by JA Huss
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-you-doing 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 co-worker. 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 chan
ces 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 wi
th 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?”
