Taking Turns (Turning #1)(19)

“We’ll have the filet mignon,” Matisse says. “Medium rare. And a Caesar salad. Do you like Caesar?” Matisse asks me.

I nod, suddenly feeling very weary.

The waiter disappears and then I’m alone with him. I force a smile, but my mind is whirling. “Are you a member here?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “For many years. I met Bric in school a long time ago. We’ve been friends since childhood.”

“And Smith?” I want to kick myself for asking about him.

“Smith is…” Matisse laughs. “Smith.”

“Right.” I chuckle. “I get it. Kind of. I don’t know him. I just met him…” Shit. Do I really want to talk about last night? “I don’t know him at all,” I say. And then I look around. “Where did he go?”

Matisse shrugs. “Where does he ever go?”

Right.

There’s an uncomfortable silence after that, so I try to make conversation. “I love that piece in the show. The children,” I say.

“Which one?” He smiles and I figure talking about his art is a safe way to navigate my way through this dinner.

“The two dancing. Glee, it’s called.”

“Oh,” he says, thoughtfully. “Yes, I can see why you’d like it. Will you be sad when someone purchases it on Friday?”

“No.” I laugh. “I’m going to purchase it.”

“Are you?” He has one eyebrow cocked. “It’s forty-seven thousand dollars.”

“I know,” I say. “I have money saved. I’ve been waiting for this show all year. You have no idea how exciting it is. I was thinking of coming in tomorrow, just to watch.” He’s about to protest, but I keep going before he can. “But if I’ll be in the way, I’ll wait my turn.”

“It’s better to let Mr. Benton handle it. Trust me.”

I do trust him. I’ve not only heard about the temper tantrums of artists, I’ve seen them first hand. And if this is Matisse’s way of warning me that no matter how well things go tomorrow, he’s going to be a raging *, I’ll take his word on that.

We chat a little more about his show. What we have planned as far as food and drinks. We’re going all-out. Exquisite canapés and the best champagne. It’s going to be quite the party. But then he switches the conversation back to the club, just as our food arrives.

“Do you get invited here often?” he asks.

The salad and steak are served at the same time. And the filet mignon in front of me has my mouth watering. It smells delicious. My stomach is rumbling so loud, I’m sure the entire restaurant can hear it. But that question… “Invited?” I ask, not sure how to answer.

“You’re not married?” he asks, like he thinks he knows the answer, but maybe he’s wrong.

“No.” I laugh.

“Then you have to be a guest. It’s a gentlemen’s club, after all.”

“I… I never thought about it, I guess. I don’t come here,” I say, in way of explanation. “It’s a place I’ve become acquainted with very recently.”

I look around. Take it all in. Everything is in black and white. I know this bar is called the Black Room and the restaurant on the other side of the lobby is called the White Room. They are each named for the color of the marble on the floors. The brownstone facade is typical of building constructed in the late eighteen hundreds, but the inside is more art deco. The edges and curves that people love about that period are all over in the design of the bar and the inlay on the floors. In the furniture, even, I realize. The black leather booths have rounded tops and the tables in the middle of the room, which do not have white linen tablecloths like the ones along the window, have a pattern on the top that reminds me of Gatsby.

It’s opulent and excessive. Just like the men who run it.

“But I love the decor.” And I do. It might be excessive and opulent, but I like it.

I realize I never unwrapped my silverware. The white napkin is starched and creased into an envelope shape. It has a monogram on what would be the outside flap which reads TPC. Turning Point Club, I realize.

“You should see the rooms upstairs,” Matisse says, cutting his steak as I cut mine. I take a bite before I even process how to respond to that comment.

“Mmmm,” I say, enjoying that first bite of meat so much, I have to close my eyes. “That’s so good.” I laugh.

When I open my eyes and look at Matisse, he’s staring at me. “Would you like to see my room upstairs, Chella?”

Chella. Would you like to see my room? Would you like to go upstairs? Would you like me to f*ck you tonight?

I swallow the steak and go stiff. Is that what this is? Did Smith set me up to f*ck him?

I look around, and something, I’m not sure what, makes me look up.

There is Smith Baldwin. On that second-story balcony that Bric and Quin were sitting in last night when Smith escorted me out. He’s leaning on the railing with a drink in his hand. Smiling.

I put my silverware down and scoot out of the bench.

“I’m sorry,” I say to Matisse. “I’m really sorry. But I have to go. I just remembered that…” But I have no excuse but the truth. So I say nothing. Just walk out of the Black Room and make my way through the crowd of people in the lobby.