Turning Back (Turning #2)

by JA Huss

  Our destination is a building on Wynkoop Street, near Union Station. I know where we are before Quin even pulls into the garage.

  “This is Bric’s place, right?”

  “Is it?” Quin asks, shutting off the truck and taking a look around.

  “He brought me here that first time we met. I was telling him about how much I loved the new lofts near the station and he started bragging about his new place. So he brought me here to show it off.”

  “I’ve never even been here. I knew he had a place, but I always pictured him down in Cherry Creek with all the other assholes in this city. He stays at the Club as far as I know.”

  If it bothers Quin that Bric is bringing me to his home, he doesn’t show it. I get the baby and put her in the stroller, and then help Quin with the stuff I’ll need right away. The spot we park in is very close to the elevator, right next to Bric’s car. Quin punches a button—which acts like a buzzer.

  “Buzzing you up,” Bric’s voice says through an intercom.

  The elevator doors open, we load all my stuff inside, and a few seconds later the elevator doors close and we ascend up to the top floor.

  I remember that first night pretty clearly. I’d been in town a while, but I’d been living in a hotel room. So when Elias Bricman, all dressed up in his five-thousand-dollar suit, asked me if I wanted to go home with him, I said sure.

  We were at a party. A corporate event that I crashed because I knew he’d be there. I knew a lot about Elias Bricman before I met him at that party. I lost track of him at one point, so I went outside and there he was, looking up at the sky, unlit cigar in his mouth.

  He turned and looked at me, pointed a finger, and said, “You don’t belong here.”

  For a second I thought that meant he knew I was a crasher. But then I realized he was flirting. Bric is… kinda hard not to notice. Tall, dark, and handsome are just the first words that pop into your head when you meet him. The others are sexy-as-fuck, hot-as-fuck, and boy-I’d-like-him-to-fuck-me.

  His body is big with muscles, but not too bulky. He’s well over six feet tall. And his face. Damn, that face. A perfectly-shaped square jaw, full lips that know exactly how to lick a girl between her legs, and the most unusual eyes. Dark, indigo blue. They look brown, almost black if you don’t see them up close and in the light. But they’re not. They’re blue, like ink.

  I was wearing a gold velvet dress I bought at a vintage clothing booth at a local antique mall. It was low-cut and in excellent condition, but very unusual. It got me noticed by Elias Bricman that night. And then Quin Foster too. The rest is history. I called it my lucky dress from that day forward. In fact, I think I met Chella wearing that dress as well. That day she bought my book.

  The elevator doors open to half a dozen people bustling about. A few are dressed like maids and a few more look like workers. Some guy messing with the TV. Someone over by one of the windows with a drill. And another one talking to Bric off to the left.

  Elias Bricman owns the coolest, trendiest loft condo in the whole state, I’m pretty sure of it. As soon as you step out of the elevator you know it’s a special place. The design is that unique combination of modern and rustic you only find in the Rocky Mountains. Exposed brick walls and aged metal accents complement the honey-toned wooden ceiling beams that make you think of a very expensive barn. The floors are an ash-colored hardwood that might clash with the beams and the brick, but the metal accents pull it all together.

  The main room is huge and long, with two distinct living sections. Right in front of the elevator is an intimate seating area with three chairs that face a tall window framing the city outside. I’m pretty sure Bric puts chairs in front of all his windows for Smith, even if Smith has never been here.

  The loft is right in the heart of lower downtown Denver, or LoDo, as it’s called by the locals, facing the west. Three blocks from Coors Field, across the street from Union Station, and a five-minute walk to the northern edge of the 16th Street Mall. The view of the mountains is worth a million dollars all by itself.

  Off to the left is the main living area. Comfy couches and chairs surround a square glass and metal coffee table in front of the TV and gas fireplace. That whole wall is brick.

  Even the pipes snaking down the walls and across the ceilings are decorative. None of those gaudy silver air vents to disrupt the decor. All the metal in this condo was made by an artist, and that includes the hot water pipes.

  The dining room and kitchen are across the living room. An amazingly modern take on the crystal chandelier over the long wooden table complements the others hanging in the living area. The kitchen is white and sleek. Quartz countertops, industrial-sized stainless steel appliances, and a huge island big enough to have sex on.

  But it’s the bedroom that steals the show in this place. Of course it is, right? Bric is a man who knows how to do up a bedroom. It doesn’t have doors, per se. They are sliding barn doors that stand twelve feet high and open at least ten feet wide—like he’s planning on driving a tractor through them. And they’ve got alternating panels of aged wood and opaque-smoked glass.

  Everything about this place says… man. And yet it’s done so well a woman can’t help but see herself living here.

  I might’ve gasped for air when I saw this condo that very first night.

  I might’ve pictured myself sleeping in that bedroom forever and ever, even if my reason for coming to Denver had nothing to do with forever and ever.

  I might’ve said yes to his weird offer just to see if I could make things happen.

  Of course, I ended up in the Club apartment. Which was disappointing, but only a little bit.

  Bric is standing in the kitchen talking to some worker and pointing to the cabinets when he notices Quin and me. “Oh, good,” he says. “You’re here. OK. Everyone out. Thank you for coming on short notice. Send Margaret your invoices and she’ll pay you tomorrow.”

  “What the hell is going on?” Quin absently asks as he pulls open one of the massive fridge doors and grabs a beer.

  “Baby-proofing,” Bric says, smiling at Adley. “So the pumpkin can’t accidentally eat cleaning products and what not.”

  Quin shoots Bric an annoyed look over his shoulder, then pops the top off his beer with a bottle opener and takes a swig. “Baby-proofing?”

  “Yeah, you know?” Bric says, walking over to me, grinning down at Adley. “Kids do weird shit like shake cleanser canisters and then lick the dust up off the floor. You gotta be one step ahead at all times.” He reaches down to tickle Adley’s chin. “Right, pumpkin?” She squirms in my arms and shoots him a gummy smile. “What do you think, Adley? Do you like it here?” Then he looks up at me. “You do, right?”

  I nod. “You know I love this place.”

  Quin walks over and sets his beer down on the island. “How come I thought you lived in Cherry Creek?”

  “I have a place there,” Bric says. “But I don’t live there.” He almost snorts. “With all those rich assholes? No thanks. I’m fine at the Club. This place rents out on one of those internet sites for a thousand dollars a night. But it’s gonna be home base for Rochelle and the pumpkin from now on.”

  “That’s awfully nice of you,” I say, looking around. My dream, right? But when I glance at Quin, he’s not reacting quite the same way. “Hey,” I say to him. “I’ve never seen your place, Quin.”

  “No,” he says, taking another sip of his beer. “Never have.”

  “Well, this is your bedroom, Rochelle,” Bric says, pointing to my fantasy bedroom. “That one’s for Adley.” There’s a second bedroom down the hall—if you can call it a hall, since it’s eight feet wide, wide enough to have a small settee against the wall and not even notice. “I have a crib coming, but it won’t be here for a few days. Assholes said they only had the floor model left in the store. And we’re not letting our baby sleep in a floor model.”

  Our baby.

  Quin’s look quickly turns to annoyance. “You picked out a
crib?” He leaves off the words, Without me. But we all hear them anyway.

  Bric looks a little regretful. “Sorry, man. It was all last-minute, you know?”

  “Whatever,” Quin says, exhaling loudly.

  A buzzer breaks the awkward silence that follows and Bric says, “That’s the food,” as he walks over to the elevator. “Rochelle, look.” I follow him over to the elevator and watch as he points to the security panel. “When someone comes to visit, they buzz from the lobby or garage. There’s a camera here, so you can see who it is. And a speaker, so you can ask them what the fuck they want. Then you buzz them up the elevator by pressing in the code. The code is just 1234.” He pushes the buzzer and we watch the delivery guy get in the elevator. There’s cameras in there too. “I only had two parking spots, but I bribed another tenant out of his this afternoon. The paperwork’s not done yet, but it’s open for you. It’s right next to the one you parked in, Quin. We’re all three right by the elevator.”

  “How many people in this building?” I ask.

  “Ten. One condo for each floor. But there’s two elevators. One on this side of the building, one on the other. So you only share the elevator with five.”

  “Cool,” I say.

  “Where’s the outside space?” Quin asks.

  “Well,” Bric says. “This place doesn’t have any.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” Quin says, his tone slightly sarcastic. “I guess Rochelle will have to bring Adley to my place for outside time.”

  “There’s a park,” Bric says, pointing to the window. “Down there by the river. Chella is only a few blocks away.”

  “Not really,” Quin says. “It’s not walkable. You have to go all the way around Union Station and then down 20th.”

  “Well, it’s just temporary,” Bric says. “And besides, Rochelle has a car. She can go to any park she wants.”

  Quin shrugs, like he’s not crazy about the idea of me living here at all.

  “Where do you live, Quin?” I ask, mostly to take his mind off whatever he’s dwelling on right now. But also because I’ve never been there. And I’m interested. “A man’s home says a lot about him.”

  “Down by the convention center,” he says, a hint of regret in his answer. Like it’s not a great place for parks either.

  The elevator doors open and Bric walks off to get the food delivery.

  “I’d like to see it,” I say. “Whenever you have time.”

  “Sure,” Quin says, looking around at Bric’s amazing condo. “But it’s nothing like this. So I hope you’re not disappointed.”

  “Do you have outside space?” I ask, hiking Adley up on my hip. She’s getting so heavy now. Her tiny baby days are almost over.

  This is the right question. Because Quin smiles big. “You’re gonna love my terrace. Bigger than this whole condo.”

  “Really?” I ask, trying to imagine his place. Then why would he think this is better than a Central Business District condo with a two-thousand-square-foot terrace?

  “I have my own park.” He laughs, feeling better about the arrangements. “Just wait.”

  “OK,” Bric says. “Food’s here.” He holds up three giant white bags that say “Anna Ameci’s South” on them. “I hope you like pasta.” And then he looks at me. “I wanna see that pumpkin eat noodles.”

  “She doesn’t eat noodles.” I laugh. “She’s six months old.” But when I look back at Quin he’s… thinking again.

  What’s going on with him?

  Chapter Nine - Bric

  I set the food down on the table and start pulling out dishes. “Here, Rochelle. I got her a high chair today too. Just scoot that up to the table.”

  Rochelle hands the baby off to Quin, who takes her awkwardly, and walks over to the high chair looking confused.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I ask Quin. “You don’t like the idea of them staying here?”

  “You could’ve told me you were going baby shopping.” He’s shifting Adley in his arms, like he has no idea what to do with her. I want to intervene and help him out, but somehow, I think that might make things worse.

  “Sorry, man. I didn’t think about it. Just had to get shit done, you know?”

  “Whatever.”

  Well, Mr. Foster has a jealousy gene. I never got this vibe off him before, so this is something to note. I know how to work the high chair, so I press the lever, flip the tray down, and then point to the seat. Quin sets Adley inside and I put the tray back up. “I had to look up how to use it too,” I tell Quin, so he won’t be annoyed at not being able to work the high chair. “But it’s easy.”

  When I met Rochelle, Smith, Quin, and I were between games. We had just gotten rid of a girl who really sucked. She was my idea, so I was looking to make it up to Quin and Smith for the fuck-up. Rochelle kinda reminded me of a girl Quin brought into the game a couple years back. Someone he got along with. Someone he had fun with. Can’t even remember her name now. Lacey? Lisa? Lindsey? I’m not sure. She was a stripper down at Old Joe’s on Colfax. But she insisted she was only doing that to pay for her first year of college out in Utah. She informed me she had big plans. Was going to be a lawyer one day.

  I didn’t believe her for a second but it turns out she was telling the truth. She spent the summer with us and then she was out.

  Quin didn’t get sad over Lacey/Lisa/Lindsey. But he did remark that he’d miss her.

  And Rochelle looked a lot like her—if you didn’t count the dress. I figured that dress was from a thrift store and it was her only option. But I learned later she’s into that kind of stuff. That’s her style. If I had known she was one of those throwback flower girls I wouldn’t have ever invited her into the game. Smith hates those girls.

  I really don’t give a fuck about a game girl’s style. Or her personality. Or her hopes and dreams, for that matter. It’s a fucking game. It’s short-term. Temporary. Sex. That’s all it is for me. As long as I find a woman attractive and she likes to please, I’m happy.

  Hippy style aside, Rochelle is beautiful and she’s submissive enough to keep me satisfied. Not a fighter. Not a complainer. Not even close to high-maintenance. I think Chella is probably more high-maintenance than Rochelle.

  Most of the time she’s easy-going. She’s laid back. She’s cool.

  So I liked her when we were playing these past few years. She never once asked for more. She never once got mad at me for like—anything. And she was always there when she was supposed to be. She did what she was told.

  She was… someone there… but never on my mind. Right?

  That’s about all I ask for in a player.

  Be there, but not there, if that makes sense.

  So I’m sure Quin picked up on that. I liked her but I never cared if she left. I fucked her on my days then went on with my life.

  I was no threat to him and all his feelings back then.

  But this baby changes everything.

  I want her here. Things are different now. We’re trying something new. We’ve never shared a girl outside the game, but if it can be done, it will be done with Rochelle.

  I’ve never wanted kids, but this little pumpkin fascinates me to no end. And maybe it’s just because I know I’m not ever going to be her father. Even if I was her real father, I’m not the father type.

  But I am the uncle type. The semi-absent father figure who shows up with presents and then disappears for days, or weeks, or months. The one you call when you’re sixteen and get arrested for smoking pot under a bridge somewhere when you should be in school. The one who would show up in court, pretending to be your father, and never tells your parents. The one who hands over money, no reason necessary. The fun one.

  I feel the need to be the fun one with Adley. I don’t want a kid. That kind of responsibility is not my thing at all. No, I’m not here to take that away from him. But I gotta keep Quin happy in this little arrangement or my surrogate kid might disappear.

  “It’s good,” Rochelle says, sh
oveling a heaping forkful of pasta into her mouth. She follows that up with a shrimp and then goes for the meatballs.

  Quin is oddly silent.

  “So hey,” I say, pointing my fork at Quin. “I guess we should get the rules out of the way, right?”

  When we had our first meeting with Chella about the rules, it was pretty out of the ordinary. She was in control the whole time. What’s my dream? I don’t need a dream, I’m just here for the sex.

  Rochelle’s rule meeting was more like… OK. OK. OK.

  Whatever we said, she was OK with it. You’re gonna pay me thirty grand a month to fuck me on alternating days of the week? Sure thing. You want to give me a free place to live, buy my food, and give me gifts? I’m in. You want to dress me up like a socialite and take me to parties? No problem.

  When we dished out our rules to Rochelle, she took it like a champ. No touching from Quin unless Bric is there? Kinky fun. Smith can do whatever he wants with me? I can deal. And when I told her no feelings—like none—or we’d kick her to the curb, well, she didn’t even blink an eye at me.

  She was on board.

  Rochelle is as easy-going as they come.

  This rule meeting is not going to be like that at all. I’ve been thinking it over ever since I left her place down in Pagosa Springs.

  I need her to balk. I need her to resist. I need her to be uncomfortable. That is the only way Quin will think this is real. He wants to punish her. He might not admit that to us, or even himself. But that’s what he wants. I know him. I got this, Quin.

  “What rules?” Rochelle asks. “I thought this was—”

  “Yeah, what rules?” Quin eyes me suspiciously.

  I already know what Rochelle thinks about my rules. We discussed them earlier and I told her what to think. We’re back together so she can snag Quin. Get him back. Make him commit to her. And I’m only here as the buffer.

  And I know what Quin thinks too. I told him as well. Planted all the little ideas in his head. We’re good together. We have fun. Rochelle is the perfect player. Things can go back to the way they were.