Taking Turns (Turning #1)(18)

I’m going to put them out on my back courtyard.

Matisse leaves around ten PM, convinced that we know what we are doing, and then says he’ll be back in the morning to help with installation. He has seven crews coming in tomorrow morning to get things set up. Charles always handles the actual installations, which is why I have these two days off each week. But maybe I could just pop by?

It would be better than sitting around at home, at least.

It’s well after midnight when we get the final crate down into the pre-stage area. My shoes disappeared hours ago. I don’t even know where they are at the moment. My assistant, Michell, left around seven, but Kathryn is still here. We both slump onto a couch in the employee lounge, beat.

“I want to sleep right here,” Kathryn says, pulling her feet up and leaning into the tufted sidearm of the couch. She pulls her hands under her cheek and closes her eyes.

“Me too. You can come in late tomorrow,” I say.

“Fuck that.” She laughs softly, eyes still closed. “I’m not missing a moment of this.”

I smile. “Yeah, I was thinking of coming in tomorrow too. It’s kind of a big deal, right?”

“So big,” she mumbles.

“Hey,” I say, slapping her leg. “You have a ride home? I don’t think you should drive when you’re so tired.”

Her phone buzzes just as the words come out. “That’s my chariot now. Jason is picking me up.” She reluctantly pulls herself into a sitting position and then stands, her hands on her lower back as she stretches, then beams a smile down at me. “It was a great day, Chella. We’re gonna rock this shit on Friday.”

“Yeah.” I laugh, watching her gather up her things and head towards the back door. “We just might do that.”

When she’s gone, I sit there for a few more minutes, thinking about how life has changed in the past two days.

I got f*cked by Quin Foster. Smith Baldwin drove me home last night. And I had more than a dozen work-related conversations with Matisse today.

I go looking for my shoes, which are on the stairs leading up to my loft office in the gallery, and I’m just putting them on when I startle from a knock at the front door.

There are two men out there. My heart skips a beat, wondering if they will try to break in, but when I look closer, I realize it’s Matisse and Smith. “What the hell?” I find my keys in my jacket pocket as I walk over to the door, then unlock it and open it up. “What are you guys doing?”

“Would you like to have dinner with us?” Matisse asks. “I don’t think you ate, did you?”

“No,” I say, hesitantly. “I was just about to go home. I don’t think anything is open right now.”

“I know a place,” Smith says.

I stare at him, knowing what he means, but not quite understanding what he’s after.

“Come on,” Matisse says. “We’ve got a car right over there.” He points across the mall to the dead-end street corner where vehicular traffic is allowed. “And we’ve got a table. They’re expecting three.”

“I’ve got my car,” I say, stunned at the midnight offer.

“We’ll bring you back to your car,” Smith says. “When we’re done.”

“I’ve got to lock up,” I say.

“We’ll wait out here,” Matisse says, motioning to the steps leading up to the front door.

I think about it for a second. It’s not exactly what Rochelle planned. Or what I agreed to. But it’s damn close. “OK,” I say. “Give me five minutes to shut things down and I’ll be right back.”

They both smile. They smile like wolves.





I’m silent as I sit between them during the five-minute ride over to Turning Point Club, but Matisse and Smith chat about old times. Parties, and women, and drinking, and money.

Very, very typical.

When we pull up in front, Smith gets out first, then holds out his hand, helping me step out. Matisse gets out on the other side and meets us at the door. There is a flurry of activity when Smith approaches the maitre d', and then he leans into his ear and says, “In the bar, near the window.”

The maitre d' nods and says, “Right this way, Mr. Baldwin.”

Smith follows the man, I follow Smith, and Matisse is right behind me. But when we get to the booth, Smith doesn’t sit. Instead he waves me into the side facing the bar and Matisse into the bench across from me.

“I’ll be right back,” Smith says. And he leaves me there with Matisse.

“It went very well today,” he says. “I’m impressed.”

“Thank you,” I say, wanting very badly to turn my head to I can see where Smith went. “I’m off tomorrow—”

“I know. But you won’t be needed.”

“Oh,” I say, a little disappointed.

“I have it all under control. Your crew might be in the way as we install. And I’m not very friendly when I’m stressed. So it’s better you called them all off.”

“Oh,” I say again. “I think some of them might be disappointed.”

“It can’t be helped. I like things the way I like them.”

“Of course,” I say, just as a waiter comes up and says, “Hello.” He gives us his name, recites the menu, and then waits for us to decide. I’m way too tired to remember anything that waiter just said, so I just stare at Matisse with a blank look on my face.