Taking Turns (Turning #1)(16)

When Rochelle moved in, it was empty. Just like it will be again when the new girl moves in. All these things, all these memories, all these feelings will be put away with the rest of her stuff. Into storage, or taken to the Goodwill store. Wherever Bric puts their stuff when they leave.

I’ve had a lot of fun here. But Bric is right. I had a lot of fun with many girls here. Most of them don’t last very long. Six months. A year. And then they have what they came for and they leave.

But I cannot recall a single time that I felt this… sad about it.

“Rochelle,” I say. “God, I miss you. Two weeks was way too long. What were you doing? Were you planning your escape? Why did I ever agree to the sabbaticals?”

Even though I hate to admit it, Smith was right. That time off, it was a symptom of something else. A disease eating away at her, or me, or us. Whichever. Does it matter?

No, I don’t think it does.

I get up and walk around the apartment. Picking things up. Touching them. The whole place smells like her. That earthy scent that reminded me of the river or the lake. The time we spent together last summer.

Outside the day is gray and dim. The snow is still coming down, but just a light dusting of flakes. A threat, I realize. Or something else. Something bigger coming over the mountains.

“Where would you hide a clue?” I ask the empty apartment. I check all the drawers. Nothing. I check the coat closet. Nothing. I walk into the bedroom and repeat the process. The bedside tables. Under the bed. Our closet. And then her closet.

Her closet is huge, almost twice the size of ours, and ours is big enough to hold suits, and ties, and shoes, and everything else three men need two days a week.

She took nothing, from what I can tell. I check every purse. I take them out of those soft bags she keeps them in and check each one. And each one is empty. I check every pocket. Every shirt, every jacket, every coat. Nothing.

I check all her books, taking each one off the shelf, flipping through the pages, hoping for a note. Or a clue. Nothing.

I check the jewelry cabinet last. I think a little part of me was hoping she’d take all those gifts with her. Even if it was just to sell.

But she didn’t. The ring I gave her last year at Christmas is in there, even though she wore it—never took it off—since the moment I put it on. All the earrings, all the necklaces, all the bracelets… still here. There has to be a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry in this cabinet.

And she took nothing.

What kind of a mindset was she in? When she made the decision to leave it all behind?

Does she hate me so much that even a small piece of precious metal is too much to keep close?

I let out a long, sad sigh as I walk over to the bedroom window. Stare out at the snow. The capitol building. The busy streets downtown. The cars, and cabs, and pedestrians. Everyone going about their day like usual.

My phone buzzes in my front pocket. I reach for it out of habit, check the caller ID—work—and tab accept. “Hello,” I say.

“Mr. Foster.” It’s Jayne, my assistant at the office.

“Yes,” I say, still looking out at the snow. The deadness of everything, even though it’s so alive.

“You have four meetings this afternoon and it’s almost lunchtime. I just wanted to see if you’d like me to cancel them?”

“No,” I say. “I’ll be in soon.” I end the call and put my phone back in my pocket.

Turn around and take it all in. Say goodbye to it.

No more fun in that bed. The last f*ck I had under that amazing canopy draped with velvet curtains was with a stranger.

“Thanks for that, you bitch,” I say.

For a second I’m not sure if I’m talking to the interloper, or to Rochelle.

But when I walk out of the apartment, take the elevator downstairs, exit Turning Point Club, and get into my waiting car—I know who I’m talking to.

I know exactly who I’m talking to. Because I walked out of that apartment with nothing.

I left it all behind.

And now it’s time to leave her behind too.

I’m talking to you, Rochelle.

I’m talking to you.





Chapter Six - Chella




Matisse is late. Two. Hours. Late. Oh, all his packages arrive at ten AM, right on time. The whole truck full of art valued at more than fifty million dollars is in the back docking bay. Idle.

Because we are not allowed to unload until he gets here.

I try to remain calm, but I’m picturing just how late we’ll have to stay to get it all out and into the basement where we pre-stage it before transporting it upstairs on the freight elevator.

Usually we do this in one day. But I can’t see it happening.

I sigh.

Unless we all stay here until midnight, pushing through.

Maybe it’s a good thing. Tomorrow is my day off. I will get home, drop from exhaustion, and then if I’m lucky, I can sleep away half the day.

The building rumbles and I get to my feet, straighten my jacket and jump down the stairs that lead to the showroom down below, heels in hand.

The rumbling is the freight elevator being called downstairs. When I’m at the bottom of the stairs I stop, hopping as I try to slip each foot in each shoe, and then take a deep breath and collect myself.

I whoosh through the door that leads to the back office and smack right into the hard body of a man. He catches me before I fall, holding on to my upper arms with a steadying grip, and laughs.