Turning Point Club Box Set

by JA Huss

  So I tell her a little bit of backstory—she already kinda knows this part and there’s no point in rehashing that shit—and then move on to explain the building, and Augustine’s offer, and how weird they’re both being.

  Two minutes later she nods her head at me, understanding.

  I think.

  I hope.

  “I just want that club, Chella.”

  “You should’ve bought it when we were selling if you wanted it that bad.” That’s Smith, who is back now, leaning up against the kitchen island looking like… like a hot dad who belongs on the glossy cover of a men’s magazine. It’s just jeans and a t-shirt. He doesn’t even have shoes on… but goddamn, Smith is the only guy I know who makes me want to be someone other than myself.

  And he’s absolutely going to throw me out of his house in the next five minutes, so I need to appeal to his… I dunno, something. Curiosity? Maybe he misses flying his freak flag?

  I start there. “Don’t you miss it?” I ask.

  “No,” he says.

  But in that very same moment Chella says, “Kinda.”

  I almost laugh out loud. Because Smith gives her this look like… I can’t even explain it. It’s something in between shock, admiration, confusion, and desire.

  I’m not kidding. I got all that from one expression.

  Smith blinks. Twice. “What?”

  “I’m not saying I want to fuck other people, Smith. But I miss the place. I miss the restaurant, and the bar, and…” She shrugs. “I don’t want to fuck other people, but—”

  She looks at me and my eyes go wide, because Smith owns a bunch of gyms now and he’s built like he’s on steroids—except he’s not—because his job these days is basically letting at-risk teenage boys take a shot at beating the shit out of him in the boxing ring to keep them off the streets.

  I put up my hands to protest—like, no. I’m not gonna join you two in a threesome—but she says, “That game with Issy… uh-huh. I’m on board with her fantasy.”

  Now it’s my turn to blink.

  Issy played a game she didn’t know she was playing and most of that had nothing to do with her secret fantasy, which was being fucked in a sex club in front of other people.

  I glance at Smith to gauge how he’s gonna take this news, but he’s just scratching his chin, like he’s considering her confession.

  Then he notices me noticing him and says, “Get out.”

  “Yes,” I say. “I’m leaving.” Usually I’d kiss Chella on the cheek to say goodbye, but no. “Thanks for listening, Chella.”

  “Thanks for stopping by!” Chella says. “And thank you for the flowers. Next time we talk I’ll introduce you to the baby properly. But Jordan—” She pauses so I’ll stop my retreat and look at her. “Stop running from them. That’s not you. Just… just hear them out and see what it is they really want. Because they want something and whatever that is, it’s some deep secret they aren’t ready to share yet. That’s my take on all this. It’s shame, maybe. Embarrassment. Something like that. Who knows? But they’re keeping it close. So you just have to wait until it comes out before you can really make a decision about this.”

  Then she smiles and Smith has me by the arm and he’s pulling me back down the hallway towards the front door.

  When we get there, he opens it up, shoves me outside, and I’m just about to turn and go down the front porch steps when he says, “Here,” and thrusts a plain white envelope at me.

  I look at what he’s offering me, then glance up at his face. “What?”

  “This,” he says, shoving the envelope into my hand. “Payment.”

  “For what? Staying away from your wife? Get real, Smith.”

  “No. For killing her father.” Then he smiles. “I owe you one, Wells. So if you ever actually need something—because I know you don’t need money and that’s what that is”—he nods to the envelope as I lift the flap and see a check written out to me. There’s seven digits on that check—“I’m your guy.”

  Then he claps me on the back and shuts the door in my face.

  I skip down the steps and walk across Little Raven Street to get in my car thinking of all the things I should’ve said back about that little remark. I didn’t kill him, is the first. But then again… I sorta did.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket once I’m back on Speer Boulevard heading towards the Country Club neighborhood I live in. When I get to a red light I check it.

  Augustine: Before you walk away let me explain.

  The light turns green, so I don’t have time to fuck with a reply. But three more texts come in in quick succession.

  Augustine: Don’t walk away without knowing the whole story.

  Augustine: You WILL want to hear this.

  Augustine: I’m at your house.

  Fuck.

  And I’m there before I know it, pressing the button to open the gate and pulling into my driveway. Her car has to be parked on the street, but the walking gate doesn’t have a lock. So she’s standing under the cover of my small front porch behind a curtain of rain because it’s pouring down like sheets right now.

  I park, get out, and walk around to the front of the house wishing… wishing they’d just go away.

  Which is ironic, because last year around this time I thought I wanted this. I thought reconnecting would be awesome.

  Even though she’s under the porch, she’s drenched. Her long, dark hair is plastered to her wet cheeks. Water is beaded up on her upper lip and soaking her clothes.

  “What the fuck, Augustine? Go home. You’re gonna get sick or something.”

  She shakes her head and says, “No,” as I unlock the door and hold it open for her.

  I don’t want to invite her inside but dismissing her seems out of the question.

  Stop running from them. That’s what Chella said. And Chella’s instincts are usually right on the money. I don’t really feel like I’m running, but maybe I am? And maybe they do have a secret they’re keeping safe. Maybe I should just… wait them out until they’re ready to spill it?

  She goes inside and stands in the grand foyer, dripping on my travertine-tiled floors, hugging herself to ward off the cold.

  I take my coat off, hang it up, and then say, “Well, what is it?”

  “What?”

  “The whole story. What is it? Because I gotta tell you, Augustine, I don’t think there’s anything you could tell me that would make me change my mind about this. But Chella says you guys are probably keeping a secret you’re not ready to tell me yet, so…” I shrug. “If that’s the case, you’d better come clean quick, because I’m about done playing.”

  She looks past me, into the office I’m using as my apartment. “Can we sit down at least? And can I ask you… can I have some dry clothes? I walked over here.”

  And even though I have a million questions about that—starting with, Where the fuck do you live?—I don’t ask any of them. Just go into my office and start rummaging around for some sweat shorts and a t-shirt. I throw them at her and point to the office bathroom. “You can change in there.”

  She doesn’t. She strips right in front of me, peeling off her wet clothes one layer at a time until she’s standing there, naked flesh bumpy from the chill. Teeth chattering as she messes with the shorts and shirt, pulling them on and then hugging herself again.

  “Do you have a blanket?” she asks.

  “Welcome to my bed,” I say, pointing to the couch.

  And then we both kinda laugh.

  It’s stupid, I know this. Living the way I do. But the tension between us melts a little, and I grab the blanket, sit down, pat the cushion next to me, and wait for her to join me before covering us both up with it.

  She leans into me automatically.

  I let her. Automatically.

  I can’t deny that it all feels very familiar when we’re together. Not just her and I, but Alexander as well.

  We spent over two years together. That’s not nothing.

&nbs
p; “So what is it?” I ask. “This amazing story you need to tell me.”

  She draws in a breath. Like she needs it for courage. Then starts talking as she lets it out. “Alexander has changed a lot since you knew him.”

  “Has he?” I ask. “Has he really? Because it’s all the same to me.”

  “Did you ever… did you ever…”

  “Did I ever what?” I ask, getting impatient with her stammering.

  “Did you ever wonder who was the top? In our relationship.”

  My brow creases as I think about that. “No, I guess not. It wasn’t really like that. At least I didn’t think it was.”

  “I didn’t think it was either. But after you left… there was… some… maybe…”

  “Goddammit, Augustine, just spit it out.”

  “He got dominant,” she says.

  “Like how?”

  “Like… you know. Choking and—”

  “What?”

  “—face-slapping and—”

  “What?”

  “—and no bondage. Not that kind of dominant. But like… total throat-fucks and—”

  “What?”

  “—and we had a few threesomes and they were really… um, wow, like intense and—”

  “Jesus Christ, Augustine. What are you saying? Did he hit you? Scare you?”

  “No,” she says quickly. “No, no, no. That’s not what I’m saying. Not exactly, anyway.”

  I turn to face her, unwilling to accept where this might be going. “Not exactly how?”

  “He’s just… very… rough, Jordan.”

  “So he hit you?”

  “No.” She shaking her head. “I’m not here to complain about it. You’re misunderstanding me.”

  “OK,” I say, leaning back into the cushions to put some distance between us. “What the fuck are you trying to tell me?”

  “The reason…” She sighs deeply. “He’s going to kill me—not literally,” she jokes, which I do not find funny. Like at all. “For telling you because he wanted to be there when we did that. Together. But I think you’re about to bail on us and I don’t want you to do that without hearing this first.” She looks at me. Swallows hard and stares into my eyes. “Hearing why we need you.”

  I stare back at her. My eyes searching hers as they dart back and forth.

  “He won’t… engage,” she finally says.

  “Engage?” I ask. “What do you mean?”

  “With me. That’s why he won’t fuck me.”

  “I don’t understand. He’s afraid of… oh, fuck. He’s afraid of losing control?”

  Augustine swallows hard again and nods her head. “Yes. He did scare me once. I… I got lost in the scene, ya know? It all became too real and… I dunno, I freaked out. And ever since then he’s refused to fuck me.”

  I just stare at her.

  “It’s been almost three years, Jordan. We almost divorced over it.”

  “Because he hurt you?” I ask.

  “No,” she insists. “He didn’t hurt me. He just scared me. And it was so fast, ya know? That line between fantasy and reality was so thin at that point, I just… I didn’t know what to do, and I started crying and shaking and… and it was bad.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Yeah. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, OK? We’d agreed on the scene before we played it out. I knew what was happening. And I don’t know why I didn’t use my safe word, but I didn’t.”

  “Shit,” I say. Because I don’t know what else to say.

  “And it’s been hard, OK? I’m not going to lie. I love him. I really do. I do not want to divorce my husband. I love him. But he doesn’t trust himself. He won’t do any of the things we used to enjoy anymore. Just refuses,” she says.

  “So…” Jesus Christ. I’m trying to wrap my head around this and it’s not easy. “So you need me to… what?”

  She shrugs. A big one that lasts too long. Her shoulders hunched up near her ears, her mouth pressed together, eyes on me. “We need a third, Jordan. Or we won’t survive. He wants you to make sure he stays in line. He won’t ever fuck me again unless we can find a third.”

  “Did you… look for others?”

  “Of course,” she says. “We didn’t just throw away our lives in LA and come here without trying everything we could think of first. Of course we tried. But he’s so…” She holds up her hands, palms out, like she doesn’t know what to say. “He’s so strong, Jordan. The other men, they couldn’t control him. Or at least he felt they couldn’t. He didn’t trust himself. But you. You can, Jordan. You’re the only one who can.”

  “Wow,” I say after several seconds of silence. “OK. You got me. I didn’t see that coming.”

  “I’m begging you, OK?” She grabs onto my upper arm and leans in to me. “Begging. You. To just try. For a few weeks, that’s it. And then if you want, I’ll sell you the building. No matter what. If this works or doesn’t. I will sell you the building. I just… I don’t want to give up on him yet. I love him, Jordan. And we both still love you. We’ve moved past all our mistakes.”

  Which makes me huff out a laugh. Because it suddenly makes so much sense. “I guess you’d have to, right? Move past, I mean. Since apparently I’m the only hope you have.”

  “That’s not why,” she says. “I do forgive you. It was all… stupid and childish—”

  “No,” I say, cutting her off. “It wasn’t. Not to Ix it wasn’t. I fucked up his life pretty bad and—”

  “You didn’t kill his family, Jordan. It was—”

  “Just stop, OK? I’m not that dumb. I don’t feel responsible for a fucking car accident. But the fact that he was in jail when it happened, that his family all died that day thinking he was something he wasn’t, thinking he was me, that was my fault. And look, I’m grateful that he’s still in town. That he’s…” I have to stop and reword my thoughts. Because we’re not really friends again. “That he’s considering the possibility that we might be friends again.”

  “I’ve talked to him. Several times actually since we came to Denver. He was reluctant with me. Like… he just wanted to leave me in the past. But you… not you, Jordan. And he’s definitely forgiven you. Whatever it is you’ve been doing over the past several months with these games—he won’t tell me specifics—well, it’s made him pause and think hard about what we all lost back in LA. And what we could have again. How life could be better if we were all back together again.”

  “He’s not going to play this game with us, I can tell you that right now. He’s happy.”

  “Not the sex part. The friendship part. And it’s not a game,” she says, staring at me intently. “I’m not asking you for a game, Jordan. This is real. What I need from you is real. And if you decide it’s not how you saw yourself, this type of relationship isn’t for you, well, then fine. Alexander and I will… whatever. But I hope you’ll at least take it seriously while we’re trying. It’s not a game. If one of us loses, we all lose. Those are the stakes. That’s how it has to be.”

  She looks very sad tonight. Defeated. And that’s not a word I’d ever use to describe Augustine before she came back into my life. So I don’t bother telling her the truth. She doesn’t want to hear it.

  But I know how this will end. The same way it always ends when I enter a plural relationship. Broken in pieces.

  “Did you even care about me?”

  “Of course,” I say. “Of course I did. Why the fuck do you think I went to such lengths? I mean… yes. Just yes.”

  “But you don’t anymore?”

  “It’s not… just. Fuck. I’ve just moved on, that’s all. And I don’t want to look back. It was a bad time in my life. I wasn’t proud of myself. I was… what I did was just shameful. You two are part of that, through no fault of your own, but you are.”

  “Well, thanks a lot,” she says.

  “I don’t mean it like that. It was my shame, not yours. Not ours, either. I don’t feel any shame for that.”

  I’m not sure that�
��s a hundred percent true. Back then, anyway. Now, who gives a fuck? I have my friends. I have my place in the world. But back then I didn’t. I was still looking for it.

  “I felt a lot of things, Augustine. Too many. Too much, maybe.”

  “But?”

  “But they’re gone now.”

  Lies. I tell as many as they do.

  They’re not gone. Not completely. It’s hard to put it behind me because her pull, it was strong then and it’s still strong now.

  She reads me. Knows me too well. I can’t hide the thoughts in my head. Not from her. Because a moment later she’s climbing into my lap, her face buried in my neck, her lips on my skin, nipping and kissing and biting me just the way she used to.

  “Stop,” I say.

  “No,” she whispers. “I want you.” She places both palms on my face and looks me in the eyes. “I want you. Please don’t send me away tonight. Let me stay. Let me put you inside me. Please.”

  I say nothing. Unsure what the protocol is for something like this.

  Please, she silently mouths.

  I take out my phone and hold it out to her. “Call and ask him,” I say. Because I want to fuck her and I can’t. Not unless he says yes.

  “Come on,” she says. “You don’t need to ask permission. That’s the whole point, Jordan. That you take what you want and keep him in line. Don’t give him power.”

  “It’s… cheating,” I say.

  “It’s not cheating. You two will talk it out tomorrow. I don’t know what he’ll say to you, because he’s unpredictable like that. He never plays along the way he’s supposed to. But tomorrow night the three of us will be doing this together. Just… don’t give him any power. Please,” she whispers again. “Fuck me.”

  I’m not normally someone who runs. OK? I’m not. And I’m not normally a man who wants a woman who isn’t his. That’s not me. And I’m not a guy who fucks a married woman. Ever.

  Unless I have permission, of course.

  Augustine is tugging on my suit coat. Pulling it down my arms. I lean forward and help her take it off me. She’s squirming in my lap, driving me a little crazy as I think about whether or not I actually have permission.

  But then her fingers are loosening my tie. I stare up at her pretty face. Her smooth, glowing skin. She was pale when she came in out of the rain but now, charged up with the warmth of my clothes, and my blanket, and my body, she’s almost flushed.