Taking Turns (Turning #1)(27)

And I don’t. I have thought of nothing else but what will happen tonight. At the show, sure. Since Bric promised to stick his fingers inside my * while we’re there. But mostly afterward. When I have all three of them sitting around a table so we can discuss… sex. With me. With them.

Rochelle didn’t go into detail about her relationships. She just said that they were each unique and I’d have to get used to them. I’d have to get used to letting them be themselves while I pretend to be what they want.

“Are you cold?” Bric asks. “I can turn up the heat.”

He’s asking because my whole body is shaking with the anticipation.

“Yes,” I say, as cover for my fear, and anxiety, and excitement.

I don’t live very far from the gallery, so it only takes a few minutes to get to the corner where we must be dropped off. We wait for the driver to do his job this time. And when the door opens, Bric steps out, grabs my hands, and gently pulls me up and out of the car.

There’s a crowd of people milling around outside. We sold tickets for this exhibition, so there is also a line. I’m about to walk us forward and present myself to the staff manning the door, but Bric takes over. He smiles at them as we approach. I don’t know them. We contract out for shows like this. But they know Bric. They must. Because they open the velvet rope and let us pass.

Inside the exhibition is spectacular. I have seen the pieces, of course. But tonight we have dramatic lighting to highlight each piece. And Matisse has it set up like a journey through a backstage. You meet the ushers standing sentry right at the door, walk down a makeshift aisle, lit up by lights on the floor to mimic a theatre, and then pass through a curtain where the rest of the exhibition awaits.

Matisse is there with Smith and they both stop to look at Bric and me as we approach. Smith is wearing a tuxedo that matches Bric’s. Matisse is wearing white. Typical artist.

“It’s fantastic,” I tell Matisse, leaning in to give him pretentious air kisses. “Congratulations. This is wonderful.”

“You look lovely, Chella.”

Chella. Again. All week he’s been calling me Marcella. But tonight everything changes, doesn’t it? My position has switched from gallery manager to Bric’s date. And it makes a difference. Matisse and I had a few awkward moments on Thursday when I came back to work, but generally we both pretended nothing happened at the Turning Point Club on Monday night.

Or maybe Bric told him about the arrangement and so he didn’t feel awkwardness was necessary?

Either way, it did the trick for me. I feel nothing but admiration for the artist right now.

“Chella,” Smith says. “Would you like to take me through the exhibit?”

I look at Bric.

Why? Why did I just do that?

And it makes him smile that I asked for permission, even if it was just a look.

“Go ahead,” he says. “Have fun. I’ll be right here when you’re done.”

And if I wasn’t going to enter into a shared relationship with these two men, it might be normal.

But I am. So it’s not.

Have fun. What does that mean?

“Are you afraid of me?” Smith asks as he leads me away.

“No.” I laugh.

“Good. I’m not the one you should be afraid of. You’ll come to realize that soon enough.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Is he trying to scare me away?

“You’ll see,” Smith says, taking my hand and leading me toward the next sculpture. “I’m sure Bric promised you something fun here tonight. He likes it like that. He likes parties and big groups.”

“And you?” I ask, concentrating on the ballerina on the floor, tying up her toe shoes.

“I like it a different way. You’ll realize that soon enough as well.”

“Is that what the basement of the Club is for?” I ask, chancing a look up at him.

Smith smiles. “You’ll never know.”

“Why not?”

“Did Rochelle tell you what we do down there?”

“No.”

“Because if she did, she lied. She has no idea what we do down there.”

“I don’t think it’s that hard to imagine. I’ve—” But I stop talking. Jesus Christ. Get a hold of yourself, Chella.

“You’ve what?” Smith asks. “Been there?”

“No.” I laugh again. “I’ve heard things.”

“From who?”

“Just rumors. People talk.”

Smith’s arm is around me. He pulls me close to his chest, leans into my mouth and kisses me on the lips. “Not our people, Chella,” he whispers. “No one talks who knows. Just keep that in mind.”

Did he just threaten me?

But his kiss is back. A soft flutter on my lips. “You’re mine too, if Quin agrees. And I’d just like to warn you… I’m not good at sharing.”

“What?” I pull away, smiling. “You’re joking, right?”

He shakes his head. Very slowly. “Not even a little bit, Marcella Walcott. Not even close.”

People come up behind us and so Smith backs away and we continue on to the next sculpture. It’s darker here. And we are totally concealed in shadow. Only a single spotlight illuminates the next dancer. A woman at the barre, her leg stretched up high, arm in a graceful arc over her head as she warms up.