Taking Turns (Turning #1)(13)

“OK,” I say. “I understand. But soon, though, right?”

“Sure, Chella. Soon.” The call ends and I drop my phone into my purse, telling myself that call doesn’t matter. Not one bit. That nothing he says can hurt me. That I make my days good—or bad—not anyone else.

The drive to work is so short it makes me feel guilty for not walking. But it is cold today. My bones are chilled. And I had to leave my shearling boots at the Turning Point Club last night.

I did leave there with thousands—probably tens of thousands—of dollars in jewelry though. So I can’t really complain about the exchange rate.

The Charles Benton Gallery takes up an entire corner on the 16th Street Mall, which is a pedestrian street, so buses run up and down the length of it, and horse carriages at night, but that’s it as far as vehicles go. The people, however, are a whole other matter.

Hundreds of people are on the mall, even at nine AM when most of the shops are not open. This is the central business district and everyone comes for coffee and food.

Matisse’s artwork is being delivered at ten today, so I have an hour to get things ready. I make my way through the crowds, searching through my purse for the keys to the front door, when I see him.

Smith Baldwin is standing in front of the Charles Benton Gallery, and he’s staring right at me.

I stop walking for a moment and some lady curses at me for almost making her spill her coffee.

I hold my breath and count to three. Then I start walking again.

“Hello,” I say, putting my key in the lock. “We’re not open today.”

“I know when you’re open, Marcella Walcott.”

He uses my full name. And he even pronounces it right. With a hard ch, and not an s sound for the c. Mar—chella. Emphasis on the chella.

“I thought you didn’t want my name?” I ask, unlocking the door as I shift the coffee in my hand.

Smith takes the coffee for me.

“Thank you,” I say.

He says nothing.

When I wrangle the door open, propping it with my hip so I don’t inadvertently invite him in—Charles might be here already and I do not need him seeing me with Smith Baldwin—I say, “Can I help you with something?”

“I’m going to need to know where she went,” Smith says.

“Who?” I ask, trying to buy myself a moment to collect my thoughts. Rochelle and I talked about the lie for months. Building it up, making it perfect, making it believable.

“You know who,” Smith says. “I don’t really f*cking care, Marcella. I have no feelings for Rochelle either way. But if she’s in trouble, I’d need to know that. If she’s hurt,” he says. “Or there is something going on.”

He stops talking and sighs. Like this is hard for him. “I don’t care, OK? I really don’t care. But Quin does. And he’s upset. So if you know where she is, if you have a number, or an address, you can give it to me and I’ll keep him away. I’ll contact her myself and get the details. And then we’ll be gone. Out of her life forever. But leaving like that, Marcella. You’d have to know—she had to know—it would hurt him.”

“Maybe she wanted to hurt him?” I say. I don’t know why I say it, it just comes out. I have pictured them all together. The way she described Smith was dead-on accurate. And I think she was right about Quin too. I didn’t see enough of Bric to come to a conclusion.

Smith is silent. Just stares at me.

“And for the record,” I say. “You sure don’t sound like someone who doesn’t care.”

I step inside, close the door behind me, and lock it. Looking Smith Baldwin straight in the eyes as I do it.

I turn away and walk to the back of the gallery where the stairs are that lead up to my second-story loft office. And when I get to the top and look over my shoulder, he’s gone.





Chapter Five - Quin




“I want her name, I want her address, and I want to go upstairs.” I’m looking at Bric, but it’s really Smith I’m talking to. Bric will give in on the request to go upstairs, but Smith… Smith is another matter. Why did I let him take that girl home last night? Why didn’t I do it myself?

I was in shock, I think. That Rochelle would do this to me. To them, sure. Yeah, I can see it. But to me?

I just don’t buy it. I will never buy into the fact that Rochelle just walked out because… what? She was bored? I have to suck down the incredulous laugh that threatens to escape. Because she and I were not bored. She loved me. I know she loved me. She told me just a few months ago.

It was hot that night even though it was already September. We were at one of Bric’s rooftop garden parties here at Turning Point Club. She was wearing this long, strapless white dress. Tight at the top, but fluttery and flowing from her waist down. Rochelle is tall and she was wearing heels, so we were almost the same height. She looked me straight in the eyes as we slow-danced under the many strings of white lights that Bric has strung up every summer.

Her face was tanned from months in the sun. We went boating a lot last summer. Up in Granby and Grand Lake. Spent our two days a week up there just hanging out like normal people. So the lights—God, she looked so f*cking beautiful as we danced under those lights.

“I love you,” she said. Almost absently. Like the words just came out. She got embarrassed then. Hid her face by laying a cheek on my chest.