[The Turning 01.0] Taking Turns

by JA Huss

  “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 ag
ain. 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? Thirty-two? 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 easy-going. 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.