Taking Turns (Turning #1)(21)

I step out of her room just as she steps out of the bathroom. She misses seeing me by seconds. And then I go downstairs to wait. I sit in my chair and watch for her shadow on the stairs.

But the dim light filtering through from the third floor clicks out a few minutes later.

She went to bed.

I ponder this for a few minutes. Wonder if I should wake her. Let her know I’m here.

But what would be the fun in that?

I watch the clock for thirty minutes and when I’m sure she’s asleep, I go back upstairs and into her bedroom. I take a seat in another chair with my back to the window.

And I watch her. She has curtains on the window. But they are sheer, and white, and not closed. So there’s a little bit of light coming in from the moon, or some streetlamp. It’s enough to get a good look at her face.

She’s pretty. I noted it last night but watching her at work let me see her. She likes her job, she likes her co-workers, and she appears to be happy.

So why was she going along with Rochelle’s plan? Because I think it’s pretty clear at this point that Rochelle did have a plan. What it was, what it’s about… I have no idea.

I slip my coat jacket off and drape it over the back of the chair I’m sitting in. Then my tie. And once that’s situated neatly on top of the jacket, I start unbuttoning my shirt. It’s cold out tonight, and even though the heat is on in the house, it’s set low. So I leave it on, just open it up to expose my chest.

I unbuckle my belt next. It jingles a little and I watch her face closely to see if she’s a light sleeper. No, I decide, once I’m unzipping my pants. She’s not. My cock is hard when I grip it. And when I close my eyes and let my imagination take over, it grows even harder.

Rochelle, I hear myself saying in my head. Just the way Quin described it to me earlier today. I needed a good visual so I hunted him down at work after lunch and got the whole story. Did you miss me? Because I missed you. We need to renegotiate. Two weeks is too long.

What would I have done if it was my night instead of Quin’s?

I don’t think I would’ve mistaken her for Rochelle, that’s for sure. Marcella’s breasts are bigger, for one. And Quin said he grabbed them. He said he was kinda rough. For him, anyway. He pulled her hair.

God, I wish I had seen it. I wish I was there.

I open my eyes, my hand still pumping my cock as I play that scene over and over in my head. Trying to make it perfect. And when it is, I come on my stomach in the still silence.

I let myself breathe hard for several minutes, hoping she wakes up so she can see me here. Understand what I did. What I want from her.

But she is dead to the world.

I want to touch her very badly.

But instead I get up from the chair and walk out, silently descending the stars until I get to the bottom floor. I go into the bathroom and clean the come off my stomach and stare at my face in the mirror.

I look tired. I need sleep and a shave. But neither of those things are mine tonight, because I’m stuck here in her house. I’m not going to wake her up. And miss her reaction when she realizes I just spent the night in her house and she didn’t know it? I laugh. Out loud. Fuck that.

Marcella agreed to Rochelle’s plan for one reason and one reason only.

She’s a dirty slut. She wants to be with us. She wants what Rochelle left behind.

And the longer I think about it, the more I think about it.

When I’m walking back to my chair I note the thermostat. I kick the heat up a little higher so I don’t get cold, and go back to my chair in front of the family room window and consider calling Bric so we can discuss. But then I look at my watch and realize it’s nearly three in the morning. He’ll be up in a few hours.

I sit there in my chair, listening for her sounds. Snoring, or sighing. Or… shit, I hope for a little moaning. What if she plays with herself as she sleeps?

That thought is enough to get my ass back upstairs.

She’s kicked the covers off. In fact, it almost looks like she was thrashing around from a bad dream. Her fair legs are long. One is hiked over a pillow, which she hugs to her chest. I get my phone out and open the night vision app. Take some pictures. I never have a shutter sound on my camera, so all this is done in silence.

I have a lot of questions for Marcella Walcott, starting with her father, a US senator for thirty years. In fact, it turns out baby Marcella was born the first year he was elected. She spent her entire childhood being the daughter of Senator Walcott.

I found internet pictures of her up until age ten and then… she disappeared. I can only assume it was boarding school. But ten. Jesus. That’s young, isn’t it? There are no more pictures of her until she’s well into her twenties. Maybe just a few years ago, now that I think about it. She’s thirty. Her birthday is in February, so almost thirty-one. Those pictures online are all of her at the Charles Benton Gallery.

There are none with her father.

It strikes me as weird. Why no pictures of him with his daughter?

Maybe they just like privacy? Maybe her mother insisted on it. She died three years ago. The same year Marcella started her job at the gallery.

There’s a lot of gaps. Where did she go to school? She has a short biography on the gallery website. It says, Marcella Walcott is the daughter of US Senator Henry Walcott. She studied art history and curation and graduated with a PhD.

Usually after a biography rattles off credentials, they list a university. From Harvard. Or Princeton. Or wherever she was.