and says, “I’m so fucking sorry.” I open my door and get out. Smith does the same. “Don’t be sorry,” I say as we walk to the door of the house. “This has been coming for a very long time.” Smith opens the door and places a hand on the small of my back, ushering me inside. He drops my keys on the table where I usually keep them. The lights are all on, like he left in a hurry. And when I walk through to the kitchen, I notice just how much of this place already belongs to him. “Do you want me to call Bric for you?” Smith asks. I shake my head and start climbing the stairs. “Chella,” Smith calls after me. I just keep climbing. “Chella?” Smith calls again. I guess if he had something to say, I might stop and listen. But he’s speechless. And my name isn’t enough to pull me back from this… this darkness. When I get to the top floor I start taking off my clothes. I hang up the dress, slip on a white bathrobe, and start the water for the tub. Smith is standing in the doorway of my room. Not in, not out, but between. “What?” I ask him as I go looking for a bubble bomb in my closet. “Just say what’s on your mind and then get out. I don’t want to talk about it and I don’t want company tonight. Go back to the Club and leave me alone.” I find what I need and go back into the bathroom. Smith is in that doorway before I can close it up. Whatever. If he wants to gawk at me while I take a bath, who cares? I drop the bubble bomb in the hot rushing water and stand there watching them form. When I’m satisfied with their progress I drop my robe and step in. It’s hot, but not hot enough to keep me from sinking down and going under. I let the calm thunder of the water drown out my life on the other side, close my eyes, and relax. He can’t hurt me. He cannot hurt me. And he didn’t. I feel so much nothing inside my heart, there’s an echo in there. I sit up and rub the water out of my eyes so I can open them. Smith is still standing in the bathroom doorway. We stare at each other for a few seconds and then he says, “Do you know why I liked you so much?” “When?” I ask. “When did you like me so much?”

“That first night. After I took you home I looked you up on the internet.” “Oh,” I say, looking away. “There’s not much about you online. Before you took this job at the gallery, anyway. There’s plenty about you recently. But it’s the stuff that came before that intrigued me.” “I’m not talking about it.“ “Just listen to me, Chella. OK?” I shrug and start playing with the thick, frothy white bubbles. “When I found all the gaps in your childhood I was excited.” I give him a sidelong glance from the corner of my eye. “Why?” “Because my childhood is the same way. Did you look me up, Chella? On the internet?” I nod. “Yes.” “And what did you find?” “Not much.” I shrug. “Don’t you think that’s kinda cool?” When I glance up at him this time, he’s smiling. “What’s cool about it?” “That we were both secrets.” Secrets. “I don’t know if that’s true about you, but I was a secret. My parents couldn’t have children. They tried for years and years. They considered a surrogate, adoption, all that IVF stuff. And just when they were about to give up, my mother got pregnant. She was forty-three years old.” I sit up in the tub, unable to curb my curiosity, and stare at him as he talks. He’s still smiling, like all of this is a happy memory. “And even though they did all the tests and they came back with good news—their child was normal. Perfect—I wasn’t, Chella. I wasn’t even close to perfect.” “What do you mean?” I ask, looking down at my bubbles again. “You look pretty perfect to me.” “Well, that’s the thing,” he replies softly. “Perfect on the outside is only half the story, right?” I swallow hard and nod at him. “What happened? With your parents?” He’s frowning when I look up. Shoving his hands in his pockets as he leans against the doorjamb. “They sent me away. To special schools.” “But there’s nothing wrong with you, Smith. Why did they send you away?” He sighs, but it doesn’t come out like regret. Or sadness. Maybe resignation. “I didn’t talk until I was four. And then no one could understand me. Language was hard. It didn’t make much sense. And even when it did start making sense and the words came out, I stuttered so bad, it didn’t matter. They still couldn’t understand me.” I draw my legs up and hug them to my chest. “How old were you? When they sent you away?” “Five,” he says. “As soon as they realized I was damaged. Too damaged to take out in public. Too damaged to show off at parties.” “That really sucks.” I sigh. “No,” Smith says, shaking his head. “No. It was the perfect answer for me. I was raised by a speech pathologist named Claudia. Claudia Kramer. She was an amazing mother. Like, perfect, you know? She baked cookies and made costumes for Halloween. She didn’t work, didn’t have to. My parents paid her well over a hundred grand a year to take care of me. Help me talk, help me adjust. We lived in this amazing little house up in the mountains near Aspen. I didn’t go to school, I had private tutors. I had the best fucking childhood, Chella. All because my parents threw me away.” I look away, sadder now than when I first got in this tub. “My parents still pretended they were my parents, but by the time I was… maybe ten or eleven… I was Smith Kramer in my head. I was very smart, no matter how bad my language skills were. I took the GED

at sixteen and my mom, Claudia, she helped me take courses at a local college. I didn’t have much to do up there in the middle of nowhere, so I learned things. I got smarter. But my parents were old by that time. Mr. Baldwin was in his late sixties and Mrs. Baldwin wasn’t far behind.” “How did you get so rich?” I ask. “If your parents didn’t… bond with you?” He shrugs. “They had one heir. Me. For better or worse, I was their biological child. So I got it all. Every fucking penny of it. Over sixty billion dollars, Chella.” “Fuck, Smith. I didn’t know anybody had that kind of money.” “I lost some of it in taxes. Which was fine, even before I realized there’s no way to lose that kind of money. It grows on its own, Chella. It’s so big, it just grows. And the day it hit me that I’d never run out, no matter how much I spent or how much I lost through carelessness, it made feel sick inside.” “So,” I whisper, “you decided to give it away.” He nods. “And like I told your father, it’s not as easy as it sounds. That’s what I do all day. I don’t even think I’ve told this story to Bric or Quin. I don’t think they even know what I do all day. They know I give everything away. They know I only take donations and refuse to buy myself things. That’s why Bric lets me live at the Club.” “You want to know my secrets,” I say in a low voice as I wiggle my toes under the water and stare at the bubbles. “You’re telling me this so I’ll tell you mine.” “I want you to know I’m OK.” I look up at him again. “I’m fine. They hurt me. What they did, how they reacted, it hurt me, Chella. But I had love. I had everything I ever needed and more. I was lucky. I want you to know I realize that.” I press my lips together as the tears heat up my eyes. “And I’d like to know if you were loved too. Whatever that secret is, Chella, I don’t care about it. I just need to know if you were loved. If you feel lucky now that it’s over.” I start sniffling as I shake my head. “I wasn’t loved, Smith. I was used. And even though I understand that his rejection tonight, his repudiation, was for the best—for all of us—I don’t feel lucky. At all.” I pull the plug and stand up. Smith hands me an oversized fluffy white towel and watches as I wrap it around my body. He hands me another one to put around my wet hair. And then he follows me out of the bathroom, retreats to stand in the bedroom doorway, and watches as I dry off and get dressed in a t-shirt and shorts. “Where did you go, Chella?” he finally asks when I’m pulling back the covers of my bed, ready for sleep. “Just tell me that. Where did you go when they made you disappear?” I turn the lights out and climb in bed. Smith is backlit from the light filtering in from downstairs. Just a black shadow surrounded by white. “I was with my mother,” I say. “She was crazy. Mentally ill in a way I still don’t understand. She was consumed by religion. We lived in… church places. Where the faithful meet for spiritual retreats.” “Like a cult?” Smith asks, confused. And yeah, I guess if I had to put a word on it, I’d call it that. But I say, “No, not really. It was all legitimate. They were all affiliated with real organizations.” “Hmmm,” is all he has to say about that. “Where was your father for all this?” “DC,” I say. “He let her do whatever she wanted. He doesn’t believe in divorce. And he wasn’t willing to risk his career to make things right. He felt it was… a good compromise. For me.” “What’s that mean? I don’t understand that last part,” Smith says. “No,” I say. “Me either.” I turn over in bed, my back to him now. “Goodnight, Smith. Thanks for playing along tonight. I appreciate it.” “Goodnight, Chella,” he says, after about a minute of silence. And then he pulls my door closed, blocking out the light. Leaving me alone with the dark with my shame.

That’s all I have left now, right? It’s just me and my shame.

Chapter Twenty-Nine - Smith

Chella leaves early for work the next morning. She’s cheerful and upbeat, like last night never happened. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. Maybe both. I spend the day putting together the last batch of charitable donations for the year and then have the Club car take me over to my foundation headquarters to drop everything off. When I’m done, it’s barely noon. So I go where I always go. The Club. It’s very busy today, even though the White Room isn’t open to the public. Members are here for lunch and drinks, since Christmas is on Sunday and just about everyone is off work already. I head upstairs where Quin is sitting in my bar sipping a beer. “Hey,” he says, when I sit down. “Bric said there was drama last night?” “Shit,” I say, shaking my head and motioning for the bartender to bring me a Scotch. “Her fucking father is an asshole.” Quin nods his head. “I can only imagine.” “Why?” I ask. “Did she tell you about him?” I’m instantly jealous picturing all the intimate conversations Chella might be having with Quin. He shrugs me off though. “He’s on the news all the time. I can’t stand that asshole. So smug and full of himself.” “Hmm. Did Chella ever mention her childhood to you?” Quin shoots me a look I can only assume is suspicious. “If she did, I wouldn’t tell you what she said. It’s one thing for Bric to tell me you called her in the middle of their date, it’s another to ask me to spill about our time together.” He’s right. I know he’s right. We don’t talk about it for a reason. We keep the jealousy at bay by living three completely separate lives with the woman we choose to share. “Sorry,” I say, backing down. “I’m just trying to understand her better. And she’s going to be alone on Christmas. Did you get her a gift?” “Of course.” Quin laughs. “You didn’t?” The bartender comes with my drink so I use that time to think. “I’m trying to think of something she’d like.” “She’s a woman, Smith. She likes attention. Real attention. So give her that and you’ll make her happy.” “Is that what you got her?” I ask. “We’re on a different level these days. You don’t need to worry about what I got her.” “I wonder if she’s getting us something?” “Why do you think she went shopping alone the other day, dumbass?” “Where’s Bric?” I ask, changing the subject. “What’s going on with the Club this weekend?” “Parties, brother. All weekend long. You gonna attend any?” I almost snort my drink. “No. I’m with Chella until Saturday night. Why would I?” Quin shrugs. “I’m going.” He always does. That’s not news.

“So next week?” Quin asks. “You think she’s ready?” “I’m ready,” I say, then regret it. “But yeah, I think she is. I’ll know more tonight.” “You don’t sound very excited,” Quin says, eyeing me. More suspicion. “You have something to say about it?” “No.” I don’t. “And I am excited. It’s been a long fucking time since we had someone together like that.” “I’m really looking forward to it,” Quin says. “I can’t fucking wait. What night should we aim for?” “Monday?” I say. “Why not start the week out right?” “So my night.” Quin ponders this. “I’ll think of something special and let you know.” He stands up, downs the rest of his beer, grabs one last French fry from his almost empty plate, and says, “I gotta wrap some shit up at work. See ya later.” I wave him off and stare down at the bar. Lucinda is here again, and when I look around, I don’t see her husband. “Hey,” Bric says, coming up the steps into the bar and walking over to my table. “How’d it go last night? With the father?” He takes a seat across from me. “Shit,” I say, before taking a long sip of my drink. “That man is a complete asshole.” Bric laughs. “I figured that. But no trouble?” “No,” I say, thinking about how amicable Chella was last night. She didn’t stand up to him. Not even a little bit. And I can’t figure out if she’s just not interested and possibly happy he’s leaving her behind to start a new life, or… she’s so sad she’s locking it up inside. I just don’t know her well enough to figure that out. “He came to tell her he was getting remarried and she’s not going to be a part of his new life.” “What the fuck?” Bric says. “Who does something like that?” “That guy,” I say, sipping my Scotch. “Anyway, I’m gonna get her a Christmas present. What’d you get her?” “I’m not telling you,” Bric says, smiling. He knows I suck at this shit. I’m not a relationship kind of guy. And yeah, I got Rochelle presents all the time. But I never put any thought into them. I just spent money on her. She wasn’t like Chella at all. Nice things were new for her when she met us. Chella is steeped in nice things. Nice things aren’t the same thing as love and friendship, I know that better than anyone. And I’d like her to feel my gift is a sign of our love and friendship. Do I love her? It’s a dangerous question considering what’s about to happen next week. “But I will say, it’s nothing Earth-shattering. Just a present.” I nod as we look at each other. “You should maybe put some more thought into it. I think she deserves that much.” “You like her,” Bric says. “I get it. I’m not gonna interfere, Smith. If she makes you happy, I’m happy to step aside. I don’t know if Quin will, he’s having fun with her as far as I can tell. You might’ve misjudged him when you assigned him as Number Two.” “Yeah, maybe. But he’s still in love with Rochelle, don’t you think?” Bric shrugs. “He hasn’t talked about her all week to me. You?” “Same,” I reluctantly admit. “Does Chella want to continue this arrangement?” Bric asks. “I think so.” And I do think that. If she didn’t want to experience all four of us together, she’d have seen everything I did last night for what it was. A declaration. But she missed it. She missed all of it. Maybe it was just the shock of her father’s message? Or maybe she doesn’t feel the same way about me? Doesn’t matter in the end because she just missed it. “Well,” Bric says, “if you want my opinion, I think she’s got a problem, Smith.” “What kind of problem?” “Maybe problem is the wrong word,” he amends. “Maybe she’s just very curious. Or very horny. Or

maybe she’s just into the gang-bang thing. I don’t know her well enough to figure that out yet. But she’s into it. You feel it, right? She likes this stuff. I mean, she went along on Wednesday night. We doubleteamed her and she was ready for more last night. If her father hadn’t shown up, we’d have done it again.” He’s right. She wants this. She’s known it was the objective since we started. And she’s still here, playing the game with us. Allowing herself to be a pawn on the chessboard. “She needs it, Smith. For whatever reason, she needs it. So give it to her, let her think about it. And then if you still like her enough to back out of this arrangement, do it. I won’t stand in your way.” I let out a breath of air. “I know that, Bric. I wasn’t thinking you would.” “I’m just being clear with you. We’ve been friends for a long time and I’ve never seen you so… interested in one of the girls. Take her if you want her. But do it after she gets what she needs. Or she might regret it for the rest of her life. And you don’t want to start something new with regrets.” I finish my drink and stand up. “Yeah,” I say. “I’ll do that. We can finish this game and then decide after. I’m gonna take off, man. Have fun this weekend.” “Later,” Bric calls out. But I’m already hopping down the stairs and heading towards the revolving doors. I’ve got an idea for a Christmas present. Something she probably needs, but won’t ever ask for. Something she didn’t get nearly enough of growing up.

Chapter Thirty - Chella

“Hey,” I call out when I get home from work. “You here?” Smith peeks out from behind the wall of the kitchen. “What’s up?” “Nothing,” I say, hanging up my coat in the closet and then hopping up the stars to the main living level. I walk into the kitchen and find him… cooking. “What are you doing?” “Christmas Eve Eve dinner, Marcella. It was a tradition in my adoptive house.” “Hmm,” I say, pulling out one of the barstools and taking a seat. “What do you cook for a Christmas Eve Eve dinner?” “Traditional Baldwin etiquette says a whole bunch of pretentious bullshit only a chef can make, like crown roast or leg of lamb.” “That sounds good!” I say. “I’m starving!” “Chella,” Smith says, shooting me a sidelong look as he slips his hands into potholders. “I’m Smith. I made mac and cheese.” I laugh. “That sounds good too.” He opens the oven and takes out a casserole dish, gingerly setting it down on a trivet to protect my countertops. “You do realize that what you’re doing right now is lady porn?” Smith smiles but doesn’t look at me. “Cooking?” he asks. “And vacuuming. If you really want to turn me on, you’d vacuum the whole house. And dust. Bonus points for using lemon-scented wood polish.” “You’re funny, Marcella Walcott.” “OK,” I say, tucking down my smile. “So what’s all this about? Since when do you cook? And hey— did you… clean up your mess on the dining room table?” He glares at me. “Your fucking father showing up got me all paranoid that someone else will come over unexpectedly.” “Like who?” “I don’t know. Your friends, maybe? I don’t do friends, Chella. I don’t do fathers either. But I had no choice.” I lean over the island and grab a breadstick from a basket. “I’m sorry you had to see all that. And I’m sorry I was moody last night. You were really perfect, Smith. And I appreciate it.” “So you’re over it?” he asks, then dips a fork in his mac and cheese and takes a bite. “It’s good,” he says, putting the fork down and going to the cupboard for plates. “I didn’t think you’d be so calm about it tonight, to be honest.” “Is that why you’re cooking? To make me feel better?” He walks over to the small kitchenette table next to the living room and sets the plates down. “Maybe a little. I guess. But mostly because I got it out of Quin that your family never celebrated Christmas.” He stops to shoot me a pretend glare. “I owe him something big for that secret, I hope you know that.” “Then why didn’t you just let it go?” I ask, chewing on my breadstick. “Is this homemade?” Smith glares at me again and I can’t stop the chuckle that escapes. “I mean”—he continues his thought—“even I had a Christmas every year. And since Quin beat me to a tree, I figured I’d go for food.” He comes back into the kitchen and grabs the silverware and some white

linen napkins, folded into the envelope design, like at the Club. “Did you bring… fancy napkins from the Club?” “You don’t have any,” he says, like this explains everything. “How could a woman with your breeding not have linen napkins? How can I possibly write you a Christmas Eve Eve message on a paper towel?” Oh, shit. He’s really trying to make me happy tonight. A message on a napkin. I take a moment to think about his other messages so far. The first one had his number on it. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you, it said. And the poem on the second one. The one about going into the dark without a light. “What else do people do on Christmas Eve Eve?” I ask. “Not much. My big plans are for tomorrow. We have a party to go to, Chella.” “Oh, now your name is Bric.” “Not that kind of party,” he says, shooting me a sidelong look. “The fun kind. At the Club.” “Hmmm,” I say, thinking that over. “Saturday night at the Club sounds dangerous.” “I’m not telling you anything else. It’s a surprise.” “And Bric and Quin know about this?” “They do,” he says. “And they’re OK with me being there for a Saturday night party?” He winks at me. “You’re a fun girl, Marcella. Why wouldn’t they be OK with it?” “Hmm,” I say again. “Now you’ve got me curious. What kind of fun times are we talking about?” “No clues,” he says. “It’s a surprise.” He grabs a bottle of champagne from the counter and pops the cork, then fills two glasses. He hands me one and raises his—seemingly at a loss for words. “What should we toast to?” I ask to break the silence. He’s just staring at me with a look I can’t describe. Thoughtful? Confused? I’m not sure. “To us,” he says. “We should toast to us.” “You know, this relationship I have with you is coming dangerously close to dating.” “Aren’t we dating?” he asks. “Are we dating?” My eyebrows shoot up my forehead. “We’re living together.” “Are we?” We both laugh. “I guess it’s a little confusing, isn’t it?” I shrug. “I don’t know. Is it?” “You’re full of questions tonight, Marcella.” “You’re full of surprises, Smith.” He takes my arm and leads me over to the table, setting both our glasses down before pulling out my chair. “The food’s getting cold.” “Mmm-hmm,” I say, taking my seat and letting him push in my chair. “You have nice manners, Mr. Baldwin.” “Don’t look at your napkin yet. Let me sit first. So I can enjoy it.” He goes back for the casserole dish and places it on the table, then serves me a heaping spoonful. I really don’t know what to make of this version of Smith Baldwin. “OK,” he says. “You can look now.” I get a little nervous as I open up the napkin flap. In black marker it says, What will it take? I look at him. Back down at his message. Then at him again. “What will what take?” I ask. “To make your dream come true.” I sigh. “I already told Bric. I don’t know what my dream is.” “How could you not know what you want out of life? You’re thirty years old. Surely you’ve felt disappointment and wanted more.”

“Of course,” I say, tasting his food. “Mmmm. This is good, Smith. You should have dinner waiting for me every night when I get home from work.” “See, that’s what I’m talking about. Is that what you want?” “It was a sexist joke.” I laugh. “Role reversal and all that good shit?” “But is it something you want?” “A house husband? No. I can honestly say I’ve never wished for a house husband. The cleaning only turns me on if you never do it, then decide to do it to make me happy.” I wink at him, but he’s got a very serious look on his face. “What?” “Do you see yourself with… a family?” I just stare at him. “What are you talking about?” “I don’t think my question was cryptic.” “Who would I want a family with?” I ask. He’s about to answer but I put up my hand. “No, wait. You asked, so I guess you’re really interested. I’ll answer you. The person I’m having a family with is the only thing that matters.” “So you’d like to fall in love?” “Of course,” I say, laughing. “Doesn’t everyone?” He takes a sip of his champagne and then sets his glass down before answering. “I think most people would. At least when they’re young. I can imagine you get to an age where you don’t care anymore. But I don’t think thirty is that age.” He looks at me for a second. “I don’t think thirty-six is that age either.” “You’re thirty-six,” I say. “I know. I still want to find love.” “I can’t picture you in love.” “Why not?” “I don’t know,” I say. “This is a pretty intense conversation for Christmas Eve Eve, isn’t it?” “You wouldn’t know, would you? You’ve never had a Christmas Eve Eve dinner before. Maybe this is what everyone does?” “Or maybe you’re just being weird. Are we dating?” “Are we?” “Smith, stop it. If you’ve got something to say—” “I do have something to say.” “Then say it.” I’m kind of annoyed right now and I’m actually feeling bad for being annoyed, because he planned a night of lady porn for me while I was at work. “Why are you here, Chella?” “I live here. Why are you here, Smith?” “I like you.” I just blink at him. “What will it take, Chella? What will it take to make you forget about Quin and Bric and just take me a for a spin?” “So you do want to date me? For real? And I should walk away from Quin and Bric? And the whole thing? The entire arrangement? Are you… jealous?” “No,” he says. “And that’s the honest truth. Quin doesn’t want you.” “Hey—” “I don’t mean it that way. He likes you, but he wants Rochelle. You’re just a stand-in. And Bric… well, you’re definitely not Bric’s type.” “What is Bric’s type?” “Dirty whores, mostly.” I laugh. Like kinda loud. “I think I fit that description, actually.”

“You do not. Bric likes desperate girls. Ones who need that dream he’s offering. You’re not her. You don’t need anything from us, and yet… here you are. Just tell me why you’re here.” “I… don’t know what to say.” “Try the truth.” We stare at each other in silence. “Why is it so hard for you?” I take in a deep breath and let it out. “It’s a very personal thing. I like you a lot. I would date you. And you’re right about Bric and Quin, we’re not soul mates or anything. But I like them. And I’m with all three of you right now.” “So you want it to stay that way?” “Not forever. Not even for much longer, probably. But for now. I want this to stay the same for right now.” “Why? Why did you go up to Rochelle’s room that night? Why did you allow Quin to sleep with you?” I have nothing to say to that. So I stay silent. “Rochelle came for money and a place to live. Quin thinks she was homeless before she met us. She needed her dream fulfilled. But you don’t.” “How do you know I don’t? Maybe this is my dream? Did you ever ask yourself that?” “Is it your dream?” “Obviously I’m interested in what you guys are offering. I think we can agree on that just by looking at all the things I’ve agreed to in the recent weeks. But no, it’s not my dream.” “Then what will it take?” I put my fork down and sigh. “Can you ask me this again next week?” “You do know that they’re both at the club right now picking out the girl they’ll fuck tonight, right?” “Why are you telling me this? To make me jealous? I’m not jealous. I don’t care what they do when they’re not with me. On Sunday night at midnight Quin will show up in my apartment and we’ll have fun. Tuesday night at midnight Bric will call me and say nice things.” “And what will I do Thursday night at midnight?” “Nothing,” I say. “You don’t bother with me at midnight.” “Because I can’t touch you without Bric.” “I’m not the one who gave you that rule.” “But you’re OK with it?” “I don’t think this is what people do on Christmas Eve Eve.” “You’d be wrong. The holidays are the perfect time for family fights.” “Family—” I laugh. “Come on, Smith. I’ve known you what, a month? If that?” “What will it take,” Smith says, his voice rising, “to change your mind and make you want to just be with me?” “To change my mind about the arrangement? Nothing, Smith. Nothing you can say or do will change my mind about this arrangement.” “So you want all four of us to be together.” “Yes,” I say, tired of talking about this. “Yes, I do. I want it. And I’m going to ask for it when Quin comes over Sunday night.” He just stares at me. The seconds tick off and then… “OK. Then what? Once you get that, then what? You’ll stay?” “I might. I don’t know yet.” “You’re lying, Chella.” I huff out a breath of air, then grab my napkin off my lap and toss it on the table. “I’m done,” I say, getting up from my chair.

Smith stands as well. “Just tell me what you’re doing and I’ll back off. But I don’t like being manipulated.” I throw up my hands. “How am I manipulating you?” “I don’t know, but you are. Quin and Bric are happy to forget how we found you. They don’t care about you, Chella. That’s why they’re OK with letting it go. But I actually like you. And I know you’re lying to me about something. So what is it?” I want to tell him, I really do. Because I like him back. A lot. But I can’t tell him now. Not yet. Not when I’m so close to what I came for. “I got you a Christmas present,” I blurt, desperate to change the subject. I know it won’t work, but I try it anyway. His frown eases a little and then he smiles. “What did you get me?” I sigh out a long breath of relief. Thankful. “It’s pretty special, but I can’t give it to you yet. I have to save it a little longer. It’s a present for later, Smith. Something more meaningful than I want to share with you now.” “Because you’re not done with Bric and Quin?” His words are angry at first. “And you have to finish that before you can start something new?” But they are soft by the time he’s done. I nod. “Yes. That’s exactly it. I have to finish what I started and then I have a gift for you. So I hope you can wait a little longer.” He walks around the table and stands in front of me. I can tell he wants to touch me. Maybe very badly. But he stuffs his hands in his pockets, like he usually does when he needs to control his urges around me. The rules, it seems, are meaningful to him. “I can wait.” “Good. I’m glad. I really am.” “Did you get Bric and Quin a gift?” “Yes,” I say. “But it’s not the same.” His eyes go sad for a moment. “How are they different?” “They just are. Can we please talk about this next week?” He thinks about my request for a few moments. Trying to read between the lines, I bet. And he must kind of get it, even though I know he has no clue what’s really happening. Because he says, “Sure. I can wait. And besides, I got you a present too. And I don’t want to wait, so I’m gonna give it to you now.” He walks away, goes up the stairs to the second floor, and disappears inside his bedroom. I grab both our glasses of champagne and refill them to give myself something to do. When he comes back he’s all smiles and he’s got his hands behind his back. He motions to me with his head. “Over here. In front of the fireplace.” The fireplace is double-sided and separates the living and dining rooms. He walks over to the polished marble hearth seat on the living room side and motions with his head again. “Sit here.” I have no idea what to expect right now. But I walk over and sit, placing our glasses of champagne on the seat next to me. He sits too, and then brings out a turquoise blue box with a white ribbon tied around it. I smile. “Tiffany’s?” “Women go crazy for Tiffany boxes, right?” “We do.” I laugh. “Even girls like me.” “Well, don't jump to conclusions,” he says. “It’s more than it seems.” He hands it to me and I take it. It’s not a ring box, it’s bigger than that. About eight inches square. And it’s very light. “Open it,” he says. I pull on the white satin ribbon and let it fall into my lap, then lift the lid off the box. It’s empty. I furrow my brows and look at him expectantly. “It’s not empty,” he says. I look again. But yes, it is.

“It’s filled with everything, Chella. Every possibility. You can put whatever you want in that box. It doesn’t even need to fit inside, it will still count. Whatever you want.” I look at him and… have a small revelation. Just like I did last night. “I’ll get it for you. I asked you what it would take to make you forget Bric and Quin. And I mean it. Whatever it takes. I can put it in there for you. To some people life is about survival. I’ve been there. Not by birth, I had to find that part of living by myself. And I’m betting you’ve been there too. I don’t know how, or when, or why—since your family is obviously wealthy. But I have a feeling you’ve been in survival mode before. But life isn’t really about survival. It’s about living. It’s about meeting people, and going places, and feeling things you don’t normally get a chance to meet, or see, or feel. It’s about being aware of what you’re doing, and why. It’s about opportunities and possibilities. It’s about experiences, Chella. So my gift to you is whatever you want. Put whatever you want in that box, and it’s yours. Courtesy of me.” “The dream?” I ask. But he shakes his head. “No, it’s not about the dream. It’s about the want. The longing, Chella. You remember the longing?” “The book?” I ask, still slightly confused. “The message inside the book. Longing. A yearning desire. A burning ache in the heart. Something you hunger for. Thirst for. Something you want so bad, it’s killing you slowly not to have it. That’s what goes in the box. And I realize the box is small and these things feel big, but they have no boundaries. They are ethereal. Like a mist or a spray. Or that feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you know you lost something and can’t get it back. I will give you that, Chella. I will fill in the deep, dark hole you’re so desperate to cover up with whatever it is you’re doing here with us, and I will make your longing go away. That’s my present.”

Chapter Thirty-One - Bric

Quin is pouting as he stares down into his whiskey glass as we wait for Smith and Chella to arrive at the Club. “Three years,” he says. “This is the first Christmas without her in three years.” I roll my eyes because he’s not looking at me. But I try to be patient. “I hope to God you do not start with this shit tonight, asshole. This is for Chella, understand? She’s not interested in your stupid broken heart. So suck it up, be a man, and shut the fuck up. I can’t take any more of your whining.” I’m not really known for my patience but that was me trying. Hard. Quin looks up at me. “Don’t be a dick.” I take a deep breath. “Focus, Quin. On the here and now. Let her go. She’s gone. Perhaps one day she’ll come back, but the chances are low, so don’t get your hopes up. And I’m sorry if this is harsh, but you’re being a pussy.” “You are a dick. You don’t know what love feels like because that cold, black heart of yours is two sizes too small.” “You were watching The Grinch on Saturday morning cartoons again, weren’t you?” Quin smiles, but tries to hide it. “Saturday morning cartoons don’t even exist anymore, dumbass. And you are the Grinch.” I point to my outfit. “Do I look like the motherfucking Grinch?” He laughs this time. Usually Smith plays Santa at the Christmas Eve party—that’s his deal, right? I’m gonna give away all my money. I’m gonna be the goddamned fairy godmother to the world. But he’s with Chella, and this is a surprise for her. So. Yeah. I’m Santa. There are a shitload of kids here. I’m not into Christmas. I let the staff decorate the Club two weeks prior and it all comes down before New Year’s Eve, because that’s the holiday that counts as far as I’m concerned. New Year’s Eve is a man’s holiday. A party holiday. Not the kind with that sickly sweet eggnog. The kind with the eggnog that knocks you on your ass. The kind of party with foil hats and masks —we like masks here at the Club, regardless, but we especially like holidays that advocate masks—and a ton of confetti and balloons coming down from the ceiling. New Year’s Eve is the only time we allow Club activities on the first floor. It’s hot as fuck in here on New Year’s Eve, and I’m not talking about the furnace. Naked women everywhere, dirty sex going on all over the place. We close all the outside shutters on the building for this party. The only night of the year we do that. Everyone in by ten, no one leaves until after midnight. It’s not a long party, but it’s one every member comes to. Seven more days, Bric. Seven more days and this bullshit is over for another year. Or at least until Valentine’s Day. Which I refuse to think about right now, because I hate that holiday too. But the Christmas Eve party is for families. We don’t even close the inside blinds on the windows for Christmas Eve parties. “I can’t take this screaming,” I say. “Fucking hate kids.” “How do you hate kids?” Quin asks, shaking his head. “Like for real, man. That’s just wrong.” “Do you hear them down there? Running around like sugared-up maniacs?” “You mean all that joy?” He almost snorts at me. “If you’re gonna be an asshole, I’ll be Santa, for

fuck’s sake.” “I’m already wearing the fucking suit,” I growl. There are a grand total of sixty-five Club kids. Sixty-five. How? We only have forty-two members. I don’t understand how people can have more than one. And each kid gets a personalized present from Santa. Which means I have to sit on that stupid throne all night handing out gifts. Thank God they tire quick and start throwing tantrums. The parents usually take them home around nine-thirty and by ten, I’ve blocked the whole thing out with some single-malt Scotch. “Aww,” Quin says. “There they are.” I lean over the banister and look down into the lobby to watch Chella’s face as she comes through the revolving doors. I bet she thought Smith was bringing her here for a sex party tonight. I do smile at that. Chella’s a nice girl. I like her a lot. She’s smart, and funny, and totally normal. So not what I’m used to. Still, it’s good to venture out of my comfort zone every once in a while. And she’s pretty. She’s very pretty. “OK,” I say as I stand. I pull the white beard up onto my face and straighten out my giant black belt. “I feel ridiculous, but I’m taking one for the team to make our Chella happy. Smith owes me.” Quin and I start down the stairs and before we even hit the landing where the elevator is, the maniacs are screaming, “Santa! Santa!” “Suck it up, you pussy,” Quin whispers, laughing. “Be a man and shut the fuck up.” “No more swearing, asshole. There are kids here.” I start the whole thing out with some “Ho-ho-hos,” and go right to Marcella Walcott. Smith is smiling so big, it might make all my humiliation worth it. I take Chella’s hand and bring it to my lips, kissing her a little more seductively than Santa should. But hey, I’m not gonna apologize. Quin hands me three presents in Tiffany-blue boxes. “Hold out your hands, Marcella Walcott, I’ve heard you’ve been a very good girl this year.” She giggles. Actually giggles. Which should embarrass her, since she’s thirty years old. But instead she shoots me a look that says she belongs on the naughty list. I place the three boxes in her outstretched hands and do my best not to push her up against the banister and fuck her, because she looks stunning in that dress. Smith didn’t choose a PG-13 outfit for her tonight. Chella is beyond happy. She’s like a little girl on… well, Christmas. And for a moment I feel sorry for her. That she missed out on the holidays for most of her life. Sure, I hate kids. And I’m an atheist. But if I had a kid, I’d definitely do the whole Christmas thing up right. I can’t stay with them because the maniacs are back, tugging on my coat, pulling on my belt, trying to grab at my beard. I am herded over into the White Room, where Santa’s one-night workshop has been set up. At least I have some female elves to appreciate while I spent the next three hours dutifully lifting each kid into my lap and handing them a present with their name on it. I don’t see Chella again until Santa’s bags of goodies have been emptied and the tantrums are starting. It takes me ten minutes to get past all the sticky fingers trying to touch my suit, and then… Bliss. As I drop into a chair in Smith’s bar and pull my beard down to drink. “You,” Chella says, coming to sit in my lap—she kisses me on the cheek as she wraps her arm around my neck—“are loved.” “Aww.” I smile. “Thank you,” she says, looking at all three of us. I wonder if Smith is getting jealous that she’s in my lap. Because I’m having some very dirty thoughts about her right about now. “I love this night so much, you have no idea.” “Open your presents,” Quin says, pointing to the three packages on the table. “These two are from Bric and me, and this one is from hotshot over there.” He hooks a thumb in the direction of Smith, who is

across the room, leaning against the bar. “You guys, I really don’t need gifts,” Chella protests. “Everybody needs gifts, Chella,” Smith says. Her eyes linger on him for a moment, wondering if he’s mad, probably. I’m wondering the same thing myself. His happiness at her joy seems to be wearing off and the reality of what’s gonna happen tonight has set in. Chella takes the first small present. It’s either mine or Quin’s. They are identical, so it doesn’t matter. The bow is untied carefully, like she’s savoring the moment, and then the lid comes off and she whispers, “That’s beautiful.” She takes the diamond cuff out and Quin helps her fasten it around her wrist. It’s tight, as it should be. “This is mine,” Quin says, kissing the underside of her wrist. Chella looks at the other identical box, then finds me. I smile. She already knows what we’re doing here. She reaches for my package, unties the bow—less carefully this time—and then I help her fasten that cuff around her other wrist. I can be dramatic. So like Quin, I kiss the underside of her wrist and say, “This one’s mine.” Chella holds her wrists out in front of her and smiles like a child. “I love them, you guys. Adore them. Not because they’re Tiffany and not because they’re diamonds. But because they come from you.” She gets up and kisses both of us on the cheek, and then sits back down and reaches for the last box. It’s bigger, not by much, but she has to know it’s not a bracelet. She’s run out of wrists, at any rate. “Is this from you, Smith?” He nods from across the room, and I’m just about to snap at him, tell him to pull himself out of this funk he’s in and get his ass over here, when he sets his drink down on the bar and walks over to stand behind Chella’s chair. “Open it,” he says. Chella does, even quicker than the second present, and gasps as she pulls the diamond choker out of its box. “Smith,” she breathes. “This is… stunning.” Smith leans over her shoulder, takes it from her hands, unclasps the mechanism, and then fastens it around her throat until it really does look like she’s choking on diamonds. It is stunning. And it cost almost as much as a house on Little Raven Street. “I get all of this,” Smith says, leaning over her shoulder to whisper in her ear once the choker is in place. “You. Every bit of you is mine.” Chella glances at me to see what I’ll say about that. I say nothing. Neither does Quin. What we gave her are trinkets in comparison. And how we feel about her is comparable. She is a toy to us. The collar from Smith says she is no toy to him from this moment forward. She leans into Smith and kisses him on the lips. Smith allows it, since the four of us are together and he can break the no-touching rule. But he doesn’t let it linger. He backs away and says, “Let me know when you’re ready to go home. I’ll drop you off.” Quin shoots me a look. We already talked about this yesterday. I want her here tonight because Smith owes me some time. I totally understand the whole father fiasco. And I totally get that he just claimed her. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want my night back. “I think I’m gonna stay here tonight,” Chella says. “I don’t even have a tree at home. I’d just be depressed tomorrow morning when I woke up.” “Sure,” Smith says, doing his best not to look at me. “I’ll walk you up.” “OK,” Chella says. “I’m tired. I’m gonna take a bath and go to bed.” She kisses me once more, this time leaning into my ear to say, “Thank you. It was a special night.” “It’s not over yet,” I whisper back as I lean into her neck. “I’ll be up later.” “Good,” she says. “I have a present for you.”

And then she hops out of my lap and gives Quin a kiss too, before letting Smith take her hand and lead her down to the elevator. “What was that?” Quin asks. “I don’t know,” I say, taking a sip of my drink. “Do you think he’s pissed off that you’re taking your night back?” I shrug. “I’m not sure I should care. He’s been living at her fucking house. I’m not done with her yet. And she’s obviously not done with us. So…” “Yeah, me either. I’m all for the quad this week, but I’m gonna spend my last night alone with her… alone with her. Ya know?” We let it go. I take off the Santa suit and hand it over to the bartender, then straighten my tie and put my suit coat on. Smith doesn’t come back until eleven forty-five and when he takes a seat across from me at the table, he asks, “So you’re going up tonight?” “It’s my night,” I say. “We agreed.” “And you don’t want me there?” “I’m not gonna fuck her, I told you that.” He stares at me for a moment. “Then I guess I’ll go home.” “It’s not even your home, Smith. It’s her home.” “Apparently this is her home now,” he says. I watch him walk out, pissed off and probably hurt. But I don’t care. The rules are the rules. And whether he likes it or not, we’re still playing the game. It only works if we don’t fall in love. He knew that going in. It only ends when she quits. And right now, she’s still playing to win. The rules are the rules. At midnight, I get up, walk down the steps to the landing, and get in the elevator. When I get to her apartment door, I open it up. It’s not even locked. Chella is standing in front of the window wearing… Jesus Christ. Straps. That’s the only way to describe what she’s wearing. Straps. Across her thighs, across her belly, across her breasts. Except these straps cover absolutely nothing. She turns and leans against the window. I imagine how cold the glass feels against her bare skin. “I have a confession to make,” she says. I raise my eyebrows at her. “I lied. I’ve been a very bad girl this year.” I turn to close the door so I can smile, but when I turn back, the smile is gone. “What have I told you about lying to me, Marcella?” I’ve told her nothing, but I’m certain she can extrapolate the answer I’m looking for in this little fantasy. “You said I’d be punished next time.” She bites her lip. “Will you punish me?” It almost sounds like begging. And yeah, I’d fucking love to punish the hell out of her right now. Downstairs in the room I have set up for it. But that’s not what I’m looking for, even if she is. I walk over to the couch and sit down. “Come here, Marcella.” I like to use her full name when I’m

being stern. And I will happily be stern with her. She feigns nervousness and then slowly walks over to me. She’s wearing the most erotic fuck-me heels I’ve ever seen. Strappy ones, like that thing she’s calling an outfit. “Sit on my lap, sweetheart.” I pat my thigh and she obediently takes her place. “Confess your sins to me, Chella. And then I’ll decide what to do with you.” She starts playing with her breasts. “I’m a slut,” she says. “I’m addicted to sex. I love it so much, Bric. I can’t stop myself.” Two fingers slide down between her legs. The “outfit” has nothing in the way of panties. It’s just more straps, digging in to the flesh on each side of her puffy pussy. “I think about you all the time. I want your cock deep inside me. I want it in my mouth, down my throat—” Holy shit. I wonder if she’s like this with Quin? Maybe I’m not giving her enough credit? Stop it, Bric. She’s playing a game with you. And Smith is falling in love with her. You do not start a new game while you’re playing the old one. “I want you,” she continues. “I want you to beat the bad out of me.” I smile at her, grab her hair and yank her head back. “I will, Chella. I will.” And then I come to my senses. “But,” I say, smiling at her as I let her hair go. I bring her close to me and give her a hug. “But look, Chella. I’m kind of dangerous in that respect. I don’t think it would work for us.” She clicks her tongue. “Bric! Who turns down dirty submissive sex? This was my present to you and you’re ruining it!” I laugh and hug her, my hand rubbing the curve of her ass cheek. “I can give you a taste If you like. I can do that much. But take my word on this, sweetie. You’re not ready for the kind of dominance I display. But I can still be fun. And I can still make it hurt.” “I’ve been bad, Mr. Bricman,” she says again in her sultry voice, looking up at me with her smoky eyes. “Very, very bad.” We both laugh this time. “I bet you have, you little whore. Lie face down with your head in my lap.” She does it without question. And damn, I’m sorry I didn’t realize earlier she might be into this. I’d have taken her downstairs and taught her how to submit to me properly instead of allowing her to become Rochelle’s replacement. But it’s done now. And there’s no way to go back. She will be Smith’s… eventually. But tonight she’s mine. I spank her. Hard. The sound of my hand on her ass cheeks fills the room. I spank her until she comes all over my fingers.

Chapter Thirty-Two - Quin

Christmas night, at exactly midnight, I make my way up to Chella’s apartment. I’ve been dying to see her all day. All three of us have. We’ve been downstairs the whole time waiting to see if she’d come down. For breakfast, then lunch, then dinner. But she didn’t. She stayed inside and kept to herself. I wonder if the holidays are hard for her? If she thinks about her childhood. I don’t know much about what happened, but I don’t need to know much. What happened with her father the other night is explanation enough. She was neglected. Somehow, some way. The door is unlocked when I try the knob and when I enter, there’s Christmas music playing and the remnants of wrapping paper and boxes all over the living room floor. We give her the real presents on Christmas Eve, but Bric came back up here early this morning while she was still sleeping and stacked dozens of presents under her tree. We got her toys. A dollhouse, Barbies, sparkling, glittery craft kits, a stereo—people don’t get those anymore, but it was something you asked for at Christmas as a teenager back in the day. We got her a diary, and some Lego sets. All the things she missed out on growing up. “Chella?” I call into the apartment. She’s nowhere to be seen. “Back here!” A faint yell from the bedroom. I walk down the hallway and enter the bedroom, find it empty. “Chella? Where are you?” “Up here!” she calls again, this time louder. “In the closet.” “In the closet?” I walk over to the closet—hers, not ours—and peek inside. “What the fuck?” Chella’s head pops out from the attic door in the ceiling. “Hey. Come up here.” “What are you doing?” I ask. “Where the hell did this ladder come from?” “It’s an attic, Quin. And it’s my present to you.” She smiles, her head hanging upside down, her dark hair falling over her shoulders. “Come on. I’m dying to show you this. I’ve been keeping it a secret for a week and I can’t take it anymore.” I climb up the steep attic ladder and peek inside as she scoots away and backs up against a small circular window at the far end of the room, her head outlined by the lights around the gold dome of the capitol building. “What the fuck is all this?” “What does it look like?” Chella asks. “Or, who does it look like?” I take it all in. A small shabby Christmas tree is lit up on the opposite end as Chella. It’s decorated with white lights and ornaments made of old paper. There’s dozens of vintage suitcases stacked around the perimeter walls. Those little hand-cases women used to carry makeup and toiletries in back in the Fifties and Sixties. And there’s a fuzzy pink rug on the floor. “It looks like… Rochelle,” I say, sadness filling my heart. “It is Rochelle,” Chella says. “I found this place by accident last week. And even I saw it immediately. She came up here, I guess. Her little secret room. Her little private life. And I don’t think Bric knows about it.” “No,” I say, crawling across the rug and sitting cross-legged in front of Chella. “He’d have thrown it

all away if he did.” “Yeah, that’s why I didn’t tell him. I figure all this stuff belongs to you. And look,” she says, crawling over to an old record player, the kind that comes in a case. “There’s music too.” She flips a switch and the turn table begins to spin. When she lifts the arm and places the needle on the 45 record, it starts to play Blue Christmas. “Fuck,” I say. Chella frowns. “Is this making you sad? I didn’t want to make you sad.” “No,” I say, laying back on the rug and closing my eyes, two fingers massaging my temple to drive away the headache I feel coming. “I’m not sad.” I’m devastated. I just don’t want it to show. “I miss her so fucking much.” Chella crawls over to me and lies down. She wraps an arm around my waist and places her head against my chest. “I’m sorry she left. And I wish I knew where she went. Because I’d tell you, Quin. I promise, I would.” I slip an arm under her and start playing with her hair as I imagine all the nights Rochelle and I spent together listening to these old records. “Blue Christmas. That’s pretty much how I feel right now.” “Open your eyes and look up,” Chella says. I do. And on the ceiling is… a work of art. “Jesus,” I whisper. “What is all that?” “Her,” Chella says. “She has a thing for dandelions.” I get a stabbing pain in my heart. “I used to pick her dandelions every summer. Whole bouquets of them. When they were yellow, she’d put them in a vase.” And there on the ceiling is the vase filled with our weedy flowers. “And then in late summer I’d pick her wishes.” I smile at that thought. “Millions of wishes.” Chella points to the ceiling. “Like that?” It’s a self-portrait of Rochelle. She’s not a painter—as least, not as far as I knew—but it resembles her enough for me to recognize her. She’s blowing the wishes away. “What was her wish, Quin? Did she ever tell you?” “Her wish…” I say, thinking about it. It has been so long since we thought of our relationship in terms of the arrangement. “Her wish was to… belong to someone.” We sigh together. “I think that might be my wish too,” Chella says. “Really?” I ask, turning my head so I can see her in profile. “Yeah. Bric and Smith have both asked me, but I don’t feel like telling them.” “But you’ll tell me?” She nods slowly. “I like telling you things. You tell me things, I tell you things. You’re the perfect Number Two, Quin. Easy to love, just like Smith said. And easy to laugh with too.” “I like you too, Chella. And if I had my way, we’d stay in this arrangement forever.” “But we won’t, will we?” “No,” I say. “It never lasts.” More sighing from both of us. “What’s all that writing?” I ask, pointing to the ceiling. “It’s a song,” Chella says. “An old church song. I’ll Fly Away. Have you ever heard it?” I shake my head. Sick. So sick for not knowing this about the girl I loved. “I can play it,” Chella says. “She has the record.” When I say nothing Chella gets up on her knees and crawls over to the record player. Anything is better than Blue Christmas. She takes that record off, plops a new record on, and then starts the music with a loud crackling noise. Then she crawls back to me and lies back down. Points to the ceiling. “The words are up there. She wrote them all out.”

I follow along with the song, reading her words, dying inside. “She’s dead, isn’t she?” I ask. “No,” Chella says softly, leaning into me to kiss my cheek. “I don’t think so.” “That song is about dying, Chella. Whatever this is, whatever reason she had for doing all this. She did it as a goodbye.” Chella lets out a long exhale. “She left, so that is a goodbye. But I don’t think she left to kill herself, Quin.” “The song is about death,” I say, too loud. “I didn’t know her well, Quin. Not at all, hardly. But if there’s one thing I understood about Rochelle, it’s that she’s not a literal person. She’s an artist. A musician. Maybe a painter and a poet. But she didn’t write out those lyrics on the ceiling as a premonition of her suicide. She wrote as them as a memorial to your love.” “So our love is dead.” That doesn’t help. “Maybe it’s just a new beginning?” Chella asks. “Maybe she just wanted out of this arrangement? Did that ever occur to you?” “Then why not tell me?” I ask, turning my head to look at Chella. “Why just… pick up and leave? She knew the rules.” “Maybe I don’t know all the rules of Taking Turns, Quin. But it’s my understanding that once you walk out, there’s no turning back.” I don’t answer. “So maybe she left to end the game and give the two of you a chance to start over?” “I’m supposed to look for her?” I want to throw up. “And I didn’t. She’s been gone for a month. She could be anywhere. She probably thinks—” “She probably thinks it’s gonna take a while for you to sort it all out, Quin. So don’t jump to conclusions.” The song ends and the needle plays endless static as it jumps the open space at the center of the record. “I think this is over now,” I say. “Yeah,” Chella says in a low, sad whisper. “I think so too.” We lie there in the static of nothingness for a little longer. And then Chella gets up and crawls over to the record player again, picking up the needle and turning it off. “Come on,” she says, tugging on my hand. “Let’s go to sleep.” She climbs down from the attic and I follow a few second later. She’s changing out of her dress and into a t-shirt and shorts. I walk across the hall, into the closet I share with Bric and Smith, and slowly undress until I’m only wearing gray boxer briefs. Chella is waiting for me in bed, holding the covers open so I can climb in. I flip off the light and then pull her close. “Merry Christmas,” she says, holding on to me tight. “Merry Christmas, Chella,” I say, hugging her back. We sleep like that. Clutching each other like we don’t want to let go. But we both know it’s time to let go.

Chapter Thirty-Three - Smith

“So tonight?” I’m trying my best to be cool with this, but I’m not cool with this. “That’s what she told Quin.” Chella made herself very clear the other night. She wants to experience the four of us together. The quad, as we like to call it. And I’ll admit, this was my aim as well when we first started the game. But I’m not sure anymore. “I know what you’re thinking,” Bric says. “And I don’t think it’s fair.” “No,” I say. “You wouldn’t. Because you want this.” “You want it too.” “I did, now… now so much.” Bric throws up his hands. We’re sitting in my bar at the Club. Quin and Chella are out… doing something fun today. “So back out, Smith. Call the game. End it. We won’t care if you do.” I know he won’t. Quin, maybe. But Bric’s not a grudge holder. He’s not invested in very much, if you ask me. But who asked me? “We’ll get over it. Find a new girl.” “I don’t want a new girl, Bric. I’m out.” He doesn’t bother throwing up his hands. He doesn’t even shrug. “So do it. Leave. But she wants it, Smith. And that’s the only thing that matters at this point. She wants it. So you better think about that. If you call the game she might be mad at you.” “Then maybe that’s how it has to be?” “Maybe you’re just being juvenile?” “Maybe I’m just in love?” “Maybe she’s not in love with you back?” Burn. “She is,” I say. But I’m not really as sure as I sound. “How many ways can I explain this to you, Smith? Let’s use Rochelle as an example. She left. Why?” “She was done?” “With Quin?” he asks. “I don’t think so. She left to end the game and start over. Quin told me Chella found some secret room up in the attic of her apartment. Rochelle’s secret room. There’s a lot of stuff up there about starting over. Rochelle had to leave the game in order to do that. It doesn’t mean she never cared about me or you and it doesn’t mean she’s not in love with Quin. It means… The game. Is. Over. That’s it. I’m almost positive she’s coming back. Not to us, but to Quin. She just needs to sort things out first.” “Chella isn’t Rochelle. Not even close. She’s not… weird, for one. And she’s not desperate for anything.” “How do you know?” I’m irritated. “What do you mean how do I know? Chella is fucking wealthy. Probably has more money in her trust fund that you make in ten years. She’s loaded.” “And you, of all people, understand that money isn’t happiness.” “So what is she desperate for?” I ask. “I’m interested, Bric. I am. So if you know something—” “I don’t know anything except she’s here, Smith. With all three of us… Perfectly willing to go along

with the rules and play the game. And she wants to finish it. I’m betting you money this is over in a week. So why not let her get what she came for and then you can both skip out and start over?” I’m silent as I think this through. “What if we can’t start over?” I ask him. “What if, after we finish the game, I can’t let it go?” “Then you’re a dumbass.” I sigh. “You’re a dumbass because she’s not in love with me, Smith. She’s not in love with Quin. If she’s interested in any of us, it’s you. And, while I’m in the mood to let it all out, I’ll just say it would be completely one hundred percent selfish of you to deny her the end she’s looking for. She’s here. She needs it to end the way she envisioned it in her mind. If she doesn’t get that, who’s to say she won’t go looking somewhere else?” I can’t even picture that in my head. Not because I can’t picture Chella doing it, but because I would kill someone. “If this is what she wants,” Bric continues. His tone is softer now. More understanding. “Isn’t it better to let her do it with us than complete strangers?” I let out a frustrated breath of air. “She’s got problems. We all know that. And she’s working them out using us and the game to do it. Don’t take it personally, Smith. It’s not about you right now. It’s about her. Let her do it her own way, in her own time.” “I’m jealous,” I admit. “I’m fucking jealous.” “Of me?” He laughs. “Of Quin? Why?” “I don’t want you to touch her.” He turns his head away, done with me. “Do what you want. But you’re being shortsighted. She already belongs to you and if you need Quin and me to defer to you tonight, we will.” He looks back at me. Stares hard at me. “You’d let me run things? Somehow I can’t picture that.” “I don’t care, Smith. That’s the part you refuse to see. I do not care. I just want a good, dirty fuck with you, and Quin, and Chella. I’m pretty sure that’s all Quin wants too. Just a nice, filthy fuck to end the game. So plan it however you want. As long as we’re all satisfied at the end, I’m OK with it.” He stands up, buttons his suit coat, and then points down to the lobby. “I’m having lunch with Lucinda and her husband today.” I lean over the balcony railing to look down. Lucinda and her husband are talking to a crowd of people just inside the White Room. “Why?” “I dunno. They want to talk. Quin’s bringing Chella upstairs to my place at eight. See you then.” He walks off. I watch him as he descends the stairs and then shakes the husband’s hand. Funny how I don’t even know that guy’s name and they’ve been members here for more than eight years. Bric gives Lucinda a quick kiss on her cheek and then they walk into the restaurant and disappear from my view. Give Chella what she needs. What does she need? It’s fucking killing me because I know Bric’s right about Chella. She is here for a reason and she has refused to tell me what it is. Any of us. I have relentlessly questioned Quin about it for over a week now. He says he has no idea. And like Bric, he doesn’t care. How can I love a girl who wants to fuck my two best friends at the same time? I laugh out loud at that. Really, I am the biggest hypocrite ever. There have been other girls who thought they loved me. Thought being the important word in that sentence. I never loved them, so it couldn't be love. Love is not one-sided. Love has to come from both ends at the same time. Romantic love, at least. It’s not the same as loving a child who’s disconnected. Or a parent who fucked you over. I don’t think I ever loved my parents, but maybe they loved me. I guess it’s possible. Though doubtful.

That makes me wonder about Chella’s father. She was a little upset about the way he went about severing their ties, but not the way a child should be. Maybe she doesn’t love him? How did her family get so screwed up? I have to wonder, because he’s been in public life for twenty years and not once was there a scandal about his family life. No secret mistress, no cheating wife. Chella has no criminal record. She didn’t lash out or rebel as a teenager. Of course, her past has been scrubbed, so what do I know about her? What do I really know about her? I know she’s dirty. Which makes me smile. Bric’s right. We play this little game for the payout. The asymmetrical quad fucking is the prize. And I like it. I do. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have invested so much time and energy in these girls over the years. She’s very sexual, although I haven’t really had the chance to see all of that side to her. Bric has seen her more sexual than I have. Quin has seen a lot more than either of us. I just want something of my own for once. And even thinking that makes me feel a little selfish. I have been given so much in this life. I do not deserve more. I really don’t. I shouldn’t even want Chella for myself. It’s breaks all my rules. But... I do want her for myself. I wasn’t lying to her father last week. I want to own her. Keep her. Not like a house, though. I try and work this out in my mind but it’s difficult to come to terms with. To justify. It should make me feel good to give them the night we’ve been working towards. It just… doesn’t. I’m so fucking afraid that we’ll get to the end of the game and I… I won’t want her anymore. What would I do then? I can’t even picture myself in another game at this point. I don’t know what I’ll do, but this—I look around the Club. This place has my life for a decade. It’s my home. Well, it was my home until I moved in with Chella. I have spent almost all of my adult life getting by on the generosity of others. And I’m lucky because Bric and Quin are very generous with me. They give me whatever I want. So much, I never thinking about not having enough. I never wonder anymore if people will provide me with the things I need. It just… comes. Don’t I owe Quin and Bric the same consideration? Don’t I owe them that much, at least? And shouldn’t I think this through a little more before I give up everything I’ve worked towards all these years? Take Rochelle, for example. I never liked her much. I put up with her. I fucked her plenty of times with Bric and Quin. But never alone. I didn’t like her alone. And I knew that pretty quick once we all got together. What if my feelings for Chella change after tonight? Yes, it’s better to know that up front, I decide. So I down my drink, throw down some bills as a tip for the bartender, and go home to think about this alone. Plan it out, I guess. What I’ll do to her. What I’ll make her do. And if this love isn’t real, I’ll know. I’ll deal with tomorrow… tomorrow. That’s what I always do, right? There’s always tomorrow.

Chapter Thirty-Four - Quin

“Do you know where we’re going tonight?” I ask Chella. We’re up in her apartment and she’s walking towards me with her new jewelry, holding out the cuffs for me to help her put them on. I take one and wrap the thick band of diamonds around her wrist. “Tell me,” she coos. She’s very excited. I’m very excited too, but I’m a little bit worried about her enthusiasm. She should be more apprehensive than excited. “No, I’m asking you,” I say. “To guess.” “Ummm…” She thinks for a moment as I finish up with the first cuff and she hands me the other one. “Bric’s apartment?” “No,” I say, handling the second cuff and taking the collar. It’s heavy with diamonds and platinum. Smith is definitely not afraid to throw his money around when he feels like it’s necessary. I’ll give him that. “Lift your hair up and turn around.” She does. And then she says, “Down to the basement?” But she knows that’s not happening. “Absolutely not.” I laugh, fastening the collar tight around her throat. “Then where?” I lean into her neck and kiss her softly, making her body shudder and tremble. “Smith’s apartment,” I whisper. “Has he ever taken you up there?” She melts into my chest, her body soft and pliable. God, this is going to be the best quad we’ve had. I don’t think we’ve ever had a girl we liked so much before. I know how this ends, but I like her. So I’m gonna enjoy every second of tonight. “No,” she says. “He’s in charge tonight, Chella. I’m gonna tell you the rules—” “Rules?” She spins around to face me. “What rules? When we’re all together there are no rules.” “Well…” I smile at her. “That’s mostly true. But see… maybe you haven’t noticed, but we like to spring new things on you at the last minute. To keep it all interesting.” She scowls at me. Pouts, really. Hands on hips, her lower lip slightly protruding. “What are they?” “Number One,” I say. “Smith is in charge. If he tells you to do something, you do it.” “No questions?” Chella asks, raising one eyebrow. “None.” “Good. I’m into that.” I let my chuckle because I know it’s true. She is into this. So much more than any other girl we’ve ever had before. “Number Two,” I continue. “He can tell you not to do something.” “Quin,” she says, frowning for real this time. “Please tell me he’s not going to stop me from having all of you.” “God, you’re such a little slut!” She laughs. “I’ve been telling you that for weeks. He won’t do that, will he?” I shake my head. “I don’t think so. He and Bric came to an understanding.” “What kind of understanding?” “Smith’s in charge. Usually Bric is in charge. But also that…” I hesitate. Bric called me a few hours ago, and we talked about Smith’s concerns. How he handled it. I wasn’t told not to say anything to Chella, but perhaps Bric just assumed?

“Also what? Tell me, Quin. I always feel like I’m in the dark with you guys. I don’t need to know everything but a little more information would go a long way.” She’s right. She deserves to know what’s going on. Not all of it is mine to tell, so I’m not gonna give her everything. But a little more won’t hurt. “Bric said you needed it and Smith needed to give in to what you needed.” She frowns again. “What’s that mean?” “I think, Chella… you’re the only one who really knows. But I’m answering your question. Whether or not Smith will deny you what you want. And my answer is no. I don’t know how he’ll handle it, but he will handle it.” “Do think he’ll blindfold me?” “No.” I laugh. Why would he do that?” “They did last week when we were together. To keep me anxious, I think.” “No blindfolds,” I tell her, swiping a piece of hair away from her eyes. “We want you to see everything tonight.” She draws in a deep breath and finally—finally—there are the nerves that should’ve put in an appearance as soon as I walked into her apartment. “Are you ready?” I ask, taking her hand. She nods her head and says, “I’m ready.” “Then let’s go.”

Chapter Thirty-Five - Bric

The first thing I notice when Quin leads Chella through the door of Smith’s third-floor apartment is the dress. White, like a bride. Floor-length, with intricate beading on the skirt, and a plunging neckline that almost meets the high slit that comes all the way up the middle of her legs, barely covering her pussy. It’s a dress that no bride would ever wear on her wedding day. But this isn’t her wedding day. If I was going to continue the analogy it would definitely be more like the wedding night. If you were marrying three men at the same time. The dress was Smith’s choice and it makes me wonder about his state of mind these days. Chella’s throat is collared with diamonds, her wrists cuffed. We own her tonight, that’s what the jewelry means. Again, Smith’s idea. He wasn’t satisfied with what Quin and I had planned for her Christmas presents, so we gave in. We’ve been giving in to him a lot lately. I glance at Smith, leaning against the bar, holding a drink, and find him transfixed. No one else is in the room right now. Just him. And her. They look at each other like they are starving. We’re wearing tuxedos and Smith’s is brand new. Something a little edgier than he normally wears to the Club. Something he might have had specially made for his special day. I clear my throat and say, “Chella. You look so beautiful.” Smith sets his drink down on the bar and walks towards her, reaching with his outstretched hands. He takes her into his arms and Quin backs off, shooting me a look. Nervous, I realize. I think we’re all nervous tonight. And it’s not normal. Usually I’m in control of the first quad night and when I take control, I mean business. There is no room for nerves when I’m in charge. I don’t give anyone time to think, I just give orders. Smith leans in to kiss Chella on the cheek. Whispers something to her I can’t hear. I’d never tolerate that either. The purpose of the quad is to… be a fucking quad. But I gave him my word so I wait, patient, as they have a private moment. Smith backs away, still holding onto both of her hands, and then shifts until he’s got one arm around her. He leads her forward. Quin follows until the four of us are standing in the center of the large elegant room, looking at each other. So close, we form a tight circle. “Hi, Bric,” Chella says, shy. I don’t think I’ve seen her shy and I take a moment to wonder where it’s coming from. Smith? “Chella,” Smith says, taking her hand and placing it over my cock. “Do you want Bric to fuck you tonight?” No, I decide. Her shyness isn’t because of Smith. Smith is playing, that’s evident. Chella swallows, looks at me, then immediately back at Smith. “Yes.” Smith places a hand on her hair and pets her. “And Quin?” he asks, taking her other hand and placing it on his cock. Chella doesn’t look at Quin. She only sees Smith. She stares straight into his eyes. He gazes back, their stare intense in its meaning. “Yes,” she tells him. Smith looks at me and says, “She’s yours. Give her what she wants, Bric.”

Chella is still staring at Smith and I realize what they’re doing. This night is only about them. This night is about what she wants and what Smith will give her. He’s giving her… me. “Let’s have a seat, Quin,” Smith says, walking over to the couch. He takes a seat, Quin follows, looking a little confused. But he’s a good sport, so he sits down. Smith unzips his trousers and pulls out his already fully erect cock. His eyes never leave Chella. Her eyes see no one else. He strokes himself, his fist wrapped tightly around his dick, and waits. Quin looks at me and smiles. I look at Chella and smile as well. Smith has always liked to watch. And I’m happy to put on a little show for him. I walk around her, looking only at her body. She tries to turn with me, but I say, “Stand still, Chella. I’ll tell you when I want you to move.” Her hard swallow is audible in the silent room. Fear. She should feel a little fear about tonight. I’m willing to give her that opportunity. “I like this dress,” I say. “It’s very pretty.” I finish my circle and stand in front of her. We are in profile to Smith and Quin, so they can get a look long look at what I’m going to do next. “But you know what I don’t like about this dress, Marcella?” I say her name with disgust. “What?” she asks softly. I reach for the deeply plunging neckline, grab one side with each hand, and rip it open, exposing her bare breasts. Chella gasps, takes a step back, but I pull her forward and kiss her lips, both hands holding her face close to mine as I breathe heavy into her mouth. “I told you not to move,” I whisper. She nods, looking me straight in the eyes, Smith temporarily forgotten as she deals with my demands. “I don’t like the fact that I wasn’t the one who picked it out.” I rip the rest of the dress, right down the middle of her stomach until the tear meets the long slit up her front and comes fully open. Little beads go flying everywhere, bouncing along the black marble floors until they roll out of sight. Chella gasps again, looking all around as her ruined little fantasy disappears. I laugh. Like loud. “I don’t know what you thought tonight would be like, Marcella, but this is how I like it. And since Smith was so kind and gave me control first, I’m gonna make the most of it.” I warned her on Christmas Eve that I was dangerous when it comes to domination. And I am. I need her to know that about me. I need to get that message through to her loud and clear. I take her hand and find it cold and trembling. She squeezes as I lead her across the room, yanking the rest of her dress off her body as she walks. It’s left in a tattered puddle on the floor. I point the arm of the couch where Smith and Quin are sitting. Quin is jerking off too now, his dick fully erect, his eyes pinned to Chella and me. Smith has not changed one bit. His hand still moves up and down his shaft, his gaze still on Chella. “Lie down,” I tell Chella. “Face first.” She gives me a confused look and I almost smile. But she doesn’t get any smiles from me. Not yet. We’re not even close to the part where I smile with satisfaction. I push her forward until she falls on top of the couch arm, then kick her legs open. She still has her fuck-me heels on. They are pearly white, to match the beads on her ruined dress. And they scuff on the marble, leaving white marks on the dark floor. I position her body so her pussy is pressed into the black leather of the couch arm, and then press her head down so hard she has to turn it to the side and look at Quin, who is sitting just a foot away. Smith is on the other side of Quin and he stands. For a moment, I think he’s gonna stop me. But I’m wrong. He walks over to a chair on the other side of the room and sits down. To get a better view, I realize. I ignore him. Just start rubbing Chella’s upturned ass. She moans a little as I stroke her, my fingers

slipping in between her legs to find her already wet. And then I bring my hand down so hard on her ass cheek, her head lifts up and she squeals. “Hold her head down,” I tell Quin. He does as I ask. But I don’t think he holds her too hard. Just pets her mostly, whispering things in her ear. One hand still on his cock, the other rubbing the redness creeping over her pale skin. He looks at me and I nod, so he takes his hand away and I smack her again. She holds it in better this time, but a few whimpers escape her tightly pressed together lips. “Do you think I’m punishing you, Marcella?” “No,” she whimpers. “I’m not. You’re right.” I smack her again and this time she takes it like a champ. So I keep going. Smack, smack, smack, smack. On and on and on so that’s there’s no time for Quin to ease her pain, or tell her nice things, or make her feel better. Her ass is so red by the time I stop, I can hold my hand two inches above her skin and feel the heat. I reach between her legs and check her again. Sopping wet. I stick three fingers inside her pussy and use a fourth to caress her clit. Whatever she was thinking a few moments ago during her spanking dissipates. She starts moaning and writhing, trying to rub her pussy on the couch arm. I look back at Smith. He’s breathing hard as he jerks off, his eyelids half closed, the longing in his expression enough to urge me forward. I pull her up by her hair and throw her down on the ground. “Kneel,” I say as I unbutton my pants and pull out my cock. I crook a finger at Quin, telling him to stand. He knows what comes next, so he does as I ask. Chella is on the floor between us, but I yank on her hair again and spin her around so she’s facing Smith. I crouch down and take Chella’s face in both my hands, kissing her hard and rough. She is gasping for air. Panting into my mouth. I take her hand and place it on Quin’s cock as I ease back. I want to see the look on her face. She asked me about this last week. Do I touch them? “Yes, Marcella,” I say softly. “I touch them.” I help her jerk Quin off. He’s got his eyes closed. Total ecstasy. I look at Smith but he’s already walking over to us, his hand reaching for Chella’s as I stand up. He takes her hand and places it on my cock and helps her stroke me. Long, slow strokes. Just the way I like it. I close my eyes and sigh, letting go of Quin. It has been a very long time since the three of us have had this together. And this might be the last. So I’m gonna enjoy it.

Chapter Thirty-Six - Smith

Chella’s eyes are already searching for mine by the time I crouch down in front of her. I’m already helping her with Bric, but I don’t stop there. I help her with Quin too. I have to close my eyes and take a moment to stop the thrill from taking control. When I open them again Chella and I are so close, I can’t stop myself. I lean in and kiss her. It’s slow, and soft, and so fucking sweet. “Is this what you wanted?” I ask, pulling away just enough to whisper the words in her mouth. “Yes,” she whispers back. “Should we keep going?” I ask, still helping her jerk off my friends. “Yes,” she moans. “Please. Keep going. I need it, Smith.” Her eyes are wide now. Pleading with me to give her what she needs. “Then let’s do it,” I say, kissing her softly again. “Put them both in your mouth, Chella. Suck them. At the same time.” Bric and Quin both take two steps closer. Giving her access. We are a little circle of lust and longing. In this giant room, we take up no more than three square feet. It’s almost a waste, that’s how little room we require to fulfill Marcella Walcott’s fantasy. She grips their cocks and I let go, letting her wiggle into position. She watches me watch her as she brings their tips to her lips and licks. A sweep of her tongue for Bric. He grabs her hair and urges her on. A kiss for Quin. He reaches for her large breast, squeezing, lifting it up and rubbing it against her chin as she closes her eyes and both cocks enter her mouth, the tips of their swollen heads disappearing for a moment, before she backs off. I take control of her head and turn it towards Bric. She opens for him, takes inside, her tongue pressing flat to accommodate his wide girth. I help her. I pump her head back and forth. I push her, urge her to take him deeper, push her face up to his pants until his entire cock disappears and she begins to gasp for breath. Still, I hold her. I hold her there until she calms down and accepts it. Accepts my control. As soon as she does that I pull her head back, saliva spilling out of her mouth and dripping down her chin. She looks up at me, waiting for what comes next. I turn her head again. Quin’s cock is waiting. Long, and curved. I make it disappear until Quin reaches down and grabs his balls, pressing them up into her mouth, trying to force them inside. She chokes, tries to pull back, but all three of us hold her there until she gives up and breathes through her nose, accepting what we’re giving her. Our eyes are locked together. Black makeup runs down her face. Her hands press against Quin’s thighs, desperate for distance. “Do you trust me?” I ask. Chella nods and we all let go. She falls backwards, her hands reaching back to slap the cold, hard marble, and she sucks in long breaths of air. “Stand up,” I say. Bric grabs her hair and pulls. Not as hard as he usually would. He’s being very gentle with her tonight. When he’s really into the domination stuff, he’s ruthless.

This is him playing nice for my sake. “More?” I ask her “Yes,” she says, wiping her mouth. Quin slaps her hand away and says, “Leave it. We like it wet, Chella.” She looks at him—and I guarantee, she will never see him the same again. I know how sweet Quin can be when he’s alone with them. But I’m also very familiar with how he likes the quad to go. Chella nods at him, then her eyes seek out mine. “Do you want them to fuck you?” I ask. “Right now? At the same time?” She nods. “Speak,” Bric says. “Yes,” she says, looking at Bric for a panicked moment. “Yes.” Quin sits down on the couch, slapping his thigh. “Right here, Chella. Sit on my lap and face Bric.” She inhales, but immediately spreads her legs and begins to position herself on top of Quin so she’s facing Bric. He looks down at her like he wants to eat her for dessert. I ease in closer, my hand on her spread-open pussy. Rubbing, stroking it until she’s looking at me, her mouth open in a little o shape, nothing but moans and whimpers coming out. Bric pulls some lube out of his suit pocket and squeezes some onto the tips of his fingers. He pushes past my hand and spreads it all over her asshole. “You like it in the ass, right, Chella?” he asks. Chella is so consumed with what I’m doing to her pussy, she doesn’t answer. But Bric slaps her tit, making her gasp, and she finds his face like she’s supposed to. “Answer me,” he demands. “Yes,” she squeaks out. “Good,” Bric says, rubbing it all over her asshole. “Because Quin is going to fuck it right now.” I reach down and grab Quin’s cock. He leans back into the couch cushions, his arms tightly gripping her stomach. He’s hard, and thick, and that little curve in his shaft will drive her crazy once he’s inside her. I press it against her asshole, Quin’s hips helping me position him. And then he thrusts. Chella screams. I let go of Quin and lean over her body, my mouth finding her lips. I kiss her as Quin continues on his own. She’s breathing so hard, she can’t even kiss me back. But it doesn’t matter. The only part that matters is that we love what’s happening right now. So I keep kissing her. “You’re beautiful, Chella,” I say. “Relax. Let him take over. Let him take control and just enjoy it.” It takes almost a minute of this for her to give in. But once she does, Quin’s cock slips right inside her asshole and she falls back on to his chest, gasping for more air than she can draw in at once. Bric’s knees come down on the couch on either side of one of Quin’s thighs and he starts playing with her tits, my hand on his cock as I rub it back and forth across her pussy to stimulate her clit. Her whole body clenches up and clear, thin liquid begins to spray out. Bric says, “Holy fuck.” And then he swats my hand away and places himself at her entrance, trying to get inside her. Desperate to get inside her with Quin. I back away until I get to the chair and sit down to enjoy the show, my hand busy on my own cock now. Chella comes as I watch. It took her seconds. But we are not even close to being done. And this will just be one of many orgasms she has tonight.

Chapter Thirty-Seven - Chella

I am writhing against them. Bric’s hard chest covers me, pressing down on me as he moves his cock in and out of my pussy so slowly I want to beg him for more. Quin is holding my stomach tight, his arms a ring, a promise, a claim on my body. It is a rhythm I’ve never experienced before. Slow at first. In, out, in, out. But then they speed up. My body rocking between them. Sliding across Quin’s slick chest. Hands tightly gripping Bric’s strong arms. We are nothing but heaving breathing, and moaning, and sweat. They take me like that. Me, positioned between them. Tight in their hold. I am panting, “Yes. Yes. Fuck me. Fuck me,” like a whore in a porn film. Like the slut I am. But I do not care about labels right now. I will gladly be their whore. I will gladly let them have me. I have no shame. None. I am nothing but want. Nothing but longing. My eyes are tightly closed as I lose myself in a pleasure I have never known existed before. “Open your eyes and look at me,” Bric commands. I try, I really do. But it’s an impossible request. I can’t. I cannot. There is no way— A sharp slap across my face makes me think otherwise. Bric is staring down at me when I obey him, his face a mixture of agony and ecstasy. “Don’t get lost, sweetie,” he says gently. “That’s not how it ends.” “How much more?” I think it in my head, but it comes out of my mouth. “So much more,” Smith says. He was across the room watching the last time I knew. How much time just got away from me as I moaned and writhed in their pleasure? I almost panic at the thought, but Smith is right there, his mouth against mine. Kissing me as Quin and Bric continue to move in and out. To fill me up with every dirty fantasy I’ve ever had. “Stay here,” he says. “Stay here with us, Chella.” I do. I obey. I keep my eyes open and kiss Smith back. I wrap my hands around his neck and pull him so close, we might become one person. “Don’t lose me,” I murmur. My mind is going black with the pleasure. “We won’t,” he says back. Then Bric pulls out and kneels next to me on the couch. He drags my face away from Smith and when he places his cock up to my lips, I’m so eager. I can’t stop myself from sucking him. My hands leave Smith, but he’s pulling away. I have a moment of panic, begin to reach out— “Shhh,” Smith says. He’s between my legs now. His face buried in my pussy as Quin continues to make me crazy with his cock in my ass. Smith’s fingers and tongue. Lapping against the soft skin between my legs. Bric pushing my face into his cock. Pressing his balls up to my chin. So thick and hard. Quin underneath me. Holding me tight. Making sure I don’t get away. Whispering in my ear. Telling me I’m pretty. It goes on, and on, and I’m losing time, and myself, and my place in the world. I am trying to forget and remember. But I have no shame left. I push it all away and just… Come all over Smith’s mouth. He laps me up like he’s so hungry. Like he’s starving and I’m the only nourishment he needs.

“Is this what it takes?” Smith asks, pausing to look up at me from between my legs. I stop moving, but they never stop. Their hands are everywhere on my body. Every place that feels good. “What?” I breathe. “This,” Smith asks. “Is this what it takes to make you happy? Is this what you want in your box?” I am lost. I know it. I am losing myself in this game we’re playing. The diamonds around my throat are choking me with lust. Everything is going black and I don’t care. I am gone. I am lost. I no longer exist. It’s just me and my sickness. My disgusting sickness. The addiction I’ve been pushing away for so long overtakes me again. And I’m floating in ecstasy as I beg. I beg and it fills me with shame. All the shame that should’ve prevented me from going through with this in the first place. And I don’t care. I don’t care. I just want… more. I’m saying it. Screaming it. “More, more, more.” I hear them talking to me. Barking out commands. But I don’t care. I just want to give in. “Just one more time, I promise. Just one more time and I’ll be good. I swear. I will. Just one more—” Everything stops. The black recedes. “No,” I hear myself saying. I’m crying. I’m sobbing. “No, no, no. Don’t stop! Please—” A hard slap across my face makes me stop. Another, and another. I begin to breathe again. Sucking down air as so many hands take control of me. So many hands. On my face, More slaps. I am lifted up. Carried somewhere. “Don’t stop,” I sob. “I swear I’ll never do it again. I promise. Just don’t—” “Chella!” Smith’s loud shout finally reaches my ears. He’s holding me. Cradling me like a baby as I cry. I don’t know how long I stay like that. But when I realize that I’m not really alone. That they are all still there. I open my eyes and whisper, “I’m sorry.” Quin is the first face I see. He’s leaning against me, petting my hair. His eyes are red and worried. Like he’s upset and that just makes me want to cry more. “I’m sorry,” I say. “Shh,” Quin says. “Just…” He takes in a deep breath and lets it out. “Just be still now, Chella. We’re here. We’ve got you.” I look over and find Bric. He’s got his hand up to his chin like he’s thinking very hard about me. He gives me a weak smile and then sits down on the bed. I’m in a bed, I realize. Bric is touching my face, his cool fingers so good against my cheek. “Are you OK?” “That’s enough,” Smith says. He’s still holding me in his arms, his hard chest against my bare back. He pulls me even tighter and says it again. “That’s enough. Leave us alone for a little bit.” We sit there in the dark quiet. I breathe because that’s the only thing I know how to do. Inhale. Exhale. “I want to go home,” I finally say. I feel Smith nod underneath me. But then he stops. “No.” “I really need to go home.” “You are home, Chella.” I look around and realize they brought me to my own apartment at the Club. I’m in my bed. There’s the

capitol building outside my window. There’s the snow that never seems to stop these days. There’s the city that I didn’t grow up in. “You know what I find odd?” Smith asks after a few minutes of silence. “What?” I ask. “You never had bad dreams with Quin or Bric. At first I thought it was me.” “Smith—” “Shhh,” he says. “Just listen. I thought it was me. That I scared you. But then that night we spent with Bric, you didn’t have bad dreams then either. And I started to wonder about that. Wonder if your house was the reason you had the nightmares. The sleepwalking.” “I don’t sleepwalk.” “You absolutely do, Chella. You walked out of the house once. Twice, actually, but I stopped you the first time before you got out the door. The second time you got all the way down the street. You were dressed. You had a coat. You had your purse. You were going somewhere. Where were you going?” I start to cry again. “I didn’t tell Bric. I should’ve. We could’ve seen this coming. But I didn’t want to think—I didn’t want him to tell me—that I might be the problem. I liked you too much to even consider giving you up.” “Is that why you stayed away from me that one weekend?” “Yeah.” He sighs. “I thought it was me until we had that night with Bric. You were so sweet that night, Chella. So sweet to sleep with. Not the fucking. I don’t care about the fucking. You cuddled up to me and wrapped your arms around me.” He sighs again. “And I realized it probably wasn’t me. It was a relief and—eye-opening, too. I guess. Because up until that moment, I swear to God, Marcella Walcott, I thought the world revolved around me.” I smile, even though I feel so fucking ashamed of myself right now. “And I know that most kids learn pretty early that they are not the center of the universe, but I always was. I had so many contradicting opinions thrown at me as a kid. Sometimes I was important because I was a billionaire’s heir. Sometimes I was important because I was so defective. And it was so contradictory, you know.” I turn in his arms so I can lay my head on his chest and see his face. It’s too dark to see anything in his eyes but a little glimmer of light from outside. “I was everyone’s whole world, good or bad. Love me or hate me. I was the problem. I was the center of all things happening in my life. Until I met you.” I close my eyes and let it happen. Let the darkness take me. Just give in. “It wasn’t a peek, was it, Chella?” I shake my head and begin to cry. “Shh,” he says, smoothing my hair down. “It wasn’t a peek for you at all. It was a part of you.” “I’m sorry, Smith. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you how fucked up I am.” “It’s all right. I’m not mad. Not even close. But I do want to know what happened. Because… Chella, you are the center of my world now. I’m sorry too. I’m sorry you’re stuck with me. But you are. I’m kind of a dick when I don’t get my way. And I like to be in control and call the shots. And there’s no changing my mind once I’ve made it up. So you’re stuck with me.” I don’t know what to say. “I know you want an answer, but I’m not there yet. I have no answers. That’s why I’m here. I’m doing my best to figure out what the fuck is wrong with me.” “Why us?” he says. “How could we possibly be your answer? We are three very fucked-up men who share a girl like she’s candy. We play with her emotions and pull her in every direction we can think of, until she goes crazy and leaves. I just…” He stops for a moment. “I just really didn’t think we were doing that with you. But I guess I was wrong. I’m the one who’s sorry, Chella. I think we’re the ones who fucked you up.”



Chapter Thirty-Eight - Smith

“You’re not,” she says. “Then tell me what happened. You blacked out, Chella. You were talking crazy. Screaming not to stop. Yelling and making promises to be good. What the fuck was that all about?” She’s quiet. For a long time. I am just about to give in to sleep when she finally says something. “My life was a secret like yours.” “Where did you go? And don’t tell me some bullshit answer about church.” She’s quiet again. But then she takes in a deep breath and says, “I’ve been seeing a doctor for seven years.” “Why?” I ask, sitting up in bed so she has to sit up too. I need to see her face for this. I can’t miss a moment of it. “I’m…” She shakes her head. “I’m… sick.” I grab her face and hold it tight. “How? How are you sick?” “I’m broken. In the head, that’s all, Smith.” She tries to get up, but I grab her hand. More roughly than I intend, but I’m not letting her walk out now. “You don’t get to say that and leave, Chella. Fuck that. You’re not leaving until you tell me what’s happening to you.” “I’m sick,” she says, loudly. “OK? I’m sorry, but I don’t owe you an explanation.” “The fuck you don’t,” I say. “I love you, dammit. And if you’re sick and need help, then I’m gonna make sure you get it and get better.” “You can’t fix me,” she yells. “No one can fix me but me.” She yanks her hand away and this time I let her go. “Tell me why you came here,” I say as I watch her go into the closet and start getting dressed. “To fuck you, Smith,” she says. Trying her best to be mean. “I came to fuck you. And your friends, OK?” She pulls a pair of jeans on and then stops to look at me. “Does that make it all better? Because that’s the truth. I knew who you were. I knew what you guys did with Rochelle. She and I planned it.” “What?” Quin asks from the bedroom door. I had no idea they were still here, but they are. Bric is standing behind Quin, shaking his head at me. Let her go, he mouths. Don’t do this. Not now. I’m going to listen to him. I have every intention of listening to him. But Quin… “What the fuck did you and Rochelle plan, Chella? I think you owe me an answer.” Chella is pulling on a sweater now. “Why don’t you ask Bric why she left? Remember when you told me you thought Smith paid her off? To get her to leave?” “What?” It’s my turn to be confused now. “I never did that.” “I know,” Chella says, slipping her feet into some shearling boots. I’m suddenly having a flashback to the first night we found her. “Bric did.” Quin spins around. “Is that true?” “Look—” “Answer me, asshole,” Quin yells. “Did you tell her leave? Did you pay her off?” “He didn’t pay her off,” Chella says. “He gave her an ultimatum.”

“What ultimatum?” Quin pushes Bric back with two hands to his chest. “What did you fucking tell her?” “He told her to get an abortion,” Chella says, grabbing her purse. “That’s what he told her.” And then she pushes both of them out of the doorway and walks off. I jump out of bed and follow her down the hall. Bric follows me, silent. But Quin follows both of us, asking about… fuck, I can’t even process it. I only care about where the fuck Chella is going. “How do you know this?” He’s screaming by the time we all get out onto the hallway. “How, Chella? You said you didn’t know.” “I didn’t.” She whirls around, her long hair flying out in all directions. “Until yesterday. We saw the same sex therapist, Quin. And I went in for an appointment to tell her about our plans for last night and she gave me an update on Rochelle because we were in therapy together and she felt I needed to know before I…” Chella stops talking, looking conflicted. “Before I took this final step with you guys. So she told me why she left.” She points at Bric. “And he’s why. She got pregnant, Quin. And she went to Bric for advice because she didn’t know whose baby it was. Yours or his. And he told her to get an abortion. So there. You’ve got your answer. Now you have no excuse not to go find her.” She punches the call button for the elevator and it’s just our luck that the fucking thing opens, waiting patiently. Like it was in on her escape plan. I follow her in. Hell, all three of us follow her in. She’s busy texting someone. “Chella,” I say, grabbing her by the shoulders. “You’re saying this because you don’t want to tell me about yourself. This isn’t about Rochelle.” She punches the button for the first floor and the doors begin to close. “I don’t owe you an explanation,” she says. “Game over, Smith. Game. Over.” I look at Bric, who is frowning so hard, I have a stab of pain in my chest for him. Did he really tell Rochelle to get an abortion? That pain turns to sickness in my stomach. Quin is silent now. Standing still. Saying nothing. Dead look on his face as he considers what this means. As he comes to terms with the truth. Rochelle was pregnant. She had an abortion and she left because of… not him, he realizes. We both look at Bric at the same time. The elevator doors open and Chella bolts. We follow her out, all three of us talking at once. “Chella,” Bric says, “Please. Stop. Let’s just talk—” “Chella,” Quin tries at the same time. “Who is your therapist? Chella!” “Chella,” I say, “Stop. Talk to me. Tell me what’s happening.” “Fuck you,” she says, lashing out at all of us as she makes the stairs and starts hopping down them as fast as she can. “Game over!” She yells it so loud it echoes off the lobby ceiling. There is only a doorman and a valet here right now. It’s almost dawn, the day just beginning. We follow her down the stairs. All three of us trying to chase her down, breaking that final rule we never thought we’d have to break. The valet has to step aside so Chella doesn’t plow him over as she enters the revolving door and pushes. I get there just in time to slip in with her. “Chella,” I say, grabbing her shoulder. She turns on me, mouth an angry line. “Don’t touch me!” We get outside and she stops, confused for a moment. Maybe wondering if she’s got her car here. She doesn’t. I know this. “Let me take you home,” I say. But then Quin and Bric are outside with us. We are all half-dressed in tuxedos. I don’t even have shoes

on and everyone on the street is looking at us like we are a some kind of massive trainwreck. Chella notices the attention the same time I do and stops to take a deep breath. She turns to me, smiling. “I do not want to be part of a public scene,” she says sweetly. “Never again. Give me this one last consideration, at least.” Quin and Bric stop next to me. We are nothing but questions and guilt. “Marcella,” a deep, stern voice calls from across the street. “Oh, that’s just fucking great,” Chella says, throwing up her arms. “Have you been following me again? Just what the fuck?” “Who the hell—” Quin starts. But we all recognize him before Quin can finish his sentence. Her father.

Chapter Thirty-Nine - Bric

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath. “Let’s go back inside.” I grab Chella by the shoulder, but she turns on me. Turns on me. “Don’t,” she seethes. “This is over, Bric. I’m not going back inside. I’m not talking to any of you ever again. And I’m not—” “Marcella,” Senator Walcott says, grabbing her by the arm and spinning her around. “Why are you following me again?” she asks, her voice high and loud. “You got what you wanted, right? You got your brand-spanking new family. Shiny new baby on the way. Wife younger than me. I hate you,” she screams. “I hate you so much!” And then she starts sobbing uncontrollably. I look at Smith and he’s dying right now. Right before my eyes. I look at Quin and he’s already dead. “He didn’t stop her,” Chella says, pulling on my suit coat. “Do you hear me, Bric? He never stopped her.” “Marcella,” the senator says. “Get in the car.” We all look at the long black car across the street. “We can discuss this in private.” But Chella is still tugging on my coat, looking up at me with her big blue eyes, begging me to listen. “He let her take me all over the world, Bric. All over to these awful places.” “Why, Chella?” I ask. “What happened?” “Marcella,” her father roars. “I said—” “You shut the fuck up,” Smith interjects. “Right now! Just shut the fuck up!” “You don’t even know her,” the senator barks back at Smith. “You have no idea who she really is.” “Well, I’ve only known her a month,” Smith spits through his teeth. “What’s your fucking excuse?” “Do you know how it ended?” Chella asks me, pulling me back to her. She is tugging on my suit coat so hard, I have to bend down. But then she whirls and looks at her father. “They came for me,” she sobs. “She brought them to me. They had a knife and they held me down. They said—” “Chella,” I say, taking her in my arms. “What’s going on? What happened to you?” “They were gonna cut me, Bric. Cut me here,” she sobs, pointing between her legs. “We were in Sudan for a mission with the church and I got a boyfriend when I was seventeen. But I had already lived through hell. My mother used to tie my hands to my bed when I was a kid so I couldn’t touch myself. She called me a whore when I was nine. When I was ten she started taking me on missions. All over the world. To try to control me. She told me I was dirty. And if she caught me doing anything even remotely sexual—like climbing a fucking tree!” She screams this at her father—“she’d tie me up.” “Jesus fucking Christ,” Smith says, rubbing her arm. Even Quin is back, holding onto Chella’s shoulder. “When I was just a little girl she used to put splints on my arms so I couldn’t reach between my legs. And that day… that day in Sudan… she gathered up all the old women and they came for me. She begged them, Bric! She told them I needed to be saved and only they could do it. They held me down, Bric! They were going to mutilate me!”

She whirls around to face her father again. “And do you want to know how I escaped that fate?” She spits on him. Right in his face. “That boyfriend went and got his father and uncles and they had to threaten them. They told those old women I was the president’s daughter and if they touched me the whole village would be bombed in retaliation.” She turns back to me, sobbing so hard I can barely understand her words. “They took me to the US Embassy and I got sent home. And then I ran away—” But she can’t take it anymore. She crumples, Smith catching her in his arms as she buckles over. I swallow hard and look at her father. “You need to leave. Right now.” “I hope you die,” Chella mumbles. She pushes Smith off her and stand to look at her father. “I want you to feel the way I feel. I want you to be held down and—” A horn honks as a silver BMW pulls up alongside us. “Get in, Chella,” a woman says. The passenger side window is down. Chella looks at the car, then starts crying again as she runs for the curb, throws the door open, and gets in. We watch in silence as she is driven away. And then we turn back to deal with the senator, but he’s already making for his car. Maybe to follow her? Maybe to escape the truth he was just handed by his very broken daughter? No one cares. “Why the fuck,” Smith says, “did Lucinda Chatwell just drive up and take Chella away?” “Because Lucinda is Chella’s sex therapist.” I sigh, just now putting all the pieces together. “She and Rochelle were seeing the same therapist. That’s how all this happened.” “You knew about this,” Quin says, his anger back. “Just like you knew why Rochelle left.” “I didn’t,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose as I walk back towards the Club. “I didn’t know any of that. And I didn’t know that she got an abortion, Quin. I was just giving her options.” “Options,” Quin seethes. “And you decided I didn’t get to know about it? That was one of the options?” “I didn’t know,” I say. But I should’ve.

Chapter Forty - Chella

“How are you feeling now, Chella?” Dr. Chatwell asks me. I’m lying on her couch in her office. The lights are dim and the curtains are closed to keep the sunlight out. She gave me a light sedative. To help me cope, she explained. “Very stupid,” I answer honestly. “Why?” “Because you warned me.” She did too. She told me it would be a very messy exit. And I don’t think they come any messier than that. “And I refused to believe you. I thought I could handle it.” “Did something bad happen last night?” she asks in her calm voice. “Not at first. At first it was…” I sigh, thinking about it. “Wonderful. Just how I thought it would be.” “Just like the fantasy you imagined?” “Yes.” “And where did things start to go wrong?” “I blacked out, I think. Near the end.” “Why?” “It felt good.” “That’s it?” she asks. “It was perfect and wonderful. And it just felt… it felt…” “It made you feel something?” she offers. “Yes.” “What did it make you feel, Chella?” “Happy,” I say, trying not to cry. “And why do you think that you blacked out at that point?” “Because feeling good about sex is wrong.” “But we know that’s not true, right?” I nod, drawing in a deep breath. “It’s the shame. The shame my mother made me feel about it all growing up. It’s natural. And if consenting adults agree, it’s normal, no matter how they like it.” She’s silent, but I know her well enough to understand she’s nodding her head at me. After seven years of being on her couch, trying to work all this shame out of my fucked-up mind, I know her just as well as she knows me. And we’ve been over this a million times. I am consumed with shame. My mother put it in my head for over a decade. She subjected me to relentless ostracizing and punishments. My father refused to stop her. And yes, it’s all their fault… but I’m the only one who can make it go away. “I don’t think Smith, or Quin, or Bric are the problem here. Do you?” “No,” I admit. “They’re not. I am.” “Do you remember the session we had just before Rochelle left?” “We taped it.” “Yes. And we promised each other that we’d watch it together when things got bad. To understand why the two of you made these decisions.” “But Rochelle’s gone.”

“We don’t need Rochelle to work on you, Chella. Do you want to watch it? So you can get some perspective? Remember why you wanted to play that game to begin with?” I’m silent. I don’t know if I want to see that tape. I don’t know if I can handle it. I was so sure I was… cured. Even though I knew then, and I know now, I don’t have a disease. I can’t be cured because there is nothing wrong with me. It’s all in my head. My mother’s voice. Her disapproving looks and comments. Her— “We don’t have to,” she says in her conciliatory tone. “But you were excited. Remember?” I nod, my eyes trying to close tighter. “You were ready. And it was Rochelle who was crying that day, remember?” “I know why now,” I sob. “Why, Chella?” “Because they’re really good guys. She didn’t want to leave them. Not even Smith. She wanted things to be different and she didn’t know how to do that so she had to leave to figure it out.” I stop to breathe for a few moments. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…” “Didn’t realize what?” she prods. “I just didn’t expect to like them.” “You thought it would easy? And you’d develop no feelings for them?” “Yes,” I say, barely a whisper. “I like them too. But we need to move on now and decide what you’re going to do.” “About what?” I ask, opening my eyes. “Well,” she says. “You told me you had two things left on your checklist that were needed to help yourself heal. From the past. You wanted to confront your father, which you did. Very nicely, Bric tells me.” “You talked to Bric?” “He’s in the waiting room right now. But let’s concentrate on you for a moment more. You confronted your father with who you are and what happened to you. What your mother did to you. How do you feel now? Do you wish you hadn’t done that?” “No.” I smile. “Are you proud of yourself?” “Yes,” I say, sitting up. My head is pounding, so I massage my temples with my fingertips. “I wish I could say it all again, only this time not cry.” “I think the crying made it more effective. Because it was you showing him how badly you were hurting.” “True,” I concede. “And you needed to live that final sexual fantasy that you said, and I quote, ‘makes me feel dirty.’ Do you think it was dirty, Chella?” “No,” I say, lifting my head to look her in the eyes. “I don’t. Not at all. It was… nice.” “Do you want to do it again?” I shake my head. “No. It’s not dirty, but it’s very confusing.” She smiles at me. “I would agree. You know, I had a meeting with Bric the other day to tell him Clark and I were withdrawing our membership. We’re ready to move on as well. In fact, we’re leaving for Europe next month. We’re going to spend six months just traveling and having fun.” “You bitch,” I say. “What will I do without you?” I laugh, but I’m really not kidding. She’s been my rock for seven years. Lucinda just smiles at me. “You’re done, Chella. You set out to heal yourself and now you’ve done that.” “But that was a catastrophe, Lucinda. It was a disaster. In public, for fuck’s sake.”

“Do you think these things end with a whimper?” “But my longing?” I say. “It’s still there!” She laughs at me. “Who do you long for?” “Who? It’s the dirty sex I long for. You know this. I’ve been coming here all these years trying to get rid of it. But these guys… these guys just made me like it more. I might not want to do it with all three of them, but I definitely don’t see myself in the missionary position the rest of my life.” She laughs again. “Your longing is normal. And completely under control, Chella. I think if you had confronted your father first, your experience would’ve ended the way you envisioned. You walking out satisfied and happy. But the two got mixed. The end result, however, is still positive. You went looking for your final answers and you got them. Now it’s time to settle down, think about it for a little bit. And make a decision.” “What decision?” I ask. “Do you love Smith Baldwin? Or were all those conversations we had about him over the past month just some silly crush?” I just stare at her. “Don’t worry.” She smiles. “I’m not the one who needs to hear that answer. Take your time and think about it. Then… go find him. Give him that present you promised.” “He’s gonna think I’m insane and stupid.” “He’s going to laugh,” she says, smiling. “And give you a great big hug. Now let me bring Bric in. He’s out of his mind with worry.” I stand up as she goes to the door. She doesn’t invite him in immediately, but instead closes the door behind her so they can have a preliminary chat. I hope I don’t look like shit. I feel like shit… But I really don’t want to look like shit. A few seconds later the door opens. I turn and find Bric, closing it behind him. “I’m sorry,” I say before he even says hello. “I’m sorry it ended that way.” He smiles at me and takes in a deep breath. “It was your story, Chella. You can have it end any way you want.” “Do you hate me? For telling Quin?” “Why would I hate you for telling the truth?” he says. And then walks over to me and pulls me into a hug. “I don’t hate you. It had to come out. Somehow, some day. He had to know what happened. She came to me late last summer and told me she was pregnant. I was… a little stunned. And I don’t know if you ever knew this about me, but I went to school with Lucinda. We were in med school together.” “You’re a doctor?” “No,” he says. “I never finished my residency in psychiatry. I quit and never went back. Smith came into my life like a fucking tornado with all these big ideas about saving the world. I’m not a doctor, but I play amateur when people have issues at the club. I send them all to Lucinda, of course—she’s the Club psychiatrist and it’s mandatory, anyway. I sent Rochelle to her almost two years ago, when she was thinking about leaving us. I didn’t want her to leave. I liked her well enough. And knew Quin liked her a lot. I just wanted to keep things the same. I’m a man of habit.” “And then I came along and fucked it up.” “No,” he says. “You didn’t. And I’m relieved, actually. Now Quin and I can figure it out together. Like we should’ve last summer.” “Is he talking to you?” “No.” Bric laughs. “But he will. Eventually. Friendships can endure a lot. Even this, I hope.” “And Smith?” I ask. “He’s gonna give you the space you need.” “Did you order him to do that?”

“I don’t give Smith Baldwin orders, Chella.” He laughs. “It was his idea. And don’t jump to conclusions and think that he wants to walk away. Just take your time and then go find him.”

Chapter Forty-One - Smith

“What’s up?” I ask Bric as he comes into my bar in the Club. I told him—begged him—to go after Chella. I promised him I would not, if he did. He and Lucinda are still good friends. I’m hoping he has something to tell me and I want to ask him how it went, but I’m afraid. I can’t even look him in the eyes. “I just got back from Chella’s house.” I have to look up for this. “And?” Bric lets out a deep breath. “She’s been seeing Lucinda for seven years.” “Why?” “It’s complicated. And I don’t know the whole story, but I’m gonna assume it was based on the sexual guilt and sense of shame that her mother instilled in her as a child and growing up.” I look back down at my hands. “I want to kill that man. I keep hearing Chella’s words in my head. What they did her. What almost happened to her…” “Lucinda didn’t tell me everything, but she did say this was the final stage in Chella letting go of it. I think that outburst on the street was something of a catharsis.” I think about our dinner with her father. How she reacted—or didn’t react—to all those nasty things he said. How she just took it, then closed herself off to be sad alone. Then pretended it never happened the next day. I think about the nightmares and the sleepwalking. How it’s probably all connected. And then I just… hate myself for not seeing her more clearly. “We talked,” Bric continues. “She’s feeling better.” “Does she hate me?” I look up at him again. “For bringing her into this game?” “No,” he says. “I’m pretty sure it was her idea. Like I said, Lucinda can’t tell me everything. But she hinted that Rochelle and Chella set this up together. First, so Rochelle could leave and have someone take her place. Probably for Quin’s sake. And second, I think this was Chella’s fantasy. I didn’t get the feeling she was coerced. She came on her own. And stayed on her own, too, Smith.” “I don’t know what to do,” I admit. “I’m always the cool one, you know. The guy in control. The guy with everything figured out. And here I am, so fucking lost. I don’t even have a house,” I say, looking up again. “What?” Bric asks, his brow furrowed. “A house. Or a job. I’m playing by all these rules, you know. Rules I just make up whenever things go wrong so I can try to find a logical way past the problem instead of dealing with it.” “You do good things, Smith. Don’t ever think you don’t.” But I’m not sure about that. Money, yeah. I have a lot of it. And I give it all away. It felt good for years to do that. To have that kind of power over people. Corporations. But now it just feels… very self-righteous. Self-indulgent, if I’m being honest. “I think I’m going about this all wrong,” I say, standing up. “How do you figure?” Bric asks. But I don’t answer. I just walk out. I need to rethink things. Everything.

Chapter Forty-Two - Quin

“Rochelle?” I say into the phone after the beep. She still has voicemail picking up this number, so I’m hoping it’s still one she checks. “I’m sorry. I just found out about… about the abortion. And I’m so fucking sorry. I wish I would’ve been there for you. I really…” I don’t know what else to say. What can I say? How the hell do you fix something like this? “I just want to see you again. I’d beg if I thought it would do me any good, but I know you better. You told me once that everyone thinks you’re flighty and stupid because you’re easy-going. But you’re really very decisive, and once you make up your mind and commit to something, you stick it out no matter what.” I guess that’s why we lasted so long. She was just trying to stick it out. She did, after all, go to Bric with her problem. Not me. Not me. “But I just want you to know… I lo—” Beep. “The voice mailbox you’re trying to reach is full.” I just look at the phone. Really? This is how it ends? Really? I throw it across the room and yell.

Chapter Forty-Three - Chella

I sit out on my back courtyard on New Year’s Eve, my hands tucked into my coat pockets, and watch the snow falling down. It’s so thick, it looks like a curtain. I came home yesterday and found this here. Sitting out in the middle of the snow, covered in flakes, like it’s always been there. The two ballet children from Matisse’s exhibit. There was a note attached from Smith. Dear Chella, I think this is a better Christmas present for you. I never had the childhood I imagined either, but it was perfect compared to yours. So when you look at this sculpture, think of better times. Think of us. Love, Smith I’m not sure what to think about it, to be honest. I love the sculpture. A lot. I check my watch and it’s three minutes till midnight. Three minutes and another year is over. But the gift just isn’t enough for me anymore. I have been considering my options all week and I finally called Bric last night to help me make a decision. So I sent Smith a note back this morning. I smile, thinking about my note. And then I laugh. “Hey,” Smith says from behind me. I turn my head to find him standing in my patio doorway, half in, half out, of the house. “Hey,” I say back. “I got your note,” he says, holding up the linen napkin from the Club. “And I have to say, Marcella Walcott, you have made me very curious. Again.” I nod, trying to stop my smile. But then why should I? He’s here and that makes me happy. “I figured out what I wanted to put in the box.” He holds the napkin up. “I know. You said this in the note.” He steps out into the courtyard. He’s wearing a dark winter coat and a nice suit. His thousand-dollar shoes drop six inches into the snow, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “Is that it?” he asks, motioning to the blue Tiffany box I pick up off a table. “You only get one anything present, Chella. I hope it’s really what you want.” “It is,” I say, waiting for him to join me on the bench. I cleared off a spot for him when I came out here twenty minutes ago, but snow is already piling up. He doesn’t care about that either. He just sits down.

“Do you like it?” he asks, pointing to the sculpture. “You know I do. But I like this present better,” I say, shaking the box. “Are you going to tell me what it is?” “Eventually,” I say. But then I pull another box out of my coat pocket. This one is long and thin, about the size of an envelope. “But I need to give you your present first. You gave me two already and I never even gave you one.” “I don’t need presents,” he says, wrapping his warm hand around my cold one. “Right. I know that. But I think you’re wrong. And I think you gave me a hint that very first night we became friends.” “Friends?” He raises one eyebrow. “Lovers?” I ask back. “Both?” he says. We laugh. “Open it,” I say, handing him the box. His box is white with a black ribbon. I will never see black and white quite the same way after my experience at the Club. But it reminds me of happiness. Of all the things that made a difference to me. One month, that’s all I had with them. Just one month. And it was enough to change me forever. “You know, people have been giving me daily presents for more than a decade. Shoes, and a place to crash. A car to drive me around.” “Those are all good gifts, Smith,” I say, squeezing his hand. “But a present is something different. A present is something you don’t need, but want. So open it.” I catch him grinning that one-sided dimpled smile as he reaches for the white ribbon and pulls the bow apart. He lifts the lid off the box and stares at what’s inside. “What?” He laughs. “I took a big risk with this. Don’t laugh.” “What is this?” he says, taking the papers out of the envelope to hold them up to the light. “We’re going to Finland?” “I like the way you say we, Mr. Baldwin.” He looks through the itinerary. “What did you do?” he asks, shaking his head. “Your dream. Remember? That first night. A puppy and a trip to the Arctic to see the Northern Lights. We have to wait on the puppy. I didn’t think it was fair to choose your puppy for you.” “We?” I bite my lip and smile as I pick up my box and take the lid off. He looks inside and laughs. Loud. He holds up the linen napkin and reads it. “Us.” “I put us in the box, Mr. Baldwin. So if you really want to be true to your word, you will get on that plane with me tomorrow afternoon and fifteen hours later we’ll be lounging on a big bed, in a glass igloo, somewhere near Helsinki, in a town I can’t pronounce or spell, looking up at the Northern Lights. Or… at least one of us will. I guess it depends on who takes the bottom.” He shakes his head, smiling so big, I see a whole different person underneath. “I already told Lucinda I’m not a missionary kind of girl, so—” “Hey,” he says, his fingers coming up to take my face and turn it towards him. He kisses me, soft and sweet. “There’s always reverse cowgirl.” “I missed you this week.” I whisper in his mouth. “I won’t let it happen again. From now on, I get you every night. Every day and every night.” “Which brings me back to the other thing I put in the box.” “There’s more?” he asks. “Are you getting greedy, Miss Walcott?” “Yes,” I say, kissing him again. “So very, very greedy. I think we need more greed in our lives, Smith Baldwin. I think we’re done giving to others for a little bit. Nine days and ten nights, to be exact. So let’s

throw caution to the wind.” I reach in to the box, pull out a little notebook and hold it up. “The Rules,” he says, reading the cover. “You have rules?” “Mmm-hmm,” I say. “Open it up and read them.” He opens it and chuckles. “There are no rules.” “That’s right,” I say. “There are no rules.”

Epilogue - Bric

The year has flown by and today is the first day of my summer vacation. We close the Club for the summer. Starting June first, I am a free man until the Labor Day weekend party. I like June first. It’s empty here. Everything is covered with white sheets to keep the dust at bay and the only bar with booze is Smith’s. Which really isn’t Smith’s anymore, since he moved out in January. Every once in a while, he brings Chella to the White Room for dinner. But only Monday through Thursday. He’s not even a member anymore, so it’s public days only for them. The Club phone rings down at the valet station. I ignore it and take another sip of brandy. I’m heading to the airport in about twenty minutes. A long trip around the world. Ten countries, two full months of travel. And a new girl I found a few months ago. She’s nothing special, they never are. But everyone needs company when they go out in public. The ringing stops and I lean back in my chair, going through the year in my head. It’s been a good year so far. Quin doesn’t talk to me much. But he’s still a member. We decided not to get another girl since Smith was out. The threesome thing—it’s just not the same as a quad. Besides, he’s still pretty pissed at me. We looked for Rochelle but there was no trace. And I did my best with Lucinda. Either she doesn’t know where she went, or she’s never saying. They’re traveling too. So Quin and I decided to drop it until Lucinda gets back in September. Maybe we’ll give it another try then. Maybe we won’t. I’m hoping for won’t. I finish my drink and set the glass in the sink, then hop down the stairs to the front of the lobby, so I can turn around and look up. I always do this before I leave for the summer. I love this Club. The phone rings again, and since I’m standing near the valet desk, I reach over and pick it up. “Turning Point, how can I help you?” Silence. “Hello?” I ask. There’s a shuffling noise and then some heavy breathing. “OK, perverts. Give it a rest, will ya? You’re creeping out my wait staff.” We’ve been getting these prank calls for weeks now, and I’m tired of it. I’m just about to hang up when I hear a voice. “Bric?” I bring the phone back to my ear. “Rochelle?” Silence. “Rochelle? Is that you?” And then I hear a baby cry. “Rochelle?” I ask, more insistent. “Rochelle, talk to me. Is that you? Are you OK?” “I’m sorry,” she says. The baby cries again and she makes a little shushing sound. “Just tell him I’m sorry.” And then the line goes dead.

GET THE SECOND BOOK, TURNING BACK, HERE.

END OF BOOK SHIT

Welcome to the End of Book Shit. I write these in place of an author’s note at the end of each book just to let out my thoughts about the story. Sometimes I really have a lot to say. Sometimes I’m worried about certain topics in the book and I feel the need to write about them. But oddly, I have nothing controversial to say about this ménage thing at all. I really don’t think this book is all that controversial. It’s just a love story. I tried telling this to Jana Aston. She likes straight contemporary romances and, as you know, I really don’t write those. But I thought I had in this one. I really did. Until she read it and messaged me something along the lines of “What the fuckity-fuck, fuck was that?” I was like, “What? What’s wrong?” “That wasn’t a straight love story. My mind is spinning.” I’m paraphrasing. Let me just get a screenshot of this message stream. Please hold. OK. I forgot that most of the conversation happened on the phone. In the paperback version of the EOBS I used the screenshots. It’s 100% different and you can read them. It’s fucking funny.. But trying to format images on the ebook is kinds of a nightmare. So I’m going to skip it for the ebook version. But let’s just say - the fuckity-fuck reference from Jana was pretty close. I don’t think this book is that twisted. Like at all. I think this book is probably more contemporary romance than anything I’ve written. So it has quad ménage? There were no guns, people. Not even a mention. Wait. Wait. I take it back. Fucking Chella had to go and pull a gun on Smith when he broke into her house. Dammit. I really thought I left the guns out this time. But no one died! Ha. And the mother three years does not count. So there. This is the JA Huss version of contemporary romance. The weirdest thing about this story is where it came from. Straight out of The Forbidden City episode in Seinfeld. That’s right people, you see how contemporary this romance is? Came from Seinfeld. Well, the concept did. Underground Sex Club. For some reason in my head it was set in Montreal, that’s why I have all these French names. But I’ve only been there once and the thought of trying to do research on a city—a French speaking city at that—was just a big no. Write what you know. And I know Denver. So… yeah. I remember back in like 2014 someone wrote a review and it said something like - “I had no idea Denver was such a hot spot for erotic modeling?” It was snarky and she was making fun of me, I think. But I thought it was funny. So that’s how this started. Just your everyday, underground, forbidden city, sex club. That was a while ago. I got this idea like two years ago and I’ve been thinking about it ever since. Trying to piece it together and have it make sense for each of the characters. Trying to flesh out the world inside Turning Point Club.. By the time I actually sat down to write it (started this book on December 5th finished it on December 31) everything had changed. I didn’t want a seedy underground club. I wanted

something stable, and luxurious, and filled with people from The Great Gatsby - minus the killing, mind you. And I wanted it to be highly structured. The idea for the game came long after the rules, which is kinda funny. The rules came from the premise of how each man would fill a need for Chella. Quin was the easygoing friends with benefits. Bric was a date for public events and parties. And Smith was the one she’d fall in love with. It’s just a peek. That was the very first thing I wrote for this series. I built the whole story around a girl who liked the dark side a little more than she was comfortable with and had a lot of bottled up shame. And I’m really happy with the characters. I think if you were going to do something like this, you couldn’t find a better trio of men to take care of you than Quin, Bric, and Smith. :) Rochelle was a huge part of the initial story. And it always started with her missing and Chella taking her place in the bed. I wanted to keep Rochelle as part of this story too because I always knew she’d have to face the music eventually. And that’s book two, which is already up for pre-order. It’s called Turning Back and now that you’ve read the end of Taking Turns, I’m sure you can see where this is headed. There will probably be four books in this series, but each story is it’s own. Especially the last one. That book is probably more like a spin-off because Turning Point Club kind of intrigues me. So many, many possibilities for stories in that place. The next book coming in 2017 is Anarchy Missing. And it’s weird, because I came up with the concept for that series around the same time as Turning Series. Only Anarchy is all about having sex with supervillains. Lol. Well, falling in love with them too. So that’s going to come out next. The audiobook for The Turning Series was picked up by Podium Publishing (as was Anarchy Series) and they are in production. Should be out soon. If you haven’t read 321 yet, I recommend you pick that up ASAP. It’s a lot like this book, and nothing at all like this book. You can find it here If you enjoyed Taking Turns please consider leaving me a review where you purchased it. I’d really appreciate that. And you don’t have to write anything earth shattering. Just a few lines with your thoughts is just fine. :) One more thing - if you would like to chat with me on Facebook, I have a private fan group called Shrike Bikes. Just ask to join and one of us will approve you as soon as we see it. I’m in that group chatting with readers everyday. Every single day. Every question gets answered. Plus I post a lot of giveaways and that’s the best place to fine the order forms for signed books. Also, if you’re reading this during release week or the week after, make sure to visit my blog and get in on the epic giveaways I have going. I almost always have a giveaway going on, either on the blog or in the fan group. So stop by and let me know your thoughts. OK, thanks for reading, thanks for reviewing, and I’ll see you in the next book Julie JA Huss



About the Author

JA Huss is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than thirty romances. She likes stories about family, loyalty, and extraordinary characters who struggle with basic human emotions while dealing with bigger than life problems. JA loves writing heroes who make you swoon, heroines who makes you jealous, and the perfect Happily Ever After ending. You can read her writing craft and marketing articles at her website and chat with her on Facebook, Twitter, and her kick-ass romance blog, New Adult Addiction. If you're interested in getting your hands on an advanced release copy of her upcoming books, sneak peek teasers, or information on her upcoming personal appearances, you can join her newsletter list and get those details delivered right to your inbox. JA Huss lives on a dirt road in Colorado thirty minutes from the nearest post office. So if she owes you a package from a giveaway, expect it to take forever. She has a small farm with two donkeys named Paris & Nicole, a ringneck parakeet named Bird, and a pack of dogs. She also has two grown children who have never read any of her books and do not plan on ever doing so. They do, however, plan on using her credit cards forever. JA collects guns and likes to read science fiction and books that make her think. JA Huss used to write homeschool science textbooks under the name Simple Schooling and after publishing more than 200 of those, she ran out of shit to say. She started writing the I Am Just Junco science fiction series in 2012, but has since found the meaning of life writing erotic stories about antihero men that readers love to love. JA has an undergraduate degree in equine science and fully planned on becoming a veterinarian until she heard what kind of hours they keep, so she decided to go to grad school and got a master’s degree in Forensic Toxicology. Before she was a full-time writer she was smelling hog farms for the state of Colorado. Even though JA is known to be testy and somewhat of a bitch, she loves her #fans dearly and if you want to talk to her, join her Facebook fan group where she posts daily bullshit about bullshit. If you think she’s kidding about this crazy autobiography, you don’t know her very well.

SEE ALL HER BOOKS HERE