Taking Turns (Turning #1)(2)

“Yeah,” I say, letting it come out as frustration.

“What do you have going on this week? Bric has an event on Wednesday and a dinner on Thursday.”

“Not much,” I say, looking away and turning in my chair to study the lobby down below. “Just looking forward to my time, I guess.”

“You seem to do that a lot these days.”

I shrug and turn back around. Nothing at all interesting down there. “Why not?” I look him dead in the eyes as I take a drink. “We have a lot of fun together. Why shouldn’t I look forward to it?”

Smith turns away and resumes his stalking of Bric and Lucinda. Eventually he says, “They dated a long time ago too.” Smith nods his head down to the Black Room. “We kinda did her together.”

“No shit?” I actually have to shake that image out of my mind because Lucinda… she is just a great big no for me. Who needs a f*cking psychiatrist picking your brain when you’re having dirty sex? Not me. “Did you get weird with her?”

It’s a joke. But Smith misses it. “If we did, you’d already know about it.”

Right. “Changing the subject. What about you?” I ask. “You have plans this week?”

“None,” he says without emotion.

“Why do you even bother?” I ask. “I mean, she’s f*cking expensive, right? If you’re not having a good time, just buy yourself out.”

Smith glares at me for exactly two seconds. Takes a sip of his drink. Says, “The game only works if there’s four people, Quin. You know this.”

“So you’re doing it for me?” I ask him.

“Do you think I’m doing it for you?”

I glance at my watch again, wishing for midnight to be here already. “I have yet to figure you out, friend. Your world is so foreign to me, I feel like we come from two different planets.”

“Eleven forty-one,” Smith says, not even checking his own watch. “I told ya you were early.”

I roll my eyes, but Smith is too busy crowd-watching. “How come you guys never mentioned Lucinda before?”

“Why should we?” Smith deadpans. And then he shifts his body away from the party and towards me. “It makes no difference.”

“If you were doing her together…” I shrug. “I think it matters.”

“Take it up with Bric.”

“Right.” I sigh. “So… have you seen her?”

“Rochelle?” Smith asks. And then he smiles. It sends a chill up my back. All the way to my neck.

“Who the f*ck else would I be talking about?”

“Nope,” Smith says. But still there is that smile.

“What?” I ask. “Why the f*ck are you smiling at me?”

“I’m just surprised that we’ve lasted this long,” he says. “Aren’t you? You’re not tired of her yet?”

“Of Rochelle?” It’s my turn to laugh. “Not even a little bit.”

“She was interesting at first, you know? Her quaint Bohemian ways. The apartment, the clothes, the hobbies. Whatever.” He waves his hand in the air. “But I’m not really into her anymore. Not my type.”

“Kinda like Lucinda for me, I guess.” I take another sip of Scotch. “Why haven’t you mentioned this?” I ask. “Is Bric tired?”

“I don’t think so,” he says. “You know how Bric is. He’s a man of habit. He’ll stick it out until one of us makes him change.”

“So it’s just you and your weird shit talking tonight?” He’s making me f*cking nervous. But when doesn’t Smith make me nervous? “I’m not done. So if you’re gonna call a meeting about Rochelle, call it knowing that in advance.” I check my watch, decide it’s close enough to midnight for me, and stand up. “See ya around,” I say, nodding to the butler and dropping a twenty on the table.

The security guard outside Smith’s room unhooks the black velvet rope as I approach.

“Good night, Mr. Foster.”

“Later,” I say, heading straight for the elevator and punching the call button, making it light up. The doors open and I step in, adjusting my suit in the mirrors as they close behind me.

When I’m satisfied with my appearance, I turn and insert my keycard into the slot next to the button that has no floor number or name next to it. The doors close.

Rochelle Bastille is a twenty-seven-year-old musician Bric met at a party three years ago. Some corporate event put on to celebrate… whatever. God only knows what he really does for Smith. But it involves a lot of networking. Translation—parties.

He took Rochelle home that night and f*cked her. Like, his real home. Not here. Not the Club. But she was between apartments—homeless was probably more likely, we never talk about the old days—and since we were short a player at the time, he asked if she wanted in on the game.

Three f*cking years. I have no idea where the time went. But Jesus Christ, it’s been a really good time.

I don’t know exactly when I fell in love with her, but I know it’s been a while. Years, at least. Maybe even that first year. Maybe even that night. Rochelle is my type. One hundred percent my type. And two nights and two days a week she’s mine. All mine. Starting at midnight Sunday and all the way through midnight Tuesday. I own her.