by JA Huss
“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 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 u
p 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.
