by JA Huss
I sigh. “It’s not like I made a conscious decision.”
“I know, you say this every time I bring it up. But conscious or not, you fucked up, Quin. He’s a good guy. He didn’t realize she’d take him so literally, you know?”
“My problem is… he should’ve known that. She depended on him for advice. That was always his role in the game. The girls have problems, they go to Bric. He talks to them in that stupid reasonable voice of his, and gives them good advice. He told her—”
“He gave her the options, Quin. That’s it. He never told her to get an abortion. He’s a man. He thinks like a man. He had no idea she’d walk out like that.”
I huff out a long breath of air. We’ve been over this a million times. I get it. Bric made a mistake. Probably an innocent mistake. But it had a very dramatic effect on my life. I can’t let it go.
“You need to let it go,” Smith says, like he’s reading my mind. “It’s time, Quin. One year has passed. If she wanted to contact us, she would’ve done it by now.”
“I know,” I say, some of the sadness creeping back in. One year is a long time. Enough time to get past something that hurt and try to patch things up. But she’s still gone. And no one can find her. She wants to be gone. She wants to stay gone. Otherwise she’d leave a trail. She wouldn’t be so careful about not opening credit cards or whatever people refuse to do when trying to hide themselves. She’d be in the open. And she’s not.
“And you need to make things right with Bric. He’s unhappy too, you know. Both of you are so fucking pathetic right now, I’m about to lose my mind. Just go over there and talk to him.”
“Not today,” I say. And I say it firmly. With enough conviction that Smith doesn’t press. Not today of all days. I can’t do it.
“Not today,” Smith agrees. “Fine. But soon. You’d both be much happier if you’d fix this part, at least. So Rochelle’s gone. I get it. But Bric is still here. I’m still here. Chella is still here. You’re OK, Quin. I promise. You are.”
I think about that for a few seconds.
Smith waits, then says, “Well, I gotta go. So much to do today. Make sure you go to work this afternoon. And Chella says she wants to have lunch at the Club tomorrow.”
“No,” I say. “Fuck that.”
“Fine with me,” Smith says, shrugging as he walks over to his gym bag and hikes it over his shoulder. He pets the dog, who pants excitedly at his attention. “But she told me to tell you she’d be in the White Room waiting for you tomorrow at one. So if you want to stand her up, be my guest. Just don’t expect her to show up for lunch the week after.”
He walks out without another word and leaves me to my thoughts.
If Chella wants to pull this either-or shit, she can. But I don’t like ultimatums. I might not be as rigid as Smith or as dominating as Bric, but I know how to hold a fucking grudge.
I won’t be showing up at the Club tomorrow.
No way. Fuck that.
Chapter Two - Bric
The curtains in the top-floor apartment of Turning Point Club are closed, but sheer. So just enough light filters through from the rainy day outside to make the atmosphere seem gloomy and dramatic.
It’s not a good sign.
I could change the mood, flick on a light or open those curtains, but is the light really the problem?
The girl’s hands are cuffed to a chain above her head that attaches to the ceiling. It clinks as she moves, her head turning this way or that as Jordan moves about, getting things ready. She’s blindfolded, so she doesn’t know I’m here. And she has noise-canceling headphones on, so she can’t hear anything but the music and the words Jordan whispers into the mic wrapping down his jaw as he works.
I take my tie off and unbutton my shirt, waiting for my cue.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it and it goes to voicemail after a few seconds.
“Ready?” Jordan asks, holding out the chain harness for me.
I take it, letting the silver links pool into my palm. “Yup.” I sigh.
“What? Are you bored?” he asks.
“Kinda,” I say, surprising myself. “She’s not gonna like this.”
“You don’t know,” Jordan says, equally exasperated. “I talked about it with her last night. She said yes… so…”
I shrug. I’m not into this girl. Which is weird for me. I’m into anyone. As long as they go along and do as they’re told, I’m generally good. Very easy to please. But this one… she’s only been here for a week and I can already tell. She won’t last. It’s a waste of time.
“I’m going to place the clamps on your nipples now, Sandy. Don’t move.”
Sandy whimpers and, predictably, moves when I reach up with the first clamp and touch the peak of her nipple.
“Don’t. Move.” Jordan is not the most patient of men. So it comes out rough. But the girl stills as I attach the clamp. There’s a long moment where she doesn’t quite know how to react and I almost hold my breath, waiting for the freakout.
She sucks air in through her teeth as the pain eases and then relaxes.
That’s my cue for the next clamp. This time I make sure she reacts so she’ll pull on the chain and get the punishment twice.
She twists—winces, moans, and then whimpers.
I look at Jordan as he whispers encouraging things into her headphones. This whole headphones thing was a lot more fun when Smith and I did it with Chella. A lot more fun.
Am I even hard? I look down at my cock and find it halfway there.
Jordan catches me looking and cuts the mic. “What is your fucking problem today?”
My phone buzzes again. I ignore it. “I just want a fucking pre-lunch blow job, you know?”
“Then get on with it,” Jordan snaps. “Jesus Christ.”
‘Get on with it’ refers to the two other clamps, also attached to the harness. I kneel down and smack the inside of Sandy’s thigh as Jordan tells her to open her legs wider. My finger slips inside her pussy and finds her… dry.
I shake my head. “She’s not even wet.” Could this afternoon get any more disappointing?
“Just do the clamps,” Jordan says.
I ease the lips of her pussy open and bring the metal clamp up, ready to attach it to the folds of her labia, opening the clamp and slipping it over each side of her sensitive skin.
She freaks out. “No,” she yells. “Forget it. Nope. I’m not doing this! I’m done. Unhook me. Take this fucking blindfold off! I’m done! Safe word,” she screams. “I’m using my safe word.”
I stand up and look at Jordan. “‘Safe word’ is her safe word?”
Jordan rubs his forehead with a fingertip, like he’s got a headache.
I take the nipple clamps off, which makes Sandy writhe. “Hold still,” I growl. But she can’t hear me, so I snatch the headphones and pull the blindfold down her face and say it again. “Would you hold still, please?”
“I don’t like this anymore,” Sandy says, on the verge of tears. “I’m out.” She glances down at my nowhere-near-hard cock and sobs. “Let me go. I’m going home. I’m taking my shit and I’m—”
“We don’t care,” I say, just to shut her up. “Go. You know the rules. You can fucking leave any time you want.”
“Unhook my hands—”
But Jordan is a step ahead of her and her hands come free from the chain. They drop in front of her and she almost has a panic attack when she realizes she’s still cuffed.
“Just relax,” Jordan says as he frees her hands from the cuffs.
“You two are a bunch of fucking freaks,” Sandy spits, once her hands are free. She goes over to the closet and starts getting dressed.
My phone buzzes in my pocket again.
I take it out and say, “Yes.”
“Bric,” Margaret, the White Room manager, says on the other end of the phone. “Chella is here to see you about the Tea Room.”
“Shit,” I say. “I forgot. I’ll be right down.” I end the c
all and look at Jordan. “Game over,” I say, shrugging.
We’re used to this now. We’ve started a few games since the whole thing blew up last year with Quin. But none of them last. They go a few weeks. One went a few months. But most of them are like Sandy. Women who think they want this, but don’t.
None of them were anything close to Chella. Hell, Rochelle was a VIP player compared to the last few.
Sometimes I wish Chella and Smith hadn’t fallen in love. She would’ve been so fucking perfect as a permanent part of my game.
I sigh as I tuck my dick away and walk out. Sandy is still going on and on about what deviants Jordan and I are, but when I leave the apartment and close the door behind me, she is forgotten.
I get into the elevator, punch the button for two, and then button my shirt and tuck it in. By the time the elevator opens I’m mostly put back together—forgot my tie and jacket, but fuck it—and I exit and walk to the top of the stairs that overlook the lobby.
It’s busy today. Everyone is having lunch. And it’s Cyber Monday, so everyone is still loud and happy, half on holiday.
I walk down the stairs, saying polite hellos to people as I make my way into the White Room, and then head to the back table where I know Chella will be waiting. She stands when she sees me so we can hold hands and do cheek kisses.
Yeah. Sandy is no Chella.
“Hey,” I say, backing away after our greeting and taking a seat across from her. “Sorry I’m late. I forgot.”
“No biggie,” Chella says. “I’ve kept myself busy.” She’s got her laptop open with pictures of the pastries we’re going to offer for afternoon tea. I bought the building next door and we’ve been renovating for the past four months getting it ready for opening day next week. It’s just an extension of the White Room. A place for wives and mistresses, mostly. So they can feel included in the Club, even though they’re not included.
Chella hates it when I say that, but whatever. It’s true. Turning Point is about men.
“So this is what we’re looking at right now. I’ve got…”
She goes on and on about the different tea services we’ll be offering. I don’t care either way. I’m sure Chella knows what she’s doing. I just stare at her as she talks, and smile, imagining how much she’d have liked those pussy clamps if she was still playing the game with me.
“And Quin is coming by tomorrow for lunch.”
“Wait.” I have to snap back to attention. “What?”
“Quin,” Chella says slowly. “He’s meeting me here for lunch tomorrow.”
“He’s coming here?” I ask, pointing a finger down at the table.
“Yup,” Chella says, smiling.
“How did you manage that?” I ask, suspicious. Quin has not talked to me in a very long time. I haven’t even seen that asshole in almost six months. And that last time was a mistake. He and I ended up at a party down at Stonewall Entertainment in the Tech Center. Apparently, Smith and Mac Stonewall are friends in the philanthropy business and it was something he wanted me to attend with him.
Anyway, it didn’t end well. Quin is apparently a very skilled grudge-holder. He didn’t even see me. Someone told him I was there and he left. I caught a glimpse of him as he was leaving the building and that was that.
“I had Smith deliver the invitation this morning.”
“And he agreed?” I ask, doubt written all over my face.
“Sort of. But I know he’ll show. Because he won’t stand me up for Tuesday lunch. He’ll show.”
“Well, I wouldn’t get your hopes up, Chella. Really. He doesn’t give in easy.”
“So do you have any news at all?” Chella asks, changing the subject.
“Nope,” I say, taking a sip of my water so I can buy myself some time. “You know I’d call if I did.”
“Well, I’m getting impatient, Bric. I know I told you I’d let you handle it, but I’m not sure you’re as invested as you should be.”
“I don’t like where this is going,” I say, narrowing my eyes at her.
“Rochelle has been missing for one year today. One year, Bric. You’re a bazillionaire. We have all this money at our disposal and we can’t seem to locate one woman? How is that possible?”
“I’m not a law-breaker, Chella. I told you this. I do it all on the up and up. And my guy says he can’t find her. She doesn’t want to be found.”
“Well, I’m not adverse to breaking a few laws when it’s necessary and it’s necessary. Quin needs to get over this shit. And while I understand that you’re not especially interested in revisiting that one particular conversation you had with Rochelle, it’s not fair that you’re not trying hard enough to find her. We don’t even know if she’s alive.”
Yeah. Then there’s that. The little fact that I didn’t tell anyone that Rochelle called me last summer and asked me to tell Quin she was sorry. It wasn’t like I meant to keep it a secret, but I was on my way out of town for the summer. I was traveling. And when I got back things were so busy with getting the Club back up and running… I just forgot.
It’s too late to say anything now. Oh, by the way, Rochelle called me last June and told me to tell you she’s sorry. And she didn’t get an abortion. She had the damn baby because I heard it crying on the other end of the phone.
Nope. Not gonna say that. I have kept the dark side of Elias Bricman tucked neatly away my whole life. I’m not gonna fuck things up now by being honest.
It’s in my best interest for Rochelle to stay gone forever at this point.
“I hired someone,” Chella says, bringing me back to the present.
“For what?” I ask, not following.
“To find Rochelle.”
“No,” I say forcefully.
“Listen to me, Elias Bricman.” Chella slaps her hand down on the table hard enough to make the silverware jump. “I want Rochelle found. I want to see her again. We were pretty good friends and I want her back. So I’m taking things into my own hands. I know a guy.”
“What guy?” Jesus Christ. This is not good.
“He’s former FBI. But he’s in private security and investigations now. He can get info other people can’t. And it’s almost legal.”
I give her the stink eye at that comment.
“Practically legal,” she assures me. “He has connections in the Bureau. He can find things most people can’t.”
“I’m pretty sure you need a warrant for that kind of stuff. I’m not gonna be involved.”
“Fine with me,” she says sweetly. “But it’s a risk if I do it. Smith will be at risk—”
“Chella,” I growl.
“Elias,” she counters. “Just meet with the guy, OK? Please.”
We both turn to look at Margaret when she approaches the table. “Mr. Bricman,” she says. “Darrel Jameson is here for your meeting.”
“Who?” I ask, peeking around her to see a tall guy, late thirties, maybe. Dark suit and sunglasses. I roll my eyes and then look at Chella.
She smiles and stands, reaching for Mr. Jameson, just like she did to me. “Thanks so much for taking this case, Darrel. I so, so, so appreciate it.”
“My pleasure, Chella. You know I’d do anything for you.”
Chella kisses him on the cheek and then gathers her computer. “You guys have fun,” she says, stuffing her things into her tote bag. “I’ll see you tomorrow for lunch, Elias?”
I nod, resigned to her tricks, and then pan my hand at the chair Chella just vacated. “Have a seat, Mr. Jameson.”
“Thanks, Mr. Bricman.” He takes a phone out of his suit coat pocket and tabs the screen. “Rochelle Bastille, age twenty-eight—”
Twenty-eight. How did that happen? We met her when she was twenty-four. I always think of her as so young in my head.
“Presently living in Pagosa Springs—”
“Wait,” I interrupt. “Presently? You mean you found her?”
Jameson stares at me for a moment. “Of course I found her. Chella asked me
to, told me to report to you. Did you… not want her found?”
“Of course I did.” I laugh. Uneasily. “Yes, of course. But I’ve been looking—”
“So Chella tells me.” He gives me a look that says, Liar. “Chella’s great, by the way. I love her to death. She was my very first assignment in the Bureau when she left home at eighteen. Well”—Jameson chuckles—“she ran away a few times when she was seventeen. But I was always there with her. Always watching to make sure she was OK.” He shakes his head in a way that says he found her rebellion cute. Something to appreciate about her.
Which makes me warm to him. A little.
“Pagosa Springs?” I ask.
“It’s a five-hour drive southwest of here. Near the Four Corners. Just east of Durango. Ever been there?”
“No,” I say. “Never even heard of it.”
“Still kinda small-towny. Hard to find places like that in Colorado anymore. But they have a hot springs resort there and Miss Bastille has been living at the resort since last…” Jameson checks his phone. “Last November. One year.”
“A resort?” I ask.
“Mmm-hmm. Fancy one too. Her and her daughter are renting a pretty nice suite. Five thousand dollars a month. Not doing badly at all.”
“Daughter?” I feel sick.
Another glance down at the phone from Jameson. “Adley Bastille. Age six months. Do you want the address? And here’s my bill.”
“Did you tell Chella any of this?” I ask, panicked.
“No. Didn’t have a chance. She gave me Miss Bastille’s name last night and told me to meet her here so she could introduce me to you.”
“Well, don’t tell her yet,” I say, picking up the invoice. I flick my fingers in the air for Margaret, who comes immediately, and give her the piece of paper. “Give me the address, Mr. Jameson. And then Margaret will pay you for your time.”
“Sure thing,” he says, pulling out a business card and writing it down. “That’s the resort,” he says, tapping the card. “Her suite and phone number are on the back.”
And just like that, my world has changed.
“Don’t tell Chella,” I remind him as he walks off.
